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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
- 7
- 8
- 9
Chapter 8.

Nicolò let out a cry of joy as he opened his eyes and met Yusuf’s eyes through the bars.
“Yusuf,” he whispered, and the Arab smiled.
            “Yes. Yusuf. I am here,” he said, and touched Nicolò’s hand again.
“I am sorry,” Nicolò said, and clutched Yusuf’s hand with both of his.
“We’ll talk about that later,” Yusuf said, and squeezed Nicolò’s hand in return, then let go. “Wait a moment, I’ll get you out,” he said and disappeared into the darkness.

            Nicolò made his way around the dark cell, listening to the soft sounds outside the building, and when he reached the door, the lock clicked, and the door swung open.
            Yusuf waved a hand at his shackled hands, and within moments he had unlocked the irons and laid them down on the floor, along with the keys. He grabbed Nicolò’s arm and guided him out of the cell, locking the door behind them.
            They made their way to behind the building, past the guard where he lay prone in the sand, and hid in the shadows. Yusuf pulled out his dagger and cut the fabric restraints that Sante had left around Nicolò’s arms.

            “I have clothes for you,” he whispered, and started to head into the darkness, but Nicolò grabbed the back of his black cloak and pulled him to a stop.
            “I need to kill him,” he whispered, and gave Yusuf a meaningful look when the Arab frowned at him. “I need to, Yusuf. He’ll never stop coming after me if I don’t. He will hunt me down, and we will never be free of him.”
            “If we kill him here, they will never stop hunting you,” Yusuf answered with a hiss, waving his hand at the dark camp around them. “If we go now, we can get away without being noticed.”
            “He tortured me, Yusuf. Beat me,” Nicolò protested, and Yusuf looked away.
            “I know,” he said and reached out a hand to touch Nicolò’s arm. He sighed slowly, and then pointed into the camp. “I know where his tent is. I followed him because he had your sword.”

            Nicolò gave a grim smile and followed Yusuf as he hunched down and started making his way through the shadows. Deftly they made their way through the camp, avoiding the few sentries that were about, and soon they were behind a large tent, not too far from the officers’ tents.
            Yusuf slid his dagger through the canvas and silently cut a hole for them to crawl through. The tent flap was closed, and an oil lamp stood on a small table, giving the tent an eerie glow.

            Sante was asleep on a cot on one side of the tent.
            Yusuf grabbed Nicolò’s arm to stop him when Nicolò made for the man, fury etched on his face.
            Yusuf shook his head and held out his dagger for Nicolò to take. “Quietly,” he whispered, hardly above a breath, and Nicolò nodded.
            Silent in his bare feet Nicolò made his way across the rug lain floor and with quick movements he placed one hand over Sante’s mouth, while he slid the dagger between the man’s ribs.
            “There you have it,” Nicolò whispered and grinned down at the man who had cut his head off. “See if you can find immortality now.”
            Nicolò waited until the light had gone from Sante’s eyes, and then he rose up and looked around the tent.

            Yusuf was standing by Sante’s bags, holding up some clothes, and Nicolò’s sword.
            “Does he have any coin?” Nicolò asked and started to root around in the man’s belongings as quietly as he could.
            “I found some silver,” Yusuf whispered back, and held out a pair of leggings for Nicolò. “You’re about the same size. Put them on, and this cloak. There are shoes over there.”
            Nicolò did as he was told, and hurriedly put on the garments, while Yusuf walked over to the small lamp and examined it for a moment. Then he turned to the corpse on the bed and poured the oil from the lamp over it. The oil ignited immediately, and the blanket and Sante’s clothes caught fire.

            Yusuf waved at Nicolò to go as fast as they could back out through the hole, and Nicolò followed Yusuf through the shadows towards the horse pen. They were almost halfway to the pen when the fire ignited the tent, and by the time they reached the horses the alarm had gone up, and men had begun to emerge from their tents.

            Yusuf found two dark horses for them, and as fast as they could they saddled the horses, and Yusuf led the way into the darkness of the town. Yusuf stopped quickly at the empty market square of the town to pull his bags out from under a market stall, and then they made their way out of the town as fast as the horses could carry them in the light of the nearly full moon.

            They rode towards the mountains again, and all through the next day, stopping only briefly to drink some water and to let their horses catch their breath. Nicolò noticed that instead of heading West as they had been before, Yusuf was now leading them further South, across the small mountain ridge. When they crested the ridge, they dared to stop long enough to look back, and they realized that the Crusaders had not sent out anyone to look for them. At least not yet.

            They did not ease up on their flight, as they descended from the mountains on the South side, but rode on through the day, and most of the following night, keeping to the foothills of the ridge. When they dared to stop, they slept in turns, curled up on the ground with nothing but a blanket, while the other sat on guard, and watched the way they had come. They avoided clear trails, and when they reached the end of the mountain range Yusuf turned them South again, heading inland.
            They spied army movements as they fled, Saracens heading towards the holy city for the final defence. They hid during that day, hoping that they would not be discovered, and once night fell, they headed South again, giving the army camp a wide berth as they went, the waning moon giving them just enough light for their journey.

            For three more days they travelled South, only stopping long enough to drink water and eat the meagre dry rations that Yusuf had collected before he had rescued Nicolò, and to water their horses and let them catch their breath. They did not speak much during those three days, only what was necessary. Nicolò could feel his guilt building as every time he tried to speak of what had happened with Yusuf, but the Arab only shook his head and answered, “We’ll speak of that later.”
            Three more nights passed as they fled deeper into Arabia, and one morning, in the distance Nicolò noticed the sparkle of water and Yusuf turned them towards that sparkle.

            “We should be safe now,” he said, and glanced over at Nicolò from his horse. Nicolò nodded and dropped his cross under his tunic again.
            “Do you know where we are?” Nicolò asked and urged his horse to walk beside Yusuf’s horse. He had to admit to himself that he missed riding behind Yusuf on the same horse.
            “Arabia,” Yusuf answered with a shrug of his shoulders and a cheeky grin through his raven beard.
            Nicolò frowned at him, but said nothing, because he had no idea where they were. His knowledge of the Islamic world ended at Jerusalem. Beyond there it was all just a country of wild heretics. Wild heretics who traded salt with the merchants of Genova, and all sorts of other exotic goods with the rest of the Holy Roman Empire, but still, wild heretics.

            “Who is she?” Nicolò asked, looking over at Yusuf, studying the man’s face when Yusuf turned to look at him.
            “Who?” Yusuf asked, quirking one eyebrow at him.
            “The woman, in your drawings? You drew her so beautiful. She must be very precious to you,” Nicolò answered and pointed at the small satchel that hung by Yusuf’s hip, the satchel Nicolò knew kept his book of drawings.
            Yusuf looked down at the small satchel, and then looked ahead of them, his face turning stony.
            “She is my wife,” he answered tersely, and kicked his horse to quicken its pace.

            Nicolò felt his heart sink to the pit of his stomach.
His wife.
Yusuf was married.
Of course he was married. He was a man in his thirties, judging by his appearance, and to be unmarried at that age was rare. Even in Genova that was rare. Anyone not married at that age was either a priest or had chosen a life outside of the law.
Nicolò followed Yusuf in silence for a while, his mind spinning over this new revelation. But then he drew up his courage and rode up beside Yusuf again.

“And the children, they are yours?” he asked, and drew ahead of Yusuf a little so he could look the man in the eyes.
“I hope so,” Yusuf answered with a snort, and shook his head, trying to avoid Nicolò’s gaze.
“So, you can lie with women?” Nicolò asked, horrified at his own words.
Yusuf pulled his horse to a stop, and Nicolò had to turn his horse around to face Yusuf.
“Why do you ask that?” Yusuf asked, tense.
“I’m curious,” Nicolò answered and felt his cheeks heat up.
“I have lain with one woman,” Yusuf answered, his face turning stony again. “I have lain with my wife, and we have two children. She was carrying the third when I left for the war. So, if everything went well, I have three children waiting for me at home. And a wife.”
Nicolò nodded his head, felt foolish, almost childish.
He felt his face flush even deeper when he realized, he was jealous. He was jealous of this woman who had lain with Yusuf and given him children. This woman who was nothing more than a drawing to him. A distant idea of a faithful wife.

“Why do you care?” Yusuf asked, his tone hard.
Nicolò gasped as he looked up, stammered, and then turned his horse around and started walking again.

A few moments later Yusuf came riding up beside him and reached out to grab his reins, stopping Nicolò’s horse.
“Answer me,” he demanded, and held onto Nicolò’s reins. “Why do you care if I can lie with women? That I have a wife? I am past thirty, of course I have a wife. And marriage usually results in children. I would not be much of a husband if I did not give my wife children.”

Nicolò tried to pull his reins free, but Yusuf refused to let go, so Nicolò sat there, stared at Yusuf’s hand where it held onto his reins and felt like a sullen child.
“I don’t care,” he tried to argue, but Yusuf made that small snort again.
“You do care. I can tell by the look on your face. Tell me, Nicolò,” Yusuf said, and Nicolò felt his heart explode into a million little pieces from the emphasis that Yusuf put on his name.

“You lay with me,” he stammered, turned his head so Yusuf would not see his eyes. “You kissed me, and touched me, and then you came to save me. I slit your throat and you still came to save me. You risked your life to come and rescue me from my own foolishness. You could have just gone on, returned to your wife, to your family, to your life, but you chose to come after me. You chose to risk your life to save me.” Nicolò felt the colour rising in his cheeks again as he spoke, and he felt tears pressing at his eyes as his emotions welled out of him.
“And?” Yusuf asked and leaned forwards to look into Nicolò’s face.
“And?!” Nicolò cried out in shock and turned his head to look at Yusuf.
The damned man was smiling at him.
His dark eyes were sparkling, dancing with mirth and he was smiling at him.

“You bastard,” Nicolò muttered in his own vernacular, and tried to pull his reins free, but Yusuf’s grip was tighter.

And then Yusuf laughed.
Nicolò could barely contain his rage, and he reached out and shoved Yusuf so hard that Yusuf fell out of his saddle and landed on his back on the ground with a loud thump.
Yusuf’s horse whinnied and danced away from him, but Yusuf lay on the ground and laughed.
Nicolò urged his horse closer to Yusuf’s horse and grabbed the reins to keep the horse from bolting, then he turned the horses to face Yusuf.

The Arab picked himself up off the ground and dusted himself off as best he could, but at least he stopped laughing. He stood there, put his fists on his hips and looked up at Nicolò with a bright smile.
“Think about it,” he said, and waved his hand towards his horse, then approached the animal and got back into the saddle. He turned them back towards the sea in the distance and looked at Nicolò with a serious look on his face. “Think about it. Why would I risk my life to come and save you? Think about what I may have dreamt about, while you were running away on your foolish errand. What did you dream of, while you were locked in that cell, being tortured?”

“I dreamt of you. Dying, in the desert,” Nicolò mumbled, and looked down in shame.
Yusuf reached out and touched his chin to make him look up at him and nodded.
“And I dreamt of you, locked in a cage, in chains, being drowned at sea. Yet, even before those dreams, I was already headed for that town to come and get you. Because I needed to make sure you were safe, even though I knew in my soul that you were not safe,” Yusuf said.
Nicolò held his breath as Yusuf gently tugged on the front of his tunic and leaned in until their lips met in a soft kiss. Then Yusuf let go and smiled at him.
“And remember, you were the one who kissed me first,” he added, and let go, kicked his horse to start moving again.

Nicolò’s heart beat so wildly that he was certain it would burst from his chest.
Yusuf was right, though.
Nicolò had kissed Yusuf first. Nicolò had felt himself drawn to this golden skinned man from the moment he’d seen him come back to life on the battlefield. And when he had taken that split second decision to save Yusuf’s life at the stronghold, he had wanted nothing more than to have one kiss goodbye, because he had not expected to ever see Yusuf again after that night. And so, he had kissed him. He had pressed his lips to Yusuf’s lips, tasted his blood, but above all else, he had felt those soft lips on his own, and felt the heat of that strong body against his own. And since then, he had only felt more and more drawn to this man.
It scared him. But it thrilled him at the same time.

“You care for me,” Nicolò called after Yusuf, and kicked his horse to get moving and catch up.
“You’re sharper than you look,” Yusuf said as he turned in his saddle to watch Nicolò catch up with him.
“You really care for me,” Nicolò repeated and smiled at Yusuf.
Yusuf watched him for a few silent moments, contemplative, looked almost as if he was trying to search Nicolò’s very soul. Then he nodded his head, and answered,
“I am falling in love with you.”

Nicolò gasped, and Yusuf used the opportunity to draw ahead of him again.
Had he just heard Yusuf correctly? Had the man actually said he was falling in love with Nicolò? How could that be? They were both men, after all. How could a man fall in love with another man?
Nicolò felt his face flush again, and he reached under his tunic to pull out his silver cross again, kissed it and started to pray, but the prayer died on his lips.
Had he himself not been enchanted by images of his beloved Santo Nicolò as a child, and later, when his body had changed when he became of age, had he not been aroused by the other young squires when they bathed in the sea? He had only once in his life met a woman whom he had found himself attracted to, but he had been a priest already then, and had spent many days in prayer to rid himself of his lustful thoughts of her. And had he not been the one to kiss Yusuf first?

Yusuf had stopped his horse again and looked back at Nicolò as he slowly caught up.
“Why do you always pray on that cross?” he asked and pointed at the small silver cross around Nicolò’s neck.
“My mother gave it to me, when I entered my studies,” Nicolò answered, and tucked the cross back under his tunic.
“Oh, you’re a scholar?” Yusuf asked with interest, and Nicolò felt himself blush again.
“I’m a priest,” he answered, and rode on.
Behind him he heard Yusuf cry out in Arabic,
“Allah, be merciful.”

Nicolò rode on for a little bit, then looked over his shoulder to see Yusuf still standing still. His face was pale behind his beard, and his eyes wide. Nicolò stopped his horse and turned around, waited for Yusuf to catch up, but the Arab did not move.
“You’re a priest?” he shouted across the sand between them, and Nicolò nodded his head in the affirmative.
Yusuf cried out again and lowered his head into his hands, and Nicolò could just barely make out that Yusuf was praying. After a few minutes Yusuf lifted his head from his hands and shouted again.
“Why did you not tell me?”
“I did not think it mattered. I left my church to come fight in the war. I’m a warrior now first, priest second,” Nicolò shouted back, and Yusuf let out a small scream of frustration.
“You are still a holy man!” Yusuf yelled back and kicked his horse into a trot to join Nicolò again, his brows furrowed in a tumult of emotions. “You have taken holy orders and are the holy man of your people.”
            “I am not holy,” Nicolò responded and shook his head, his cheeks yet again flushing with warmth. “I was ordained, and yes, I am a priest, but I left my priesthood behind when I came to the war.”
            “You cannot leave your holy orders behind when you wish to,” Yusuf argued and threw up his hands.
            “My religion allows me to do so,” Nicolò answered back and reached out to grab Yusuf’s reins, to keep the agitated man still. “If I go back home, then I will most likely take back my orders and my church and continue to be a priest. But here, I am a warrior. I made a choice to not be considered a priest here. I told them I did not want to be a priest and kill people, even if it was in the name of Our Father.”
            “Oh, but your father allows you to kill people in his name if you are not a priest?” Yusuf retorted angrily and tried to pull his reins out of Nicolò’s hand, but this time Nicolò refused to let go.
            “They believe that they are doing the right thing. That the sacred sites of our faith should belong to us,” Nicolò said with little conviction in his tone. “But when I see my fellow soldiers murdering women and children, and raping children at camp, I begin to doubt that we have any rights in these lands.”
            “Jerusalem belongs to the Muslim people,” Yusuf stated firmly and Nicolò nodded.
            “I know now that it is sacred to your people as well. And I no longer agree with the war. Murdering children and women is not what I signed up for,” Nicolò said, and then he reached out to grab Yusuf’s arm, and forced him to look into his eyes.
“I don’t know what your faith says about your holy men, but I do know that I have already broken the rules of my own faith. But, Yusuf, if God thinks that what I feel when I am with you is unholy, then may He, and Allah strike me dead right here, right now, for what I am about to do,” he said firmly, and reached up to grab the front of Yusuf’s tunic and pulled him forwards.
Their lips clashed together painfully hard, but Nicolò was determined not to back down. He was in this for as long as Yusuf would have him, he knew that now. He held on tight as Yusuf pushed at his shoulders, but then Yusuf gave up and wrapped his arms around Nicolò’s shoulders and their kiss deepened. Nicolò knew that he was the one to deepen it. He wanted this. He desired this. To feel Yusuf’s lips on his, to feel the soft beard against his skin, to feel the soft nibble of Yusuf’s pearly teeth on his lips, the taste of Yusuf’s mouth on his tongue. Nicolò moaned softly into the kiss and let his hand travel up to cup Yusuf’s cheek. Yusuf answered with a soft sigh of his own, and then reluctantly he broke the kiss, looked up into Nicolò’s eyes.
Nicolò righted himself in his saddle and looked all around them, then up at the sky, then back down at Yusuf, and smiled a little.
“See. No smiting, no thunder and lightning,” he said and Yusuf gave him an unamused frown.
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He's all and he is more.