Adar

He waited for three days. 

Laying on his hardened bed, the constant tick of a clock marked a rhythm in his mind, insanity a mere second away from consumption. If it was not the clock, then it was Rabiya's voice burning his soul with a fond memory. Her scent, her laughter, her mesmerizing eyes embedded into his every thought, weaved into his daily life.

An acute pain erupted in his abdomen as he struggled to sit up. Adar hissed, biting his lip to prevent the agonized scream that begged to be released. His father took his anger out on his body once he saw that his son fell madly in love with the enemy's daughter. 

In hopes of preventing Adar from meeting her, he harmed Adar. With the splintering creak of a wooden bat, his father lifted it high and slammed it against his torso, his legs, his arms, at every limb he could reach. His father had no mercy, and Adar did not dare to scream.

He stayed silent, allowing his father to break his body in cruel ways. His body ached all over, yet his heart's flame never died. His resistance only fueled from his father's actions. Adar would not shatter like glass when his country depended on his letters, when his future thrived off his escape from his family. 

Sighing, Adar slowly swung his leg over the bed, ignoring the pain that seared from his harsh movements. Gripping the headboard, he shakily stood, limping to his desk. A pen and blank paper sat before him, a clean slate to the sins of the world, a window to pain and suffering, a testament to his sorrows waiting to be told. He bit his lip, contemplating his choices.

Lifting the pen, he continued yet another piece to his collection.

I used to think think that the external war was the cruelest to our people, the bloodiest slaughter of humans throughout generations. War crippled the strong. Blood tormented the weak. Death haunted all, and that was the purpose of war, complete, brutal destruction among the inferior. 

Little did I know the underlying effects of centuries of war.

Our ancestors from the Mughal Empire, right before the British invasion, thrived in strategical warfare, expanding our borders from the center of India to the north, south, east, and west. They had the most advanced weapons, the luxury items, and a special diplomacy, yet the constant war from history led our people to slaughter.

History repeats itself as we engage in another attempt to division as if we never learned from our past mistakes. External war is not the only war. Our internal affairs are often much more cruel than enemies rooted from the same tree. 

Have our own people turned a blind eye towards their brothers and sisters? Have we abandoned faith in search of greed? 

Hate is not a new concept. Hate thrives as much as success, and in its blazing wake lies the souls of those consumed by their disgust, their shame, their willingness to sin for personal growth. As we push young men to rally support of this war, we also leave women and children in their own warfare, their own village politics. 

We claim justice, yet we are unable to deliver it. We claim to love our people, yet we abandon them. Why must the innocent suffer? Why must we harm the people we vowed to love for our own selfish reasons, for our need of validation?

These internal conflicts are what cuts our country in pieces, into fragments of corralled evils. There is no unity. The voices that speak justice in volumes are the ones silenced for their plead of peace. When will we learn?

He exhaled deeply, feeling the agonizing wounds begin to bleed again. Dropping his pen, he reached for the white bandages on his desk before replacing the soaked ones. 

His father really had no remorse. 

Discipline under the guise of gutting violence was never in the righteous path to redemption, nor was it anywhere close to the meaning of love. In those sliver moments of consciousness, Adar remembered those hard, dark eyes of his father, that empty gaze holding no sympathy for the writhing of his son.

After everything he did, it was never enough. 

Voices laughed in the other room, and Adar knew that it was his father's friends. Not once did he visit. Not once did his family check to see how he was. Not once did they show compassion for him, and Adar's heart hardened as the days went by. Every night, a part of his love for them fell with the rise of dawn. 

Allah, he thought, closing his eyes as if in pain, how can You expect me to stay when they force me to go?

Their shrill voices howled in joy like beasts, like the nightmares of his nation, sadistic and cruel. Their dimmed paths led to nowhere, a realm of darkness clouding the brilliance of innocence and beauty. Like many of Adar's enemies, his family hid under a guise of justice to torment Rabiya's family.

And he couldn't take it anymore.

With eyes of fury, Adar stood, muscles screaming in protest, yet he continued to march towards their festivities. He was sick, tired of their lies, tired of their abuse. He wanted more in life, more from those who binded to his blood, more from his village. 

Miraj couldn't always protect Adar. This time, it was his turn to protect those who suffered at his parents' schemes. This time, it was Adar's duty to atone for their sins.

Nothing could stop the reckoning.

* * * * 

"I hope you've come to apologize for your disobedience," remarked his father, chugging another shot before meeting his son's eyes in a drunken haze. 

Adar's jaw clenched. "Never."

"Then why bother showing yourself?" he taunted darkly. 

His brown eyes were hooded, dripping with malicious intention as he licked his lips much like a serpent before conquering its prey. The man was beyond dangerous, and Adar only probed further, challenging him in an unspoken duel. 

"I stand for those who you have silenced," said Adar. "You have no limits to your cruelty. Do you not have respect for a grieving family that lost both the head of the household and their son? Look at Abdul Jalil's family! Look at what you've done to them!"

His father only threw his head back in a chuckle, room silent with curiosity. "And who do you think you are? A protector to that home? His granddaughter's lover?" 

Adar flinched at the harshness behind his words, the lingering accusation that left his mother and sisters speechless. He bit his lip, knowing that his next words would determine Rabiya's fate. He loved her, but he could not sacrifice her chastity to sinful men. 

He didn't trust anyone except Allah. Only Allah could play the cards of destiny for him, and only Allah would occupy his heart in faith. The world was nothing in comparison. He bled for many years, and would continue to bleed till silver lined his vision. 

"What she means to me or to anyone does not matter," he glared coldly. "However, what you do to that girl's family does. You're playing with fire, and those who play always get burned."

He narrowed his eyes. "Is that a threat?" he hissed.

Adar stayed silent, holding the intensity in their gazes and patiently biding his time. Impulse served the weak rather than the calculative, and in order for Adar to keep Rabiya safe, he had to be as manipulating and impassive as his father. 

"You tell me," he said coyly. "Do you find your own son to be a threat to your status, or do you fear something more?"

His father's anger only fueled as he swung a fist at Adar, who dodged the impending attack with a sidestep. His body took far too many hits in the past few days. Given his father's rash judgment, whenever Adar hit a soft spot, a mere second of vulnerability, he would stiffened and resort to violence. 

"You dare think you have the right to disrespect me in my own home?" he bellowed as the beast circled within. 

Adar's visage remained void of any emotion, fists clenched at his sides. Love marred his path in heartaches, in unanswered questions, in a sorrowful rejection like the discontinued tune of his heart, yet he persisted in the face of defeat. 

Enraged, his father's features darkened, emulating the mask of a Devil in the sharp edges of his cheekbones and jaw. "If you are a part of this family," he whispered near Adar's ear, making his skin crawl, "then you will join us."

Adar swallowed the lump in his throat, understanding the threat hidden beneath a mask of righteousnes. Tendrils of sin wrapped around him, suffocating his lungs till his eyes saw spots, dotted visions of his beloved's cruel fate.

Rabiya suffered. His love alone could not protect her, and in a couple of weeks, he would be on the run. War efforts chased after him, and his letters were a threat to their government. He had to escape before it was too late.

And he planned to take Rabiya with him.

"You ask for my loyalty," he began in a soft voice. "Yet I am unable to grant you that wish, Abbu."

The fire was extinguished. "Then so be it," his father spat, turning on his heel. "I don't have a son anymore."

Slowly, the rest of the group, including Adar's mother and siblings, followed after him. No one even glanced at the poor village boy who sought to right his family's wrongdoings because in their eyes they were the executioners defined by Allah.

In some twisted sense, they believed that they could determine one's death on their own accords.

No amount of sadness could deter Adar from his Creator because surely He had the power of life and death. Allah knew better than him, so like the men before Adar, he would place his trust in Allah's plans.

As he discouragingly sauntered to his room, a pleasant surprise awaited Adar in the form of written love and a token of red, sweet familiarity.

A letter.

----

I honestly hate writing depressing chapters, but I had to for the development ;-;

Kinda short, I know.

What do you think is the foreboding threat to his life that Adar keeps mentioning?

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