The Jews of the Banu Nadir evacuated their ancestral home with a flourish.

         They had been stubborn in their defense of fort and home. The assassination of their greatest shaykh, Huyayy ibn al-Akhtab, did little to hinder their morale. They remained steadfast for weeks later, suffering the sight of their harvest going up in a flare. Occasionally, warriors would sally out of the gates and harass the besieging Muslims, but they would eventually be beaten back or slaughtered, overwhelmed by a more numerous foe. A foe more hydrated, who did not want for food or fodder.

        But the weeks of starvation and hammering had taken their toll. They were now all leaving the city that had been home to their fathers and their fathers' fathers in a single procession. It was said that nearly six hundred camels were part of the procession, their backs heavy laden with what the Jews deemed their most valuable items.

        Every member of the tribe wore flowing gowns of bright colors, every step deliberate and dignified. There were gowns of yellow, green, maroon, blue, purple and orange – it seemed as though a rainbow had burst in the slums of Yathrib.

        The women wore glittering jewelry about their necks and wrists. Their shine was blinding beneath the sun's golden dew. The men wore the most exorbitant of silks and the fanciest of rings on arm or finger or woven into moustache.

        Tambourines accompanied the procession with deafening, cheerful songs, only pausing for poets to recite works of scorn. The uncouth words and less than veiled slights were intended for the Muslims, mocking their beliefs and practices, singling out individuals among those who held the most influence among the community. They ridiculed their appearance, questioned their manhood and the chastity of their mothers by hurling the most unrefined insults.

        I found myself giggling in approval at their pettiness and agreeing with their contempt for those Muslims that deprived me of all that was mine.

        Muhammad ibn Maslamah murdered Qusayy in cold blood and never faced the consequences for it.

       Zaid and Bilal tore my life away from me, as though sweeping a rug from beneath my feet.

       'Umar, who I had looked up to as a mentor and a role model of sorts, had abandoned me. He stood by and allowed for me to be sentenced to die.

        My temper flared and I began shaking at the memory. But I kept the rage in check, just barely. I clutched the soft wood of my bow for comfort and vowed for revenge once again. The day would come when I would let loose the beast that had taken control of me once again, and I would burn the earth down with grief and fury. I would raze their sheds and high forts with sheer ferocity.

        I would have my vengeance.

        In the meantime, I found joy in teasing the grieving Dawood. He would only glare at me in silent hatred, unable to exact vengeance. He chafed at the sight of me every day. But he could do little, lest he risk his own life. I was under the protection of the man who had once been my brother.

        I was still wary of Ezra; he was a creature I could never trust. I had my suspicions and I was adequately sure his intentions were malicious.

        My father would not return for many months, doubtless busy on one of his many trips in distant lands.

        Dawood's daughter could walk now, for she was almost five. She spoke little but yelled often; her voice bizarrely loud for one so small. I found myself annoyed by her even more so than when she was an infant.

        I regained my energy, resting in the warm embrace of my mother, eating plentifully, and best of all, I collected the prize I had dreamt of for years, at last. The weapon was breathtaking, so intricate, so delicately carved.

       The man who lost it to my cousin did not deserve it, I thought, studying it. Habib did not deserve it.

         How could a man own such a thing of great beauty and be so careless as to die? Even in death, I would not allow another man to caress its graceful curves. Even then, I could not bear the thought of another tracing his fingers across its soft wood.

          The bow – my bow – was an item unlike any other. It was double-curved, its wood dark and supple, its string robust and implacable. My breath caught as I held it firm in my hands. I mimicked nocking, drawing and loosening an arrow. I felt austere and omnipotent, clutching a weapon worthy of the gods.

        I kept an eye on Ezra, but all he seemed to do was sharpen his blade with a whetstone and smile at me when he caught my eye, a gratuitous sight; the skin around the dark pit that had been once adorned with an eye crinkled and the socket itself sucked in to his face. It seemed to absorb all the light in the room.

       I ground my teeth, refusing to let the sight shake my resolve, suppressing a shiver at the horrible image burned into my mind.

        If he tries touching me, I'll take his other eye, I thought. I'm a warrior now. With a weapon worthy of the greatest.

         I resolved to bounce back stronger than before. The gods had restored me from certain death at the hands of my uncle for a reason.

        I have been born anew. I will not waste this new life.

        With a renewed vigor, I set to cultivating a daily routine that emulated the one I enjoyed under the Muslims. In the stable I shared with 'Amr and Mundhir. Only this time, I was unencumbered by the inconvenience of groveling and prostration that was prayer. It was as useless as a camel bag without a handle.

        I still woke myself at dawn. I would whisper a prayer of thanks to al-Manat that she did not see fit to cut the thread of my life this night. I whispered a prayer to Hubal that this day would bring prosperity. I whispered a prayer to Shams that the rising sun would bring an abundance of strength and fallen enemies with it.

         I would warm my belly with a light meal. I fletched arrows and practiced my archery in the narrow alleyway outside of our modest home, under the gaze of many a stranger, for hours on end. The neighbors in these parts had changed since I'd been gone. I remembered Nawaf and Qusayy then, and bit back the memory. Now was not a time for weakness. Now was not the time for nostalgia or remorse.

         I mimicked the stances of swordskill, lest I forget.

        I fantasized about all the different ways I could vanquish my enemies.

        In my old age, reminiscing my many years, I have told my children and my grandchildren that life ought to be simple. There is no time for lulling around.

        If you love someone, you tell them.

        If you have questions, seek the answers.

        If you truly want something from life, you strive for it until you can go to sleep at night knowing you have achieved a great feat.

        If you feel hurt, you butcher your enemies and massacre their entire families. You bask in glory when they are on their knees begging for their lives.

        Life is simple.

        Only it wasn't then. It was a bleak time for us all. For weeks following the expulsion of the Nadir, we lived in fear of the future. We were the final remaining Jewish tribe in the city that had once been Yathrib. Warriors from the Qurayza were no longer allowed to venture forth on the campaigns in the region surrounding Yathrib that housed the nomadic tribes. It came as a major blow to Ezra.

        The expeditions in the region called the Najd yielded an abundance of riches. The ranks of the Muslims would return from their endeavors, all melancholy and grief forgotten, cheering and chanting, their carts and camels heavy laden, the narrow streets full to bursting with newly acquired cattle and fine mounts.

        They frolicked down the paths of the city, clamoring with epic poems of heroism or otherwise solemnly reciting verses of their holy revelation, the words known as the Qur'an. It was a display of strength and glory, showing that no defeat would faze their faith.

        Yet for all their glory, Ezra's mood only soured.

       A year into my return, he had already taken to heavy drinking. He no longer sharpened his sword. He no longer afforded me his fake, unsettling smiles.

        His impressive physique faded as the days turned, replaced with a more meaty figure. Ezra's arms became bloated yet had lost none of their brute strength. He developed several chins and developed a drooping belly.

        His moods were dark, his scarce words foul, and his scowls would only accentuate the gaping hole that had once been his left eye. His good eye was fiery and bloodthirsty, but I half believed his empty socket channeled the magics of the gods; the darkness beyond seemed to stare back at me, piercing deep into my soul. It sucked the light out of any chamber.

        I would shiver despite my best efforts.

        I did not know what he intended from me. I did not know why he spared me execution. He spoke to no one and answered not even to our sulking mother.

        Her spirit was quashed, I realized with despair. She clung to the corner of the chamber, preferring to knit goat hairs or silently tend to Dawood's daughter. Her shining smile of hope, usually a beacon of light, had faded, replaced only with timidity and a reserved demeanor. I wondered what had become of her in my absence.

       Father returned on occasion and stayed but little. His presence only added to the general gloom.

        But at the center of it all was Dawood. His eyes were forever fixed upon me, frozen in their enmity and bitterness. Not a day went by without him eying my routine exercise or stalking my every bite, scrutinizing every breath drawn and every motion.

        I yearned to return to the warmth of stable, the humor of Mundhir and his contagious grin. The collected maturity of 'Amr and the vigilant wisdom of 'Umar. Even Bilal's lessons of tedium and Zaid's disapproving gaze.

        But I knew it was weakness to long for that which is impossible. Beyond my reach. I needed to focus on the future, advance ever forward to achieve my goals and torment that those that wronged me.

        Yet, despite all my efforts, the nostalgia for days gone, the longing for a better reality, lingered inside of me. It was on one night some two years later that I sought to escape Dawood's prying eyes, his daughter's deep-throated wailing and the slurp of Ezra's drinking.

         It was how I found myself prowling the shabby, unlit streets of our neighborhood, my only company the panting of a stray dog and the silver embodiment of Allah perched high in the dark sky.

          It was how I found myself in a shed that smelled of spice and lavender, of earth and warm summers.

          Of blood.

          Qusayy's shed had not been re-inhabited since his demise, it seemed. A towering palm tree found its roots at the center of the shed. A symbol of hospitality and perseverance.

           There were dark spots on the right wall, I noticed walking inside, my eyes adjusting to the gloom. There was a slight ray of moonlight washing into the chamber from the gap in the roof. I shivered, knowing what they were. The remnants of dried blood.

           Despite all my efforts to steel myself and repress the weakness of emotion, the scene played out again in my mind's eye. Qusayy gasped. He fell to his knees, clutching the side of his neck, the blood flowing through his fingers after it splattered on half a dozen places. He fell face first to the ground with a thump. I tasted blood on my lips.

         I was jerked back to reality when a firm hand grabbed me by the back of my collar, lifting me in the air. I gasped, continuing to shiver vigorously. Years of scrupulous training eluded me as I hung in the air, a hapless child once more.

         Muhammad ibn Maslamah, I thought. Muhammad ibn Maslamah has come for me.

        I craned my neck backward to see that it was not ibn Maslamah clutching my collar.

        It was Dawood.

        He loomed over me, his teeth ground together in a tight mouth, behind pursed lips. His eyes were wide, watery and unblinking. There was something cardinal inside them that I recognized. A darkness I had now become so accustomed to.

        A primal rage.

        Moonlight reflected with a white sheen off the tip of a rising dagger. Dawood's grip on the hilt was knuckle-white. His eyes never fluttered. His hand never wavered.

        Shaken by the ghosts of the past, all I could do was stare back, nonplussed, my mind blank, frantic. I knew I was going to die. I knew I should utter my final prayers to whatever god I saw fit. But my mind could not collect the words nor could my tongue form them.

        Instead, I shut my eyes tight and braced myself for the darkness.

        I let out a yelp as I tumbled to the ground, thumping flat on my arse.

        I blinked, regaining my nerves as well as my senses. I saw the man that had once been my brother, Ezra, growling at a cringing Dawood at the far wall. Ezra, a hulking figure towering over his uncle, had a meaty palm wrapped around the older man's throat, pinning him to the wall.

         "What did I tell you, old man?" Ezra demanded. His voice was soft and cold. Barely audible. Dawood was shivering, shrinking away. "Are you so eager to be short a head?"

         "Pfth-pfaa," Dawood squeaked as Ezra's grip on his throat tightened, squeezing the life out of him. "Ez-gaahh."

          I sat up, watching the encounter with odd satisfaction. A man who killed his own kin, his own tribesmen, was cursed by the gods. A man who besmirched his own blood, soiled his own lineage and the memory of his ancestors.

         But such formalities were lost to me now. I was Hanthalah ibn Ka'b. A boy who did not belong. Hanthalah ibn Ka'b, kinslayer. Cursed by the gods. I had nothing to lose. Everything to gain.

         But then a horn sounded. Clear and frantic, rippling through the air.

        Ezra relinquished his hold on Dawood as the sound ceased, looking out at the open doorway. The latter toppled to the floor, heaving and struggling for breath.

         And the horn sounded again.