Fury is Born (Book 1 of Hanthalah)

Interlude

        Is it just me or does the air smell fresher as a free man?

        There was a spring to Wahshi ibn Harb's step as he descended the hill of the Qurayshi sheds, on his way to the marketplace. Lining the descent on either side were towering palm trees and sculpted stone statues of gods and ancestors, arranged in neat columns.

        Now it was time for the ultimate prize. The one thing that could put that of freedom in shadow.

        Spending an eternity with the one he loved.

        As he strode to the marketplace on huge legs, he was greeted by those returning. One man smiled at him and raised a fist in the air.

        "Wahshi!" he exclaimed. Ibn Harb acknowledged the greeting with a bow of his head.

        Another came forth, beaming with pride, and patted Wahshi on the shoulder.

        "Congratulations, man," he said.

        "May you be blessed with many a healthy son, friend," Wahshi replied cheerily.

        The marketplace was uncharacteristically empty this afternoon. All the better. This was the final meeting he would hold in secret with his loved one. They would marry, and he would spirit her away from this city, freeing her from the bonds of slavery in favor of one of love and care and emotion.

        No longer would he paint the sands red. No more would he take the lives of other human beings. No longer would he be a monstrosity, no longer the son of war. He would live a quiet life, perhaps in Ta'if to the south, making a living as a hunter. He would return after a long day's hectic work to be greeted by dear wife, belly swollen, heavy with child.

        And he would live a lifetime among beloved family. His daughter would ruffle his hair. He would teach his son his craft, how to hurl a javelin and wield a bow. And he would grow old and grey with his wife. They would take care of one another in their advanced age and die in one another's arms.

        Wahshi whistled softly, making a turn as he saw the large shack at the end of the marketplace. Their usual meeting spot was behind that shack, away from prying eyes.

         He leaned on the wood of the shack, smiling mischievously as he spotted her. Her frizzy dark hair, the short gown clutched tight to her body. That lovely dark skin characteristic of his people, the Abyssinians, gleaming brilliantly in the sun.

        "Aren't you going to say I look rather handsome this afternoon?" he slipped away from the shack as suavely as he could manage.

        She turned around at the sound of his voice. Wahshi's high mood dropped as he saw her expression of concern.

        "What happened?" he brushed the hair at her temples, so thick and so rigid.

        She pushed his hand away.

        "I will be leaving," she told him, not meeting his eyes.

         Wahshi raised an eyebrow.

         "Yes," he said, puzzled. "We're both leaving. Together. That was what we'd agreed upon."

         She looked up then.

         "Alone."

         Wahshi's eyebrows arced and his eyes flitted left and right. He did not understand whether she was playing some odd joke or what the meaning of her words was.

        "I uttered the shahada," she explained.

        "The..."

       Wahshi took a step back in shock, his jaw dropping. The shahada was the testimony of Muhammad's new religion, where one declared belief that there was but one god and all that nonsense.

       She nodded briskly, unapologetic.

       "I know what you did," she told him, her voice cold. Her demeanor was distant.

        "What I...did?"

        "Hamza."

        "I killed him," he admitted. "For us. But he is the last, I promise."

        "You didn't kill him for us," she stared at him with accusing eyes. "Your freedom concerns you, and you alone."

        "There is no freedom without you by my side."

         He made to cup her cheek in his hand. But she cringed away. It felt like someone was tearing his heart out of his chest and shredding it into a dozen pieces.

        "Tonight, I make for Madinah," she started moving away. "I wish for you the best life. You deserve the best woman."

        You are the best woman.

        Wahshi could only gape at his retreating love, dumbfounded. In half a heartbeat, he found himself deprived of lover. Mother. Sister. Daughter.

        Freedom.