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In 1321, in a town now lost to time, the lord there sought to expel all unwed foreigners. Famine brought with it its own traditions.
Nicolò received a great many proposals, of course. But Yusuf was more than happy to leave. He found the people there mostly kind but unclean. In fact, the gossip about his praying and bathing had gathered an edge of malice recently. Beyond this, he had already figured out that Andromache would not be coming back to collect them until they had truly settled their differences. But there was no settling to be done - it was categorical, what lay between them: Nicolò's faith as a Christian had called him to do something repugnant to Yusuf, and all others like him, on account of their faith as Muslims. Neither had his sword recognised the Jews and Christians it cut down.
It did not matter that Nicolò had sweetened to him over time: in his heart, Yusuf could no more forgive him than he could breathe life into clay. His faith would not be one more thing he was forced to leave behind.
So one morning he rose early, silent and without waking his companion, and he readied all his things. Down into town he went, buying a healthy horse along the way and getting himself a sword. He decided to go south, to the coast. It would be quite a while before he arrived. The air up north was dry, the sun almost feeble. He could smell the rotting half-grown wheat of the fields even from amongst the trees.
He had been riding for hours when he decided to rest the horse. After he and the horse had both eaten food and drunk water, they lingered in the dappled shade. Yusuf was telling the horse stories of all that he had seen at sea - the horse seemed to be listening intently, for she was a curious kind of creature - when the sound of running feet disturbed him. He turned, his hand ready to draw his sword, and saw a small dark child tumbling down the hill toward him. The child's face was cheerful and ruddy; feverish, perhaps. Yet she was barely out of breath as she reached him, though she was very thin indeed.
'Sir, sir!' said the child. 'Your servant sends ahead his regards, and says he will be along shortly. He begs you wait awhile for him.'
A strange feeling took hold of Yusuf, then. He gave the child as much food and water as he could spare, and mounted the horse at once. 'I have no servant,' he said shortly. Then he was off, a wild sort of drive within him, urging the horse ever onward.
'If I falter,' he told himself, 'he will catch me, and all will be lost.'
On and on he rode till it was dark, and the poor horse could go no further. They took refuge at an inn, limping into the stables. Yusuf went into the inn, and paid for a room alone, as there was no food on offer. The straw and bedding together were clean but rough; Yusuf was too tired to care. He did not so much as lie down as he did collapse. He managed what felt like mere minutes of sleep before there was a knock at his door. He opened his eyes, his hand reaching for his sword, and saw the owner of the inn opening the door to his room, a candle in her hand.
Her face was strained and uncertain in the candlelight, as if she did not quite know what to make of him.
'M-my lord,' she said nervously - Yusuf stiffened at this, for that was not how she had addressed him earlier, nor how he had made himself known, 'your companion sends ahead his regards, and says he will be along shortly. He begs you wait awhile for him.'
Yusuf stood to his feet at once, and gathered all of his belongings to his person. He gave the woman all the coin he could spare, and dove down the stairs with haste. 'I await no companion,' he called up over his shoulder; then he fled the inn. He left the horse sleeping in the stables - he knew she could take him no further. He ran straight into the nearby wood, with no destination in mind, on and on, till he felt his heart could burst. He imagined he could hear the sound of a rider straight on his heels.
'If I stop now,' he told himself desperately, 'if I stop now--!'
His foot tangled on an unseen branch; he was thrown headfirst into the air. There was a rushing noise, a terrible gasping pain - then all was darkness, and unknowing.
He stirred - the smell of flame awoke him, as it sometimes still did. Across the little fire, he saw without surprise that Nicolò was seated before him, that same watchful look on his face he'd taken to wearing recently.
Really - what was recent between the two of them.
Yusuf turned away from his thoughts and looked up at the dark canopy of the wood, then all around himself, then finally at his person. He saw he was bandaged in different parts of his body, he felt a healing ache in his head. He wondered if he had died. Against the side of his face, he felt Nicolò's stare.
He heard one, no, two horses stirring in the dark. He held back a sigh: he felt he was caught.
'Why,' said Nicolò, seeing that he was awake, 'Yusuf, do you carry no food or water?'
'I gave what remained of it to the messenger you sent,' Yusuf replied. 'For she needed it more than I.'
'And why, Yusuf, do you carry no coin?' said Nicolò.
'I gave what remained of it to the woman at the inn,' Yusuf replied. 'For she needed it more than I.'
'And why, Yusuf,' said Nicolò, 'why do you run from me?'
For a long time, Yusuf stared across the fire at him without speaking. 'For it pains me, to be a foreigner in this place,' he said finally. 'Some days you, too, look at me with eyes that say I am unknown.' A stricken expression came to Nicolò's face - but what could he say? All Yusuf said was true. 'If I am to be alone in truth, then let me not be alone with you. Won't you leave me,' he asked, wistful, 'and find yourself a wife in B---- to be wed to?'
Nicolò reached out with a short, thin branch; and he coaxed the fire alight.
'Intreat me not to leave thee,' he said lowly, without looking at Yusuf, 'or to return from following after thee: for whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy God-- thy God--' but there he faltered.
Yusuf cocked his head. 'Do you see?' he said quietly. 'Do you see why we are better parted?'
Nicolò raised his eyes to Yusuf's. '--I see I have hurt you, and can seem to only ever hurt you, with my ignorance,' he said roughly. 'Let us be parted on the morrow, then; and I will trouble you no more.'
Yusuf blinked at this easy acquiescence. 'Yes,' he said, in a strange tone, 'it will be good for you to be married - to find a helpmate who believes as you believe.'
Nicolò gritted his teeth. 'I know I am a stranger in your heart,' he said bitterly, 'but do not mock me so. I would not marry another whilst I carried you with me.'
This time it was Yusuf who looked away. 'Of mockery I have none. And you needn't carry me at all,' he said quietly.
'Indeed, it is I who have been carried, all this long way,' Nicolò said. 'Across all these many centuries, it is in you and your goodness that I have been able to hear God's voice again. But I never gave thought to the burden I gave you.'
'I think of you not as a burden,' said Yusuf. 'But it is torment itself to love you and to hold you, when I cannot forgive you.'
'Do not forgive me,' Nicolò entreated him, 'for what I once did to your people is not a thing that can be forgiven.'
Indeed not. Yusuf inclined his head, though this pained him somewhat. But his heart eased within him. 'Then I will no longer try,' he decided. 'But come - how would you treat for me? If I were tempted to carry you but further?'
Nicolò was silent for some long moments. 'I would take up arms at your pleasure,' he said thoughtfully. 'I would stay only where you felt welcome. I would share my food and my coin when you had given yours away. I would build a fire for you when you were cold, and watch over you while you slept. And I would not go where you or your God could not follow.'
At this last, Yusuf laughed. Nicolò smiled just to see him pleased.
'My God is not one to follow along the borders that mortals draw,' said Yusuf, amused. 'But you have my understanding, and now you have my heart. Come, my love: let us out the flame and sleep a while. The road ahead is long indeed.'