Archive of Our Own

Sleep eluded Yusuf in the weeks leading up to his sixteenth birthday. He was so excited to receive his Marks that he was jittery with nerves, bouncing around like a young puppy. He kept unconsciously caressing his arms, still bare, but soon to be adorned with two soulmarks.

He asked everybody willing to answer him the story about the names on their arms. Most people smiled indulgently at the charming boy, his curls dancing in the wind, his eyes shining like stars, and regaled him with tales about the persons they loved or hated the most in the world.

Some people spun sad stories – about how they waited and waited for their soulmate to show up, lonely and longing. Or about how they lived in fear of the day when they would meet their nemesis, and how that might change their life for the worse. Or about how they mixed up love and hatred, and mistook their soulmate for their enemy.

But most people thanked Allah for the Marks. They told Yusuf about how the name on their skin had helped them make the right choice for their spouse or had forewarned them about people who bore them bad will. 

Yusuf’s baba waited until the eve of his birthday to sit down with his son to tell Yusuf about his Marks. He spoke about waking up on his sixteenth birthday, overjoyed to see the name of the beautiful girl next door calligraphed on his arm in elegant script. Yusuf’s mama laughed when his baba told Yusuf about wooing her quietly, never telling her about his Mark so as not to put any pressure on her, until she too turned sixteen and came running towards him, proudly showing his name on her arm. “Ah, and that first kiss, Yusuf, it stoked a fire inside me that hasn’t died down ever since!” Yusuf’s mama laughed – she of all people was immune to her husband’s silver tongue, a gift he had bestowed on his son as well – and told him to stoke the fire in the hearth instead, for the evenings were chilly. Yusuf laughed along when his baba obeyed. He continued recollecting as he worked, but Yusuf knew the rest of the story. Baba and mama had wed soon after mama’s birthday, and Yusuf saw every day how blessed their union was, how much his parents loved each other, how they truly were one.

When the fire was burning to mama’s satisfaction, Yusuf’s baba sat back down next to his son, rubbing over the skin where tomorrow a name would be. He proceeded to talk about the man he loathed the most in the whole world. He met his enemy a long time ago, a merchant like him, but unscrupulous and cheating. When Yusuf’s baba found out that his competitor was using false weights to sell his wares, he brought the case to the courts. The judges forbade the fraudulent man to trade in Mahdia ever after, and Yusuf’s baba plucked the fruits of this and his business had grown.

Yusuf hung at his father’s lips, even though he knew this story too. He prayed to Allah to be as lucky as his baba – to meet his soulmate soon, so they could build a future together, so they might live a long and fruitful life. And to be able to dispense with his foe in as gentle a way as possible, so none of his loved ones would have to be hurt.

“Ah, my son,” his baba said, “I have been blessed indeed. I pray to Allah you may be just as blessed. But it is time to sleep,” he said, when Yusuf wanted to ask for more stories. “To bed, my son. The Marks will be there soon enough. May they ever bring you joy, and never become a source of sadness.”

Yusuf grumbled, and swore he wouldn’t sleep a wink. He was certain he would sit up all night, staring at his arms until the Marks appeared. But the tiredness of the sleepless nights must have caught up with Yusuf, because he slumbered more peacefully than ever.

He woke up for fajr, and he didn’t even remember to look at his arms, until his father came over to him when the prayers were completed. Baba grabbed both of Yusuf’s hands between his own to pull him closer. The early light of dawn was just enough to be able to make out the names on Yusuf’s skin.

Together with his baba, Yusuf turned his eyes to his left arm.

There, in black ink, stood a name in clean, tall Latin letters.

Yusuf still struggled with the unfamiliar alphabet. He had only recently started to accompany his baba on his trips, and before that, he didn’t have any need to study the foreign letters. However, he spelled the name easily enough.

Nicolò.

Yusuf swallowed. The name felt heavy on his tongue, and his heart skipped a beat.

“Ah,” Yusuf’s baba said solemnly. “I think it is safe to assume that your worst enemy goes by the name of Nicolò. I will pray to Allah that he may merely be someone you meet on a trade trip across the sea, and that this name does not forebode anything more sinister.”

Yusuf nodded, and he let his baba turn over his right arm carefully towards the light, so they could read the name written there.

“Now, my son,” Yusuf’s baba said in a joyful tone, “let us see if we know your beautiful soulmate already, or if you will have to be patient a little longer.”

The rosy light of dawn crept through the windows, and neither his baba nor Yusuf had any trouble reading his Mark.

For on Yusuf’s right arm, in the same bold black letters, stood the name again.

Nicolò.

***

Sleep eluded Yusuf once more.

This time, it was not the giddy naïve excitement of a young man before his birthday, but rather the hardened resolve of a man who knew his fate would come this very day.

On this day, they would know whether al-Quds would survive or perish – though Yusuf knew, even though he kept praying for a miracle, that the outcome would not be as he wished it to be. The invaders had grown both in numbers and in cruelty, and they would breach the walls soon.

Yusuf sharpened his scimitar methodically.

He caught a glance of the name on his left arm, and he grinned. Today, he might meet his nemesis – if such a man even existed.

He decided long ago that the Marks on his arm were a mistake, an anomaly. He had thought about their meaning a lot after the first shock, on the morning of his birthday, but really – what was the chance he would meet not one, but two foreigners with the same name, one of them the man he was meant to despise above all others, one of them the man he would love above all others? There must have been a mistake. The universe must have messed something up. 

He had believed he might meet his mortal enemy twelve years ago, when people from across the sea came and attacked Mahdia, but it hadn’t happened, and Yusuf had felt his heart harden, and his conviction that his Marks were a hoax, a fluke, an error in the system, had grown.

And the older he became, the more eyebrows raised and tongues wagged as he walked around the village. There were stories about people having to wait a long time to meet either their soulmate or their nemesis, but to meet neither? Maybe young al-Kaysani – well, not-so-young-anymore al-Kaysani, was an abomination, maybe he didn’t have a soul, maybe he was a witch or a demon – he did always seem a bit strange, his head in the clouds, writing and sketching. 

So Yusuf travelled longer and further, sourcing wares for his dad’s business, staying away for months at a time.

He regretted it now, as the cries of battle roused him. He would have wished to see his baba one more time, his mama, his sisters, the nieces and nephews they had borne.

But it hadn’t been Allah’s will.

It was Allah’s will that Yusuf would fight today, in a futile attempt to save the city and its inhabitants. So that is what Yusuf would do – and he expected he would fall doing so. Maybe he would be struck down by a man with the name of Nicolò, by now familiar in Yusuf’s mouth. He would probably never find out. 

But it didn’t matter. Sworn enemy or not, an invader would strike at Yusuf, and Yusuf would die. 

As he reached the battlefield, he swung his scimitar, trained as he was, felling one soldier after another, until he was covered in blood and mud and gore.

The sun was at its highest point when Yusuf rested briefly, the fighting around him momentarily lulled. He was alone, surrounded by the dead and the dying, invaders and defenders alike. Not far away though, a man stood, his head bowed, a heavy sword in his hands, blood running off the metal glinting in the sun. 

Yusuf took but a moment to gather his breath, wiping the sweat and grime off his brow, and ran towards the man, yelling in his outrage.

The man swung, and lifted his sword high, but he didn’t strike.

For one fleeting moment time froze.

The invader had eyes like the sea in Mahdia, blue and green and grey and turquoise and teal, set deeply in his pale, sunburned face. He had a big nose and blood ran from his jaw into a dirty beard. His long hair was tied together with a strip of cloth, and a wooden cross hung from a leather cord around his neck.

The sight of it enraged Yusuf even further. He wanted to take the man’s head off so the cross would fall in the dirt, powerless and useless. Yusuf lifted his scimitar, and the man yelled something in a language Yusuf didn’t understand, but the noise was drowned in the sound of metal clanging.

It was quiet and dark when Yusuf woke up. For a moment, he stared at the stars and the pale, full moon, and his first thought, illogically and involuntarily, was of the man he had fought. His skin had been as pale as the moonlight and his eyes had been clearer than glass, brighter than the azure sky, calmer than the sea.

Thinking of the man filled Yusuf with feelings he couldn’t place – dread and longing and hope.

It made no sense, and yet, thinking of those sea glass eyes, Yusuf felt calm, even lying here in the blood of dozens of fallen soldiers.

And then he remembered that his own blood had pooled around his feet too.

The fight had been brief. Yusuf had been tired and careless, or the man had gotten lucky – it didn’t matter when Yusuf slowly sank to his knees on the soaked ground. He had felt the long sword tear through his skin, lacerate his guts, spill his blood thick and crimson over his belly until it dripped down his legs on the soaked earth. He had seen his opponent’s clear eyes darken with something he couldn’t decipher, and with his last strength, he had plunged his dagger into the man’s throat, listening to the blood gurgling as he died.

He had died.

Yet his lungs were expanding in his chest, breathing in the cold night air, and his heart, which should have been dormant and still in his chest, beat fast in his throat.

Before he could ponder upon the meaning of this, he was startled even more than by the discovery he had awoken from death, if such a thing was possible. 

Right next to him, he heard a gasp, and some words in a foreign language, and then the man who had killed Yusuf, and who Yusuf had killed in return, sat up, stiffly, his movement jerky. He must have heard Yusuf beside him, because he turned his head sharply, and their eyes met.

For a fleeting instant they sat frozen, staring at each other.

Then Yusuf spotted the fires behind the other man, the plumes of black smoke coming from the city, and he felt his anger boil over again.

He was on his feet in an instant, his scimitar in his hand, and he yelled at the man, gesturing him to get up.

The invader with the moonlike skin sat still, though, unmoving, looking at Yusuf with big, sorrowful eyes – so like the sea. Yusuf thought he might drown in them – but he steeled his resolve and put his blade under the man’s chin, tipping it up until it would go no further, and a thin trickle of blood ran over the metal.

“Get up!” Yusuf snarled. “Get up and fight like a man, bastard!”

After another moment of contemplation, the invader got up and lifted his sword, but he made no move to strike Yusuf. He stood still, wide-legged, covered in filth, and he waited.

Yusuf was furious, and he wielded his weapon with his full strength, forcefully knocking it into the man’s sword.

“Die! And stay dead!”

The invader didn’t react. But Yusuf was beside himself now, he taunted and cursed the man until Yusuf sliced through his enemy’s throat with the curved tip of his scimitar. He wanted to yell victoriously, but at the same time he felt a sword in his side, twisting viciously upwards until he felt his ribs break under the force of it.

The last thing he heard over his own cries of pain was the invader, mumbling something mournfully, something that sounded like a plea.

***

The invader didn’t stay dead, and neither did Yusuf. They woke again, and Yusuf started goading the man into picking up his sword again. The invader refused, however, and knelt down and bared his neck for Yusuf.

Yusuf was infuriated. He wasn’t about to show mercy to the man and yelled at him to stand up and fight.

“Coward! Pick up your sword! Kill me again or die!”

The man didn’t react. His light eyes followed Yusuf as he circled around him, but other than that he was completely still.

Yusuf swung his scimitar and took off the head of his opponent. Blood sprung out of the invader’s neck, as he toppled over. For a brief moment, Yusuf felt a pang of guilt. He had slain an unarmed man. But before he could feel remorse and pray for forgiveness, the man’s body shook as his muscles and skin knitted together again and his lungs gurgled as he tried to fill them back with air.

Yusuf’s anger didn’t dissipate. All night, he killed the man, who only kept watching Yusuf and occasionally murmured some words as he touched his cross. Yusuf saw red, and his ways of murdering the man became ever more gruesome – letting him bleed out, ripping out his intestines one by one with his bare hands, stabbing the man’s own sword through his back. Yusuf even bashed in his head with a rock and strangled him with the piece of cord from which his cross was suspended.

He might have continued even longer, but his rage finally started to calm down as the sun came up again, and the stench of death and decay from al-Quds drifted to them with the wind.

The first light hit them as he stood, circling the other, and it hit his enemy’s naked arm where Yusuf had sliced off his sleeve earlier. And it was in this first light of the day that Yusuf saw the Mark, the letters he had written a thousand times.

Yusuf.

Clear as day on the pale skin of the man with the eyes like the sea.

In a feral move, Yusuf dropped his scimitar and grabbed the invader’s arm, pulled him closer and wiped the grime away, blinking, shaking his head.

This could not be.

The man shook his arm free from Yusuf’s grasp, and traced the familiar shapes. It seemed practiced, as if he had done so hundreds of times before.

“Yusuf,” he said, slowly, trying to get the pronunciation right, and Yusuf stiffened.

It had to be a coincidence. It had to be.

And yet – yet.

Yusuf needed to know. He grappled the man again, tore at the sleeve still covering the invader’s other arm, anxious to see the name there.

And as if dying and waking up, killing the same man over and over again, and then seeing his name on said man’s arm weren’t enough surprises for one night, Yusuf toppled over in disbelief when he freed the invader’s arm, and inspected it all over, and found no name there.

***

Yusuf felt like the world had stopped spinning.

He had never heard of somebody with only one Mark.

Then again, he also never expected there to be people with the same name twice, but that clearly had happened too.

The man sat silently beside him, waiting quietly for – yeah, for what?

Yusuf supposed his behaviour had been peculiar, but that of his enemy had been no less strange, right?

Yusuf grabbed the pale arm again, hoping against hope that the letters of Yusuf’s name were not written there, that it had been a dream. Maybe all of this – dying and waking up – the fall of al-Quds – the names on his arms – maybe all of it was a horrible dream. Maybe he would wake up in his childhood bed, on his sixteenth birthday, and see two perfectly innocuous and most definitely different names on his skin.

But everything inside him ached, and the vile smells all around were too detailed to be dreamed.

His name was still on the invader’s arm.

“Yusuf,” the man said again.

Did he think Yusuf couldn’t read? Why did he keep repeating it?

“Who is Yusuf?”, he asked, his voice gruff. There were more men bearing his name. If the invader had already met the Yusuf his arm referenced, then all of this meant nothing.

The man shrugged and said something in a foreign language.

“Is he the man you hate the most?”, Yusuf tried, but he got nothing in return but an empty look. Yusuf tried again, in Arabic, and then in halting Sabir.

The man reacted to that.

“I do not know who he is.”

Another pause. The sun had climbed in the sky, and Yusuf wanted to leave this place of decay, but he also felt the inexplicable need to figure out what was going on with him. Were the rumours spread by the old ladies in his villages true? Was Yusuf cursed? Is that why Death didn’t want him?

Then, in one decisive motion, Yusuf rolled up his tunic sleeve and stuck his trembling arm out in front of the invader’s face.

He was frightened – though he couldn’t say what he feared most, the man recognizing the name written there, or not.

He heard the invader’s breath hitch before he saw his eyes go impossibly wide.

“Nicolò”, the man gasped. “Nicolò.”

Yusuf knew enough.

Yet he still asked, in his broken Sabir, “Who is Nicolò?”

The man looked confused and afraid and anxious all at once. Slowly, he lifted his arm – the Markless one – and pointed at himself.

***

The invader – Nicolò – stood up first. Yusuf watched as Nicolò sheathed his sword and stared at the burning city. He watched for a long time, and then he bowed his head and made the sign of the cross. Yusuf almost leapt up to cut off his hand, but Nicolò started speaking, soft, mournful words murmured urgently, and Yusuf halted. When Nicolò stopped speaking, his eyes were wet.

“I pray,” he explained to Yusuf. “So many dead. I fear it does not please God.”

Yusuf was taken aback by Nicolò’s words. Surely the Christian should rejoice in the death of so many of Yusuf’s people? In the victory of the army he had fought with?

Nicolò then shifted his gaze to the men lying around them. He walked to the bloody corpse of one of the town’s defenders and bent forward. Again, Yusuf wanted to jump up – he was certain Nicolò set about to rob the poor man of anything of value he might have on him – but Nicolò carefully pressed the dead eyes closed, murmuring his odd prayers again.

He did the same for the invader who had fallen next to the first man, and he went on, praying for every soul.

He wandered off, not looking back at Yusuf, and suddenly Yusuf didn’t want to be left alone.

All his life he had worried about his Marks, but right now, he worried even more about his mysterious inability to stay dead. Nicolò, for better or for worse, might be the only one who could answer Yusuf’s questions on that subject. Yusuf did not want to link his fate to that of his worst enemy – for surely that is what Nicolò was, just as Yusuf was Nicolò’s, but his fear of his unnatural resurrections won out. He would just have to be wary of the other man and keep his scimitar close.

He ran after Nicolò.

Nicolò didn’t look up.

“You cannot pray for every man on this field,” Yusuf remarked after following Nicolò around for a while.

Nicolò finished his prayer and straightened.

“No,” he agreed, but he still seemed determined to try.

The heat had become unbearable, as had the horrible smell all around them, and the grime clinging to the tattered remains of their clothes.

“Come,” Yusuf said. He started to walk, away from al-Quds, away from everything he knew.

He didn’t look back.

He bit his lip at the idea of Nicolò not following him and slowed his gait.

He breathed again when Nicolò fell in step next to him.

They left, and Yusuf knew Nicolò knew, just as Yusuf did: there would be no way back.

***

It was sheer luck that Yusuf found a suitable camp site by the river, where fruit trees grew, and tall rocks provided shade and shelter.

He hadn’t taken anything but his scimitar, and Nicolò didn’t seem well equipped either.

But he would worry about that later. He was hungry and thirsty and tired. With a sigh, he stripped out of his dirty clothes and stepped into the stream. He wanted to wash off all the filth and blood and grime, then eat his fill, and sleep for days.

It might not be safe to turn his back to Nicolò, but unless Allah had finally decided to grant Yusuf access to paradise, it wasn’t as if the Christian could do a lot.

Yusuf heard water splashing beside him, and from the corner of his eye he saw Nicolò cup water in his hands and use it to rinse himself off, combing through his hair, his beard. He dragged his torn clothes into the water too and wrung them. Yusuf hastened to do the same. The water downstream became dark and muddy for a few moments as the men cleaned themselves.

An awkward glance passed between them, as they realized they would either have to put on their soaked clothes, or step out of the water naked. When Nicolò made no move, Yusuf decided he wasn’t going to suffer in clammy clothes, and climbed onto the riverbank. He spread his clothes on a sun-warmed stone and noticed Nicolò following suit. Twice now Nicolò had deferred to Yusuf’s plan of action. Three times, if he counted leaving the battlefield.

Yusuf meandered over to the trees. He picked some fallen fruit from the ground, and then shook the lowest branches to gather some more.

He hard Nicolò behind him, shuffling about, and when he turned, he saw the man had collected firewood and was looking around for a way to light it. By some miracle, Yusuf still had his tinderbox on him, and knelt down by the pit. Nicolò smiled in gratitude, and he showed Yusuf a waterskin which seemed to have survived the repeated wrath of Yusuf’s scimitar. He walked off to the stream to fill it and offered Yusuf a drink as he came back.

They ate in silence and put on their clothes again when the sun started sinking. They were as clean as they were going to get, and only a little damp, but nothing was to be done about the rips in them. Yusuf tried to think – Nicolò and he would need to make their way into some settlement, beg for some clothes, or work a few days as labourers for a few coins. They would need to buy new clothes and more waterskins and supplies and bedrolls if they were to travel home.

Suddenly, tears sprang into Yusuf’s eyes.

Home.

Did he even still have a home? He had fled from his baba’s house long ago, when the children started shying away from him, poisoned by the tales of Yusuf being a demon. If he had not been welcomed among them then, how much less so would he be now, now that he had been denied death?

And then there was the man sitting next to him. Yusuf felt a strange pull towards him, and the idea that Nicolò might want to return to his home, his family, filled Yusuf with trepidation. If that were the case, would Nicolò agree to let Yusuf travel with him? Or would they part ways, both to navigate their new-found affliction alone?

The silence was broken by Nicolò's voice.

“What is your name?”

Yusuf startled. He hadn’t told Nicolò. Nicolò didn’t know. Did it give Yusuf an advantage if Nicolò didn’t realize Yusuf was his worst enemy?

But then again – if they were bound in yet another way than just being mortal enemies – if Yusuf could hardly bear the thought of leaving Nicolò – he owed the man honesty.

He took Nicolò’s arm, and traced the elegant letters, as he had seen Nicolò do more than once this evening.

“Yusuf,” Nicolò said.

“Yes,” Yusuf repeated. “Yusuf. My name is Yusuf.”

Nicolò jerked heavily, and his mouth opened in shock. Then he averted his eyes.

“No,” he said sorrowfully. “No.”

Yusuf raised an eyebrow, knowing Nicolò would not be able to see. Then he waited.

It took a few moments for Nicolò to speak again.

“I had – I had hoped I would not meet my foe. I had hoped… I know it was foolish. I am sorry we have to be this to each other. I pray you believe me – I do not mean you harm.”

Yusuf wanted to sneer. The Mark was there, for everyone to see. They were enemies, ordained to be so by the universe. Of course, Nicolò meant him harm.

But then he thought about their night battling – how Nicolò had refused to raise his sword, how Yusuf had almost forced himself upon it to justify him slaying Nicolò once more, how Nicolò had prayed for the dead of al-Quds, how Nicolò had followed Yusuf and let Yusuf decide on their course.

Not once had Nicolò shown to be harbouring any anger towards Yusuf.

Maybe – maybe – maybe Nicolò spoke truthfully.

They sat in silence for a long time, and then Yusuf asked, “Why is your other arm bare?”

Nicolò sounded sad and forlorn as he replied.

“I think – I think I have no soulmate. I am – not capable of love. A punishment from God, maybe, for my sins.”

Yusuf didn’t really understand what sins Nicolò could refer to, but he nodded.

“And your soulmate?” Nicolò tentatively asked.

Once again, Yusuf hesitated. Should he show Nicolò his other arm? Would Nicolò think something was wrong with Yusuf, like so many others? Would Nicolò be more or less inclined to stay?

Nicolò waited quietly. Yusuf rolled his eyes. Strange, infuriating man.

Yusuf wanted to tell him he’d met his soulmate long ago, wanted to tell him he was married to them, that he was going back to them as soon as dawn arrived.

But what good would it do?

Nicolò finally nodded solemnly when Yusuf remained silent. He looked wistfully at his arm, where a Mark should have been.

“You do not wish to tell me. I understand. You think a man like me wouldn’t know about soulmates. It is fine.”

“No,” Yusuf said quickly. “That is not it.”

Nicolò glanced over, curiously, and Yusuf felt compelled to tell him the whole truth.

So he showed Nicolò both his arms, side by side.

Nicolò’s eyes went wide and wild as they flitted back and forth, from one arm to the other, and he grasped both of Yusuf’s wrists, his fingers touching the names.

When he finally looked up at Yusuf, the consternation was radiating off him.

“I do not understand. What does this mean?”

Yusuf shrugged.

“Maybe I will meet another Nicolò.”

Nicolò looked vaguely sick at that, but he nodded faintly.

“Yes. Because I – I –”

He gestured to his empty arm, and Yusuf thought it was grief passing on Nicolò’s face, but before he could take a good look, Nicolò had twisted away, and lied down.

“I am tired now. Good night, Yusuf.”

Yusuf wanted to protest, to talk to the man more, but his own exhaustion overtook him. But even so, he laid with open eyes for a long time, thinking about Nicolò.

***

Somehow, without discussing it, they had set off together, wandering from town to town, making some coin helping out here and there, without any real goal in mind.

Yusuf observed Nicolò during their travels.

His odd companion prayed a lot, during the day, mumbling the same words over and over again. He didn’t complain when Yusuf, enraged by the sight of a plundered village or some refuges from the invasion, launched endless diatribes against Nicolò and his countrymen, cursing them for their greed and hate and ignorance, calling Nicolò every insult he could think off, even lifting his scimitar once and wounding his companion badly – however briefly. Nicolò listened, and looked regretful, and remained silent, even when Yusuf, hot-headed and temperamental, struck Nicolò in the face. The bruise faded fast, and Yusuf was ashamed to say he repeated the blow, two, three times, enraged that Nicolò would heal when hundreds of innocent people in al-Quds had died.

Nicolò bore it all, clutching the wooden cross around his neck.

And then he would offer Yusuf the bigger piece of bread, the last of the water, the place closest by the fire.

Sometimes, when they reached a village, Nicolò would give away his meagre coin to a beggar or use it to buy some dates for a street urchin.

He also often refused payment for a job, taking on another one to make up for the difference.

Once, he was chased out of town by irate townsfolk, who didn’t take kindly to his pale skin. Nicolò sat outside the walls, waiting for hours for Yusuf to come looking for him. By that time, it was too dark to travel on, and Nicolò urged Yusuf to take his coin and sleep peacefully in the inn while Nicolò camped outside. Yusuf didn’t sleep a wink all night, despite the comfortable bed and the warm covers, used as he was by then to the soft snores of his fellow traveller. He resolved to never let this happen again, and he brought Nicolò bread and dried meat at the first sunlight. Nicolò accepted it with many words of thanks, his eyes clear and shining with happiness, and it made Yusuf’s heart leap.

He tried to be kinder to the man after that, to do things simply to see Nicolò’s face light up with joy.

Their tentative truce had settled even more after Yusuf offered to shave Nicolò’s beard, revealing a warm, open face Yusuf wanted to sketch. Nicolò’s lips easily formed into a small smile for Yusuf, and he came to lean into these moments as a flower reaching for the sun.

When they sat under the stars, eating their bread and fruit by the fire, like tonight, Yusuf found he wanted to know more about his companion.

“What was your occupation, before you came here?” he asked, carefully.

He was watching Nicolò very closely. He had learned over the past months that Nicolò was not a man of grand gestures and overtly shown emotions. His face was neutral, passive, and he kept his hands mostly silent as he spoke. But Yusuf had seen tiny frowns, or a corner of his mouth lifting up just slightly, or the slightest dulling of his sea glass eyes. It was only because he was so attuned to Nicolò, and watching for the smallest change in his demeanour, that he caught the shoulders sagging.

Immediately he regretted his question, and he racked his brain to find a small story that would make Nicolò smile.

But the Nicolò spoke, softly, scarcely heard over the crackling of the fire.

“I was a priest, in Genoa.”

Whatever Yusuf had expected, it was not this. He was momentarily stunned, and Nicolò seemed to take this as an invitation to continue.

“I, uh, I figured it would be best, seeing as I don’t have –”

He stroked over his bare arm, the same way he often touched Yusuf’s name unconsciously.

“I went into the monastery shortly after I turned 16. I found comfort in Jesus’ teachings about compassion and love and peace.”

It made sense, Yusuf supposed, for a man who couldn’t love, to be drawn to the idea of being loved by God. However, he couldn’t help but scoff. Compassion and harmony weren’t exactly abundant in times of war.

“Then why did you join an invading army?”

He wanted to bite his tongue at the accusatory tone. It was nothing compared to the horrible names he had called Nicolò before, but they had moved beyond that, and he didn’t want to cause his friend pain.

“I understand your confusion. But I thought I could do some good even in war. I was surely conceited and self-important, prideful to think so highly of myself, but I hoped I could provide spiritual guidance to the soldiers. And I – I hoped that the army of Christ would not succumb to the worst evils of war. I wished to be of help with the wounded and the dying, to absolve them of their sins so they could enter the gates of heaven. I have paid for these sins, I am sure. I have failed horribly in my attempts. The innocent souls of Antioch and Jerusalem weigh on my soul.”

He hid his face in his hands and seemed to curl in on himself.

“I should have done more to prevent the burning and the looting and the raping. I should have made sure more women and children were brought to safety. There must have been more I could have done…”

His voice broke on a sob, and Yusuf remembered with shame how he had accused Nicolò of personally being responsible for each and every misfortune that had befallen every single inhabitant of al-Quds, and he wished he could take back his words.

Nicolò was a good man, a kind man, a man who tried to live by the example of ‘Isa as best he could. Even if he had sinned somehow, surely, he had repented enough.

Before he could examine his actions, Yusuf moved closer to Nicolò, and pulled him into a tight hug.

They had touched before, of course – walking close together, sleeping next to each other by the fire, hands brushing as they worked side by side or shared food, and all the times Yusuf had helped Nicolò shave after that first time. But this was different. This was – intentional, and closer and more intimate than before.

Nicolò’s head jerked up, and for a heart-stopping moment Yusuf was sure he was going to flee Yusuf’s embrace, but then he gave up, and buried his face against Yusuf’s collarbone and cried.

It took a long time for Nicolò to calm down, and by then the moon was high in the sky as Yusuf gently laid his friend down and held him in his arms as he slept.

Yusuf laid awake until dawn, looking at the moon shining down on Nicolò.

***

Nicolò wore his sword on his belt at all times, but other than the two times Yusuf had been on the other side of its blade he had never seen Nicolò use it.

All that changed when one day Yusuf was kneeling by a pool to wash before his prayer and Nicolò had wandered off a bit in search of more firewood.

Suddenly though Nicolò shouted his name, and when Yusuf turned in alarm, he found Nicolò jumping right in between Yusuf and a few armed bandits ready to plunge a dagger in Yusuf’s back.

Nicolò wielded his heavy sword as if it was an extension of his arm, light and certain.

Yusuf had only a moment to watch in awe, before Nicolò pulled him behind him, clearly intending to be a human shield for Yusuf.

Yusuf longingly eyed his scimitar, which he had left laying by their packs. There was no way he could get to it, and there were five bandits with daggers and scimitars – well, four, because Nicolò had killed the one whose knife had been mere inches from Yusuf’s back with one strike. He could not do anything to help Nicolò, except stay out of his way.

That is what he did, trying to move in sync with Nicolò. Nicolò’s sword gleamed in the late afternoon sun, and Nicolò almost danced with it, the metal singing as it came down with a vengeance on their attackers. Yusuf looked in wonder, as Nicolò moved as one with the heavy blade. His large hands gripped the hilt securely, and the muscles in his shoulders tensed and relaxed with every swing. Yusuf also noticed, now that Nicolò twisted and turned, that his tunic, which usually hung loosely on his frame, hid a small, tapered waist and his hose clung to thick thighs and shapely calves.

Yusuf willed himself not to be distracted by his sudden discovery of Nicolò’s handsome body or attracted by his insane sword-wielding skills.

Luckily for him, it seemed to be over within minutes. Even allowing for Nicolò’s wounds healing, it was still a hugely uneven fight, but Nicolò dealt with the situation swiftly and efficiently.

He wiped his bloody sword on the tunic of one of the dead bandits, and cursorily looked through their belongings. He took their food, and when he hesitated with his hand over their coin purse, Yusuf swooped in and pocketed it.

And then, Nicolò knelt near the fallen bodies, and, just like he had done outside the gates of al-Quds, he pressed their eyes closed and mumbled a prayer.

Yusuf had so many questions, but first he had to help Nicolò move the bodies away from their campsite.

By the time they sat side by side by the fire, catching their breath after all the excitement, Yusuf almost burst.

“Where did you learn to fight like that?”

A veil seemed to glide over Nicolò’s face.

“I was not always a priest. My father was a lord in Genoa, and as soon as I could hold a wooden sword, I was trained to follow in his footsteps.”

Yusuf just looked at his friend and rolled his eyes. Strange, impossible man!

“But you –”

“It was never my chosen path, Yusuf. I can use this sword, but it never appealed to me to do so.”

That, Yusuf could understand. Wherever they went, Nicolò seemed to be drawn to whoever needed assistance. Nicolò seemed to ooze care and gentleness – although just now, with the bandits, he had looked like an avenging angel to Yusuf.

He glanced over to Nicolò – his broad shoulders, the muscles in his arms and legs, his slim waist. His long hair hung on his shoulders, and in profile like this, Yusuf got a good look at Nicolò’s straight nose.

He suddenly wished for a sketchbook. He wanted to draw his friend, wanted to write a poem about how Nicolò had saved his life today, had killed for Yusuf’s sake.

It was clear the lives of the men weighed on Nicolò, and Yusuf wanted to comfort him, but he didn’t know how to. Nicolò knew their deaths could not have been prevented, and he admitted to Yusuf he would not act differently if given the choice, so there was nothing more to say on the matter.

The only thing he could think of, was slowly shifting closer to his friend, until he could put his arms around him, and softly move his head to lay on Yusuf’s shoulder. Nicolò made a noise at first, as if he wanted to protest, but when Yusuf shushed him softly, he obeyed. Yusuf carefully stroked Nicolò’s hair and jaw, until his fingers settled in Nicolò’s neck, feeling his heartbeat thrum underneath his palm.

They sat like that until the fire had died down and they wordlessly shuffled into a laying position, Nicolò never leaving Yusuf’s arms.

***

The more Yusuf thought about it, the more confused he got.

He and Nicolò talked by the fire every night, but he still didn’t understand Nicolò any better than that first night, when Nicolò had subjected to being murdered by Yusuf dozens of times without defending himself or even complaining about it.

His friend had been the eldest son of a wealthy lord of his city, and Nicolò was trained to be a knight. However, he had been drawn to the church even as a boy, and he had liked to listen to their elderly parish priest who taught him about kindness, about forgiveness for those who trespassed against him, and about turning the other cheek. Those lessons had stuck with Nicolò more than those of his weaponry masters, and Nicolò had run to a monastery when he was barely 16.

It made no sense to Yusuf, who had heard enough about the Christian customs to know that their priests were supposed to forsake riches and luxuries, and even love.

Yusuf tried to ask Nicolò if it had been hard to give up on that, and Nicolò’s eyes got wet when his eyes flitted to his bare arm.

No soulmate. Nicolò would probably never find love anyway.

Yusuf quickly changed the subject, and asked Nicolò about his time in the monastery.

Nicolò grew sad when he told Yusuf about the disappointment he had suffered when he had discovered that the words of the Bible and of his childhood priest were often twisted to justify hatred and contempt.

“Jesus said, ‘He who is without sin, let him cast the first stone’, Yusuf,” he murmured, “and no man can ever be without sin, yet they all pick up rocks and pass judgement without pity, without mercy, without grace.”

Yusuf nodded.

“And this war. I don’t think it is right, what happened. But the Holy Father is chosen by God to know his will, so it must please him somehow. I just struggle to see how the suffering of so many innocent people could please him, who sacrificed his own son out of love, so that we could be free. I cannot see the good in it, Yusuf, and this is surely yet another sin I am to be punished for.”

Yusuf didn’t have an answer. Except for some paltry words which came straight from his heart.

“I only know you are good, my friend.”

Nicolò looked up in surprise at being called friend, but Yusuf continued quickly to cover up his confusion.

“You are kind and generous and I have not seen you throw any stone, though I think you might be the only man I have met who is free of sin.”

Nicolò laughed bitterly.

“My sins are greater than there are stars in the sky, Yusuf. I was denied entry even to hell. God didn’t want me.”

“No, my friend!” Yusuf almost yelled. “No, that is not true. Your God spared you. You are peaceful and virtuous and overflow with love. He knew the world needed a man like you. He knew I needed a man like you…”

The last sentence was whispered haltingly, but Nicolò heard it nevertheless.

“I – thank you, my friend,” he finally replied, after a long beat.

And then, for the first time, Nicolò was the one to move towards Yusuf, and lay his head on Yusuf’s chest.

Yusuf’s arms came around him, and he wondered if Nicolò could hear the wild beating of his heart. If so, Nicolò didn’t remark on it, and they remained quiet until their breathing stilled and they fell asleep.

***

Months passed, and Yusuf prayed and prayed and prayed, but he still didn’t find any answers.

They sat close together, as was their custom for months now. They would make camp, wash, and eat and talk for a while by the fire, and then, as the night grew darker, they would gravitate towards each other. They would end up with Nicolò’s head on Yusuf’s shoulder or Yusuf’s head in Nicolò’s lap, and Yusuf would listen to the sounds of the fire as he breathed in Nicolò’s closeness.

Nicolò smelled like home, and felt like a warm blanket during the cold nights.

Yusuf had bought some paper a while ago, and he had filled it all with Nicolò’s likeness. Nicolò was beautiful, and Yusuf could no longer deny the way his body reacted to Nicolò’s hand in his hair, or Nicolò’s small smile, or a glimpse of Nicolò bathing.

His eye fell on the dark shape of Yusuf’s name on Nicolò’s arm.

He was Nicolò’s foe, the man who Nicolò was predisposed to hate more than any other human being. It would do him no good to get lost in the handsome looks of the man, or to give in to the fire Nicolò lighted in his groin.

Nicolò shifted in Yusuf’s arms, and his hair brushed over the Mark on his skin.

Yusuf thought about the Marks a lot. Nicolò was his enemy, and Nicolò was his soulmate.

And now Nicolò was lying in his arms, and Yusuf could barely remember the enmity he had felt towards the man, the rage which had spurred him to kill Nicolò over and over again.

Now, he only felt this incredible connection, this strange belonging.

He loved Nicolò with all his being. His heart swelled when he watched Nicolò caring for everybody they met, giving more than he could afford, sacrificing himself to help others. He never felt prouder as when they walked into a settlement and he would tell everybody they met that Nicolò was his dearest friend. And every night, holding Nicolò close, he dreamed about touching his pale skin, kissing his pink lips, losing himself both in his sea glass eyes and his lush body.

After all these years, Yusuf finally understood what it was to love.

In the past, Yusuf had cursed the names on his arms. He had come to hate them and what they stood for. But now – now he felt empty. There was a hollowness inside, and it ate at him.

Why would Allah make him suffer like this – to find his soulmate, to give him an eternity with him, only to learn he was not his soulmate’s soulmate? Only to find he would never be loved in return?

Nicolò sat up.

“Are you okay, my friend?” he asked softly, in his accented Arabic, his tongue still stumbling over the unfamiliar sounds even after months of Yusuf patiently teaching him.

Yusuf’s heart bled at hearing the words.

Yes, he was Nicolò’s friend, and he would learn to not want anything more. He would travel with Nicolò for as long as Nicolò let him, and he would be content with the friendship of the other man.

“Are you hungry? I think I have some more bread in my pack.”

Nicolò had already jumped up before Yusuf could say something.

“Here, take it, my friend. I have had my fill, I can easily spare it.”

Yusuf shivered. Nicolò had eaten far less than his share of the fruit they had for dinner, and once again, he was looking out for others before himself.

“Oh!” Nicolò exclaimed. “How unthinking of me. Of course, you are cold. Please, take my cloak. I have been sitting closer to the fire than you, selfishly taking all its heat for myself. Forgive me, Yusuf.”

He tenderly put the warm fabric over Yusuf’s shoulders, wringing his hands, eager to aid any other perceived ailment Yusuf might have.

Yusuf averted his eyes. He might cry.

“I am perfectly fine now, Nicolò, with this bread and your cloak. Sit, now.”

Nicolò did as asked, and his smell engulfed Yusuf as he pulled the man closer.

He stared at the vast expanse of stars above them. An infinity of them stretched out in the night sky. One for every year Yusuf would share with his love, pining and withering away, never to get what he wished for more than anything.

***

Yusuf grew silent over the next weeks, and Nicolò, bless his heart, noticed it. Of course, he did – Nicolò always noticed everybody being even the slightest bit in discomfort, and he didn’t rest until he had cured it.

However, he failed at helping Yusuf. He’d been trying everything – giving Yusuf most of the food, the water, doing all their chores while insisting Yusuf rest, spending the last of his money on a bed at an inn and sleeping on the floor because “I don’t want to bother you in your slumber, Yusuf”.

It only served to make Yusuf’s heart ache more, and he tried to cure it by keeping distant as much as he could. He picked out jobs where Nicolò couldn’t help – copying merchants’ ledgers or teaching schoolboys to recite the Quran – so they would be separated during the day. When it was just the two of them, travelling, Yusuf walked next to Nicolò, sullen and distraught.

Nicolò got more worried every day, wondering if they could still die of disease, if an infection would take Yusuf’s life. He pressed his cool hand to Yusuf’s temple, checking for fever, and fussed over him like a mother hen.

And then they took an unlucky turn, and they got lost.

And Nicolò passed Yusuf bread as if he had an endless supply and made him drink water as if he could magic more at will.

And Yusuf, who knew Nicolò by now, was too morose to notice, until it was too late, and Nicolò sank to his knees on the path.

And Yusuf, idiot as he was, didn’t have any water left to give to the dying man, and so he knelt down, held Nicolò in his arms as he yelled at him for being so irresponsible, until Nicolò’s breathing stopped.

Yusuf felt his own heart might shrivel at the idea that maybe Nicolò wouldn’t come back this time.

“Nicolò,” he begged, “wake up, wake up, my heart, my moon, my life. Don’t leave me. Wake up, Nicolò!”

And he feared – how many times had he cursed Allah for making him spend eternity with an unrequited love? Had Allah listened and decided to take Nicolò away?

Yusuf berated himself for not keeping better watch over Nicolò, for lamenting his fate when he could have had eternity with Nicolò, for wanting more than the blessing he already received.

It didn’t matter that Yusuf wasn’t Nicolò’s soulmate. He must be the most loved nemesis in history, that his sworn enemy would die for him.

His sworn enemy had died for him.

Nicolò had died for Yusuf. He had put Yusuf over himself.

That was not what you would do for a foe.

That might be what you would do – for a soulmate?

And suddenly it clicked.

Yusuf hadn’t noticed it, because Nicolò was kind towards everybody he met – but Nicolò had never seen Yusuf as his enemy. Even that first night, under the burning walls of al-Quds, Nicolò had shown Yusuf compassion and mercy. Nicolò embodied the lessons his old priest had taught: forgiveness, kindness, selflessness, love.

Yusuf had assumed he was to be hated by Nicolò, because how could he not, given the way they met? But Nicolò didn’t hate anybody. Nicolò didn’t have hate in his heart. Nicolò was too good a man for that.

And Yusuf’s name on his arm – it meant – it meant –

Yusuf nearly buckled at the realization of what this must mean. If he wasn’t Nicolò’s sworn foe, and yet his name was on Nicolò’s arm, then he must be –

Nicolò gasped back to life in his arms, and Yusuf couldn’t help but cling to him, sobbing.

“I thought I had lost you. I thought you had died and wouldn’t come back this time.”

And Nicolò, sweet, lovely Nicolò, who had just died a horrible death, immediately sat up and consoled Yusuf.

“I am sorry, my friend, forgive me for scaring you, forgive me for deceiving you…”

And what was Yusuf to do, but roll his eyes at this impossible man he loved? He steeled his resolve, and helped Nicolò stand, and supported him as they walked on.

It was by sheer willpower and a stroke of luck that they managed to reach a village, and Yusuf scoffed at Nicolò until the man finally ate and drank, without caring for everybody else first. Still, Nicolò tried to push away the bowl after only a few spoons, and Yusuf looked at him with thunder in his eyes. Nicolò quickly picked it up again and didn’t stop eating until Yusuf was satisfied.

And then Yusuf almost carried his love to the room he had secured and laid him down on the bed.

“Rest while I get some water for a bath,” he murmured against Nicolò’s hair, and he feasted his eyes for a moment longer on the blush that appeared on his soulmate’s cheeks.

Yusuf was quick to arrange for his needs with the innkeeper, and after a few minutes, he was back on his way towards Nicolò.

He still couldn’t believe that this man was his soulmate. This beautiful, gentle, caring, loving, impossible man was made by the universe for him, to love him and to be adored and worshipped and desired by him in return.

The latter part was easy to imagine. Yusuf couldn’t conceive of a day, an hour, a moment in which he would not love Nicolò. But the other part – it made his knees buckle to think of it, his heart skip a beat, his breath hitch in his throat. To be the most important person in Nicolò’s heart, to be the recipient of the endless love Nicolò had inside him – there was truly not anything more any man could ever yearn for.

He climbed the narrow staircase back to the room where Nicolò was waiting on the bed.

“Come, Nicolò,” Yusuf said, his love spilling out in the soft words. He didn’t care. “Let me help you get clean.”

Nicolò stood, already trying to protest, telling Yusuf to rest, that he could wash himself perfectly fine, but Yusuf was having none of it.

He carefully stripped Nicolò of his clothes, willing himself to not ogle the pale skin and the beautiful body of the tired man in his arms.

He swiped the wet cloth over Nicolò’s skin, gently washing away the dust of the road. He then made Nicolò kneel on the bedding Yusuf spread out near the fire, and pushed until Nicolò bent his head over the pail. Yusuf scooped the lukewarm water in his hand and dripped it over Nicolò’s hair, carding through it with his fingers until he had worked out the knots and his hands glided smoothly through the locks.

Nicolò said nothing, just watched Yusuf with big, uncertain eyes.

Yusuf however didn’t stop. He wrapped Nicolò in blankets and helped him sit down on the bed, leaning against Yusuf’s own body.

Finally, Nicolò looked up.

“Why are you doing this? Are you not angry at me?”

Yusuf smiled down at the man he loved, his eyes damp.

“I am, Nicolò. Why did you do that? Why did you not share our suffering equally among us? Don’t we share everything else?”

Nicolò shuddered in his arms.

“You did not deserve to suffer, Yusuf.”

“And you did?” Yusuf asked, a hint of humour in his eyes at the nonsense Nicolò was spouting.

“You didn’t ask to be caught up in all this. You never asked to be stuck in the middle of a war, defending your land and your people against cruel, greedy, power-hungry invaders. You never asked to be stuck for eternity with a man who is your enemy.”

“Oh, you unbearable, impossible man!” Yusuf exclaimed. “You did not either. It was not you who started the war, it was not you who raped and plundered and burned the towns, it was not even you who kept killing me over and over again.”

“Still,” Nicolò said stubbornly. “You didn’t deserve to starve and to die of thirst. I would rather bear it myself than watch you in pain.”

“Yes, you would, my beautiful Nicolò,” Yusuf said, tenderly. “But, Nicolò, know this – it is the same for me. I would endure any suffering, die gladly, if I knew I was keeping you safe from harm.”

Nicolò trembled again, his shoulders sagging.

“I do not deserve such kindness, Yusuf. I am a sinner, and even the universe knew I am not worthy of love.”

He tried to gesture to his Markless arm, but Yusuf didn’t give him the chance.

“No, beloved. It is the opposite. You are not worthy of hatred.”

“You are considerate to say so, Yusuf, but I do not have a Mark…”

“Nicolò. Look at me, beloved.” Yusuf waited for Nicolò to lift his head, and when he refused to do so, he placed a gentle hand under his soulmate’s chin. However, Nicolò kept his eyes down. “Please, Nicolò. Please look at me.”

Unable to deny Yusuf’s request, Nicolò finally lifted his gaze. He gasped at what he saw – Yusuf knew his love must be shining in his eyes.

“Forgive me for not understanding it sooner, beloved. You have only one name on your skin, yes, but it is not the name of the person who you despise most, or who despises you most. It is the name of your soulmate, Nicolò. You do not have another name because you do not feel blind hatred and hostility towards anybody. Even towards me, when we met on the battlefield, even when I killed you, you showed pity and kindheartedness. You are filled with love, Nicolò, and it spills freely wherever you go. How could a man like you not have a soulmate? The only miracle is that it should be me, who doesn’t deserve you, who never did…”

He traced his name on Nicolò’s arm in wonder, awed by the fact that he was allowed to love Nicolò – for eternity, it seemed.

Nicolò remained silent, but his quivering slowly subdued, and the dark veil dulling his eyes seemed to lift slightly.

“You think – you think that I have a soulmate? That it’s you? You, the most beautiful man I have ever seen? Who quotes poetry in more languages than I could ever hope to speak? Who is intelligent and talented and thoughtful?”

Yusuf’s heart nearly burst out of his chest.

“Is it not my name on your arm, beloved? Is it not your name on mine?”

Nicolò nodded, his eyes on the Mark on Yusuf’s arm.

“I hated you when I met you, enraged as I was, wanting revenge for al-Quds. I saw an invader, a Christian, a man I was taught to abhor, and so I did. I showed you my fury and my loathing, and I killed you until your love broke me down. And now I can scarcely imagine ever feeling anything of the sort for you. Tell me, Nicolò, is it hostility you feel when you look at me?”

“No,” Nicolò whispered, his eyes wide.

“Nor is it when I look at you, not any longer, though it took me all this time to realize it. I love you. Please, my heart, my moon, my life, tell me I am not alone in this.”

“No,” Nicolò whispered again, so softly Yusuf wouldn’t have heard it if he hadn’t been so close, watching Nicolò intensely.

“No?” Yusuf asked, his lips now very close to Nicolò’s.

“No,” Nicolò said for the third time, louder this time, with more conviction behind the words.

Yusuf pressed his mouth on Nicolò’s, stealing anything else he might say from his lips.

It was chaste and gentle and short, but Yusuf knew there would be time for more. They had an endless supply of time to love each other.

When he pulled back slightly, Nicolò’s eyes shone and his smile nearly blinded Yusuf.

“Beloved,” Yusuf said, and he reveled in the noise Nicolò made as he chased Yusuf's lips. “My soul.”

And there was no greater joy possible than to hear Nicolò repeat it, hear him finally claim Yusuf for himself, hear Nicolò’s endless love poured out over him –

“Beloved, Yusuf, my Yusuf. My soul.”