Chapter Text
Nicolò had ridden off from the camp early in the day, needing space from his brothers. They were warriors of the faith, just like he was, but sometimes it was a bit much. The heat, the sand, the sweat, the stench, the unbearable heat of this land. It was like the Devil had already won these lands from God. But that was why they were here. They were doing Gods work, reclaiming the Holy Lands from the godless heathens, the Saracens. His horse was fast and strong and thus he allowed himself a brief moment of pleasure as he rode fast enough so he could feel the wind on his face.
Officially, he was on a scouting mission from Lord Godefroy de Bouillon and unofficially nobody would say anything if the nephew of Lord Bohemont took a ride through the dessert to escape the masses of people in the camp. There were all sorts of people there, not only knights and priests but also peasants that had insufficient training and were likely to die on any given battlefield. At least that was the excuse Nicolò gave himself for not interacting with any of them, not even to help train them. He had been asked but always declined citing that he had meetings to attend or that he had no wish to train with them, lest he hurt them.
He had ridden half the morning and the air had already turned disgustingly hot when Nicolò came upon him. Him, bathing in the stream. Him, naked. Him, the perfect male body, beautiful and strong, with muscles in all the right places, the perfect temptation, and for a moment Nicolò saw red. How dare that heathen bathe here for him to find? Water glistening on his beautiful brown body, in his beard and dark curly hair. The perfect temptation of all he ever wanted and never could have, not as a priest. He was sworn to God Almighty. Was this a mirage? A demon possessing human form, sparking that burning desire in him, turning him to sin? Better to destroy it. He sent a silent prayer to the mother of God, Santa Maria, so she might protect him from sin.
Before he had even made the conscious decision, he had already loaded his crossbow and aimed it at the demon man. Beautiful and attractive, it did not matter. This was clearly a demon – far too beautiful to be human – , risen from Hell to tempt him to sin and make him forget his Holy Mission. And even if it was not, then it was a heathen, deserving of death for the crime of rejecting Jesus the Saviour and God, the Almighty. His being so beautiful must be a test from God. To see if he had the will to destroy something he found alluring and attractive.
The heathen man or demon in the river must have noticed Nicolò because he had raised his arms in surrender, no doubt had judged the fact that he was in the middle of the river and his weapons and armour on the banks. Even though he clearly wasn't a soldier, and helpless, Nicolò was on a Holy Mission to rescue the Holy Lands from the heathens and demons that occupied Jerusalem and its surrounding lands. Listening to the voice to try and make sense of what the demon or heathen – at this point it hardly mattered any more – said, might not be the smartest move but Nicolò had faith in his training as a Priest of the Lord to withstand any and all seduction attempts to lure him to sin. He thought he heard min fadlak over and over in between other sounds. Per favore in his mothertongue his mind supplied. Nicolò had spent enough time in this cursed, far too hot to be natural and (un)godly lands that were called Holy by both his people and the Saracens, that he had learnt some of the local dialects, if only from their screams for mercy while they were cut down. Though he had never seen a demon or the Devil before, but he had to have faith in himself and in God to guide him to choose right from wrong.
He knew what he needed to do, what his uncle and all the others, commanders, priests and even the common folk back at the camp would do. Nicolò knew it but he couldn't just shoot down a helpless, begging man naked and bathing in a river. He realised he was weak but he just couldn't do that, never mind that he was a heathen and possibly a demon come to haunt him and to seduce him to sin against God. Not when what the man uttered sounded like pleads for his life. But he wasn't strong enough to cut away and destroy the temptation. He just wasn't. He would have to plead with God for forgiveness and ask the Father Bishop of his Order to give him penance for being so utterly weak and thus seduced by the Devil into letting heathens live. The Devil was so much stronger than any man. How did he ever have a chance? It had been hubris that had befallen him before, so certain he was strong enough to withstand, stay strong and kill the beautiful helpless Saracen.
Abruptly, he lowered his crossbow, took up the reins of his horse again and turned it around and fled from the temptation of joining the man, ridding himself of his weapons, armour and even his clothes; of getting into the water of the stream as well and bathing next to the beautiful man – heathen or demon, it mattered not – maybe even touched him, kissing him. Even though he had fled and left the riverbed to go back to camp, he found he could not forget. The dark smouldering wide eyes, the lush red mouth, the way he had begged, the way the water glistened on his naked body, in his curly hair and dark beard. The picture scorched behind his lid whenever he closed his eyes. He found little sleep for the next few nights.
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Prince Yusuf had needed to escape the city. The desperation, the deaths, all the frustration and anger. He had used a servant's door near the stream to leave the city unseen. It was dangerous and selfish. His cousin would have never let him leave, not with all the infidels out there, posing a very real danger to the lives of any they deem unworthy. But he wasn't fleeing the city. He was just... trying to breathe freely, a thing that had become more and more difficult inside the city walls. Armed with his scimitar and a steel dagger he took a horse from his cousin's army and rode out, evading the infidels by help of the sand dunes and rock formations around the city of Al-Quds.
He found his favourite place without any trouble, a small stream of fresh drinkable water that came from a rock formation that looked a bit like a camel. Once, many years back when he was still a boy and they were visiting the same cousin – that would very much disapprove of his little trip right now because of the danger to Yusuf – who was now the Wesir of Al-Quds Al-Afdal Schahanschah ibn Badr al-Dschamali, he had followed the stream upwards to the end, climbing up the rock camels neck to the head.
It was quiet and peaceful, when he arrived at the stream. One would never think that only three and a half farasakh from here there was the camp of the Christian invaders. He bound his horse to an old gnarly olive tree and shed his tunic, his underclothes, his shoes; he hid his weapons under the olive tree before he went into the cool water. He groaned in pleasure, the water felt so good, he ducked under the water, getting his hair wet; there was less and less water for washing in the city; it was more and more seen as wasteful. Water was needed for cooking the food as there was less and less of it and what there was, was slowly rotting in the heat. There had been no caravans in weeks that had made it through. There were singular persons who had luck in smuggling food in but there was no enough food and people were getting desperate. The farmers had abandoned their homes and their lands had been burnt in an attempt to starve out and weaken the invaders. Yusuf knew before long there would be a battle for the city and what he had heard from other cities that had been invaded, the infidels were monsters and slaughtered everyone before eating the remains of their fallen enemies. They needed to be defeated and stopped, inshallah.
He suddenly felt that there was another here at the stream and when he looked up, there he was. A Frank rider, looking down at him from his horse. He had a crossbow already pointed at him. He felt cold sweat running down his back, his heart beating fast and he slowly held up his hands to show that he was unarmed. Unthreatening. He tried to kept his breathing slow as to at least control something. His eyes darted to his horse and the olive tree. There was no time or opportunity to get back to his weapons, not when he was in the middle of the stream, crossbow bolt pointed directly at him. He saw the hatred and anger in the infidels cold blue eyes. He cursed himself for being so inattentive to his own surroundings that he had been caught unaware by an invader. Yusuf didn't want to die like this, not bathing in a stream, weaponless. He began to beg for his life, over and over again. It wasn't something he was proud of, but if that's what kept him alive for now, he would do it. The Frank didn't waver a bit, just staring at him with his cold hatred. Did he even understand a word of what Yusuf said?
He looked good, for a kafir, Yusuf took the opportunity to scrutinise his killer. Unwashed and dirty for sure, but not like those that attacked them first, half starved beasts, more driven by hunger than reason. So either he was one that just arrived from wherever in the North he hailed from, or was one of those that had money, enough to buy himself a meal or two when the opportunity arose. Or maybe he was one of those that had gorged themselves on the corpses of the battlefield.
To his utter confusion, the Frank lowered the crossbow, took the horses reins back up, turned the horse around and fled. Yusuf looked around, there was no one around, not out here. He was all alone and would have been an easy kill for the Frank, unwarned and caught by surprise as he had been. There had literally been nothing that he could have done if the Frank had shot him. The distance between them was far too small for him to evade, even if he hadn't been in the water almost up to his waist.
The relief was so great that he almost collapsed in the water. The water in the stream no longer felt good, calming or pleasurable, so he got out. His limps shaking with fright or relief he couldn't say. How by Allah was he still alive? Had Allah been able to reach the Franks heart and change it, so Yusuf would survive this encounter? He needed a long moment to get back control over his limbs so he could get back into his clothing, then strapped on his weapons and put on his shoes. He filled his water skin and the three extra pots he had brought with him to share amongst the poorer people of Al-Quds, trying to ease their desperation bit by bit. As a prince he felt responsibility to look after the people and even if his cousin Afdal was the wesir of Al Quds and not him, it still felt like the right thing to do.
He rode back cautiously, suspecting a trap by the Franks but he saw nobody and somehow he made it back to Al-Quds without seeing a single enemy. The walls meant he was safe for now, but he was still unsettled by the encounter with the stranger.