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He's all and he is more.	By : DarklingWillow Category: M through R > The Old Guard Views: 776 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own The Old Guard movie (or comics), and I do not make any profit from this writing.

Chapter List
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Chapter 2.

            Nicolò lay prostrate on the cold, hard packed ground that served as a floor of their makeshift chapel.
            The wind howled outside the tent, the rigging groaned, and the canvas flapped and snapped ominously around him, but the silence of the tent was still welcoming.
            Their chaplain had been killed more than a week ago, and a layman had served as their chaplain since, but he was hardly ever there. He was too busy drinking with the soldiers and chasing after the women who served the camp. The women who were passed around the camp as if they were nothing more than communal blankets.

            This was a holy war, the Holy War, a road to redemption and salvation, their mission to free the sacred sites of their One True God from the dirty hands of the barbarian hordes. And yet, his fellow soldiers behaved like animals, from dusk ‘til dawn. He had seen men he admired, men he had thought untouchable, incorruptible, do things that would make the saints weep in horror.

            Nicolò lifted his head from the cold dirt just enough to slam it back down, tears falling from his eyes. He had to focus, keep his focus, remember why he was there.
            Pray, please, dear God, oh, Holy Mother, anyone who can hear, please, explain?

            He had always been a pious child. Ever since that winter when he had come down with a fever, and the physician had been able to do nothing, the wise woman had been able to do nothing. His parents had finally brought a priest who prayed for him, and then performed the last rites, told them he would not see morning. Nicolò had lain in bed and prayed. With all of his little heart, he had prayed through the night, and when the sun rose, his fever had broken, and he had lived. So many others had died that winter, so many children in the city of Genova. But little Nicolò had lived.

            And now, here he was, sobbing into the dirt of the distant desert, alive, reborn, or returned to life, at least.
            He did not know why. He had been afraid almost since the day he had set foot on the ship that had brought him here, to this godless, unforgiving land. Every time he had been forced to enter battle, he had been afraid. And then, he had met that Saracen.

            Nicolò bit his lip to smother his sobs, his tears wetting the ground beneath his face. The image of that Saracen was so vivid in his mind. Those black eyes, so full of emotion, that thick black beard, the tight curls sticking out from underneath his turban wrapped helmet. The way he moved, swayed, as he swung his sword in a dance of death.
            Nicolò shivered as he recalled, felt again, that strong hand wrapped around his back, as the Saracen’s sword ripped apart his insides. The look deep in his eyes, as he had watched the life fade from Nicolò’s eyes. The sadness.

            He had been made of pain for those few moments as the curved steel had entered his body, and then there had been nothing. Nothing but that sadness in the barbarian’s eyes, the whispered words, “I am sorry.” Followed by a lightness like he had never felt before. He had felt as light as air, as light as light itself, upwards, upwards, upwards. And then there had been nothing. No gates of heaven, no heavenly choirs, no eternal father to welcome him home. Just darkness and then falling, falling, falling, and pain. Pain like he had never felt before, so deep that he had not even been able to scream in his agony. Air had returned to his lungs, his heart had returned its rhythmic beating, and he had felt the hilt of his sword in his hand again. He had awoken on the battlefield amongst the corpses, alive again. He was still not sure how he had managed to keep it secret from his fellow Crusaders that he had been brought back to life by some divine miracle.

            And since then, he had dreamt of that Saracen. Of his strong hands, of his dark eyes, of his soft beard, of his muscular shoulders and neck.
            Nicolò sobbed hard into the ground, more tears falling from his eyes, and he pressed his body down against the ground as hard as he could, praying for the throbbing between himself and the ground to stop.

            They had met on the battlefield again, and that time, Nicolò had killed him, only to meet him again on that same battlefield, alive and looking for revenge. Only, he had not avenged himself. Instead, he had spared Nicolò’s life. He had left Nicolò there, with his sword, and a wish for peace.

            They had found each other on the battlefield yet again just this past day. They were two for two now.
            The Saracen had looked eager for murder, and Nicolò had wanted him dead. The dirty barbarian, the unholy savage, that beautiful man.

            Their duel, because a duel it had been right there in the middle of the battlefield, had been brutal. Neither had wanted to yield, neither had wanted to see if they would survive another death. In the end though, the Saracen had danced around Nicolò, swung his sword, and run Nicolò through from the back.
            In a desperate move, Nicolò had pulled a dirty trick his brother had used so often on him when they had played at swords as children. He had reversed his sword, and driven it backwards, in the hopes of at least rendering a limb useless, if nothing else.
            The Saracen’s breath had been on his cheek as he groaned in pain, his blood hot against Nicolò’s back, and then they had fallen, impaled on each other’s sword. They had pulled their swords free as they fell side by side, and death had found Nicolò again.

            He had awoken to the clash of distant battle, and that Saracen… Oh, God, Holiest Heavenly Father, please, save me… that Saracen kneeling above him, waiting for him to wake up, his dark eyes watching, waiting. Hoping?
            “Lay low, do not let see when stand up,” he had said, in awkward Book Latin, patting Nicolò on the shoulder and then he had run off, disappeared into the fray.
Nicolò had rolled over and lifted his head, found his fellow soldiers and somehow, he had managed to rejoin their ranks, claiming that death had not found him on that day.

            And now, here he was, praying, begging God and all the heavenly saints to save him. To rid him of these dreams of that dark Saracen, that living ghost who now haunted his dreams.
            Nicolò pulled his arms under his chest and lifted up on his knees, keeping his arms on the ground and his face in his hands, his tears pooling in his palms.
Why was he having these dreams? Why was his heart aching, longing to join his sworn enemy? Why would that Saracen not die? Why did he not die? What was God’s plan for him? Had God sent him back to be his warrior on Earth? Or had God rejected him for his sins?
Nicolò bit his lip and forced himself to stop crying. He wiped his face as he rose up on his knees, looking up at the wooden cross and the body of Christ through bleary eyes.
            “What do you want from me?” Nicolò whispered to the dark tent, sighing as he pulled the small silver cross his mother had given him out from under his tunic, pressed it to his lips and then staggered to his feet. He needed to get some sleep tonight, for tomorrow would bring fresh battles. Even if sleep brought dreams of that glorious raven angel of death.

            Five days had passed and Nicolò had not seen his Saracen. There had been fighting, there had been battle, but he had remained alive. His troops had moved, and he had been sent back to his original post among the crossbowmen of his home city. He did prefer the sword, but he had always been good with a bow and arrows, and later a crossbow, so it had made sense to train with the crossbow for the Holy War.
            Five nights had also passed and Nicolò had dreamt of his Saracen every night. Every night had ended with waking up, sweaty and full of yearning. At least there had been no heat rapidly cooling in his leggings since that night after they had killed each other the second time. Nicolò was not sure he could have lived with the shame of that happening again.

            For five days he fought with the crossbow men. For five days their lines stood still. Neither side gained, neither side retreated. The stench of blood and death was so thick in the air that Nicolò could taste it. The Saracen bowmen were no less deadly than the crossbowmen, even if their range was a little shorter. The front lines had thinned alarmingly, and again the commanders were moving men around, taking from ranks that were still full to add to the ranks that needed the support. And additional troops had come in two days ago.
            Nicolò was sent back to the regimen of foot soldiers. He sat that night and polished his sword until it shone in the firelight. He could see the fires of the Saracen camp in the distance, their stronghold, the site they were willing to die defending.
All, save that one.
The one who had the honour to not kill Nicolò when he had fallen down. The one who had the honour of not waiting for Nicolò to come back to life only to murder him again before he had regained his bearings. The one with those beautiful dark eyes.
And tomorrow, Nicolò’s regimen would breach the stronghold.
At least that was the plan of the commanders. Onslaught until the stronghold was gained, no matter what.

Nicolò held his small silver cross between his fingers, pressed it to his lips and prayed. The silence was eerie despite the sounds of moving foot soldiers. Not a word spoken, only the sound of creaking leather and whispering chain mail. Boots on the ground, swords clanging against thighs and shields. The heavy breath of men preparing for battle.
Nicolò prayed that he would not die this day. That he would live to return home to Genova, that he would live to return to his church, to his small congregation, to his peaceful life. Hell, if he lived and could return, he would do as his father insisted and take a wife despite his priestly vows. Holy Father, please let me meet him again today… Nicolò dropped his cross under his tunic and crossed himself hastily, shaking the thought from his head. Today they would breach the stronghold or die trying. At least most of the other soldiers would.
But not Nicolò.

            It took them the better part of the day, but in the end, the Saracens’ numbers proved to be too greatly reduced. They breached the stronghold, flooded through the gate, and were met with strong resistance, but not strong enough. The Crusaders were getting control of the small stronghold, and Nicolò was looking for his Saracen.
            He had waded through the enemy lines without hesitation, cutting down men as he went, all fear forgotten, his mind hellbent on one thing, and one thing only. He needed to kill that Saracen, that raven angel of his dreams. Kill him, and make him stay dead this time, whatever it took. Or die trying.

            Nicolò and a small group of Crusaders had followed a small band of the enemy away from the main fight, and there he was.
            That Saracen. That beautiful, curly haired man with the raven eyes.
            Nicolò could tell that he had recognized Nicolò as well. Their eyes met across the street, and he stopped, yelled to his men to turn and fight. The Saracens stopped, turned, faced the Crusaders, and for a moment neither side moved.

Then he yelled a battle cry, that savage man, and raced across the street with his sword raised. Nicolò screamed in return, and ran forwards, their swords meeting mid swing, ringing out between the clay buildings.
            Neither one of them cared in the least whether the rest of their men engaged each other.
            Nicolò only cared about his nemesis. This raven angel who had been sent by the Devil to tempt him, confuse him, waylay him. Kill him.

Nicolò fell back from under his savage attacks, regained his footing and advance himself. They danced around each other, swords singing in the air, clashing with such force that Nicolò’s arms vibrated with every strike.
From the looks of it, the Saracen was feeling the same thing. Sweat dampened his curls, made them stand out even more, his eyes shining with his ferocity.

Finally, Nicolò got in a strike, his sword slicing into the man’s side, opening the lamellar armour, and finding soft flesh. Blood gushed out of the wound, flowed down the Saracen’s leg, and Nicolò paused for a moment, marvelling at how red it was.

The Saracen let out a cry of pain, and what Nicolò was certain was a curse, and then Nicolò realized his mistake. He had let his guard down, lifted his shield too high. He looked down as the warm blood flowed from his leg, spurting out in a rhythmic rush.
“Holy Father,” Nicolò whispered, his head swimming, and he sank down against a wall, sliding down as he watched the Saracen do the same across the narrow street they were on.

The Saracen chuckled, coughed and blood gushed from his lips, and he waved a hand to his own wound, then at Nicolò’s wound.

“I don’t understand you. I don’t speak your filthy language,” Nicolò growled, his voice weak.
“Serves you right,” the Saracen growled back, in his awkward Latin, through the blood that bubbled in his throat. He chuckled again, then gasped, tried to catch his breath, and his eyes sank closed.

Nicolò watched him fade, his own vision dimming.
Three for three now. They were three for three. Served them both right, when Nicolò thought about it. Then he wondered if they would both wake up again. His last conscious thought was to tighten his grip on his shield and sword.

Nicolò blinked his eyes open. He groaned as his hands tightened around his sword and shield, and he drew a deep, painful breath.
He was alive again. It had been the same as before. Light as air, as light itself, floating in nothingness, and then falling and the unbearable pain that woke him. But the pain disappeared much quicker now. It faded almost the moment he opened his eyes.

On the other side of the narrow street the Saracen was getting to his feet.

“No,” Nicolò cried out and lifted his shield as he rolled to the side, rolled away from that dishonourable beast, and blocked his wild swing with his shield. Nicolò rolled over onto his feet, and was up in the next breath, the Saracen screaming at him in Arabic.

“I don’t understand you!” Nicolò screamed back at him, angry, frustrated. “Why the hell won’t you just die!” Nicolò answered the man’s onslaught with just as much ferocity.

He fell back, further down the street, into the darkening twilight of the small town, but he did not care anymore. All he cared about now was to kill this filthy barbarian. To end his life and walk away alive himself.
They danced around and around each other, sometimes chasing each other, sometimes running from each other to gain a better ground. They had long since lost all interest in the main fight. All they could think about was each other. How to kill each other.

On a corner where two small streets met at an odd angle, the Saracen got in his second deadly strike. With a furious scream he found an opening and ran his long, curved blade through Nicolò’s body, under his ribs.
Nicolò gasped in shock, dropped his shield, but with a roar of rage, he threw his shield arm around the Saracen’s back to hold him still, draw him closer. Then Nicolò lifted his sword high and thrust it downwards, into the man’s back at an angle.

  The Saracen’s scream drowned in the blood that flooded his lungs, but Nicolò still understood the Latin words.
“Why don’t you die?”

The Saracen let go of his sword with one hand, and wrapped his arm around Nicolò’s sword arm, held him tight. A wicked grin spread on his lips as they both lost their feet and sank to the ground. “If I die, we die together,” he said in Latin, his eyes dancing with the hilarity of the situation.
“I will not die with you,” Nicolò tried to object, but he knew he was lying. The sword through his gut would surely kill him.

Together they fell on the dusty street, and still the Saracen would not let go of Nicolò. And not knowing why, Nicolò did not let go of him either. The pain became a dull ache as his lifeblood flowed from his wounds and his body shut down, but Nicolò did still not let go of that beautiful man. He needed to see the life fade from those dark eyes. He needed to see the man die.

Slowly the fire in the Saracen’s eyes became nothing but faint embers, and he looked up into Nicolò’s eyes. And then there it was, again. That sorrow, that Nicolò had seen the first time they had met, and the Saracen had killed him.

The Saracen spoke, whispered a word or two in Arabic that Nicolò did not understand. Something about eyes, perhaps? And then he was gone.
Nicolò tried to move, tried to pull the Saracen’s sword free from his body, tried to pull his own sword free, but was too weak. With a soft chuckle at the absurdity of the whole thing, he felt himself rise up, become light again.

Nicolò screamed in agony, and tried to roll onto his back, but the agony that was running straight through him seemed to physically stop him.
“Stop moving!”  a rough voice shouted at him, and Nicolò opened his eyes to meet the fierce eyes of his adversary yet again. Then it all came back to Nicolò. He was pierced by a sword and his body was trying to heal around the damned sword.

The Saracen was on his knees, Nicolò’s own longsword sticking out of his side like some caricature of a dressmaker’s pin, and the man was trying to pull his sword free of Nicolò’s body.
Nicolò reached down and wrapped his hand around the blade just above the hilt and yanked, screaming in agony as the blade slipped free of his body.

The Saracen fell back, and Nicolò’s sword ripped from his body with a sickening sound. The Saracen screamed again, and rolled onto his side, crawling on all fours away from Nicolò.

Nicolò bent down to pick up his sword, staggering as he felt the wound that the curved sword had left in his body closing, his organs remaking themselves, leaving no sign of him having been pierced.

Coughing the Saracen got to his feet as well, leaned against a wall while his own wound knitted together seamlessly. He growled angrily in Nicolò’s direction and looked down at himself. Then he started tearing at the fastenings of his armour with his free hand, holding his sword up to keep Nicolò at bay.

“What are you doing? You can’t fight without an armour,” Nicolò protested, waving his hands at the crazed barbarian, but then he hesitated.
Why could he not fight without an armour? It was not like the armour saved him from death. It was not like death meant that he’d stay dead.
With a small curse Nicolò lifted his hand and pulled his helmet off, throwing it to the ground. His chainmail cowl followed, and then the cap that he wore under it. Nicolò shook his head, feeling the sweat fly off his forehead.

The Saracen watched him for a moment, then said something that sounded like agreement, and standing up straight, he pulled his own helmet off, throwing it to the ground, and ran his hand through his thick, curly hair.

Then he lifted his sword again and smiled.

Nicolò rolled his aching shoulders and lifted his own sword, bracing his feet on the ground. Four for four now.

With the name of his Lord in Heaven on his lips, Nicolò raced forward and attacked with all his strength. This time they did not let up but danced together down the side street and by the time they came to the fallen walls of a garden it was already dark.

Nicolò tripped, and almost fell, but caught himself against the crumbling wall and managed to right himself before the Saracen managed to strike him. They had both given up their shields a while back, and were now getting small blows in almost regularly, rhythmically. Nicolò could no longer tell what colour the Saracen’s clothes were, and the leather bag that he wore around his waist had been coloured a deep crimson ages ago. Nicolò did not need to look down at himself to know that the red of the holy cross on his front had long since been obscured by the blood soaking his tunic.
And then he noticed the bodies. There were bodies everywhere. Saracen and Crusader alike. There were women, and children too. All dead. All staying dead. None would wake and arise again.

The Saracen gasped as he nearly tripped over the body of a child. He stopped for a moment, looked down at his feet, stared at the bodies on the ground. Then he raised his head and looked at Nicolò, wild with anger.
“Barbarian,” he cried out, and rushed at Nicolò again, sword raised high.

“You’re the barbarian,” Nicolò answered with a grunt, blocking the blow, swinging his sword in response.
The Saracen did not speak again, his lips became a pale line in the depths of his raven beard, and all Nicolò could do was defend against his attacks. Tears began to pearl in the Saracen’s thick lashes, and Nicolò could feel tears welling in his own eyes, as they continued to trip over the bodies of young children and women amongst the fighting men.
These women had not been fighters, these children had not been fighters, they had just been here, serving the troops, just like the women who followed his own army. The children had most likely been messengers, squires, stable hands. Just like the young boys who ran around his own camps, like little puppies underfoot. A little annoying at times, but most of the time adorable and entertaining company.

Nicolò sobbed as he stepped over the body of a young boy, laying face up on the ground, his dark eyes glassy and vacant as they stared up at the sky, his ribs exposed through a slash in his chest. He could be no older than Aronne, Nicolò’s nephew back home. Tears spilled from Nicolò’s eyes, but he did not let up on his attack on the Saracen.

He had to die.
He had to.
Didn’t he?
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He's all and he is more.