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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
- 5
- 6
- 7
Chapter 6.

            They hardly spoke a word to each other unless necessary for the next two days, as they made their way carefully through the low mountains past the small port town. In the distance they could see troops leaving the town, and smaller bands of Franks returning to the town, most likely to deliver news from the front lines, and direct the reinforcements to where they were needed.

            Since that evening under the waterfall Nicolò had preferred to sleep with his back to Yusuf, but he had not objected to Yusuf sleeping next to him, with his chest tight against his back. But he had not initiated that sleeping arrangement again, either. Yusuf felt that Nicolò had become almost sullen, and the silence between them grew heavier the longer they went without speaking.

            Yusuf had tried to speak to Nicolò about what had happened under the waterfall the next morning, but Nicolò had refused to answer him, and had stood up and walked away when Yusuf had pressed the matter. So, he had let it drop, and decided to wait until Nicolò brought it up. He thought that perhaps it was a cultural thing.
His people did not make much fuss about men laying with other men, and his religion even viewed such men as similar to women. He himself had lain with one young man of that sort, that last night at camp before his regiment had joined the main army. He had been among the women who had followed the regiment for the last part of the journey and had sought favours among a few of Yusuf’s fellow soldiers before he had set his eyes on Yusuf. That night had only confirmed to Yusuf what he had long suspected about himself. He did have a preference for the company of men, even though he was well capable of performing his husbandly duty towards his wife.

            His wife.
            Yusuf smiled a little under his scarf and sighed. He had not thought of her since the night he had shown Nicolò his drawings. His children too. She would have given birth to their third shortly after he had left for the war. That child would be nearing their fifth year now if he had calculated correctly. Whether it was a boy or a girl he did not know. He did not much care, just as long as the child was healthy and happy, and the birth had been easy. He had one of each, anyway, so one or the other would be just as welcomed.
            He had received some news from home for the first two years he had been away, but since then, there had been nothing. He knew that his city had not been taken, for it was of no consequence to the Franks, not in this holy war of theirs. But there was always illness, or accidents. Had she perhaps decided to move on, and found herself another husband? Thought him dead?

            Nicolò stopped the horse and stared off into the distance, towards the port town. Yusuf only looked up to see the small band of Franks heading for the town, then he looked down at Nicolò, watched him.
            Nicolò’s face was unreadable, still with that stony, sullen look, his eyes distant and cold.
            Yusuf had noticed that he prayed now, every night and every morning. Sometimes even while they walked, Nicolò would lower his head and pull that little silver cross from under his tunic and press it to his lips while he muttered prayers.
            Yusuf knew enough Latin to recognize them as prayers, even if they did not sound much like the prayers he was used to. How often had he prayed since they had escaped that village? Three times? Not even that? He used to pray many times a day, but the war had stolen that from him. That day at the river all those years ago had robbed him of his trust in Allah, and now the war had all but robbed him of his faith.

            “You want to go there?” he asked, his voice gentle. He felt almost afraid that he might scare Nicolò if he spoke out loud.
            Nicolò turned to look up at him, his eyes still cold. After a few moments he shook his head and tugged on the horse’s reins, pulling it onwards.
            “We can make camp up ahead,” Yusuf said and pointed when Nicolò deigned to look at him over his shoulder. “There’s a small outcropping there, we might even be able to dare a small fire, if we find any dry kindling. Otherwise, it’s cold dinner tonight.”
            Nicolò nodded his head, and then turned back to face the trail, plodding onwards as if he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders.

            They continued on in silence, until Yusuf had to stop to relieve himself, and Nicolò used the opportunity to climb up on the horse. He did not look at Yusuf when he returned to the horse, and Yusuf took the bridle and tugged the horse onwards. He did keep an eye on Nicolò over his shoulder though and noticed that the young Genovese kept looking to the town, as it began to fall behind them. One more day, and it would be out of sight. Another day, and it might be too far for either of them to get there, with the water that they had left.

            Yusuf led the horse until the sun began to sink behind the horizon, and just as dusk fell, they reached the outcropping he had recalled. It did give them shelter enough to dare a small fire, but they did not cook any dinner. Instead, they ate their dry rations, sitting on opposite sides of the fire, still in silence.
            The damned silence was beginning to grate on Yusuf’s nerves. Why the hell could this infuriating man not talk? Why did he sulk like a child?

            Yusuf grabbed his little pouch and pulled out his book of drawings and found a small piece of coal that was still usable.
            The waxing moon was just enough to give him a little bit of light, and he began to draw an outline on the page.
            He was not surprised when Nicolò’s sullen face began to emerge on the page, the drawn eyebrows, the downturned corners of his mouth, the way the corners of his eyes seemed to almost droop. The way his longish hair fell over the side of his face when he tilted his head just right.

            The more details that emerged on the page Yusuf’s heart began to beat harder, and as he concentrated on getting the details of Nicolò’s eyes just right, he realized something.
            Nicolò was not being sullen. This was sorrow. Despair, almost. Confusion and despair, sorrow of the spiritual nature.
            Yusuf stopped and looked up at Nicolò, and his heart leapt into his throat when he saw tears swimming in Nicolò’s eyes.

            “Are you alright?” Yusuf asked, closed his book on his knee.
            “No,” Nicolò barked at him, and rose, strode off towards their horse. He stood by the horse for a few moments, then he marched off a little further into the shadows and fell to his knees.
            Yusuf jumped to his feet and started to run over to Nicolò, but then he heard the prayers. Nicolò was praying again. He was praying fervently, his words running together in a steady stream. Yusuf stopped and stood at a short distance for a few moments, then he turned around and returned to the fire. He sat down, and continued drawing. It was still Nicolò who his hand insisted on drawing.

            The dusk fell away into night, and the chill of the desert settled in. Yusuf had long since lost the light to draw, so he had just sat there, watching Nicolò’s dark form on the other side of the small hollow, on his knees, praying as if his life depended on it.
            Yusuf stood and started to kick sand over the embers, but then thought better off it. Perhaps Nicolò needed that small light to guide him back to their tent.
            “I’m going to sleep now, Nicolò,” he said to the darkness. “I’ll leave the fire for you. Remember to douse it before you come to the tent.”

            Nicolò made no response, only continued praying, and Yusuf shrugged his shoulders as he crawled into the tent. He rolled out his sleep roll and started to roll Nicolò’s out next to his own. But he thought better of that as well, and left a small space between the rolls, in case Nicolò’s praying was the result of how they had spent their nights so far. And of what had happened at the waterfall.
            Yusuf was not a stupid man, and he was almost certain that what had happened at the waterfall was the cause of Nicolò’s change of mood.

            The night was black around them when Yusuf awoke from a restless sleep. His dreams had been chaotic, filled with blood and death, and Nicolò in chains. He had kept waking up from dreams of Nicolò chained in a cage, being drowned in the sea, only to fall asleep again right away and continuing the nightmares.
            But what had woken him now had been the touch of Nicolò behind him. Nicolò prodding him awake, by tapping on his back.
            Yusuf turned onto his back, a little surprised to see that Nicolò had moved his sleep roll next to Yusuf’s and was laying on his side facing Yusuf.

            “What are…” Yusuf began, but Nicolò stopped him by reaching out and touching a finger to Yusuf’s lips.
            “No talking,” Nicolò whispered, and closed his eyes, he moved closer, lifted his chin, and sought Yusuf’s lips.
            “What…” Yusuf tried to ask again, but Nicolò only shook his head sharply, and wrapped one hand around Yusuf’s cheek as his lips found Yusuf’s beard.
            Yusuf gave a small chuckle, and quickly cupped Nicolò’s cheek to guide him.
            The kiss was hesitant, almost frightened, but Nicolò did not shrink away when Yusuf lifted his head to meet it.

            Yusuf moved his arm under Nicolò’s head, and guided the Genovese, who kept his eyes closed. Their kisses grew deeper, and soon Nicolò moved his hips to press his erection against Yusuf’s hip.
            “Do you want me to touch you?” Yusuf asked, only to get a hiss in response.
            “Don’t talk.”
            “I’m sorry. You show me what you want, then. I cannot read minds,” Yusuf whispered between Nicolò’s lips and pulled him a little closer.

            Nicolò moved up onto his elbow, his eyes still closed, but a bit of heat entering his clumsy kisses.
            Yusuf did his best to guide him, but still allowed Nicolò to be in charge.
            After a long while of deepening kisses, and the throb between Yusuf’s legs having turned almost painful, Nicolò found Yusuf’s hand and guided it downwards, under Nicolò’s blanket. There was a bit of fumbling with the tunic and flowing trousers, but soon Nicolò’s thick cock was in Yusuf’s hand, and his strokes elicited sweet, soft moans from Nicolò’s lips.

            Yusuf did his best to make the feeling the most pleasurable for Nicolò, drawing it out until Nicolò was shivering in his arms.
            Nicolò’s hand had found its way into Yusuf’s trousers as well, and Yusuf found himself being even more aroused by Nicolò’s clumsy, hesitant strokes. But it was evident that Nicolò had remembered some of what Yusuf had done at the waterfall.

            Yusuf pulled Nicolò as close as he could while they stroked each other, and Nicolò was the first to cave again, sobbing softly into Yusuf’s chest as Yusuf drained him of ever drop.
            “Help me,” Nicolò whispered, barely above a breath, his hand shaking around Yusuf.         Yusuf reached under his blanket and wrapped his hand around Nicolò’s hand, guided him again, made sure that Nicolò could feel how Yusuf liked to be touched.
            When Yusuf finally spilled himself onto his abdomen, Nicolò withdrew his hand quickly, and turned his face into the crook of Yusuf’s neck.
            Yusuf said nothing, only pulled Nicolò close and held him, as the scalding tears melted into his skin. Yusuf grabbed the small cloth that had rested near his pillow since that night at the waterfall and cleaned them both as best he could.
They fell asleep like that, Nicolò crying on Yusuf’s shoulder, and Yusuf holding him as close as he could.

The sky was beginning to brighten when Yusuf woke up again.
Nicolò was on his knees above him, fully dressed, his face pale, his eyes wide, wild.
“I’m sorry,” Nicolò said, his voice shaking.
Then Yusuf felt the cold steel against his neck.

Nicolò moved his arm in one swift stroke, and Yusuf felt his neck open from ear to ear.
“Why?” he cried, drowning in his own blood as Nicolò stood up and turned away from him. Death came swiftly, and Yusuf sank into the darkness, floated there for a few moments, then fell to earth again.

He came to gasping and coughing so hard that he retched. He rolled over onto his side and rose up on his elbow, coughed some more and spit out blood. He crawled out of the tent and staggered to his feet just in time to see Nicolò riding the horse away from their camp, already down on the trail and headed for the port town.

“Nicolò!” Yusuf shouted, his voice ragged, the insides of his throat still knitting together. Yusuf let out a scream of frustration, and kicked the sand, then turned back to the tent.
Nicolò had left him with most of their provisions, and all their water. He had also left behind most of the clothes, save for the cloak that Yusuf had stolen for him, and one of the sleep rolls. Nicolò’s weapon was also gone, of course.

Yusuf threw the rest of their bags out of the tent and screamed again as he kicked the tent down.
What was that stupid man thinking? Was he heading back to his men so he could join the war again? Or did he mean to try and find passage back home? What was he going to do about Yusuf? Was he going to tell his men where Yusuf was? Would he sell Yusuf into the hands of his enemies? Had the damned mongrel forgotten what his own men had done to him?

Yusuf packed the tent and his sleep roll and the rest of his belongings angrily, hid his sword in the packages, and muttered under his breath curses and exactly what he planned to do with Nicolò when he got his hands on him again.
Yusuf was still muttering to himself when he marched down the side of the mountain and started to cross the plain towards the port town.
He was making a list as he walked, a list of just how many ways he was going to kill this irritating mongrel of a man once he got his hands on him. Not for slitting Yusuf’s throat though, but for being such a stubborn, virtuous moron. The slitting of the throat was forgivable; the rest of it, not so much. And making Yusuf walk across the desert plain to a port town full of stinking Franks, that was most definitely worth having his life squeezed out of him as slowly as Yusuf possibly could.

He marched all day, and well into the night, rationing his water and chomping down on some of the dried rations as he walked, just to keep his energy up. When the night became too dark to see clearly, he stopped and curled up on the sand, wrapped in his cloak. He dozed off for a few moments, only to wake up smothering cries of horror as the nightmares from the night before returned.

These nightmares were concerning. Yusuf could feel that yearning that he had felt before, returning. That yearning that he had felt when he and Nicolò had first begun killing each other. That sense of needing to be with him, needing to be beside him. And the nightmares themselves were enough to make his blood run cold.
He kept seeing Nicolò in chains. In a cage in chains, being tortured. His screams of pain pierced Yusuf’s heart until he felt tears filling his eyes.
What if Nicolò had been discovered again? What if these heathen savages decided to torture him, either in some fervour of religious panic, or simply because they believed him to be a devil of some sort? How long would Nicolò survive such treatment? Could he possibly die at some point? Was it possible for their immortality to end? Would Allah stop sending them back to life, if they lost hope, or their will to live, perhaps? How long could Nicolò withstand torture if he was indeed being tortured?

Yusuf shook himself a little and turned to face the East, then got on his knees and started to pray. He knew that it was not the time for prayers, but he hoped that Allah would hear him anyway. That Allah would listen, and grant his prayers, just this once. That Allah would allow him to rescue Nicolò in time. He prayed until his knees began to ache. Then he sat down again, and wiped the tears from his eyes, and settled down to wait for the sunrise again.

The sun had barely begun to light up the sky when he got up and started to march on again. He felt hope in his heart, and yet he spent his march making up lists of ways to murder Nicolò for what he had done. For his stubborn stupidity.
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He's all and he is more.