The bandit squirmed beneath Umaymah's heel. He kicked and struck at her foot with his fists, he tried to wriggle free of her grasp on his throat, all to no avail. He attempted cursing or spitting but it was all he could do to gasp for breath and gag beneath her smirking presence.

"Be done with it," Ja'afar called out, ramming his own sword into another bandit's throat. He continued searching for those who lay wounded, dying or yet drawing breath on the dystopian battlefield. Umaymah spared him a glance, appreciating his impressive figure.

She loved how he had developed both as an individual and a warrior in the past few years; she loved how he had all these curves protruding at odd angles. Umaymah was grateful that he had grown from his phase of tormenting her brother, so that he could be worthy of her.

"I want to toy with him some more," Umaymah responded, removing her heel from the bandit's throat for a brief moment, allowing him to suck in just the right amount of air before suppressing him again.

Instead of relinquishing her hold on her defeated foe, she winked at Ja'afar and dug her heel deeper. Ja'afar sighed again and began to walk away.

"Alright, alright, have it your way," she acquiesced, hefting her blade and finishing the man off.

Much had changed in the five or six years since Muhammad left to reunite with Father in Damascus. She had gotten stronger, more skilled. Yet, the eyes of the tribesmen were more apprehensive now.

In the past, they had taken her promising prowess as a novelty, a sort of entertainment to provoke laughs whenever she bested one of the boys. But now, she was emerging into womanhood, a woman flowered already with thirteen winters to her name.

There was confusion as to whether she would be allowed to mingle with boys now, as that was seen as promiscuity. Most were of the opinion that she needed to adhere to the womanly ways, instead. To learn the ways of appeasing the husband and to bear his children. But none dared voice these concerns to her face.

She was like her father. Her sword was her word. She yearned for the day she would finally meet the man she'd heard so many stories of. His latest antics in Cyprus intrigued her the most. She had only known these harsh desert plains, only braving the outskirts of the tribe's dwelling in the event of harrying a group of defeated bandits. Cyprus seemed as though it must be a different world entirely.

Father must be a man wise as he is strong, she mused, trudging her way through the corpses, heading for the camp. He served Allah in jihad during the conquests of Egypt and Syria, they said. He was a man well-traveled. He must be wise!

But there were those who did not paint her father in such a favorable light. Those were forced to eat their words at the pain of forfeiting the luxury of an intact nose. Father was a man who served Allah dutifully for years in Madinah and again in Damascus. She envied her brother Muhammad for his proximity to him. Thumping her sword on her thigh, she wondered when she would be allowed to leave the Banu Asad in favor for Damascus.

***

'Abdullah suppressed his groans, only letting out the most wistful of gasps, as a sharp pain struck him in the belly. He leaned on the tree trunk, breathing heavily, weary of body and mind now.

His tutor paused his reading of the Qur'an, and looked down at 'Abdullah, squirming cross-legged at his feet. The old man sighed and dropped his head. He lowered his copy of the holy scripture.

'Abdullah's mouth watered again at the sight of the precious thing, the pain of his many illnesses a fleeting memory now. Master 'Awf was a novelty, a gem! Very few people here knew the art of scripture and letters. Though many had memorized the entirety of the Qur'an, only Master 'Awf owned a copy.

"You seem weary, child," he told 'Abdullah ibn Hanthalah.

'Abdullah shook his head vigorously, suppressing another cry of pain from his frail body. He wanted to listen to the words of God more. He wanted to memorize the Qur'an. He wanted to master his lessons in letters.

He did not know why his sister's victories enticed her so much. Of course, it was a brother's duty to support his sister, but it was odd to 'Abdullah that a man – or a woman – might take pleasure in earthly desires. To choose the sword over the quill.

The phenomenon had existed since their childhood. Umaymah had kept to the sword skill practice. 'Abdullah made sure to stay a safe distance away from the fighting.

Such was his life in this miserable hell his father sentenced him to. 'Abdullah was more of a liability to the tribesmen and he knew it. They would have returned him to his father long ago had it not been for his sister's standing among them. He was too weak and frail to perform the menial tasks required of the young in the camp, let alone practice skill at arms. Now he was short a finger.

The thought of his predicament made him shiver uncontrollably and had he not steeled himself, he would have succumbed to another one of his episodes.

He remembered that horrid morning long ago. When he had gone to sleep with an intact fist. But he woke up the very next morning short a finger. The stump was bereft of any blood, the wound masterfully shut.

Umm Amina, the woman entrusted with his care and more of a parent to him than his actual father, doted upon him ever since, never relinquishing him during nighttime, sharing a bed. Yet, her presence was not necessary for his security. He would lay awake at night, eyes peeled and wide. He was far too terrified to shut them. Had it been demons who stole his finger? Was this magic, the practice outlawed by Allah and his messenger? Surely if they did it once, they could do it again.

Each morning, he would journey to Master 'Awf's tent in order to read the words of Allah, for Master 'Awf was the only tribesman to own a copy of the holy book. The copy had existed since the days of the late Khalifa Abu Bakr, a compilation of Allah's commandments revealed to the Prophet, in a number of different forms and interpretations that varied according to each tribe or clan; sometimes the versions strayed according to some individuals that swore they heard it as such from the Prophet.

'Uthman, however, had quelled any such disputes of the veracity of the text by declaring the copy of his clan, the Banu Umayya, to be the sole legitimate text after demolishing all other copies. The act was one of controversy; many opposed it, claiming that 'Uthman was acting beyond his capacity. He was but a temporal successor, elected to govern the ummah of Muhammad, to spread the influence of the believers and settle matters of state.

It did irk 'Abdullah as well. It was not the Khalifa's place to meddle in affairs of the divine? The copy of the Banu Asad had served them well in the past. Who was 'Uthman to say otherwise?

In any case, their text had been disposed of, and replaced with the now uniform copy. 'Abdullah supposed he would study it, read it all the same.

And read it he did. 'Abdullah began memorizing every word and every letter long ago. He knew the tales of every messenger and every prophet by heart, from Adam to 'Isa. His faith was unrivaled. It was all he had.

After all, he needed to take solace in something. He chose the embrace of Allah. Even Umaymah's protection paled in comparison. Who better to watch over him, a weak mortal among weak mortals, destined to die and wither, than he who never dies or withers?

Every man, woman or child among the Asad would pay on the day of judgement for their torment of 'Abdullah over the years and beseech him to forgive them for their sins. But, on the Day of Judgement, he would only shake his head and pleasure himself from his palace in heaven as he watched their skin flake off their bodies in Hell, then regenerate and burn off again.

He would bask in their tormented screams of agony as hot pincers dug into their flesh and burned them to their very core, as they had taken great pleasure in his misery as a helpless little boy who yearned only for the warmth of a father's arms that were never there. Only for the love of a man who abandoned him as a squalling child, red of flesh and in desperate need of attention, both affectionate and medical.

Yet, 'Abdullah disillusioned himself of any images of this man Hanthalah ibn Ka'b that his sister possessed. Umaymah lived for the day she would gaze upon her hero; dreamt of the moment they would slaughter enemies side by side.

'Abdullah, however, knew that he would only end up betraying them again. If the man they called father wanted them by his side, he would have showed his face years earlier.

It was why he immersed himself in his faith and in his tales of prophets and angels. Books and stories would remain faithful and loyal while humans only served to disappoint.