You Can Run

'Hama bin 'Haym

Hashir felt a pang of guilt in his heart as he left the burning village but he knew it was the right thing to do. These people were resilient; pulling themselves together within days after every attack, but they were shortsighted; they didn't understand that there was a long-term solution to their issue.

And that's what made Abru perfect for the job: she didn't believe in taking no for an answer. She wasn't the kind to sit quietly when something bothered her, and Hashir knew the Khaizarigars needed to adopt such a quality. He wondered why his father had chosen Pierre though, and why he'd sent Esin to bring him, instead of Hashir himself.

They'd lost too much by just accepting their misery, he thought to himself, standing on the shores of one of the various isles of Little Falsteen; skipping rocks and delaying his assignment. He'd changed back into his regular hashashin gear: black silwar and tunic, with leather gauntlets and armour, and a black and white chequered keffiyeh, wrapped around his head as a turban.

Stop your dilly-dallying and finish what you've been tasked with, his father's voice rang in his ears and he ran a hand through his jet black hair.

What have I gotten myself into? He thought to himself, summoning his satchel with a flick of his wrist. With one last fling of the rock, he turned around and made to move, stopping dead in his tracks when he heard a scream instead.

"Curse the idiot who dared to attack me with this stupid rock!" screeched an old djinni, her shrill voice startling Hashir. He turned around to face her, a ghastly looking hag in a dirty white dress with more holes than fabric; hair matted across her grey face, with long streaks of dark green seaweed against her dirty black hair. Her eyes were filmed with cataracts and she looked in Hashir's direction and Hashir had to remind himself he couldn't see her. A Zin Kibaru. He gulped.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to," he caught himself stuttering. "Are you alright?"

She turned around to show him the gaping wound at the back of her head, which was healing rather slowly. "Do I look alright, boy?" she rasped.

"No, of course," Hashir muttered. "Would you happen to know where 'Hama bin 'Haym is?"

"'Hama," the woman spat out his name like it was poisonous. "Spoilt delusional brat. He thinks he's so high and mighty than the rest of us, can't be bothered to live among us, no, he had to move deep into the forest, deeper than the dryads, and deeper than the paris, he couldn't live on the shores either, lest us Zin or the kappas or the nemeids pollute his environment..." she continued with her rant as Hashir sighed and walked away, he'd got what he needed, no use listening to the hag's idle ranting.

"Deep in the forest, huh?" he muttered to himself. "But exactly how deep?"

Not deep enough, apparently, as it only took him 10 minutes to find it. It was a regular country house: Plain, tall walls with a wooden gate fixed with a brass knocker, shaped like a book. But he didn't need to knock, for at that moment, the door opened, and out came 'Hama bin 'Haym, his godfather, and best friend. 'Hama greeted him with a smile.

"And what brings Mr. Busybody to my doorstep?" he inquired, embracing Hashir in a warm hug. 'Hama towered over Hashir by quite a few inches, and his tanned face was adorned with the same sculpted beard Hashir had last seen on him eighty years ago, and tried to mimic ever since. His jet black eyes scanned Hashir; instantly knowing all.

"You've grown," he decided to point out. "My old gear fits you perfectly now, I see."

"It suits me better than it did you," Hashir joked, hands tucking an end that had slipped loose from his keffiyeh.