Chapter Text
title from butchered tongue by hozier (and a story playlist here for anyone interested; content warning, i'm an elder millennial)
so far from home to have a stranger call you, "darling"
and have your guarded heart be lifted like a child up by the hand
in some town that just means "home" to them
with no translator left to sound
a butchered tongue still singin' here above the ground
A little over a month after fleeing Jerusalem with Yusuf, Nicolò encountered a hakawati for the first time. The old man was perched on the edge of a stool, the expressions on his lined brown face animated, his wrinkled hands embellishing a tale that held rapt the multigenerational audience gathered around him. Nicolò was no exception.
He stood apart from the crowd, hovering instead just inside the entrance of a small tavern located in the heart of Alexandria’s bustling Kasbah neighborhood. Behind him, the market teemed with activity. Residents hurried around the agora that sprawled along either side of the wide avenues connecting each of the city’s impressive gates, rushing to finish errands before the sun set. Already the bright orb was dipping below the ridge of the western wall, casting the street into shadows that joined a sea breeze blowing in from the north to offer a welcome reprieve from the late summer heat.
Another fair skinned man jostled Nicolò, casting him a significant look as he exited the establishment. Nicolò muttered an apology in Latin, for there was something distinctly Roman about the man's militant air and curved nose, and shifted so he was no longer blocking the doorway. None of the other patrons even glanced toward Nicolò when he inched inside, still too tied up in the story themselves.
He leaned against a bare stretch of wall to continue listening. Even the tavern’s workers had paused their tasks to watch. A couple wore indulgent smirks at the reactions of the younger audience members gathered cross-legged around the storyteller’s legs. Based on their reactions, the old man’s tale was nearing a climax - though Nicolò caught no more than one in every five or ten words.
Their harried flight to the metropolitan city had yielded a rudimentary understanding of Yusuf's native dialect. It pleased Nicolò to realize that he’d absorbed enough to recognize this old man spoke a similar one.
A young girl sitting near the storyteller’s knee gasped in affront at some point he'd reached in the tale, while the slightly older boy next to her elbowed his friend. The two shared a sly look and dirty giggle. Nicolò wished he knew what had happened to make them react so. It was difficult in that moment to fathom that he once believed the Arabic languages grating to the ear. Shame at the memory flooded Nicolò's chest like a cresting wave, followed by a second, larger swell when Yusuf appeared beside him, unexpected.
But the other man took no notice of Nicolò's internal strife. Instead, he shifted the load of supplies he'd purchased at the market into the half-full basket dangling from Nicolò's arm, head tilted in a universal listening pose. Nicolò glanced away when a smile stretched across Yusuf’s face. His dark eyes sparkled with recognition.
“Ah,” he said in the Greek dialect of the Byzantiums, the only shared language between them, and one on which Nicolò had a much more tenuous grasp. “It’s been some time since I stumbled across a hakawati. There were usually more than a few inside Mahdia’s walls competing for an audience around the holy months. Always a treat.”
Into the pause that followed, Nicolò silently shaped his mouth around the unfamiliar word. Yusuf added, “A good tale he’s chosen, too.”
Nicolò ached for Yusuf to share it with him, to understand the story as it was meant to be heard. He swallowed. “I was passing by on my way to meet you and thought I recognized a familiar name.”
Yusuf beamed. “Indeed!” he said, and the hint of surprised delight detected in his tone coated Nicolò's insides like warm honey. He glanced away again. The young girl from before had turned to chastise the boys beside her, a frown tugging at her mouth. “The story is about my namesake, in fact. One of many in the Quran about the prophet Yusuf, though a number of them predate the written word. But here is how they’re truly meant to be experienced.”
Yusuf gestured toward the old man - the hakawati - who was wrapping up with what appeared to be a summation of the story’s morals. He had leaned forward on the stool, a gnarled finger pointing around his audience. It lingered on the giggling boys, who now wore twin contrite expressions.
After a moment longer of listening, Yusuf said, “This is the one about Yusuf and Zulaikha, though slightly different from the version I remember. Quite a scandalous choice considering the younger slant of the audience.”
“Why is it so scandalous?” Nicolò inquired some handful of moments later, after Yusuf suggested they take advantage of the dispersing crowd to eat before returning to the inn where they’d rented a room.
Yusuf turned to him, blinking. He’d been watching, chin propped on his fist and expression distant, while the middle-aged man preparing their food behind a counter spoke in rapid Arabic to another man around their age. This one wore an exasperated expression as he pinched his identical nose and shook his head. Nicolò swallowed past the sour guilt at a sudden sense of having interrupted something. “The story,” he said, clarifying.
“Ah, well” Yusuf said. His expression cleared and shifted into a sly smile. “First, the other thing you need to know I have in common with my namesake is that one of his defining traits is how very handsome he is.”
And so Yusuf explained, his eloquent words flowing forth, even as some of them caused Nicolò's ear’s to burn. By the end of the tale, which had included many digressions in order for Yusuf to grapple with which version to draw from and how to best translate certain parts, they were most of the way through their delicious meal, and Nicolò couldn’t have looked away even if he’d wanted to.
He gaped as Yusuf finished with a flourish and a wink. Yusuf leaned back on his stool, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he sipped his pomegranate juice. “You shouldn’t look so shocked. This story is in your holy book as well, I believe?”
“I don’t recall it being told quite so colorfully,” Nicolò muttered, flushing. It was true he’d recognized soon enough that Yusuf was speaking of the tale of Joseph and Potiphar’s wife, though unlike any version he’d ever encountered. To start, Potiphar’s wife was nameless in the Bible.
Nicolò wiped a breadcrumb from the corner of his mouth, considering the many potential morals embedded within the tale. “It was admirable of Yusuf to forgive his brothers, after their actions led to so much suffering for him. Zulaikha’s actions as well. Though… I suppose love in any form does not always lend itself to one behaving rationally. Jealousy, possessiveness, lashing out from fear or the hurt of rejection... it’s all rarely separate from love, no?”
Nicolò's fingers had lingered on his chin while he spoke, and he tapped his bottom lip in thought. “Is the lesson about finding compassion and empathy for others, even for those who cause you harm?”
“Hm? Oh.” Yusuf’s eyes flicked up to meet his gaze, then over Nicolò's shoulder. He leaned sideways on his stool, gesturing to someone. Likely the young woman who’d served them, the one with the same crooked nose as the two men behind the counter. Yusuf considered for a moment longer as the woman carried over a fresh jug of juice and removed the empty one from their table. A shadow lingered in his expression. Nicolò's insides squirmed, and he chastised himself: who was he to be preaching something as precious as forgiveness to Yusuf, who owed none of his own to Nicolò or the men he’d joined in slaughtering Yusuf’s people?
But then Yusuf just shrugged and waved his hand, a tense note of forced lightness in his voice as he said, “Debatable, all of it. Some imam preach that it’s primarily a tale about the virtues of patience and faith, enduring through suffering and staying steadfast in the face of Allah’s plans for you. Others argue the main moral is upholding one’s integrity and behaving morally in the face of any… ah, temptations.”
Something clenched low in Nicolò's stomach. He averted his gaze from the amused smirk on Yusuf’s face, allowing the rest of his words to filter through the sudden haze clouding his mind.
One night, a few weeks after fleeing Jerusalem and even fewer into their tentative truce, Yusuf had mentioned a brief stint of time spent studying at the Al-Azhar university in al-Qāhira, before he’d left for Juresalem the previous year.
It was even rarer then, these moments of open conversation between them. Nicolò had tested his good fortune that evening by attempting to draw out more from this man who remained so unfathomable to him. And Yusuf, in what could only be a miracle, obliged. Over a shared meal around their fire, he told Nicolò about how his family had come to Egypt’s thriving young capital city from Mahdia some years earlier - 1087, in the year of the barbaric Christians. Then, with a suddenness that surprised Nicolò, Yusuf’s eyes had turned to flint, and he’d turned away onto his bedroll. Nicolò had watched the rise and fall of Yusuf’s back as he pretended to sleep for some while after, trying to recall why that date tickled something in the back of his mind.
By the time Nicolò managed to surface from the unpleasant memory, Yusuf was expounding on the extant oral variations of the tale about his namesake. Nicolò listened for a while longer, smiling faintly. The passion Yusuf held for his chosen subject was obvious, and Nicolò did his best to follow along with all the foreign names, the unknown to him dates and locations. The Latin Church rarely concerned themselves with educating its clergy on Islamic history, beyond ensuring they knew every example of the barbarity of the Muslim people.
Though mostly Nicolò watched the expressive gestures of Yusuf’s hands as he spoke, his attention ebbing and flowing along with the increasingly familiar cadence of Yusuf’s voice. He wondered if Yusuf studied or composed poetry at the university. It seemed a natural fit for him.
“Did you ever wish to be a hakawati?” Nicolò asked with uncharacteristic impulsiveness, into a lingering pause.
A Gordian knot formed in his chest, one he knew by now could only be loosened by Yusuf deigning to answer any questions about his past. Besides his migration to al-Qāhira and brief studies at its university before enlisting in the Fatimid army to help fight skirmishes against the Seljuks, Yusuf’s history was shrouded in mystery.
Yusuf studied Nicolò. His eyes were partially hidden in the gathering dark, which cast long shadows into the tavern’s single, lamp-lit room. Surely it was nearing time for it to close, though Nicolò couldn’t say at that moment whether they were alone or surrounded by other patrons. The knot in his chest squirmed like snakes.
Blessedly, Yusuf spoke. Though his answer felt as shadowed as his eyes. “No, I’m afraid a professional storyteller was never an option for someone like me.” A salty breeze wafted through the room, guttering the oil lamps, and Yusuf’s expression cleared. He continued, “My brother would have said it required someone who actually paid attention during lessons in madrasas and memorized his jurisprudence like a good Shia Muslim. Not a heathen who often sleeps through fajr or is lax about any wine that finds its way into his cups.”
Yusuf crossed his arms over his chest, turning his head. But neither the gesture nor his overgrown beard were enough to hide the frown tugging down the corners of his mouth. In the face of Nicolò's silent, questioning gaze, Yusuf sighed.
“I overheard a conversation between some merchants earlier.” He paused. “The new moon is expected soon.” When Nicolò only wrinkled his brow in response, Yusuf continued, sounding exasperated, “Ramadan will likely begin within the next week. In all the upheaval of our… travels, I forgot about the upcoming holy month.”
Nicolò tried to recall what he knew about the unfamiliar holiday, which turned out to be not much. At first, Yusuf answered his tentative questions willingly enough. His gift of painting a picture with his words remained mesmerizing, and Nicolò found himself unable to quell his curiosity once Yusuf had indulged him. No one had spoken so openly about a faith other than Christianity to him since childhood.
Of course, it didn’t last. Eventually Yusuf stumbled to a stop in the midst of a story about the iftar traditions from his youth, and the unspoken competition between his aunties over who made the best brik.
A heavy silence followed, enough to drag down the previously lighthearted mood. Nicolò sighed. He’d begun to allow himself to feel hopeful that they’d go another evening without one cropping up between them. Perhaps it was wishful thinking, but the tense, lingering silences seemed to be getting less frequent the longer their acquaintance. Though Yusuf’s moods remained as mercurial and unpredictable as ever.
“Anyway,” Yusuf said, voice a blade slicing through the dense air between them. Nicolò chanced a glance toward him, but Yusuf kept his face angled away. His expression was blank. It seemed to take effort, holding it that way. “It’s not as though I’ll be observing it this year.”
“Why?” Nicolò asked before he could think better, too eager to grasp the line of conversation Yusuf had offered him, no matter how baited. Instant, bitter regret flooded his mouth as the stoic mask of Yusuf’s expression cracked open to reveal an unhappy frown. “I mean to say… surely you’d be welcome at any of the mosques here. Most of the city's residents will be observing the holiday, will they not?”
It was obvious from the narrowed glance Yusuf darted at him that Nicolò hadn’t righted the ship by continuing to speak. In fact, it seemed to be sinking even more rapidly now. His mouth snapped shut, eyes fixed intently on the empty clay cup gripped between his hands until Yusuf sighed and said, “Travellers are exempt from observing the traditions of Ramadan, though expected to make it up at some other point during the year. Our bodies require the energy of food to keep up with the exertions, so fasting isn’t reasonable.”
Nicolò frowned. They’d been stationary in Alexandria for almost two weeks, weighing options for their next moves. Though he’d spent much of that time more sick with anticipation than he’d been willing to admit as Yusuf remained indecisive about whether he’d travel with Nicolò any further. Privately, Nicolò often wondered why Yusuf didn’t seem to consider returning to his family in al-Qāhira. The rare personal stories he’d shared gave the impression that Yusuf was fond of many of them. But Nicolò refused to push.
Instead, he’d prepared by trying to picture his life - which stretched out, possibly endless, before him now - without Yusuf’s company.
Already it felt impossible, despite barely knowing (and, in Yusuf’s case, still barely tolerating) each other. Even with his best efforts, Nicolò had found it increasingly difficult to ignore the gnawing sense that this could be anything other than a shared destiny, some sign about their larger purpose. Though... he could no longer say for certain if he believed it one from God or not. Whatever was happening, the pull of it was undeniable. And the idea of continuing onward without Yusuf ached like the bruises it seemed would never mar either of their skin again.
But still. Nicolò didn’t push. The very least Yusuf deserved from him was the space to make this decision on his own.
Just that morning, Yusuf had been contemplating aloud the benefits of joining a merchant ship scheduled to sail northwest toward Sicily in a few days' time. Yusuf, however, had also had multiple last minute changes of heart about similar journeys before. So Nicolò could only wait, and hope.
And not push.
Nicolò studied Yusuf’s profile as he spoke to the server he’d gestured over once more. His friendly, open smile was back while he flirted with the young woman, smoothing over the fact that they’d obviously overstayed their welcome and passing her some extra coins with a wink. She rolled her eyes, good humored, and slipped them into a pocket of her skirt before shooing them out the door. The brief interaction seemed to revive Yusuf from his earlier dark mood. He was speaking to Nicolò breezily again, pointing out sights as they wandered the wide streets back toward the inn.
Merchants lingered around the bazaar, chatting as they packed up their stalls and a few haggled with some harried last minute customers. The colorful awnings of their stalls were crammed close together, sprawling outward like its own small village. Enormous buildings encircled the market’s perimeters, the gleaming white stones glowing in the moonlight as their impossibly high walls reached toward the clear night sky. Looking around him, Nicolò felt his chest expand.
The slight exertion of their walk to the outskirts of the agora had left Yusuf’s cheeks pleasantly flushed, loosing a few rebellious curls from the knot at the back of his head. He still spoke on occasion, lifting a hand to gesture with elegant fingers as he explained some point of history or another about the places they passed.
Well, Nicolò decided, the uncharacteristic recklessness from before buzzing between his ribs as he hefted his basket to his other arm, maybe just a nudge would be worth a try. “What if you stayed here instead of travelled?” he asked into a pause. At Yusuf’s questioning glance, Nicolò added, “For Ramadan. If you aren’t traveling then you can observe, yes?”
“Yes,” Yusuf confirmed, a note of something wary in his voice.
Nicolò steeled himself and continued, sweeping his arm around him. The Jami al-Attarin mosque sat looming and impressive at the end of the long street, its splendid exterior courtyard alight with colorful lanterns. “Stay if it’s important to you. What’s another thirty days of being idle?” Nicolò's mouth twisted into a sardonic smile. “It isn’t as though we don’t have the time.”
They stopped outside their modest two-story inn but lingered in the street while Yusuf gazed toward the mosque. Moonlight limned his profile in silver.
After a few endless moments, he shook his head. Nicolò's stomach sank, then clenched, when Yusuf looked at him, expression unreadable. He held his breath. Eventually, Yusuf asked, “You will stay also?”
“Yes,” Nicolò said on an exhale, almost before the question was fully formed. Yusuf blinked, his mask cracking once more, though Nicolò could no more easily decipher what it revealed. Whatever it was seemed delicate, too fragile yet to touch. In his native Ligurian, which Yusuf did not speak, he added, “It would be my honor.”
A couple of days after this decision, Nicolò determined it was time to acquire work. In addition to the dwindling coin earned from odd jobs picked up during their winding route to Alexandria, Yusuf had finally told him about the jizyah.
“You should know, since you’re intending to stay for more than a brief sojourn,” he’d said to Nicolò the next morning, as they broke their fast together at their modest rented room’s solitary table.
Nicolò had paused in the act of reaching into the bowl of dried dates between them, eyebrow quirked. It was the most words either of them had spoken since rising from their bedrolls with matching dark circles under their eyes. Nicolò couldn’t help wondering if perhaps he wasn’t the only one being haunted by strange dreams of stranger women, but Yusuf’s demeanor had firmly shut down any attempts to broach the subject. Though on this one, he continued, “It’s possible you’ll be approached by someone once you’ve been spotted around the city’s markets enough times by the wrong people. They’ll expect you to pay a, ah…” Yusuf paused, gesturing as he grasped for the word. “A jizyah - a sort of… collection, I suppose? Paid to the local authorities.”
“A tax?” Nicolò asked, and Yusuf snapped.
“Close enough. It’s expected of all non-Muslim inhabitants of Islamic caliphs, for the upkeep of your churches and such.” He paused again, taking a bite of his food and chewing with a considering expression. Then he swallowed, shrugged. “Perhaps not, though. How lax they are with it depends on the current government. Just avoid any administrative looking types, and you should be fine.”
Still, Nicolò opted the following day to seek employment. Even if he avoided the jizyah, the inn’s owner would expect payment for their room each week in advance.
However, in the hidden depths of his heart, Nicolò almost wished to be accosted by any of the official looking men with ledgers hanging around the market’s money-changer and collections stalls. He’d likely even welcome it. The penalty of paying an extra fee for the chance to stay at Yusuf’s side a little longer felt more than generous, considering the punishment Nicolò actually deserved.
Though he would endure that as well, should Yusuf ever decide it worth the effort to enact retribution. In fact, with each passing hour in the other man’s presence, Nicolò grew increasingly, uneasily certain that there wasn’t much he’d refuse if Yusuf asked it of him.
Anything to be even marginally worthy of Yusuf’s forgiveness. To even slightly atone for the evil he’d done.
It didn’t take long wandering through the bustling bazaars at the heart of the city to stumble across a call for able-bodied workers. The large man making the announcement was difficult to miss. His voice boomed from somewhere deep within his broad chest as he held up a thin sheaf of papyrus, foreign script writ large across it. Nicolò stood among the gathered crowd and hefted his pack to settle more comfortably on his shoulder, contemplating the best approach for making himself understood. He was almost certain from the way the men around him were raising their hands and stepping forward that this was his opportunity.
Before he could formulate a plan, a voice to his right spoke up in heavily accented Greek. “You seem lost, pale devil.”
Nicolò's head snapped around, looking down into the deep brown eyes of a man with skin a few shades darker than Yusuf’s. His midnight black curls were shot through with gray and more tightly coiled, a similar twinkling mischief about his smile. All told, the stranger and Yusuf looked not much alike at all. This new man was at least a head shorter as well, but the smile put Nicolò at ease. He chanced returning it with one of his own, though self-deprecating.
Nicolò rubbed at the back of his neck, admitting, “Yes, a little. I’m looking for work, and it seems I’ve found it. But I admit that I’m not yet familiar enough with the Arabic dialects to know how to proceed.”
The stranger regarded Nicolò for a long moment, considering. “You a Frank?”
Nicolò winced. “Genoese.”
“Hm. Word is your people were responsible for the Christian invaders being able to cause so much trouble in al-Quds. My cousin’s caravan got rerouted on the way there a couple months back because of the havoc they wreaked. He said if it weren’t for the Genoese ships bringing materials to build siege weapons the Christians would have died of thirst outside the walls.”
Something seized in Nicolò's chest, twisting painfully. He ducked his head, no longer able to meet the man’s friendly eyes.
It was a thought that had occurred to him before as well: how easily all this death and destruction could have ended before it even began. He fumbled out an apology, and after another pause, the man waved it away. “Not like you were on those ships,” he said, and Nicolò flinched as though struck by the words. By God’s grace, the man’s eyes were averted. He turned back and offered a bow. “My name is Maymun. What shall I call you, pale devil?”
Maymun was more generous than Nicolò deserved, volunteering to act as interpreter for Nicolò to negotiate a place among the other laborers. It turned out that the Alexandria canal was in need of repairs and dredging, Maymun explained to Nicolò as the large man with the papyrus spoke, eyeing Nicolò with suspicion. The artificial canal, constructed during the reign of one of the many Ptolomies, wrapped around the land outside the city’s southern wall and was a primary source of fresh water and irrigation from the Nile delta to the east. But it often became clogged with detritus from various human use. On occasion throughout the city’s storied history, neglect of regular maintenance tasks had led to such misfortunes as poisoned drinking water and famine.
The work sounded grueling but honest, and the pay the man quoted through Maymun seemed fair. Nicolò agreed.
In fact, not only was the work grueling, it was also disgusting. Nicolò wasn’t certain the smell that had accumulated from the waste in the canal would ever wash out of his clothes. And yet he offered a genuine smile to the overseer of the workers as he passed Nicolò his day’s earnings. The expression on his thin brown face was still one of frowning confusion, as it had been since Nicolò had shown up with the others and patiently awaited his assigned task. Though he and many of the more hardened among the group had at least ceased glaring at Nicolò after he’d jumped into the water to help save another laborer from drowning.
Farther down the canal, verdant fruit gardens sprawled outward from its banks, creeping toward the city’s walls. Green lingered in the periphery of his vision, and the air wafting toward him smelled sweet. Nicolò grinned outright, pocketing the meager handful of coins.
“Thank you,” he said in halting Arabic, and the man’s frown deepened, his dark brows drawing together. Nicolò curled his tongue in unfamiliar ways, inexpertly shaping the foreign words that he’d requested a bemused Yusuf teach him that morning after he’d come back from fajr. “I will return tomorrow.” Nicolò pointed to the coins in his open palm, then to the ground between their feet. “Here.”
After a stunned beat, the man tossed back his head and laughed. He clapped Nicolò on the shoulder, speaking a string of words too quickly for Nicolò to interpret. But still, Nicolò understood.
Back in their rented room, Yusuf was sitting cross-legged on the edge of his bedroll. His hair was loosed from its usual tie, the long curls spilling forward to hide his expression as he gazed down at his clasped hands. At the sound of the door opening, Yusuf’s head jerked toward Nicolò, eyes widening a fraction. Somehow, the unobstructed view of his face gave Nicolò no more indication than before of what the other man was feeling.
Time stretched. Yusuf watched Nicolò, and Nicolò watched back. The air between them gathered close, like a storm brewing on the sea’s horizon.
Then Yusuf’s nose crinkled, and he lifted a hand to wave in front of it. Nicolò's eyes flicked away, mouth quirked into a weak smile. He shrugged, apologetic. “I found a job today.”
Yusuf had refused to let him explain any further until he’d marched Nicolò to the nearest bathhouse himself, muttering under his breath in Arabic the entire way. As Nicolò slid into the tepid water across from a group of Jewish men conversing in Hebrew, Yusuf scrunched up his face and nudged the discarded pile of clothing with a sandaled toe.
It made Nicolò smile to himself, despite the pang of regret when Yusuf insisted they’d likely have to burn them. Nicolò didn’t want to disagree with Yusuf’s declaration, especially when a breeze wafting through the bathhouse’s high stone windows shifted toward him. But Nicolò had always been pragmatic. They’d fled Juresalem with nothing but the grit- and blood-caked clothes on their backs and had managed to accumulate only a few new pieces in the aftermath. It seemed a waste to not at least try to save them.
When Nicolò said so out loud, Yusuf paused in toeing off his sandals to laugh, a short but sweet sound. The corners of his eyes crinkled, and he shook his head as he resumed disrobing, as though sharing a private joke with himself. Apparently he’d determined the statement unworthy of a response.
Nicolò's gaze lingered until Yusuf gripped the hem of his tunic and pulled it over his head in one smooth movement. He turned away, a sudden lightheadedness overcoming him.
It seemed impossible Nicolò would ever grow used to how Yusuf could wear his emotions so baldly at times and yet still feel like a locked chest in all other ways. The ways that truly mattered. It ached, sharp as a dagger sliding between his ribs, to think Yusuf might never find Nicolò worthy of being trusted with the key to that chest.
It took only a few short moments for Yusuf to finish undressing and slip into the water beside him, but it was all Nicolò needed for his thoughts to drift inward. He watched, trancelike, as the water ripple away from his chest.
A weight like a yolk settled across his shoulders. Likely exhaustion catching up to him from the day, Nicolò assumed. The water stilled for a moment, rippled again when the group of men from earlier exited the bath, still absorbed in a conversation Nicolò couldn’t understand. Most of the sounds around him had gone fuzzy, in fact.
Fog hung thick in his mind, a heavy veil. Perhaps it was more than exhaustion from just the day. From the past two months, maybe, since the Genoese ships made port in Jaffa.
No, Nicolò amended: from these last few long years of crusading and constant war.
Moisture pricked at the corners of Nicolò's eyes. He blinked, swallowed.
No.
From his whole life.
Nicolò lifted a hand. Water streamed from it as he turned it over and over in front of his face, examining.
On their second day of being stuck in a seemingly endless cycle of killing each other only to rise and clash again, a spent and disarmed Nicolò had made a fumbling attempt to block the blade of Yusuf’s scimitar. It had sliced easily through his palm, as though it were soft cheese. He squinted at the unmarred skin now, searching for even the smallest scrap of evidence left behind from such a grievous injury. The sickening memory of bones and sinew weaving back together obscured the present for a moment, blurring it. A lump formed in his throat, suffocating, and Nicolò struggled to swallow around its mass.
When Yusuf spoke his name, Nicolò jumped, startled. At the question in Yusuf’s raised eyebrows, he only huffed a self-conscious laugh and shrugged, lowering his hand. Eventually Yusuf nodded, as though Nicolò had voiced his thoughts aloud. He passed Nicolò a coral sponge and hard wedge of soap. And if Nicolò scraped himself raw scrubbing too hard, what matter was it? The skin knit itself back together, smooth and unblemished again before he could pay it more than a passing notice.
“It’s still strange for me as well.”
Yusuf was facing forward, speaking to the expanse of colorfully tiled walls across from them. Nicolò froze, frowning at his profile. He willed his rabbiting heart to calm as Yusuf, too, laughed. The sound was empty, hard edged, and it left a bitter taste in Nicolò's mouth.
“Sometimes I wonder if maybe I dreamed it all, if I’m still dreaming even now. Or perhaps I truly did die out there, and my body is in some anonymous mass grave being consumed by maggots while my soul endures one final test from Allah.” Yusuf shrugged, raising one shoulder to swipe against his cheek, and the lump in Nicolò's throat swelled. It was hard to breathe around. He tried to say Yusuf’s name, but no sound escaped. Yusuf’s head turned, like he’d heard all the same.
Their gazes snagged, held. Light from the late evening sun slanted in from the arched windows, painting Yusuf golden, rays catching the water in glowing ripples that reflected against his skin. Nicolò was only dimly aware of the low murmur of conversation around them, the gentle lap of the water against his chest.
“I keep wondering if coming to this land was my destiny after all,” he said after a long moment, voice hoarse. Yusuf’s eyes glistened in the warm light. “If God always had a purpose for me, but if perhaps…” Nicolò hesitated, and Yusuf only waited. He was grateful. It gave him space to gather his courage, to finally confess aloud a thought that had been haunting him since Jerusalem. To Yusuf, he whispered, “If perhaps God is not who the Church led me to believe at all, nor was the intended destiny they preached. But… I do believe this to be a gift with a higher purpose.”
Yusuf’s eyes widened, his mouth falling open slightly. He drew in a breath as though to speak, but Nicolò rushed forward before he could lose heart. “Surely I cannot be alone in this. Tell me, Yusuf, please. Have you dreamed of the two women as well?”
It stung, watching Yusuf’s expression shutter as though against a winter storm, until none of the sweet openness from the previous moments remained. His mouth snapped shut. “We should go soon. The innkeeper is hosting a dinner tonight and has extended an invitation to us.”
“Yusuf,” Nicolò said, frustrated.
Not pushing be damned. He’d been attempting to bring up the dreams for weeks without success, only to be summarily shut down at the first direct mention of them. Yusuf could decide on his own what he wanted to do next with this gift they’d been given, but a reluctance to allow him to deny the truth of its existence flooded Nicolò like a wave swelling over the deck of a storm-tossed ship. He wished only to grab Yusuf by the lovely stretch of his bare shoulders and shake him.
But Yusuf had clearly decided the conversation was at an end. Nicolò looked away quickly as Yusuf stood, putting him at eye level with anatomy Nicolò had only seen in brief flashes during the forced closeness of travelling together. By the time he’d gathered himself, Yusuf was dressed once more, his hair dripping droplets of water that clung to the exposed stretch of his collarbone.
“I’ll meet you back at the inn,” he said, then left.
Yusuf was not, in fact, at the inn when Nicolò returned a short while later. Though the kindly owner Razin, a portly balding man a few decades his senior, and his wife Halawa were. The latter, who Nicolò had caught watching him and Yusuf more than once with a glint of uncomfortable shrewdness in her heavily lined eyes, was more than happy to drag Nicolò toward the inn’s decorated inner courtyard using the deceptive strength of her willowy arms.
In the courtyard’s center, a long table packed full of colorful, fragrant dishes of food waited. The air smelled divine, rich and heedy with spices. A small crowd had already gathered there, and more people trickled in as the evening wore on, until the benches surrounding the table were crammed shoulder to shoulder. Nicolò navigated trying to eat without elbowing his neighbors, offering awkward smiles when he failed.
The gathering was a jovial event, the guests lively and chatting with one another beneath the warm glow of lanterns strung between columns lining the lush gardens. Nicolò was relieved when a young Jewish woman next to him introduced herself as Einat using Byzantium Greek. Though considering the way he kept just missing the gaze burning into the side of his face whenever he sought it out, Nicolò suspected Halawa’s seating arrangement to be more intentional than she’d led him to believe. Still, Nicolò and Einat spent most of the dinner engaged in pleasant conversation. She even offered to teach him basic Hebrew phrases in exchange for lessons in his native Ligurian dialect, a subject in which she seemed to have a keen interest. Nicolò agreed readily.
At some point, Yusuf must have slipped unnoticed into the festivities. By the time Nicolò spotted him, he was engaged in swapping tales with a group of laughing men on the opposite end of the long table. However, it soon enough became clear that Yusuf had no intention of acknowledging Nicolò's presence. Suddenly exhausted, Nicolò bid goodnight to his new acquaintances and dragged himself upstairs, collapsing on his bedroll and falling into a fitful sleep.
That night he dreamed of the women again, though this time was different than any before. This time, one of them died. Nicolò felt the searing pain of the spear that embedded itself into her gut while fighting in a battle amidst unfamiliar mountainous terrain like it was his own. She cursed loudly as she crumpled to her knees, in a language unlike any Nicolò had ever heard, her insides spilling hot into her hands. The last thing he saw was the bright-eyed woman running toward her, shouting a foreign name.
Nicolò sat upright with a gasp. He was still catching his breath when Yusuf followed, the sound of his ragged, desperate inhale of air filling the small room.
Darkness engulfed the space, causing it to feel even more claustrophobic. No light spilled through the single window situated on the far side of the room, near the solitary table.
The new moon was upon them, Nicolò recalled learning at dinner. Ramadan was to begin in two days. He fumbled around the narrow stretch of floor between their bedrolls, groping for the oil lamp situated there, and lit it. The stone wall was cool enough to seep through the fabric of his one remaining tunic when he sat with his back pressed against it, arms looped around his drawn up knees.
Then Nicolò just… waited, and watched, as Yusuf rubbed at his torso. Acidic bile rose in his throat, and Nicolò swallowed, wiping his palms against his thighs in an attempt to rid them of the visceral sensation of holding his own intestines. Outside the window, the city was still. Once Yusuf’s breathing grew even again, he glanced in Nicolò's direction, saying nothing.
Still, Nicolò waited.
“Plenty to have nightmares about,” Yusuf said finally, acerbic. He glared at Nicolò, who frowned. For some reason, the lingering silence seemed to agitate Yusuf even more. His eyes narrowed to slits and he spat, “Most of them are about you and your fellow barbarians, you know.”
Nicolò flinched, though he didn’t respond.
What would the purpose of a hollow apology be to someone who’d suffered and lost as much as Yusuf? He had every right to his wrath. Nicolò would bear that righteous rage for as long as he deemed necessary. And if Yusuf saw fit to blame Nicolò for the sins of all his kin, then he would accept that as well.
What his silence also concealed was that he understood far better than Yusuf likely realized. Though the subject of them differed, Nicolò had endured plenty of nightmares about the Christians of the Latin Church since he was young.
After another long moment, Yusuf’s shoulders drooped, and he looked away. He flopped back onto his bedroll with a groan, hands covering his face.
“Raven haired, both of them?” Yusuf’s words were muffled, but Nicolò heard them like the clear ringing of a chapel bell. He stayed very still. “One with dark eyes as well, the other with eyes like…” He removed his hands then, head turning toward Nicolò to reveal an anguished expression.
Nicolò nodded, slow. Eventually, Yusuf whispered into the delicate space between them, “What does it mean?”
Nicolò shook his head. That, he wasn’t certain of himself. He hadn’t even been certain the shared nature of their dreams was real before this moment, when Yusuf confirmed his own.
There was a seed of an idea, however. One that had been struggling to take root over the past weeks, like his mind was a soil too drained of the nutrients it needed to thrive. As though it was too absurd to even consider. Although some months ago, Nicolò's current situation would have also seemed beyond consideration or possibility.
Perhaps it was something different, then. Perhaps it was that Nicolò wouldn’t, couldn’t, dare to let himself hope. If these dreams were truly what they seemed, if he and Yusuf weren’t fully alone in sharing this fate…
Nicolò crossed his arms, his body shying away from the ember of yearning sparked by that thought. The stone wall behind him had warmed to match his own radiating heat, and he stretched his legs in front of him, scrubbing a hand over the beard he kept intending to shave. Yusuf had turned onto his side to face him. The dancing flame of the lamp reflected in his eyes.
Neither spoke. It seemed a cruel irony that after so long spent waiting for Yusuf to broach this topic, it was during a moment when reluctance to dig any deeper had draped over Nicolò like a stiff, formal chasuble, weighing him down. The thought of talking about it now only made him more weary. Something to do with the late hour, perhaps.
Nicolò was just so very tired.
He stared, unseeing, at the flickering shadows cast onto the walls, the silence between them heavy but not necessarily uncomfortable. Yusuf’s gaze remained fixed on him, almost like a tangible touch.
Not for the first time, Nicolò found himself wondering how it would feel for Yusuf to actually touch him. He frowned, rubbing at his upper arms and shivering despite the lack of chill in the late summer night.
Of course, he had been touched by Yusuf - many times. Killing and being killed in turn until they’d both grown too weary of the effort. But since calling their tentative truce they’d remained cautious, taking extra care to leave a respectful distance between themselves at all times. For Nicolò, this wasn’t anything unfamiliar. His mother had been free enough with her affections, but she’d died when he was young, and his father had sent him to the Church soon after.
And the Church… well.
Yet Nicolò had observed Yusuf with others, from the time they’d fled Jerusalem onward. He’d first noticed his tendency toward easy physical affection while around the rural farming family with whom they’d exchanged labor for a few night’s reprieve in their barn. It wasn’t uncommon during their stay for Yusuf to ruffle the hair of the many young children running around the surrounding fields or pull the elderly matriarch in for a hug while complimenting her cooking or sling a friendly arm around the eldest son-in-law during conversation. When it came to Nicolò, though, Yusuf was as restrained as a monk.
Nicolò sighed. “I do not wish to discuss it right now.”
He shrugged at Yusuf’s raised eyebrows. The question in them was obvious, but Nicolò brushed it to the side.
Blessedly, Yusuf permitted a change of subject, seeming content enough instead to answer Nicolò’s benign questions. He described his previous day’s trip to a nearby mosque to help in preparations for Ramadan. It amused him to learn that Nicolò had been unaware that they would not be charged rent during the holy month, per Muslim tradition. Though his smile was soft, no mocking edge to it, as he explained the significance of giving zakat during Ramadan especially.
The concept intrigued Nicolò, and his curiosity soon overtook his dark mood. He asked question after question about other traditions, which Yusuf answered with his usual weighted consideration. Eventually, Nicolò learned about the expectation of abstinence from physical intimacy as well.
“Like Yusuf with Zulaikha,” Nicolò recalled. He smirked. “Integrity and moral scruples in the face of temptation?”
Yusuf’s cheeks flushed, small patches of color appearing above his dark beard and illuminated by dim light from the dying lamp. Nicolò's mouth went dry. He cleared his throat as Yusuf replied, “To feel closer to Allah, yes. That is the intention behind it at least.”
The pause that followed felt loaded with something unsaid, and Nicolò looked away.
“The God of the Latin Church makes a similar demand of His priests. A vow of celibacy, though for much longer than one holy month.”
Yusuf whistled, low. “And do they feel closer to God for it?”
His wording caused Nicolò to blink, caught off guard. For a few moments, he searched his memory. Surprised, Nicolò realized that, for Yusuf, his past was likely just as shrouded in mystery.
“I cannot speak for every priest, but to me it seemed more like one of His punishments,” Nicolò responded, and Yusuf’s jaw fell open. The dramatics of it, paired with his eyebrows disappearing into the wild tangle of dark curls above them, loosened something in Nicolò's chest. His mouth twitched upward, almost a smile. “My father was convinced to send me to a rural monastery when I was a child. For someone raised as I was, priesthood felt like the natural path.”
The untruth of it coated his mouth in a sour taste. Nicolò had trudged through the training and education required to become a priest of the Latin Church like he’d been given a dull blade and instructed to cut a brand new trail through dense underbrush. Nothing about it felt natural. If Yusuf noticed the lie, he was generous enough not to mention it.
“But you’re no priest now?”
The unexpected question startled Nicolò back to attention, a note detected in Yusuf’s tone causing his ears to burn. Slowly, he shook his head. After a moment, Yusuf nodded slightly, as though to himself, but said no more on the subject. Instead, he gazed toward the window, expression distant. Nicolò took a few deep, quiet breaths, willing the flames licking beneath the surface of his skin to retreat.
Eventually, Yusuf broke the silence once more, his voice quiet. “I was worried earlier, when I returned to an empty room and your pack gone. I believed… I thought perhaps you’d left after all.”
His face was still angled away, but Nicolò could see the wrinkle of concern that had appeared between his brows.
Desperation warred with caution inside him. He ached to close the distance between them, to do everything in his power to convince the other man that Nicolò would die a thousand more grisly deaths at those hands just to stay at his side even a few days longer. The words flowed up from somewhere deep in his chest, flooding his mouth. But Nicolò clenched his jaw against it, damming them up before they could rush forth and drown the delicate seed of whatever was being planted between them.
“I wouldn’t do that,” he said instead, and Yusuf finally looked at him. His expression had reverted back into something impossible to translate.
The oil in the lamp was running low, and soon the room around them grew dark.
Nicolò lowered himself to lie on his side and wondered if he’d ever find a language to describe what his life had felt like since meeting Yusuf, since he first fell to his sword and began to dream of what he was increasingly certain was his destiny. It felt too expansive, too complex, too lonely and furious and miraculous for any words to possibly incapsulate. Though, if they had one thing now, it was apparently time.
Yusuf was lying down now as well, facing Nicolò, the whites of his eyes barely visible. A sudden determination solidified in Nicolò’s chest, and he vowed to himself to use this unfathomable gift to understand everything he could about this equally furious and miraculous man across from him. As much as Yusuf would allow, for as long as he would tolerate Nicolò's presence.
But where to even start?