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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
- 6
- 7
- 8
Chapter 7.

            Nicolò got to the port town just before nightfall. No one challenged him at the gates when he pulled down the scarf that Yusuf had taught him how to wear around his head to protect himself from the desert sun. And when he got to the Crusader encampment the guards there recognized him as their own, yet seemed doubtful of the story he had come up with to explain why he was not with his regiment.
            The story was as close to the truth as Nicolò could make it. That he had been kidnapped by a crazed Saracen and carried off into the desert mountains against his will. That he had only escaped when he had killed the Saracen in his sleep.

The lie stung him, though. Every time he had to repeat his story, as he was slowly brought up the chain of command at the encampment, his heart ached when he called Yusuf a crazed Saracen. And every time he explained how he had killed that Saracen, his heart cried with guilt and shame.
            Yusuf had saved him. Had risked his own life to dig Nicolò out of a mass grave and carried him off into the desert to bring him back to life and save him. And now, here Nicolò was, explaining to yet another lower ranking officer how he had repaid that rescue by slitting Yusuf’s throat in his sleep. Lying about what had happened.

            The commander of the encampment guards looked at Nicolò as he finished his story, studied him from head to toe, and back again. From the Arab headscarf, the tunic, the flowing trousers to the soft leather shoes, and up again, pausing on the long sword that hung by Nicolò’s belt.

            “He let you keep your sword?” the commander asked, looking at Nicolò with a questioning look.
            “No. He kept it himself, and I got it back after I killed him. I assumed he meant to sell it, at some point, or claim it as a trophy of war,” Nicolò answered glibly, and managed to not look away in shame.
            Yusuf had given him his sword back on the first day and let him carry it the entire time they had been together.

            The commander nodded his head, then stood from his chair.
            “You’ll sleep in there for the night,” he said, and pointed to a small tent next to his own. “Tomorrow, I’ll take you before the High Marshal. He’ll figure out what to do with you.”
            Nicolò thanked him, and meekly followed the guard ordered to watch him and feed him to the tent. He rolled out his sleep roll on the floor and waited until the guard returned with a bowl of food, a small piece of bread and some water. He sat in silence and ate his meal, being careful to ration his water, despite the thirst that he had gotten from his ride across the desert.
            Once he was finished eating, the guard took up position outside the tent, and Nicolò knew that he was now more or less a prisoner, until he would meet the High Marshal in the morning. He did not know who the High Marshal here was. He had come through the Antioch, with the crossbowmen of his city, and they had followed their commander all the way from Genova.

            Nicolò rolled over on to his knees and pulled his silver cross out from under his tunic, pressed it to his lips and then clasped it between his hands as he lowered his head and began to pray. He recited the Lord’s prayer, and one to his patron saint, then the Lord’s prayer again. And then he found himself thinking of Yusuf. Praying for Yusuf.
            But his prayers became muddled and confused, and he stopped when he realized that he was praying for Yusuf to find him. He was praying that he would find his way to Yusuf again.
            Nicolò stopped his praying and stared into the darkness of the tent, tears welling in his eyes. What had he done? How could Yusuf ever forgive him this betrayal? What in the Hell had he been thinking, slitting Yusuf’s throat like that, and running away with their horse? Had Yusuf decided that he was too much trouble and continued on, on foot? Had he lost Yusuf forever?
            Nicolò swallowed a sob at that thought, and turned back to the Lord’s prayer, begging God to please forgive him his sins, and to save him from his thoughts. His desires.

            Nicolò was swaying on his knees by the time the camp settled down for the night. He crumbled down on his sleep roll and fell asleep, still clutching his cross.
            His dreams were dark, and cold. He kept waking up and falling asleep again right away, and his dreams were filled with Yusuf, cold and dying in the desert, under the waxing moon. Yusuf, returned to life, screaming after him as he fled. Yusuf bleeding to death with his throat slit from ear to ear.

            When the morning dawned, cold and windy, Nicolò rolled up his sleep roll, prayed some more, and sat down to wait for his judgement. The hours ticked by, and the guard deigned to take him to the latrines when Nicolò threatened to relieve himself on the tentpoles, and in the man’s helmet. As they made their way back to the tent Nicolò noticed that he drew some odd looks from the men they passed. He was still dressed in the Arabic clothes that Yusuf had stolen for him, after all. He heard some of the men whispering behind his back.
            His heart leapt into his throat, and his mind began to race, wondering if these were men who had been at the siege of the stronghold. Whether these were men who had seen him die, who had seen him come back to life. Whether he had forgotten their faces. But he was not that bad with remembering faces. He had spent months with those men, both the foot soldiers and the crossbowmen, and he would recognize them again if he met them. He was sure of it.
            His heart thudded so hard against his chest that he was afraid his guard would hear it as he looked all around, stared into the faces of the soldiers, trying to find a face he might recognize. But he found none.

            Inside the tent he sat down on his rolled up bedding and pulled out his cross again. But instead of praying, he wondered what he was thinking. What was his plan? Was he planning on going back out into the fight, once he’d convinced the High Marshal that he was no deserter? Once he’d convinced these men that a lone Saracen had carried him off into the desert against his will? Once he’d convinced them that he had not taken it upon himself to steal the horse and run away from the fight by himself? Or had he been hoping he could return home? Had he been hoping that he could get on board a ship heading for home, and return to his church? Run away, like a coward, from his enchanting Saracen… his Arab?

            “I’m sorry,” Nicolò whispered to the tent, hoped that God would bring his words to Yusuf’s heart. For he really was sorry.
It had only now dawned on him how stupid he was being. They would never let him return home. He would be provided with armour again, and sent on his way, back to the frontlines. At some point, somewhere, someone would recognize him, and he would be reunited with the crossbowmen, and then he would be in even more trouble than he was now. And at some point, he would be recognized by someone, by someone who had been at that village, who had witnessed his execution. And what would happen then? He should have stayed with Yusuf.

The sun had started to sink towards the western horizon when the commander finally appeared.
“Come with me,” he said gruffly, and Nicolò jumped to his feet and followed.
The commander was carrying Nicolò’s sword, which he had taken off him when they had first met. The guard followed tight on Nicolò’s heels, tight enough that there was no room for Nicolò to try to run away. He was stuck here and would have to plead his case as best he could.

The High Marshal’s tent was large, and ornate, compared to the other pale canvas tents all around it. The floor was laid with ornate rugs, and the chairs were carved wood, padded with comfortable cushions.
The High Marshal was leaning over a table with maps, discussing things with other commanders gathered around him, planning advances, moving pieces around on the map to represent where the troops were at that given moment. Or at least when the messengers had set out from their respective troops.
None of them paid Nicolò and his captors any mind, until the guard commander whispered something to a sentry and the sentry went to the High Marshal. Only then did the High Marshal look up and glanced over his shoulder and gave the guard commander a sign to wait.

He was a tall man, with shoulders like Nicolò had always imagined a minotaur would. His thick neck was covered with a curly beard, as red as the sunset, and his hair flowed freely over his shoulder, as red as his beard. His accent was strange as well, and Nicolò figured that he had to be from the North. Possibly as far North as the Norman territories. It was rare to find one this far South, let alone fighting in the Holy War, but Nicolò had heard that they could be found. This was the first time he actually saw a Norman in person.
Nicolò’s attention was so riveted by this strange man that he did not notice a pair of dark eyes finding him across the strategy table and lingering on him for a long while. Not until it was too late.

“Alright, what is it that you wanted with me?” the High Marshal asked, as he turned around, and most of the other commanders filed out of the tent, giving Nicolò only a cursory look as they passed him.
“This man came to the camp last night, just after last prayers,” the guard commander said and stepped to the side to let Nicolò step forward. “He says that he was with the Western vanguard, when they took the stronghold, but was knocked out by a crazed Saracen and carried off into the desert.”
“Is that so?” the High Marshal said and stepped closer to look at Nicolò.

“Nicolò di Genova,” a raspy voice said behind the High Marshal, and Nicolò felt a rush of cold fear run down his spine. He knew that voice.
The High Marshal looked around, and the guard commander as well as Nicolò’s guard both bowed their heads a little at the one who had spoken.
Nicolò held his breath as he recognized the face.

“Do not believe a word this man says, High Marshal,” the man said and sauntered closer to them. “He is a deserter. A spy, possibly. He helped the Saracens at the stronghold, and then stole my horse and fled into the night. Possibly with a Saracen accomplice.”

“I did not,” Nicolò cried out, biting his lip.
How could he be here? Why was he here? What was his plan now?

“Yes, you did,” Sante Paternoster, the second in command of the Western vanguard said, a small cold smile on his lips. “Commander, did he ride in on a horse? Can you go get the horse?”
“Yes, sire,” the commander said and bowed his head, looked to the High Marshal, and then ran off.

Nicolò shivered. His very core had gone cold, and his mind was in turmoil. There was no way he was getting out of this one. He could not accuse this man of having killed him, of having chopped his head off, after all. Not if he wanted to avoid being accused of devilry and being a demon again.

The High Marshal looked at Sante, gave him a look that suggested he go on with his accusations.

“He disappeared on the last night, when we took the stronghold, High Marshal,” Sante continued, and moved closer to Nicolò, grinning at him as if he was waiting for Nicolò to incriminate himself. “It was after the camp had begun to settle down for the night when my squire came to find me and told me my horse was gone. As far as we could figure Nicolò di Genova had disappeared during the taking of the village, slipped out through a side gate, and then stole the horse to make his escape. We also found several houses at the stronghold burgled, after we had cleared it of Saracen fighters. So, High Marshal, this man is a thief, a deserter, and possibly a spy for the Saracens.”

“He did say he had been in the company of a Saracen since the stronghold was taken,” Nicolò’s guard said, hesitant, and gave Nicolò a disgusted look.

“Would I say that if I was a spy?” Nicolò spat out, looking at Sante with fury in his eyes.
“You would if you wanted us to believe that you had been kidnapped by one,” the High Marshal said, just as the guard commander came back into the tent.

“I have the horse, sire,” he said, and the guard grabbed Nicolò’s arm to pull him out of the way as the High Marshal and Sante walked out of the tent.

The guard pushed Nicolò into the entrance of the tent, and Nicolò looked down at the ground as Sante walked up to the tall horse and stroked its neck.
“This is my saddle, and my bridle,” he said, the horse nuzzling his palm.
“Is there a maker’s mark?” the High Marshal asked, and Sante told him where to find it, and then described it. The High Marshal looked closely at the saddle and examined the maker’s mark, then joined Sante by the horse’s head. They spoke in hushed voices, and then they returned to the tent, continuing to speak in whispered tones.

The guard and his commander guided Nicolò back into the tent, but Nicolò knew he had lost. It was obvious that Sante had the High Marshal’s ear, and Nicolò also knew that Sante Paternoster was known amongst his men for being a master manipulator. He could manipulate anyone to do whatever he wanted them to for him. Nicolò had always been thankful that he had not been under Sante’s direct command. And yet, now here he was, completely at Sante’s mercy. A mercy that, according to rumours, did not exist.

“These are some very serious allegations,” the High Marshal said, and turned to look at Nicolò. He studied Nicolò, taking in the Arab clothes, and the nervousness that Nicolò knew was painted on his face. “I will have to bring this before the other Marshals, and the Grand Marshal. Take him to the jail for the night. I will convene the Marshals tomorrow, and then we will sentence you.”

“No, sire,” Nicolò cried out, but the guard commander shoved him towards the entrance to the tent, and Sante bowed to the High Marshal as he said,
“I shall take him myself, High Marshal. Thank you for your time, and I will be ready to testify tomorrow, at your orders.”

Nicolò shook his head in horror as Sante followed them out of the tent, and marched tight on Nicolò’s heels as the guard and his commander led Nicolò through the camp.
The jail was a low, wooden building, built on the edge of the camp, near the sea. It counted several small, separate cells, with wooden walls, and bars for windows on two sides.

The guard commander opened a cell door, and to Nicolò’s horror he saw that the cell was empty. He would be alone in there. They slapped irons on his wrists and shoved him into the cell, and slammed the door shut behind him.

Nicolò fell to his knees and began to pray. That was the only way he would ever escape this place now. If God would answer his prayers and rescue him, by some divine miracle.

Night had fallen, and Nicolò had prayed himself into exhaustion. He had sunk down against the wall and fallen asleep, dreaming of Yusuf again.
The sound of the lock being opened and the door creaking awoke him.

Nicolò rolled up on his knees and blinked at the blaze of a torch being brought into the small, dark cell. A bucket was dropped on the floor upside down, and the door swung shut behind whoever had entered.

“Nicolò di Genova,” Sante said, as he placed the torch in a scone by the door and sat down on the bucket. “I never thought I would see you again. But when we saw the grave the next morning, we knew that you had come back. So, I came here, to bring my reports, and the Marshal sent me with a warning to the priests. I have not delivered that warning yet. And now, I think I will lose that warning.”

Sante rose to his feet and moved closer to Nicolò. He sat down on his haunches and grabbed Nicolò by the hair. “How do you do it?” he asked, and Nicolò cried out as a dagger slipped between his ribs.

Nicolò coughed and gasped, feeling his lung deflate and fill with blood. He coughed again and Sante made him lean his head forward so the blood gushed from his lips to the floor.
“Is it only that you can cheat death, or do you heal as well? Do your wounds heal on their own, without leaving behind any trace?” Sante asked and pulled the dagger slowly out of Nicolò’s chest.
Nicolò cursed through the blood that bubbled in his airway, but as he did so, he felt the blood receding to air in his lung, and then the sound of air bubbling out between his ribs stopped and he felt his skin knit together, smooth over, and finally it was as if he had never been stabbed.

“How interesting,” Sante said, and pushed Nicolò’s head back until Nicolò had to move his legs from underneath himself or he would fall backwards. “How very interesting,” Sante said again and knelt on one knee next to Nicolò. “Tell me how you did it. Tell me what you did to gain this power,” Sante demanded and used the dagger to pull Nicolò’s tunic up to reveal his abdomen.

Nicolò screamed in pain as the dagger slid across his skin, opening him up deep enough to reveal muscles.
“I don’t know!” he screamed, and reached up to grab Sante’s wrist, trying to shake him off.

Sante laughed harshly and turned the dagger to slide it into Nicolò’s abdomen until the hilt pressed against the exposed muscles.
“You can scream all you want. I sent the guards away. Told them that I needed to interrogate you, and that they would face punishment if they said a word, or try to come in here,” he said, and twisted the dagger in its wound before he pulled it out again, even slower. “You don’t know…” Sante muttered and looked up into Nicolò’s eyes.

“You do know. What devil did you summon to grant you such powers? I want you to tell me. What demon gave you the gift of immortality? Tell me, and I will withdraw all my accusations. Tell me, and share your gift with me, and I shall make sure that you will be let free. I’ll even try to have you sent back home if that is what you desire. All you have to do, is tell me, how did you gain immortality?”

Sante looked back down at the wound he had carved in Nicolò’s abdomen, and hummed softly as the skin knitted together, leaving nothing but a streak of blood behind.

“I don’t know,” Nicolò answered, and screamed as Sante ran the dagger down his chest, deep enough to expose his sternum. “I swear on the Holy Father and Santa Maria, I do not know. I was killed on the battlefield, by a Saracen. And I woke up again, among the corpses, my wounds healed, and alive again.”
Nicolò stopped to scream as Sante plunged the dagger into his abdomen again, twisting the blade to cut Nicolò’s words off.

“Of course you know!” Sante yelled at him and stood up to kick Nicolò in the side. He bent down and Nicolò was certain he was going to get stabbed again, but instead Sante grabbed the waistband of his Arab trousers and slit it apart quickly. Then he grabbed the billowing material and yanked the trousers off Nicolò’s legs, throwing them to the side. Nicolò let out a scream of pain as Sante fell to his knees between Nicolò’s legs and plunged the dagger into his thigh.

“I don’t believe that you just woke up with this power,” he hissed, twisting the dagger before pulling it out.
Nicolò felt faint, the blood flowing from the leg wound, much like it had that day when Yusuf had cut the inside of his thigh.
  Nicolò gave a faint laugh and pointed at his leg.
“You cut too deep. You’ve killed me,” he said and leaned back, unconsciously pulling the hem of his tunic down to hide his exposed manhood.

Sante stood up and kicked Nicolò in the side again.
“You’ll just wake up again, anyway, so what’s the harm?” he said, and turned to sit down on his bucket again.
Nicolò chuckled as he felt the life slip from his body along with his blood, and he lay back on the straw covered floor, closed his eyes, and allowed death to take him. His only hope now was Yusuf, and Yusuf was not coming to save him.

Nicolò felt breath in his body again and started to blink his eyes open, only to cry out in pain as a heavy, leather covered fist landed in his face. He found his shackled hands tied even tighter together with the remains of his trousers, so tight that he could barely move his arms to defend himself.

“Tell me how you do it!” Sante demanded and pulled Nicolò up by his hair just to strike him down again with a fist to his face.
Nicolò cried out in pain again but when Sante forced him to look up, he smiled.
“You are not worthy of it,” Nicolò answered, chuckling breathlessly through his pain. “You are not worthy of knowing the secret of immortality.”

Sante’s eyes blazed in the dim light of the torch and then he roared in fury as he brought his fist down on Nicolò’s face again and again.
“I will make you tell me,” he screamed, foam forming at the corners of his mouth, and his breath became heavy as he beat Nicolò, and kicked him every time Nicolò fell to the floor.

Nicolò did not cry out in pain again. He just continued to chuckle to himself as Sante beat him into unconsciousness, and his body tried to heal itself as fast as Sante’s blows landed.
Hours passed, and the night was dark around them when Sante finally gave up. The man looked wild, crazed even, his breath wheezing in his throat, and sweat pouring off his face.
“You are dead, Nicolò di Genova,” Sante said and waved a fist lamely at Nicolò. “I will have them burn you at the stake for heresy. For being an ungodly creature of Hell. You will not see the outside of a jail cell again.”

“I can’t die, remember,” Nicolò answered with a cackle as he struggled to sit up. “I survived being beheaded. I’m sure I can survive being burnt at the stake. But I sure would like to see you convince them.”

Sante roared with spent rage and raised his leg to kick Nicolò in the face. Nicolò laughed as he fell over on his side, and Sante turned, unsteady on his feet to grab his torch which was now burning low. Nicolò continued to laugh into the blood soaked straw on the floor as Sante slammed the door shut and clicked the lock into place.

Once he was sure that Sante was out of earshot Nicolò turned on his side and let a few tears fall freely. His whole body ached, and a dozen of small hurts were knitting themselves together as he caught his breath. With an effort he rolled onto his front and eased up onto his knees, then stood up. He was unsteady on his legs, but his head stopped swimming after a few steadying breaths. Nicolò went over to the window, and grabbed the bars, pressed his face against the bars and looked up at the sky. Morning would be upon them soon, and then, Sante would most likely make good on his threats. Come morning, Nicolò would die. Many times over.

“Please, God, help me,” Nicolò begged, and closed his eyes, his forehead pressed painfully against the wooden bars.

“Not god, but will I do?” a gentle voice whispered outside the bars, and a gentler hand touched Nicolò’s fingers.
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He's all and he is more.