Chapter Text
They’ve been trudging through the desert for Allah knows how long.
The landscape never varies – sand, rocks, endless emptiness as far as the eye can see.
Yusuf’s clothes hang off him in bloodied, ragged tatters; his curls and beard are crusted with filth; his skin caked with all sorts of dust and dirt – their origins don’t bear thinking about.
They ran out of water days ago – Yusuf’s waterskin was lost somewhere on the battlefield outside of al-Quds, and the invader’s had been at best half full when they set off on this crazy journey. To his credit, Yusuf’s pale, blue-eyed companion had offered him some drops too, when he’d fallen down exhausted and parched by some rocks only a few hours into their trek. Ever since, they’ve been suffering, muddling through. Ever so often, one of them dies from hunger or thirst or fatigue, and the other is forced to sit down under the blistering sun and wait – only to have the situation reversed a short time later.
They have no clear destination in mind, but they are heading due west. Yusuf has been navigating as best he could. He keeps track of the sun, and uses the stars at night to correct when they wandered off course. Those first days they walked aimlessly, hiding from raiding parties and bandits roaming around al-Quds, but they soon realized they needed a plan. Hence their trek through the desert. They must find a village, or an oasis at some point – and even if not, they are bound to reach the coast eventually. Then they can easily find Yafa or Asqalan, and set sail for home.
It won’t be a moment too soon, either. Yusuf will be glad to see this cursed Christian leave and never return. And then, maybe, this strange affliction that has befallen them will be lifted, too, and Yusuf can go back to his family. His poor mother will likely have heard of the battle which decimated all of al-Quds, and she will have mourned for her only son. His father will have listened to her laments, pulling his beard, guilt plaguing him for having sent Yusuf on such a long and perilous trip to obtain expensive wares for them to sell. His sisters will have had to find suitable matches without the fat dowries the merchandise Yusuf was supposed to bring back would have secured them.
Still, he tells himself when he hears the tell-tale arduous breaths that signal Nicolò’s imminent death, they will be glad to have him returned to them, even penniless. They will.
Behind him, Nicolò falls down in the sand. Yusuf sighs. He couldn’t have hung on for another hour or so, until the sun would have set, so Yusuf could have had a few minutes respite in the coolness of the twilight hour? Then again, Yusuf had died when the sun was at its highest today, and Nicolò hadn’t complained about having to wait in the sweltering heat. At least there are a few tallish rocks not too far away. Yusuf will be able to curl up small in their shade and still keep an eye on Nicolò. The poor man’s skin is covered with burns, even though he’s ripped his tunic – with the offending cross – into some sort of makeshift turban.
Yusuf is not sure what day it is. Still Ramadan, he supposes. He grimaces. He’s fasting, alright. If things were different, he’d be in his father’s house, where the women would be preparing for Eid. His stomach cramps painfully at the thought of tables bending under the weight of all the food. He should pray, maybe, but he’s too tired, too unsure about the direction of Mecca, too dirty. It shouldn’t be an excuse, Yusuf knows that. He can use the sand to clean himself, he can pray in all four directions – Allah doesn’t want to make it hard on those who believe, the Quran says. But if that is the truth, then why did Allah send the invaders, why did he not strike all of them down in front of al-Quds, why did he curse Yusuf with this infernal undying, why did he burden Yusuf with an infidel Frank as his only companion?
He glances over. Nicolò should wake up soon. The first few times this happened he thought about getting up and leaving the pale invader behind. What does he owe him?
But then he thinks about their truce, the bloody handshake after a day and a night of killing and dying and killing and dying. They are strange allies, the two of them, but allies nevertheless. For now.
They haven’t talked a lot, Nicolò and he. There were the taunts and yells on the battlefield, during their first fight, and the dozens that came after that. And after they set out on their journey, there have been a few words here and there, a handful of hesitant conversations when they rest for a few hours in the evening, trying to get some precious sleep, before it gets too cold to remain seated, or right before dawn and another day of oppressive heat. Yusuf talks more than Nicolò, but Nicolò doesn’t seem to mind. He says he likes to listen. Says he’s used to keeping quiet, from the monastery. Yusuf cannot imagine spending day after day in silence, but Nicolò merely shrugged when Yusuf tried to ask about it.
It’s strangely peaceful to sit, starving, parched and exhausted, covered in the remains of each other’s blood and guts, the broadsword that crushed Yusuf’s skull discarded right next to the scimitar he used to cut Nicolò’s arm at the elbow, and talk about normal things. Such as how Nicolò used to fish for his family’s dinner on Friday mornings before school. Or how Yusuf got so caught up in making a doll for his youngest sister one day that he forgot school altogether. They have to speak slowly, in halting Greek neither of them is overly comfortable in.
Still. They are all they have, at this very moment.
So when Nicolò groans weakly, Yusuf slowly gets up and reaches a hand out to him. Nicolò grasps it with the feeble force he has in his fingers, and they both stumble for a moment as he uses it as leverage to stand.
“Everything okay?” Yusuf mumbles, and Nicolò nods.
“Let’s go on,” he murmurs back.
Neither of them speaks after that. There is no need to. They both know it – their deaths are coming faster, their bodies weaker every time they wake up. They thought they could make it – dying and waking and walking and dying again – but what if they don’t? What if their number of deaths is limited? What if, at some point, they won’t be able to take more than a few steps before falling again? How long do they have? How much further to rescue?
Yusuf tries not to despair, tries not to see the exhaustion on Nicolò’s face, the dwindling hope in his eyes.
They speak no more, until the next morning’s sunrise. The sky bleeds from red to sienna to orange, and Nicolò stands for a moment, swaying like a leaf in the breeze.
“The night is always darkest just before dawn,” he says, and Yusuf stops next to him. They lean precariously against each other, and at the first rays of golden light, they fall into step at each other’s side as if they’ve done so for a thousand years.
***
By some divine stroke of luck, they stumble onto an abandoned outpost. It’s nothing to write home about – a handful of tiny buildings and some painstakingly tended patches of vegetable gardens in the shade of a few date palms. There’s no living soul to be seen, and Yusuf says a quick prayer – he hopes the families who lived here took their animals and belongings and fled for the rumours of war before the invaders passed by. He notices Nicolò touching the heavy wooden cross around his neck – could he be thinking along the same lines as Yusuf?
All thoughts and prayers for the people who tried to eke out a living here disperse fast, though, when Nicolò spots the well. All tiredness seems to leave his bones as he almost trips over himself in his haste.
“Yusuf,” he calls out before he’s even hauled up the first bucketful, “Yusuf, water, water!”
They spill more water than Yusuf cares to think about, greedily scooping it up with both hands to take that first gulp. Yusuf doesn’t even stop to pause about how dirty his fingers are, when he feels the water dripping through them as he drinks. But then he stops Nicolò, who’s about to plunge his hands in again for a second mouthful.
“Wait,” he says. “Wash first. And drink slowly, you’ll get sick if you overdo it.”
Nicolò grimaces and rolls his eyes.
“Dying of sickness might be a welcome relief,” he mutters in a low voice, but he takes up Yusuf’s example and submerges his hands in the bucket, rubbing them together in an attempt to get the worst grime off. Yusuf hauls up another load after that, clear and cool, and they take turns slaking their thirst.
And then they slowly become aware of all the other things ailing them – hunger, and sunburn, and utter, utter fatigue.
There’s a tent set up next to one of the more stable dwellings – maybe it belonged to someone who hadn’t yet managed to build a sturdier home.
He looks at it, assessing, and then to Nicolò, who’s following his gaze.
“It would be stealing,” Nicolò says hesitantly, and Yusuf scoffs.
“That’s where you draw the line? You’re fine with robbing a whole country from its inhabitants, killing dozens of men whose only crime is to defend their town and their families, burning and pillaging as you go, murdering women and children, but you will not take some abandoned clothes or blankets?”
Nicolò doesn’t reply. Yusuf laughs mirthlessly.
“Don’t worry, Frank,” he says, surprised by his cruelty. “I’ll save your doomed soul.”
Without waiting for an answer, he opens the tent flap, and steps in. It is clear whoever was here last left in a hurry. There are no bedrolls anywhere, and only one blanket as far as Yusuf can see. But some clean clothes lie haphazardly in a corner, and there’s some soap near the far end. He takes those out. They can worry about food and warmth later.
“Here.”
He shows his loot to Nicolò, who wordlessly hauls up more water while Yusuf divides the clothes into two piles.
The idea of finally feeling clean again is a powerful motivator, and before long they are both doffing the remains of what once were clothes. Belatedly, they turn their backs toward each other, and awkwardly hand the soap back and forth between them. Nicolò dumps a whole bucket of water over his head, making the ground muddy. Yusuf hauls up another bucket to rinse off too – he winces when he notices how dark the water by their feet is. Dust and sand and blood and who knows what drips off them in steady rivulets, and it takes many bucketfuls before they’re done. By that time, the sun is setting, and Yusuf suddenly shivers in the cool evening air. Almost simultaneously, he and Nicolò grab their new, dry clothes. Yusuf steps away from their improvised bathroom, and turns back to face Nicolò, who’s still standing by the well. He has soaped up his face again, Yusuf sees, and then he rummages through his possessions to emerge with a dagger in his large hand.
“What are you –” Yusuf begins, but then interrupts himself when he sees Nicolò carefully putting the sharp edge to his cheeks, to the straggly beard growing there.
“Careful,” he warns, just as Nicolò flinches back, and a red drop appears just above where the soap has been removed by the blade. “Here, let me –”
“It’s okay,” Nicolò mumbles, holding on to the hilt of his knife. “It’ll heal, it’s not –”
“Are you afraid I will cut your throat?” Yusuf returns, challenging.
Nicolò just turns to look at him, his piercing blue eyes so much clearer now his face is not covered with dirt streaks.
“I’d just wake up again,” he says, slowly.
“As a punishment for my sins, I’m sure,” Yusuf mutters back, but he swallows further remarks when Nicolò hands him the dagger, hilt first.
It’s a show of trust, much like the first time they grabbed each other’s hand on the bloody battlefield under the walls of al-Quds. Yusuf takes it for what it is, and carefully shaves Nicolò’s cheeks, cautious not to cause any more nicks. It feels oddly intimate, to be so close after all this time.
They’ve been at blade’s length before, but never as – not-enemies. Friend feels too big a word, too easy after all the blood spilled. And yet, here they are, Nicolò baring his neck without hesitation, tilting his head to give Yusuf easy access. Yusuf smells the soap on Nicolò’s skin, feels Nicolò’s hair tickle on the back of his hand. He grits his teeth. Nicolò is – a travel companion. A confidant in this strange secret they keep. But nothing more – even if they both shiver when Yusuf’s fingers brush over Nicolò’s jaw as he glides the dagger over the thin skin of Nicolò’s throat.
Nicolò’s nose seems even bigger when Yusuf’s done, and there’s a mole on his chin Yusuf couldn’t see earlier. It’s strange, he thinks, to know these details about one of the Christians – to know all the different colours in his eyes, the softness of his skin. It’s strange to think he would have killed this man – did kill this man – without a second thought, without sparing a moment to ponder that his enemy must have had dreams and hopes for his life and people who would mourn him, just like Yusuf.
He shakes his head at that. It was not Yusuf who travelled for long, gruelling months to wage war on Nicolò’s brethren. It cannot be on Yusuf’s soul, to have killed Nicolò, and several of his countrymen. It must be the hunger which makes him hallucinate, and conjures pity for the invader where none is deserved.
“There,” he says brusquely. “All done.”
“Thank you,” Nicolò says quietly, but sincerely, his eyes on the ground.
Yusuf feels chastised for his thoughts. Maybe one day they will talk about why Nicolò felt the need to pick up the sword, but not today. Today they extend the truce they formed in al-Quds.
“Come on,” he says, changing the subject. “We need to sleep. We should be safe enough for now, I think.”
Nicolò seems like he wants to say something, but he thinks better of it. Together, they get into the tent, and roll themselves into their new clothes to ward off the night-time chill.
For the first time since he spied the invading army from the walls of al-Quds, Yusuf sleeps like a new-born.
***
He wakes up hours later when he hears rustling. Nicolò is nowhere to be seen, but through the open tent flaps, Yusuf can see the stars are still high in the sky.
Well. If that idiot of a Frank wants to leave right now, then so be it. He won’t make it far before he’s back to where he was yesterday – starving and lost in the desert.
Speaking of starving, however – Yusuf’s stomach chooses that precise moment to rumble loudly. He should probably see if there’s anything left to eat anywhere.
The tent flap moves, and Nicolò steps back in, his hands full with a few odd parcels.
“Oh,” Nicolò says, surprised. “Apologies for waking you, I just –” He holds out his hands, and Yusuf makes out a few dried dates, and some cheese that doesn’t look too horrible. “I figured you might be hungry when you woke, so I looked around for some food.”
Yusuf’s first thought is that Nicolò clearly meant to eat alone – but then he discards it just as fast. If that was Nicolò’s plan, he didn’t need to bring his loot back here. Still, he feels prickly and not at all charitable when he replies, tersely, “I thought you didn’t want to steal.”
Nicolò’s eyes darken with something Yusuf doesn’t want to explore – hurt? Silently, Nicolò divides the dates, and breaks the cheese in two. He hands the bigger part to Yusuf, and Yusuf mumbles a half-assed thank you as he ravenously starts eating, smacking his lips.
It’s not a lot, and it doesn’t take long before it’s all gone.
They sit for a moment, next to each other. It’s cold, and Yusuf spreads the thin blanket he saw earlier over both their laps. It means they have to sit very closely to each other, but neither comments on it.
Then Nicolò suddenly starts to speak, choosing his words carefully.
“I am sorry,” he says, “for coming here to –” He pauses, swallows. Steels himself against something Yusuf can’t decipher. “What you said earlier. Steal your country. Kill innocent men. You are right, I have committed sins which God will not forgive, even though…” He hesitates. “Even though I was taught they were done in his name, and to his glory.”
He touches his cross again, briefly, where it lies against his pale throat, and Yusuf is fascinated by the unconscious gesture.
His contrition is real, Yusuf can tell. He thinks about what the men said on the morning of the battle, how Allah would reward any martyrs handsomely. He thinks about how the Christian inhabitants of al-Quds were driven out of town with only the clothes on their backs. And he thinks about what the Prophet said, about Issa and the people who follow him – that they are good and deserving of rewards from their Lord.
There has been so much death that nothing will grow on the al-Quds soil for years to come, Yusuf thinks. And for what?
“My sins were too big for even God to wash off me. Jesus’ sacrifice at the cross couldn’t deliver me from them. Maybe that is why he denied me entry into heaven,” Nicolò says into the silence between them, almost more to himself than to Yusuf.
There has been sin, certainly. There is blood on Nicolò’s hands. But has he sinned more than all the other fallen men? Has Yusuf sinned too much for Allah to forgive?
“Then why did Allah refuse to allow me into paradise?” Yusuf asks, because – because this is the crux of the matter, is it not?
They have both been cursed, or blessed, with this strange immortality, and there is no reason why either of them should have been.
Nicolò startles at Yusuf’s words, and he has no answer. Yusuf smiles wryly.
“I – I had been a sinner before I came here, though,” Nicolò starts. “I thought – I thought if I would come here, and die for God’s cause, he would forgive me. But now I think – now I think it’s not God’s cause at all. How can God have wanted – all the blood and the suffering? So God didn’t forgive me, and instead he – Instead he is even angrier at me, and he punished me –”
There are tears in his ocean eyes, and he’s curled up onto himself, smaller than should be possible for a man with Nicolò’s broad shoulders. Yusuf feels another pang of compassion.
“Nicolò. He didn’t send you to Jahannam, though, did he? Maybe this is not a punishment. Maybe it’s just – not your fate to die here. Maybe he has another purpose for you.”
The ink blue of the sky gives away to red when Nicolò finally replies.
“You are a good man, Yusuf al-Kaysani,” he says. “Too good for the likes of me.”
Yusuf doesn’t know how to answer that.