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There were years when Yusuf prayed five times a day, and years when he did not. It became easier to contemplate a universe of vast unpredictability as they learned one another’s speech. In lands where churches dotted the landscapes, Nicolo avoided even their shadows in the dust, and ducked in more than one alley to dodge proselytizers of myriad stripes. “I do not know,” he would offer when Yusuf asked him what he believed. “My mind cannot settle.” And this seemed explanation enough when they kept on dying and rising to life.

And then, too many years to count from their forging, Nicolo ducked into a church and left Yusuf to sit in the square, watching the townspeople pass. Nico was gone for some time, time enough to pray, to light a candle, to do whatever it was he felt moved to do, but when he reappeared he still seemed troubled, his brow furrowed as he chewed on his lip.

He sat beside Yusuf on the low stone wall he had claimed for a seat and said nothing for a while. Around them people greeted their neighbors, hurried toward the market, shooed away the pigeons. There was birdsong and the sound of children laughing, and Yusuf could not find it in himself to be startled when Nico took his hand.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” Yusuf asked, nodding toward the church.

why is this guy sitting in a helicopter, dressed in tac gear with ammo bandoliers all over him… but a big ass straight sword on his hip, bent over his gun and holding it like one of those renaissance paintings? 

the proverbial hair on the back of my neck started prickling, let me tell you, because it was incongruous. it was weird. why is this guy sporting a fucking longsword going into a firefight? why does he look like one of those paintings with a knight on his knees, praying, which was what it seemed like to me because i was just looking at a old school sword and his hands are holding his gun like his hands are on crossguards instead of a gun barrel and my brain put that together in a confusion spasm.

Meanwhile, Father Nicolò used to take confession from Genoa's Number One Gay Manwhore, who thought it was very funny to scandalize prudish priests by going into far, far too much detail on his many and varied transgressions. Joke's on him, Father Nicolò was into it. Father Nicolò was taking notes so as to better *cough* reflect *cough* on the nature of carnal sin *cough* privately later.