The months stretch into years stretch into three, and still Nicolò walks beside this strange, young version of his heart. Pazienza becomes his chant, patience, patience. He is determined to show Yusuf the same measure of patience and kindness that was shown to him.
Yusuf is so much more skeptical as a young man, he holds everything back. Or tries to, at least, Nicolò knows every movement, every twitch of his hands. He manages to pretend he doesn't see it, tries to give him some measure of privacy as he works through his immortality. Still, it is one thing to know your partner is angry, quite another thing entirely to talk them through it.
He is desperately lonely for company. He knows if Yusuf were here, his Yusuf, he would slap him over the head and tell him not to be such a petulant child. But as it stands, he is alone with Yusuf's eyes that are too hard and turn cold too quickly.
He takes to quizzing Yusuf after each one of his dreams. Which way did the mountains curve? What kind of thread did you see? Draw for me the carvings you saw. Yusuf humours him for a time, but quickly grows tired of it. Nicolò feels the tension rise and backs off without a word. He is forever doing this delicate dance of flirtation and distance. It is a headache, and one that Yusuf often runs out of patience for.
One time Yusuf draws his sword and holds the tip steady at Nicolò's throat, demanding the secrets of the future. Nicolò has half a mind to let him, surrender this war of attrition and escape to any life, any future, anything to get away from this stranger with his partner's face.
Patience, patience.
But then he will walk alongside Yusuf, and hear him murmuring as they travel, and realise that the man is reciting the Italian vocabulary he has learnt. He learns Italian with the same focus and determination he puts to everything else, forming clumsy sentences with fits and starts, nothing like the easy fluidity Nicolò is used to. Until one day, as Nicolò passes him his oiled and sharpened sword and Yusuf murmurs, in practiced Italian, his thanks and makes an offhand comment about the weather and Nicolò's heart seizes in his chest.
Nicolò needs an outlet and takes out his frustration in a personal mission behind enemy lines where Yusuf cannot follow. He strips a Crusader uniform from a corpse and slips into the camp. He remembers enough of the structure and protocol to manipulate himself into a position of authority there. He cuts and re-routes supply lines enough to disrupt their outpost and force the army to retreat across ground they had gained. When he is discovered he fights his way out of there, cutting down peasant and knight alike, barely more than a few good hits landing on him.
He finds Yusuf again, covered with blood and only a little of it is his, and Yusuf grasps for the hilt of his sword.
"Nicolò, are you-?"
"Still me." Nicolò assures him. "I did not die."
It is surprisingly difficult to die here. Most deaths in these wars are slow, from infection and disease, slow enough that their bodies heal before they succumb. Nicolò has seen bullets rip through a body and still kill the one behind it. Arrows can puncture and swords can slice, but going down and playing dead for a moment is often enough time to heal up before life is snuffed out. That is, if the enemy even gets close enough to attack. Nicolò is earning quite a reputation for himself on the battlefield.
Yusuf isn't quite so lucky. He has died twice more since Nicolò joined him, and both times Nicolò blames himself. He had moved too quickly through the attacking army, leaving the remainders to be handled by Yusuf, but it was too much for him and he was overwhelmed. He's still so early into his training. How quickly he forgets that Yusuf doesn't know the steps to their dance. Nicolò holds his entrails in his gut as the wound stitches over and Yusuf gasps to life.
"What should I do, if you die?" Yusuf asks the next day, as they bury yet another one of Yusuf's countrymen. The young soldier had seen Yusuf rise from the dead, but had been killed in battle shortly after.
"You must be patient with me." Nicolò replies easily. "Speak to me, tell me where we are, what we need, and I will follow you."
"Why?"
"You are…" Nicolò waves a hand, grasping for the word in either tongue, "you are fisso."
"Fixed?"
"Constant."
Yusuf doesn't respond to that, but the line in his brow says he is thinking about the nature of free choice and determinism again.
They lead a small band of highly trained men through mountainous terrain to circumnavigate a battalion of Crusaders. It's a risky mission, one they would be happy to take on themselves, but the men with them are foolish and brave, as they themselves once were. Nicolò and Yusuf take the night watch together, so they can speak of secret things without being heard.
Nicolò is digging into the ground with a stick, keeping his hands busy. "This war is so slow." he complains about nothing in particular. It is difficult and time consuming to move an army without horses or jeeps. "There is so much waiting. I have seen war where it is death after death. These weapons are brutal, but not every time lethal."
"You are saying that bows and swords improve over time?" Yusuf asks, one of the rare times he enquires after the future in good humour.
"Humans are warmongers. They will continue to perfect the craft long after we are gone."
The mission goes sideways, and they are left dragging their wounded men away, too many dismembered and close to death's door they have to leave behind, carrying only the few who could perhaps survive. Nicolò doesn't let them stop until they reach a well that still has clear water. He washes everything, even the open wounds, and is so frenetic that Yusuf is exasperated, proclaiming "my hands are clean!" as Nicolò pours fresh water over them again before he tends to the next wounded.
When they return to the army, their wounded in tow, Nicolò is suspected as a double agent and they are run out of the camp. They barely escape alive, and they run through the night and most of the next day. In hiding they have the chance to discuss their families again.
Nicolò has already decided. His family is half a world away, and even if he could guarantee he would survive the journey, he had already lived so many years apart from them and seen Genoa changed. To revisit would be to reopen a wound already healed.
Yusuf doesn't have that luxury. He decides to leave for his hometown and tells Nicolò he will be back before winter sets in. Nicolò stays in the border towns, and learns of a gang of bandits that are taking advantage of the destabilized area. He hunts them to their hide-out, careful not to be seen until he knows the full scope of their operation.
The slaughter is brutal and bloody and not nearly as satisfying as he had hoped. He raids their supplies and takes most of their equipment and coin. Unfortunately these caves are a little too routinely used to be good for longer term storage, so he sets out to leave the valuable items outside of homes he knows have been targeted. The coin he counts out and realises this small fortune will continue to be grown and spent and invested until it buys a property overlooking the sea on a Mediterranean island.
Nicolò rents himself out as a hired hand to a farming family there, and they are amazed at his pale skin that never burns in the sun. The family has seen a few deserters pass through their town, hoping for a better life far away from war. None, however, that speak their language or are as kind as Nicolò.
When Yusuf returns, he finds Nicolò drunk and dancing with a girl child a little more than ten years old. The family that had taken him in celebrating the first chills of winter with a bonfire. His confusion at the scene is evident, and only deepens when Nicolò can't help but embrace him. He moves back before Yusuf can react, holding him firmly by the shoulders.
"Yusuf, are you well?"
Yusuf doesn't answer. He greets the family briefly but turns back to Nicolò, "We should be going. We have more work to do further north."
Yusuf can't bear to speak of what he saw in his hometown. He wants to hold it close to his chest, but the way Nicolò looked at him fills his heart with bitterness. Nicolò knows, he's sure. He's heard it all before and it makes Yusuf uncomfortable to know that even his most treasured thoughts will one day be exposed to this man he doesn't trust.
He is grateful, though, for the preparation Nicolò has done in the months Yusuf travelled. They now have packs and rations, good quality boots and more coin than he has ever held even when he traded as a merchant. When he shares this with Nicolò he gives a small grin.
"My father was a trader, too." He says. "And his father before him. Genoa is a port city, most everyone is a merchant."
"But not you?"
"I, ah, before I joined the Crusades I was in training to become a priest." Nicolò says, bashful again.
Yusuf tries to imagine this ruthless warrior covered in blood, blessing communion and leading prayer.
"Being honest, Nicolò, I think you would have made a shit priest."
Nicolò laughs, a full throated laugh that catches them both by surprise.
The weather turns colder and the days get shorter for their third winter together. Word had reached both armies of the pair of them, each enemy convinced they are working for the other side. There is nowhere for them to go, too infamous to carry out their missions. This is their first winter without the benefit of tents and horses and brothers in arms. They have to keep a fire burning through the night, and each buy an extra outer-cloak when they pass through a market.
One night Yusuf wakes to hear the shuffling of feet. He is already alert and reaching for his weapon when he sees Nicolò's shape passing back and forth. He is fisting handfuls of his hair as he paces, muttering rapid Italian like the fall of heavy rain. Yusuf isn't that fluent yet, he only catches a few familiar words, stupid, consequences, patience.
"Peace, brother." Yusuf calls, raising a hand.
Nicolò releases a strangled sound.
"What is wrong?"
"No, nothing, nothing is wrong." Nicolò insists, flopping to the ground on the other side of the fire with a thud. "I am merely missing someone who won't be here for a long time."
An apology sticks in Yusuf's throat, but he doesn't let it escape. "You should get some sleep, if you can, Nicolò."
The other man stands, jittery, and puts more wood on the fire. "It is a cold night." He says, by way of explanation.
This won't do at all. Yusuf shuffles back from his position by the fire and sharply inclines his head at the empty space beside him.
There is a beat of silence in the dead of night. Then Nicolò moves and takes the place between Yusuf and the still burning fire. His hands are twitching and he doesn't settle easily.
"By the Almighty, you are as skittish as a kitten." Yusuf complains, pinning him down with an arm across his midsection. "Have you never shared warmth with another soldier before?"
"Not for," Nicolò's voice has dropped to a harsh whisper, "not for a long time."
"Well then." Yusuf throws the edge of his cloak over the both of them and firmly shuts his eyes. "Sleep." He commands.
Yusuf wakes and rolls over onto his back and away from Nicolò. Always quickly alert, Nicolò rises and puts out their smouldering fire.
Seeing the Italian move as he does each morning, Yusuf feels a surge of pity at the distressed picture he painted the previous night, then he feels something approaching fondness for the smile he gives as he gets to work preparing their weapons.
They have no mission, no support, and nowhere to go.
"I had another dream last night." Yusuf says. Nicolò twitches an eyebrow but doesn't pause his movements dragging a whetstone against the edge of his blade.
"Of the women." Yusuf clarifies. "I think they are close. I could smell some food, familiar food, and I am sure I have seen that river before."
"Could you draw it?" Nicolò asks.
Yusuf takes a stick to the wet smooth dirt and draws, stepping lightly so his feet don't leave prints. It's a difficult perspective, from some mountain top overlooking the curves of the river flowing from a large lake. One of the mountains in the distance has a distinct ridge that he points out to Nicolò. In turn, Nicolò points to a certain curve of the river.
"Was there a mosque here? With 2 spiral minarets?"
"Yes."
"I know the place. Or I will, one day. The river changes course, but that mountain remains the same. It is maybe a 4 week journey."
Their eyes meet, but they do not speak, Nicolò seems to be waiting on Yusuf for a decision.
Yusuf nods. They will seek out the others.
It takes 2 weeks, the women are clearly also seeking them out and they meet in the middle in a long rocky valley. Yusuf stands in the middle of the road to meet them first, Nicolò preferring to keep watch from a higher vantage point until contact is made.
The Asian one is riding a horse, and the Greek with the lion on her chest walks alongside it. Nicolò refused to tell Yusuf anything more about them, insisting it was important for them to meet as naturally as possible.
"Peace be with you!" Yusuf calls out. "I have been dreaming about you."
The Greek turns to the other woman, "this is the one." She turns back to Yusuf and speaks Arabic with a strange accent, "where is the other?"
"Waiting." Yusuf replies. "Until you know that we mean no harm."
The Greek points to the outcropping of rocks that Nicolò had taken shelter behind and arches her brow. Ah, Yusuf realises, a woman used to ambush.
The Greek is on edge, and she confers with the other one in harsh whispers.
"What is your name?" The one seated on the horse asks.
"Yusuf ibn Ibrahim ibn Muhammad ibn al-Kaysani." He pauses. "Yusuf."
The woman smiles kindly, while the Greek scowls. "I am called Quynh, this is Andromache. She said that we would find you. You must be confused and scared. What do you know?"
"I know that we live and we die and we live again." Yusuf replies, no shred of confusion or fear in his voice. "May I call my friend down?"
The women look to each other and share a sharp nod, and Yusuf twitches his fingers over his head. Nicolò emerges and slides down the rocky slope. His face is unusually impassive, bright eyes darting between the two of them.
"Prove it." The one named Andromache jerks her chin forward, holding her double bladed axe at her side. Before I find out for myself is implied.
Yusuf pulls a dagger from his belt and rolls up his sleeve. He cuts a line across his forearm, deep enough that blood gushes forth. He waits a moment then wipes the blood away, flicking the excess into the dirt. No more blood wells up, his flesh is soft and healed.
Quynh dismounts easily and grabs his hand, "extraordinary," she says, looking him over, "and impressive that you trust us so quickly. It wasn't like that with Lykon."
"None of this is like it was with Lykon." Andromache mutters, her eyes narrow. "I don't like it." She points a finger at Nicolò. "This one doesn't speak?"
"Dunamai lalein, I am capable of speech." He answers in Koine Greek. "My name is Nicolò di Genova."
"The dreams were hazy around you. Why?"
"I cannot say."
Andromache has a hard line to her jaw and she looks him over carefully. "You know too much."
"I have lived a long time."
"The dreams only started a few years ago." She shoots back.
They stare at each other, not giving an inch.
"I am immortal, like you." Nicolò says.
"I don't buy it."
"Maybe he is different?" Quynh suggests.
Before Yusuf can explain, Andromache says,
"No, let's see if you really are who you say you are."
Her teeth bare and she raises her labrys. Nicolò keeps his arms by his side, palms out as she charges at him.
"No! Wait!" Yusuf screams, but Andromache buries her axe in Nicolò's chest.
Yusuf is over him, his face shaven and he has a metal helmet on his head. Mud and trenches are common to all wars, but the screaming planes overhead place him firmly in the 20th century.
"Nicky, are you-"
He doesn't get any further, because Nicolò surges upward and catches his mouth in a bruising kiss. It's desperate, and there is blood in his mouth and their teeth catch. They kiss in the open and it's just as exciting as it was the first time and Nicolò's leg is reattaching with a burning pain. Nicolò holds the back of Yusuf's neck tightly, keeping him close, even as a shell explodes close by.
When they pull away, Yusuf's eyes are searching his.
"I was never cut out to be a priest." Nicolò says, his voice hoarse. "3 years is far too long to follow you around, do not touch, do not touch!"
With that, Nicolò sags back against the side of the trench with relief, his throat working as his body stitches itself back together.
Yusuf lies alongside Nicolò, pressing their bodies together and shielding him from the rest of the world.
"We have been apart before, have we not?" He says, speaking in English, a warning that Italian is not safe in this time.
"Not like this, you were right there, but you didn't trust me, didn't know me."
Their hands hold each other, bloodied and through bulky uniforms, but it is enough.
"You must be coming from the early days."
"From the first."
"Ah, pazienza, pazienza." Yusuf grins.
Nicolò cups a hand to Yusuf's cheek, and the brown eyes soften. "Oh, I have missed you."
"I am right here."
There is a particularly close barrage of gunfire, and Nicky grunts.
"Where are the others?" He asks.
"Booker is embedded in la résistance, Andrew led the last charge, he's fighting in no man's land." One of Andromache's many disguises. Yusuf's voice catches. "Quynh-"
"I know." Nicky says, before that particular wound can reopen. He checks his body and finds all parts present. "Well, we have to push to the front."
"Why?"
"I have no desire to die again today, but I have a score to settle with Andromache."
Piles of dead, and the front line has advanced a few dozen feet. By the dark of the night Nicky and Joe are propped up across from each other against the walls of a trench, their legs entangled. Joe takes a long drag of his cigarette and Nicky hasn't taken his eyes off of him since the fighting died down.
Nicky gives him a light kick at the hip. "You never told me." Joe's face is barely illuminated by the dim lamp that hangs from the repurposed rubble, but still Nicky catches the quirked eyebrow. "What happened when you went home." Nicky finishes.
"Ah." Joe doesn't pretend he's not delaying the inevitable when he takes another breath of smoke. "I thought you already knew."
"No."
"It was so long ago, Nicky." There is a chance there, for the topic to be dropped, for them to move on from this painful reminder of their own immortality.
"Not for me."
Joe tilts his head back and closes his eyes. "The word already reached them, by the time I did. The whole city knew I was a traitor, or was it a deserter? I don't know, it doesn't matter. I would have been killed if I revealed myself. I had to stay disguised." His words come through stilted, uneasy. "My father was at the city gate, and I walked straight past him. I couldn't stop. If I stopped, I would have been killed."
Nicky moves across the yawning gap between them and tucks himself under Joe's arm.
"I stayed out in the fields, in those little lean-to shelters for the harvest, do you remember?" Joe's hand rests on the back of Nicky's neck. "They um, they had a funeral for me. I paid one of the village kids to take me to my own grave. I guess it was easier to pretend I was dead instead of a traitor."
His fingers play with the hairs at the nape of Nicky's neck.
"There was a woman I was going to marry, if I returned from the war. I saw her spinning thread. And my nephew saw me, my sister's boy, he was the only who did. I gave him a coin and he was convinced I was a ghost. It was the youngest one, fuck, what was his name?"
His hand clenches, another part of his past slipping away.
"I will find out for you." Nicky swears into Joe's chest. "There are still many years missing from that time."
Joe holds Nicky close and buries his nose in his soft hair.
"I am glad to have you again." Nicky says.
"Even in this shithole?"
"Any shithole is worth it, if I can have you and to be yours."
"Oh, my dear Nicolò," his fond smile can be heard in his soft voice, "and they call me the poet."