Just a quick part before my class and quiz. Sh, don't tell. LOL
Warning: my field is not history, but until fandom creates a pair of utterly adorable biochemical research scientists totally in love, I am never going to have usable knowledge for fics. LOL.
———————————————- Part 5A ———————————————-
(Yusuf)
Cairo, 12th century
Not now.
When Yusuf slain the pale invader for the sixth time, he thought of how weary the other looked. He looked as tired as Yusuf felt. When they fell on each other's blade at the same time, Yusuf had lain in the sand thick and slippy with blood. The dead contributed to the red sludge and pooled hot under his body. When he revived, he heard the other did as well. And Yusuf lay there, his robes sodden heavy with blood and he was suddenly very weary, frustrated with it all and why Allah would bring him back so many times to face the other.
Not now, Yusuf thought then as he heard the other rise to his feet. Not now. He was weary, too aged with sorrow to lift his scimitar.
The boots crunched closer. Yusuf closed his eyes and waited for the blow. It never came. Instead, the boots shuffled past him, dragging blood, hair and entrails that were caught on his heel.
Yusuf found the invader outside the battle, blank eyes staring at Jerusalem as it burned. The sight broke Yusuf's heart, but it broke further when he saw the invader tore off the cross around his neck and charged into a frenzied battle a poor widow and child were caught behind.
He could not save them. There were too many determined to gain the spoils of war in any form. By the time Yusuf reached them, heart pounding (in fear? for him? it did not make sense), the invader was struck down by his fellow invaders screaming traitor. He lived, but was dragged away to camp for punishment.
Yusuf buried the widow and child, prayed for them with damp eyes then followed the trail of blood on the sand. The monstrous invaders dragged their own tethered behind horses.
Yusuf found him a week later, bloodied from whippings long healed, chained to a rock, a desert creature gnawing at his destroyed throat. Yusuf killed the creature, freed the invader before he revived and tossed him over a horse when the invader would not do more than blink after he came back to life with a weak gurgle.
He did not learn Nicolo's name for nine days. He was silent, glaring at Yusuf for approaching him, terrified every time he bolted out from sleep, and lost each time he watched Yusuf did his prayers. He finally spoke after Yusuf was killed by bandits, hoping for riches in their camp. He woke up to find Nicolo's back hunched and pressed back against his left hip, his sword set in front and his eyes fixed to the horizon. He did not look at Yusuf. In fact, it was another month before guilt-bleached eyes would finally meet his.
"Nicolo," Nicolo had rasped, not turning around. Later, Yusuf would learn it was because Nicolo was only able to kill two of them, the other two fleeing and screaming about demons because they witnessed an arrow pushed out of the back of Nicolo's head.
"What is a Nicolo?" Yusuf had said groggily.
"I do not know any more," Nicolo whispered and passed Yusuf the waterskin with the last of their water.
When Nicolo plead Not now, it was with that same voice. Defeated and confused, lost and empty as if his words were all he could offer. Because there was nothing left.
Yusuf wanted to storm back to Dirar's stall, let him hear the clean snick of his scimitar pulling free of its sheath. He wanted to press the curved edge of the blade under the soft flesh of Dirar's chin and demand answers to why Nicolo was Nicolo of old, what treachery did he inflict on his Nicolo.
But there was blood in Nicolo's vomit and such pain in Nicolo's Not now.. Yusuf could not walk away from him.
And so Yusuf helped Nicolo to his bed (after all, it was the closest to the hearth as Nicolo always favored a spot in front of doors). He coaxed Nicolo to sip the tea, have a generous wedge of bread, no, no, it is fine, it is fresh, yes, yes, I will have some too, see?
Nicolo could not tolerate the bread. Nor the bit of salted fish boiled in water so it would be soft enough to eat. And he threw up the rest of the tea. Yusuf was relieved there was no more blood in Nicolo's vomit. However, Nicolo was upset that he wasted the food, so Yusuf hadn't the heart to have him try again.
Their affliction healed whatever ailed Nicolo, thank Allah. But it did not fill the hollowness in Nicolo's cheeks or soothe whatever pangs Nicolo seemed to still suffer in his belly. He fell into an exhausted doze curled towards the wall, a fist pressed into his stomach.
While Nicolo slept, Yusuf ate (he did promise he would after all) by the table. He moved the table closer and propped his left foot on the edge of the pallet. His foot brushed lightly along the curve of Nicolo's spine. The knobby bumps that ran down Nicolo's back spoke of far too many meals Nicolo could not tolerate. It made something twist in Yusuf's chest. Yet the soft rhythmic breathing against Yusuf's foot soothed him with a calm assurance he gets with prayer.
It was no use denying his feelings any longer. Yusuf long suspected the feelings blurred soft and warm in his chest were due to Nicolo. Somewhere between war and traveling, animosity had spun to a begrudging comradeship and then to this well of emotions that easily bubbled to the surface with every little thing Nicolo did.
"But do you feel the same?" Yusuf murmured out loud. He shook his head. Now was not the time to wallow in his own feelings. He settled his foot closer to Nicolo's back and considered the curl of paper before him.
It was difficult to write or draw with one leg extended towards the bed. Yusuf needed to hunch awkwardly to one side to compensate, and so with reluctance, he set both feet to the floor. The table was moved further, so close, Yusuf no longer required the chair. He sat on the edge of the pallet, Nicolo breathing shallowly against him, the lamp glowing bright thanks to the excessively large vessel of purchased oil.
Yusuf chose a folktale he heard as a child, when tales were told to still young feet at night before sleep. He wrote the tale as best he could remember in the center of the page.
Stooping lower to the borders, Yusuf drew outlines of scrolling flowers, tiny animals hunched to pounce, and at the lower corner, a falcon perched on an olive tree branch. As much as he loathed to admit, the new pen Nicolo insisted they should get produced thin elegant veins of black. The paper kept the ink herded, nothing seeped away, the lines still crisp and promised whatever paint applied within their borders, the color would stay true.
If there were coin to spare, Yusuf would apply gold and silver dots among the animals, stroke faint splashes of green among the flowers. He gingerly mixed turmeric with water to dab in the borders and brighten the illustrations. With a finger, he painted the falcon's feathers with a mix of spice and water that produced a pomegranate red. He left the falcon's keen eyes uncolored. He would need to find an appropriate shade for its eyes. Perhaps a blue?
Yusuf considered the paper with a grimace. Without the gleam of silvers and golds, the page looked plain. The border would look better with the flowers' branches painted in brown. But it meant creating the rich hue with oils and cardamom.
Yusuf glanced over his shoulder.
Nicolo stayed curled, facing the wall. He was barely visible under the folds of the blanket and the unruly tangle of hair. But one eye was visible, squeezed tight, lid pale under a smudge of miserable darkness.
Nicolo stir restlessly, his rounded back leaning against Yusuf's hip. He huffed and stilled in sleep.
Yusuf turned back to his page. He nodded to himself as he shuffled to sit deeper in the pallet.
The border was fine as it is.
--------------------------- More later! Time to fail my quiz! (kidding, lol)
Yusuf/Nicolo Forced Prostitution Fill : Needs of the Other 5A/12
Warning: my field is not history, but until fandom creates a pair of utterly adorable biochemical research scientists totally in love, I am never going to have usable knowledge for fics. LOL.
———————————————-
Part 5A
———————————————-
(Yusuf)
Cairo, 12th century
Not now.
When Yusuf slain the pale invader for the sixth time, he thought of how weary the other looked. He looked as tired as Yusuf felt. When they fell on each other's blade at the same time, Yusuf had lain in the sand thick and slippy with blood. The dead contributed to the red sludge and pooled hot under his body. When he revived, he heard the other did as well. And Yusuf lay there, his robes sodden heavy with blood and he was suddenly very weary, frustrated with it all and why Allah would bring him back so many times to face the other.
Not now, Yusuf thought then as he heard the other rise to his feet. Not now. He was weary, too aged with sorrow to lift his scimitar.
The boots crunched closer. Yusuf closed his eyes and waited for the blow. It never came. Instead, the boots shuffled past him, dragging blood, hair and entrails that were caught on his heel.
Yusuf found the invader outside the battle, blank eyes staring at Jerusalem as it burned. The sight broke Yusuf's heart, but it broke further when he saw the invader tore off the cross around his neck and charged into a frenzied battle a poor widow and child were caught behind.
He could not save them. There were too many determined to gain the spoils of war in any form. By the time Yusuf reached them, heart pounding (in fear? for him? it did not make sense), the invader was struck down by his fellow invaders screaming traitor. He lived, but was dragged away to camp for punishment.
Yusuf buried the widow and child, prayed for them with damp eyes then followed the trail of blood on the sand. The monstrous invaders dragged their own tethered behind horses.
Yusuf found him a week later, bloodied from whippings long healed, chained to a rock, a desert creature gnawing at his destroyed throat. Yusuf killed the creature, freed the invader before he revived and tossed him over a horse when the invader would not do more than blink after he came back to life with a weak gurgle.
He did not learn Nicolo's name for nine days. He was silent, glaring at Yusuf for approaching him, terrified every time he bolted out from sleep, and lost each time he watched Yusuf did his prayers. He finally spoke after Yusuf was killed by bandits, hoping for riches in their camp. He woke up to find Nicolo's back hunched and pressed back against his left hip, his sword set in front and his eyes fixed to the horizon. He did not look at Yusuf. In fact, it was another month before guilt-bleached eyes would finally meet his.
"Nicolo," Nicolo had rasped, not turning around. Later, Yusuf would learn it was because Nicolo was only able to kill two of them, the other two fleeing and screaming about demons because they witnessed an arrow pushed out of the back of Nicolo's head.
"What is a Nicolo?" Yusuf had said groggily.
"I do not know any more," Nicolo whispered and passed Yusuf the waterskin with the last of their water.
When Nicolo plead Not now, it was with that same voice. Defeated and confused, lost and empty as if his words were all he could offer. Because there was nothing left.
Yusuf wanted to storm back to Dirar's stall, let him hear the clean snick of his scimitar pulling free of its sheath. He wanted to press the curved edge of the blade under the soft flesh of Dirar's chin and demand answers to why Nicolo was Nicolo of old, what treachery did he inflict on his Nicolo.
But there was blood in Nicolo's vomit and such pain in Nicolo's Not now.. Yusuf could not walk away from him.
And so Yusuf helped Nicolo to his bed (after all, it was the closest to the hearth as Nicolo always favored a spot in front of doors). He coaxed Nicolo to sip the tea, have a generous wedge of bread, no, no, it is fine, it is fresh, yes, yes, I will have some too, see?
Nicolo could not tolerate the bread. Nor the bit of salted fish boiled in water so it would be soft enough to eat. And he threw up the rest of the tea. Yusuf was relieved there was no more blood in Nicolo's vomit. However, Nicolo was upset that he wasted the food, so Yusuf hadn't the heart to have him try again.
Their affliction healed whatever ailed Nicolo, thank Allah. But it did not fill the hollowness in Nicolo's cheeks or soothe whatever pangs Nicolo seemed to still suffer in his belly. He fell into an exhausted doze curled towards the wall, a fist pressed into his stomach.
While Nicolo slept, Yusuf ate (he did promise he would after all) by the table. He moved the table closer and propped his left foot on the edge of the pallet. His foot brushed lightly along the curve of Nicolo's spine. The knobby bumps that ran down Nicolo's back spoke of far too many meals Nicolo could not tolerate. It made something twist in Yusuf's chest. Yet the soft rhythmic breathing against Yusuf's foot soothed him with a calm assurance he gets with prayer.
It was no use denying his feelings any longer. Yusuf long suspected the feelings blurred soft and warm in his chest were due to Nicolo. Somewhere between war and traveling, animosity had spun to a begrudging comradeship and then to this well of emotions that easily bubbled to the surface with every little thing Nicolo did.
"But do you feel the same?" Yusuf murmured out loud. He shook his head. Now was not the time to wallow in his own feelings. He settled his foot closer to Nicolo's back and considered the curl of paper before him.
It was difficult to write or draw with one leg extended towards the bed. Yusuf needed to hunch awkwardly to one side to compensate, and so with reluctance, he set both feet to the floor. The table was moved further, so close, Yusuf no longer required the chair. He sat on the edge of the pallet, Nicolo breathing shallowly against him, the lamp glowing bright thanks to the excessively large vessel of purchased oil.
Yusuf chose a folktale he heard as a child, when tales were told to still young feet at night before sleep. He wrote the tale as best he could remember in the center of the page.
Stooping lower to the borders, Yusuf drew outlines of scrolling flowers, tiny animals hunched to pounce, and at the lower corner, a falcon perched on an olive tree branch. As much as he loathed to admit, the new pen Nicolo insisted they should get produced thin elegant veins of black. The paper kept the ink herded, nothing seeped away, the lines still crisp and promised whatever paint applied within their borders, the color would stay true.
If there were coin to spare, Yusuf would apply gold and silver dots among the animals, stroke faint splashes of green among the flowers. He gingerly mixed turmeric with water to dab in the borders and brighten the illustrations. With a finger, he painted the falcon's feathers with a mix of spice and water that produced a pomegranate red. He left the falcon's keen eyes uncolored. He would need to find an appropriate shade for its eyes. Perhaps a blue?
Yusuf considered the paper with a grimace. Without the gleam of silvers and golds, the page looked plain. The border would look better with the flowers' branches painted in brown. But it meant creating the rich hue with oils and cardamom.
Yusuf glanced over his shoulder.
Nicolo stayed curled, facing the wall. He was barely visible under the folds of the blanket and the unruly tangle of hair. But one eye was visible, squeezed tight, lid pale under a smudge of miserable darkness.
Nicolo stir restlessly, his rounded back leaning against Yusuf's hip. He huffed and stilled in sleep.
Yusuf turned back to his page. He nodded to himself as he shuffled to sit deeper in the pallet.
The border was fine as it is.
---------------------------
More later! Time to fail my quiz! (kidding, lol)