The Wrath and the Dawn

As he strode into a weak slice of light, the girl saw his face for the first time.

He was younger than she expected. No more than twenty.

His face approached beautiful. But its angles were too harsh, his expression too severe. The sunlight on his hands revealed something rather at odds with the rest of his finery: the skin of his palms was red and cracked and peeling—evidence of hard labor.

His tired eyes were a tawny gold color. She’d seen eyes like that once. In a painting of a lion.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” the stranger said softly. His eyes shifted around the ruin of their one-room abode. “May I speak to your father?”

The girl’s suspicion gripped her once more. “He’s—not here. He went to stand in line for building supplies.”

The stranger nodded. “And your mother?”

“She’s dead,” her brother said, stirring from behind her. “The roof fell on her during the storm. And she died.” There was a daring quality to his words that the girl did not feel. An unmet challenge that came with his youth.

The stranger’s severity deepened for an instant. He looked away. His hands fell to his sides.

After a beat, the stranger looked back at them, his eyes unwavering, despite his white-knuckled fists. “Do you have another shovel?”

“Why do you need a shovel, rich man?” Her little brother marched up to the stranger, accusation in each of his barefooted steps.

“Kamyar!” she gasped as she reached for the back of his ragged qamis.

The stranger blinked down at her brother before crouching on the packed-earth floor.

“Kamyar, is it?” the stranger asked, a trace of a smile gracing his lips.

Her brother said nothing, though he was barely able to meet the tall stranger’s gaze, even from this adjusted vantage point.

“I—I apologize, sahib,” the girl stammered. “He’s a bit insolent.”

“Please don’t apologize. I rather appreciate insolence, when dispensed by the right person.” This time, the stranger did smile, and his features softened demonstrably.

“Yes,” her brother interrupted. “My name is Kamyar. What is yours?”

The stranger paused to study her brother for a moment.

“Khalid.”

“Why do you want a shovel, Khalid?” her brother demanded again.

“I’d like to help you repair your home.”

“Why?”

“Because when we help one another, we are able to accomplish things faster.”

Kamyar nodded slowly, then stopped to cant his head to one side. “But this isn’t your home. Why should you care?”

“Because Rey is my home. And Rey is your home. If you could help me when I needed help, would you not wish to do so?”

“Yes,” Kamyar said without hesitation. “I would.”

“Then it’s settled.” The stranger stood. “Will you share your shovel with me, Kamyar?”

• • •

For the rest of the afternoon, the trio worked to clear the floor of charred wood and waterlogged debris. The girl never gave the stranger her name and refused to call him anything but sahib, but Kamyar treated him like a long-lost friend with a common enemy. When the stranger gave them water and lavash bread to eat, the girl dipped her head and touched her fingertips to her brow in thanks.

A flush rose in her cheeks when the almost-beautiful stranger returned the gesture, without a word.

Soon, the day began bruising into night, and Kamyar wedged himself into a corner, his chin drooping to his chest and his eyes slowly falling shut.

The stranger finished arranging the last of the salvageable pieces of wood by the door and shook the dirt from his rida’ before pulling the hood of his cloak back over his head.

“Thank you,” the girl murmured, knowing that was the least she should do.

He glanced over his shoulder at her. Then the stranger reached into his cloak and removed a small pouch cinched shut by a leather cord.

“Please. Take it.”

“No, sahib.” She shook her head. “I ca

“It isn’t much. I’d like for you to take it.” His eyes, which had appeared tired at the onset, now looked beyond exhausted. “Please.”

There was something about his face in that moment, hidden as it was in the play of shadows, in the lingering motes of ash and dust . . .

Something about it that signified a deeper suffering than the girl could ever hope to fathom.

She took the small pouch from his hand.

“Thank you,” he whispered. As though he were the one in need.

“Shiva,” she said. “My name is Shiva.”

Disbelief registered on his features for an instant. Then the sharp planes of his face smoothed.

Into an expression of peace.

“Of course it is.” He bowed low, with a hand to his brow.

Despite her confusion, she managed to respond in kind, her fingers brushing her forehead. When she looked up again, he had turned the corner.

And disappeared into the wending darkness of night

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