Work Text:
Nicolo had outstayed his welcome.
It hadn’t been too long, not more than a year, but he had seen the warning signs that the time had come. He had seen the villagers whispering and looking his way, their words to him no longer kind and curious but wary. It was harder to find work, harder to convince the innkeeper to let him rent the room a few nights longer, harder to go anywhere without eyes watching him.
A few months ago, there had been a storm. Nicolo had died on a small fishing boat, but he had been alone, he had not thought it a problem. Now, though, he could trace their suspicions back to then. A lone fisherman on a rickety old boat, in a storm that killed men on better ships, that destroyed anything on the dock that wasn’t locked down? Nicolo was a fool to think they’d view his survival as good luck.
It was a shame. He liked this town. It had felt almost like Genoa, if not smaller. To be so close to the sea, to smell the salt on the air and watch the sun rise over the water… Well, there were other towns on the coast. He would simply have to pick another.
Over the decades, he has learned it is best to make his escape by night. It was perhaps more treacherous on the road, but it drew less attention to him in the village. All things considered, he did not fear what might happen to him on the road if he encounters ruffians along the way; it was the spooked villagers he fears most. They were the most cruel.
He had so few belongings it did not take him long to pack. He enjoyed his dinner in the solitude of his room and waited for darkness to fall. There was something about the night that made him nervous. He was not a superstitious man by nature, but he had learned to trust his gut. He needed to leave soon or risk having his throat cut in his sleep.
There was an art to such an escape. Loudly walking through his room, keeping a lit candle by the window to make it seem as though he was awake, and otherwise drawing attention away from himself as he crept down the servants' passage. As many times as he's fled for his life, he's gotten quite good at sneaking through dark passages.
Nicolo silently opened the back door of the inn and took the extra time to make sure it slid back into place without a sound. His steps were so quick he barely disturbed the earth beneath his feet. He moved like a shadow on the familiar paths that lead to the market and then out towards the city gates. In only a few more minutes, he would be safe—
He stopped dead in his tracks, his blood running cold.
No, he thought. Not tonight.
A figure stood in the path, blocking the way out of town. The man was not very close, but Nicolo did not need to be close to know him.
A ghost, and worse, a familiar one.
Yusuf…
How long has it been since they crossed paths? Since the last time their swords tasted the other's blood? Four years now at least, surely.
Why was he here now?
Fuck.
Nicolo could not do it again. He would not fight him. He thought they’d reached an agreement after the last time. Broken and bloody and exhausted , he’d done his best to make it clear he was done with their game. No more hunting each other down to answer for ancient grievances.
Eternity was too long to spend in hate.
He'd been so sure Yusuf understood and agreed. So why was he here? Why tonight ?
It rattled him. It made his already fraught nerves worse. Instead of going down the path towards Yusuf, the easy path towards freedom but possibly a fight, he ducked into the nearest alley and ran.
That was his mistake: he picked obscure shadows over the moonlit paths. He chose an unknown enemy over one he knew intimately. He chose scared peasants over a man he could at least reason with.
He chose wrong, quite simply, and it took no more than a dozen steps to find that out.
The first blow hit him between the shoulders. It was heavy and hard—a rock, most likely—and knocked him off balance. He tried to unsheath his sword, but the alley was too narrow. In the time it took him to release it, his attackers were upon him.
"Unhand me," he grunted. He tried to swing, to kick, but there were too many people. His first blows connected, but then they had him, the familiar feel of ropes being twisted around him.
"Unhand me!" Nicolo said again, more loudly this time. Perhaps if he could make a scene, someone might come to his aid. "I mean you no harm! I am leaving in peace—"
A sickening crunch filled the air. Blood, sticky and tangy, dripped into his eyes. It was not a fatal hit, unfortunately. If he died here on the street, they might leave him be. Dump his body in a shallow grave or in an empty field and move on.
Alive, though… what might they do to him if he survived?
He staggered to the ground. They made good use of their time and finished binding him tightly. As the world started to sink into oblivion, Nicolo had a sinking suspicion that he would die many times before these men were through with him.
~ ~ ~
He woke in a dungeon.
He would not have thought a town so small would have a dungeon, but he was not surprised to be wrong. He had seen firsthand what fear and anger drove men to do; he was not the first man to be held in this room, nor would he be the last.
Alone, he tested the strength of his shackles. They were not well made, though alas they were too strong for him to simply break and too tight for him to have any hopes of slipping out of. He would need a key, or at least a knife to hack away at his wrists. That was not a pleasant prospect, but it was better than whatever awaited him if he stayed here.
He had not much enjoyed learning that his limbs grew back. He supposed he could thank Yusuf for that.
Thinking of Yusuf only made him groan. If the man had not shown up, Nicolo would not be a prisoner. He would have narrowly avoided an escape, or at least been able to draw his sword and defend himself properly if he’d been out in the open. But no, Yusuf had to make an untimely appearance and ruin things.
A shame, really. There had been many lonely hours where he’d almost missed the man. His loneliness, it was a living thing that haunted him wherever he went, in part because he knew it would never leave him. The only other person who could possibly understand it, who could possibly help him overcome that loneliness, was Yusuf.
And he was the reason Nicolo was captured.
“Serves me right,” he muttered to himself. “I do not deserve a friend.”
The stone walls did not argue.
It was some time before he was brought out of his thoughts and back to the present. A lock clicked and the door creaked on its hinged, revealing a stout man that Nicolo vaguely recognized from town.
“Let me go,” Nicolo said. “I have done nothing wrong."
“You are unholy,” the man said. A priest, then, to say such a thing in this moment. The unfaithful were more inclined to call Nicolo ‘unnatural’. “We do not let foul creatures go.”
“I am but a man,” he said.
The other man scoffed. “Men die when their ships are shattered on the rocks. Men who were beaten half as badly as you were would still be bleeding and bruised. There are many things that men do that you do not.”
“That does not mean make me less of a man.” The argument would go nowhere, as he well knew. Reason would not sway him, nor would appeals to his conscience.
He talked about Nicolo like he was less than a man, yet he had less charity in his heart that was befitting a priest.
The priest laid a bundle on a table and unrolled the leather. Nicolo closed his eyes. He did not need to see to know he was selecting among instruments of torture.
“Let me go,” he begged. “I have hurt no one. I will hurt no one, just let me leave. I will never step foot inside this town again.”
Not if I live another hundred years, he added silently.
“You are wicked.” There was the sound of metal, footsteps, the cackle of the torch on the wall. “The wicked are punished, not cast out so they may inflict themselves upon other helpless souls.”
“How can I be wicked? I told you, I have hurt no one.”
You have hurt a great many people, a small voice chided. How many men have you killed? The people of Jerusalem, they did not deserve what you and your fellows did to them.
Perhaps I am wicked, Nicolo agreed. Perhaps I deserve punishment. But not from him. Not for simply being .
“You may save your lies for someone weak enough to believe them.” He was close no, so close that Nicolo could feel the hot metal as it cut through the air.
The pain was excruciating. Each burn, each cut, each time he jerked and thrashed against his bindings, it hurt . He was no stranger to pain, but it never made it any easier.
By the time it was done, Nicolo was slack against his chains. More blood than one body could possibly hold was spilled onto the floor. The priest could not walk without it sticking to his sandals, and he seemed satisfied.
“Let us see if we can force the devil out of you,” the priest said cheerfully before leaving Nicolo, uncaring if he healed or not. In death, the priest would praise himself for having rid the world of one of the devil’s wicked followers; in life, he would enjoy another chance to torture Nicolo and call it his ‘duty.’
The lock slid into place and clicked with a note of finality that made Nicolo wince, despite everything.
His mind drifted. He lost himself in the pain of his injuries mingling with the pain of them healing. He was nothing but that pain, and his life would likely be nothing but different forms of agony for some time.
When he heard the noises outside, they were distant things. Noises with no shape to them, too indistinct to mean anything. As they grew louder, closer, Nicolo came more and more to himself. He recognized the sounds of shouting and swords, the screams of men dying in battle. When the sounds finally reached his door, Nicolo finally had the strength to wonder what new misery awaited him now.
It was the priest who entered the room, key still in hand. As soon as the door was open, a blade was shoved through his chest and his twitching body was cast aside.
Nicolo frowned in confusion as Yusuf stepped into the room.
“Yusuf?” he mumbled. Perhaps he had lost so much blood he was hallucinating. That had happened once or twice outside of Jerusalem, when he was so close to death he could practically smell the rot on him.
Yusuf said nothing, which seemed to confirm he was nothing but an apparition.
"Did they kill you?" Yusuf asked. He knelt beside him, began to draw his hands along Nicolo's face, his arms, his torso to check for injuries.
He ached from the earlier wounds, mostly healed but tender… and yet he suspected that had nothing to do with the heat he felt everywhere Yusuf's fingers reached.
“No,” Nicolo muttered. His cheeks heated up with shame, and he turned away. Yusuf at least would make it quick; they'd long ago given up being cruel to each other. "Get it over with, then."
Yusuf didn't move.
“You think I'm here to kill you?” he asked incredulously. “You think I spent over a year searching for you only to kill you?”
“You've done it before.”
Yusuf gave an almost embarrassed smile. “Well,” he said, “not this time.”
“As you say,” Nicolo said with a shrug. He could not fathom what Yusuf would want with him if not to kill him. If he meant to talk, why would he appear in the middle of the night as he had? It did not make sense.
“I do say,” Yusuf said, seemingly annoyed at Nicolo’s disbelief. “You think I would go through all this trouble, killing these men and rescuing you, only to kill you? I even found your sword for you.”
And then as proof, he held it up.
“Oh.” Nicolo frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“Clearly.” He unlocked Nicolo’s chains and caught him before he could hit the ground. “I am thinking you will have more sense in you tomorrow. After you’ve had some sleep and good food.”
“After I’ve slept a week, maybe.” It was a strange thing, letting Yusuf bear his weight and help him to his feet. “I do not understand, but thank you.”
Yusuf smiled at him, this small shy smile that made Nicolo realize two things all at once: he had never seen Yusuf smile before and he very much wanted to see it again.
“You are welcome, Nicolo. Are you better yet? Can you walk? I have killed many but there may be more. You have made this whole town your enemy, it’s rather impressive.”
Nicolo tested his feet; they held his weight, so he stepped out of Yusuf’s embrace. He motioned for his sword and felt a profound relief to have it back in his hands.
“I am so glad my plight impresses you,” he said. “I’ll be sure to get myself captured again for your amusement.”
“Admittedly, I’d rather you didn’t. I did not come looking for a companion that would get himself in trouble regularly.”
Nicolo’s cheeks flushed. A companion?
“What did you do?” Yusuf asked, unaware of Nicolo’s heart thundering in his chest. “To get them so upset at you?”
“I didn’t die in a storm.”
“... They are torturing you because you did not die in a storm?” Yusuf looked absolutely bewildered. “I will never understand you Christians.”
“Quite frankly,” Nicolo said as he started towards the door, “neither will I. Let us get out of here, I’m hungry and you promised food.”
“Promise is a strong word. I mentioned food. Since the whole town is against us, we will likely not find a meal for some time.”
“You tease.” Nicolo lifted his sword and stepped into the hallway, scanning it quickly for danger. He saw two dead men and a trail of blood. “You know the way out?”
“Of course.” Yusuf said. “Come, let’s get out of here. I apparently owe you dinner along with this rescue, and it would be rude of me not to make good.”
And then he walked into the hall, all the confidence of a man who was sure he’d done a good job killing his enemies, and led the way.
In that moment, Nicolo felt a strange sense of peace. Whatever might come, he knew he would follow this man anywhere.
Perhaps this is why I haven’t died yet, he thought. Maybe this is why God would not let us kill each other.
He took his first step after Yusuf and never looked back.