Fury is Born (Book 1 of Hanthalah)

Interlude

Wahshi ibn Harb took another bite off the meat of his hunted fox, chewing half-heartedly. He gazed into the flames of his campfire and tears blurred his vision.

At his feet lay the fox pelt that some merchants coveted so. Wahshi had arranged a meeting with a buyer for the pelt the next morning.

But what was the point?

What was the purpose of life? Was this the life of freedom he had been promised? To wander the plains aimlessly, searching for prey, for the skins and pelts of wild beasts to make ends meet? And what happened when he did acquire a lofty sum for his troubles? He would return to Makkah, hands jingling with coin. He would spend a night in a shed as he would many others in a tent.

Alone.

So completely, utterly alone. His stint as a hunter achieved more success than he expected. But there was a void that diminished that success. He could not truly appreciate his prosperity, nor truly grasp the happiness of swelling coffers. With no one to keep him company but the voices in his head.

No one shared in his triumph. No one was there to cradle his head and tell him that they were proud of him. No one to care for him. No one that would bat an eyelid should one of his endeavors on the plains, wrestling wolf or fox or serpent or half a dozen vile other creatures, should end in mishap. He would just die. His body would be a feast for the beast that defeated him. Its remnants would wither and rot, left to be pecked by crows and eagles, or buried by the sands.

Forgotten. As though he had never existed.

He wiped away the tears, remembering the way she spoke his name. Remembering every moment they shared together, wallowing in his misery.

What was he to do with the coin he earned anyway? He had no one to gift with elaborate necklaces or lush jewelry. He had no one to provide for. No one to plan adventurous, perhaps perilous, journeys to exotic, faraway lands with.

In people's eyes, he was still Wahshi the savage. Wahshi the black slave. Wahshi the Abyssinian who hailed from foreign lands and an inferior people. Yes, there were those who treated him no different than any Arab, but he saw through the façade of most.

He saw the looks of disdain in their eyes, heard the sniffs of derision whenever he walked by. He knew the source of such scorn did not stem from his background as a slave. He knew the contempt of the Quraysh found its roots in in his own. In the color of his skin.

In their eyes, he would forever remain the monstrous son of war. He would forever remain the black slave, the lowest rung in the social ladder.

Where was the value in so-called freedom then? Where was it?

Perhaps the pursuit of hunting was not the only thing that drove him out of Makkah for days on end.

He took a swig of beer as a wolf howled in the distance. The liquid trickled out the corners of his mouth, staining the shaggy beard and moustache that he didn't have the energy to shave.

For the thousandth time in an hour, the small voice prodded Wahshi to pick up the dagger he used to skin the fox.

Sobbing, he acquiesced.

He put the dagger to his wrist, pricking the veins.

But he could not do it. No matter how much he tried bracing himself, urging himself on. He couldn't. He was too much of a coward.

Finally, he dropped the dagger and buried his face in his hands, bawling.

There truly was no freedom without her.

If so, what was his purpose in life?