Wrath and pride

A wrathful man rescues a fallen eagle—only to confront the beast within himself.

On the bright blue sky, a huge eagle glided with a massive wingspan, and everything beneath it seemed tiny. One of its feathers drifted down, descending gracefully toward the ground. As soon as it touched the earth, a foot stepped on it.
“Ha, ha, ha, ha!”
A menacing laughter echoed. A crowd had gathered, their gaze fixed on a young man with a bloodied muzzle — yes, muzzle, for to them he looked more beast than human. He was surrounded by six men; four were already down on the floor, groaning, while the remaining two stood frozen in fear.
The standoff broke when the bloodied man snatched up a metal rod lying nearby and charged at the man on his left. Seeing this, the man on the right rushed to intercept him, and the man on the left — startled — began to retreat.
As the three drew close, the young man suddenly shifted direction and hurled the rod with all his might toward the man on the right.
The man on the left paused, watching in shock as the rod struck the other’s face with a sharp crack. The man on the right dropped to his knees, clutching his nose as blood poured down his chin.
Before the man on the left could make sense of what had happened, a sudden blow struck his back. He stumbled forward and fell face-first onto the concrete. Above him loomed the bloodied young man, a menacing smile curling across his lips. He rained down punches on the man’s head — again and again — not stopping even as onlookers finally rushed in and restrained him.
“Why don’t you laugh more, you little shit?” he shouted. “C’mon, laugh! Why aren’t you laughing anymore?!”
The men holding him finally pulled him back. He thrashed for a moment, shouting and spitting blood, then froze.
“Unhand me,” he said, his voice low but sharp enough to cut through the noise.
They hesitated — then let go.
He stood there, chest heaving, his shirt torn and smeared red. The crowd slowly stepped back, murmuring among themselves.
“What the hell happened?” someone finally asked.
“No idea,” another said. “Looked like a fight over nothing.”
“Over a damn shoe,” another replied. “He stepped on that fellow’s foot by accident.”
“He even apologized,” someone else added. “But the other one shouted — said, ‘Are you blind? These are original shoes, you moron!’”
A few people nodded.
“Then his friend pulled him back,” a man said quietly, “told him to let it go. But as they were walking away, that same friend laughed and said, ‘Bro, do you think that man could even compensate you? Did you even look at his clothes?’”
A silence followed.
The young man didn’t move. His boot still pressed against the feather, crushed into the dirt.
Overhead, the eagle was long gone.

The young man was bloodied from his nose. He was just an ordinary man — nothing special.
He started walking away from the crowd, and no one dared to stop him. His hands were shaking. The clear sky was turning grey as he wandered off, absent-minded, his thoughts trapped on repeat.
How can someone love you, Khashm? You cannot be loved. You are unlovable. You’re a cheap person… please, just go away.
He lit a cigarette with trembling fingers, drew a breath, and muttered under it,
“Fuck you all. Fucking morons.”

The smoke curled upward, twisting into the air, carried away by the wind.
High above, the eagle drifted through the grey sky. Its wings cut through the shifting clouds with effortless grace.
As the other birds left the sky and the clouds began to rumble,
the eagle watched them — almost mocking.
While they disappeared into the grey,
he flew even higher, wings slicing through the wind,
as if daring the storm to stop him.
A flash of light split the heavens.
The eagle let out a sharp cry as lightning struck — his body trembled midair before crashing to the earth below.
His eyes still looked upward, defiant, as if complaining to the clouds themselves. His chest heaved. Footsteps approached.
The eagle saw a pair of legs — but before he could lift his head to see the face, his vision went dark.
Khashm stood before the fallen eagle, both breathing hard. The bird’s once magnificent wings were now charred.
Khashm flicked away his cigarette and stared down.
“What’s with that look in your eyes, huh? You moron bird.”
He turned and began to walk away.
Rain started to pour.
Khashm stopped and looked back — the eagle was struggling to stand.
“What the fuck…” he muttered. The bird collapsed again.
“Fuck it.”
He rushed back, scooped up the eagle, and shielded it with his body as he ran through the rain

The clinic smelled of wet fur and disinfectant.
Rainwater dripped from Khashm’s jacket, forming a small puddle near his boots. The vet, a middle-aged man with thick glasses and tired eyes, frowned as he looked at the eagle laid across the steel table.
“You’re lucky you brought it fast,” he said, gently spreading one of the burned wings. “Lightning burns can stop the heart instantly. But this one—” he paused, pressing a hand to the bird’s chest, “—this one’s heart didn’t stop. Strong creature.”
Khashm stood in silence, breathing heavily. His knuckles were still red, his face streaked with blood and rain.
The vet nodded slowly. “It will live. Some feathers are gone, and the wing bones are bruised, but the shock didn’t reach deep. I’ll clean the burns and give it fluids. It’ll need rest and warmth for a few weeks.”
The vet glanced at Khashm’s bruised hands and face. “Where did you find this birdy? Were you fighting with it?” he asked with a faint smile.
Khashm shook his head.
“Now, now,” the vet said, smiling wider, “you’ll need to take this birdy home and care for it for a few weeks.”
Khashm replied in a sour tone, “Can’t you just keep it here? I don’t like birds.”
The vet chuckled. “Don’t be a spoilsport. You rescued him already — why not care for him? I think he likes you.”
Khashm looked at the eagle. The bird’s half-open eyes glared back, as if accusing him of stealing something that belonged to it.
The vet laughed again. “Why don’t we start by giving him a name? What’ll it be, boy?”
“Ghorur,” Khashm said.
The vet smiled, his wrinkles deepening. “It suits him.”
After a few minutes, the vet finished explaining how to care for the bird.
When Khashm finally stepped outside, rain still falling softly, the old man waved from the doorway.
“Take good care of him, boy!” he called out.
Khashm made a face and kept walking.
The vet watched him go, muttering to himself, “How alike they are…”

The door creaked open.
Khashm stepped in, soaked and tired, Ghorur limp in his arms. The small one-room set smelled faintly of smoke and rust — a narrow bed by the window, a crooked table, clothes scattered across the floor.
He placed the eagle gently on the bed and slumped into a chair, lighting a cigarette.
The first drag filled the silence.
Then, a sharp screech split the air.
Khashm froze.
Ghorur’s eyes snapped open, burning gold under the dim light. With a sudden flap of his bandaged wings, the bird rose, feathers scattering.
“The hell—?”
Before Khashm could move, the eagle lunged, striking him with its beak.
“Hey! What’s wrong with you, moron bird?!” he shouted, backing away.
The eagle tried to fly but stumbled, crashing into the wall before falling on the floor. Its wings flared again, trembling, furious.
Khashm laughed — a short, mocking sound. “A bird that can’t even fly,” he said with a grin.
Ghorur screeched again, louder this time, as if he understood the insult. He jumped off the bed and charged straight at Khashm, stabbing at his leg with his beak.
“Are you insane?!” Khashm barked, dodging around the tiny room. “What’s wrong with you?! You want me to crush you under my feet?!”
He stumbled over a shirt, bumping into the table. The cigarette slipped from his fingers, fell, and rolled across the floor.
In the chaos — feathers, flapping, cursing — it went out.
And just like that, the eagle stopped.
Its wings lowered. It blinked once, calm again, staring at him in silence.
Khashm stood panting, eyes wide. “You’ve got to be kidding me…” he muttered, rubbing his head. “This moron bird hates cigarettes.”
“Well, too bad, you little shit. You’ll have to live with it, or I’ll rip you in half,” Khashm said, grabbing the bird’s head.
But there was no fear in Ghorur’s eyes. His golden eyes burned brighter, fierce and unyielding.
Khashm stared back, his hand still gripping the bird — then slowly let go.

The little boy was playing on a swing under the golden evening sky, his laughter echoing across the yard.
Then, a sweet voice called out.
“Little Khashm, do you know what your name means — Khashm (خشم)?”
“Yes, Granny,” he giggled. “It means wrath!”
The old woman smiled. “Yes, my sweet, clever child. Do you know why we gave you that name?”
The boy shook his head, eyes wide.
“It’s because we wanted you to always remember that wrath is bad.”
“What is wrath, Granny?” he asked, his voice curious and innocent.
The old woman chuckled softly. “Let me tell you a story, my child.”
“A story!” he cheered, jumping off the swing and running toward her.
“They say there was once a king who had a falcon — a proud, golden-eyed bird that never missed its mark.
It flew beside him in war, hunted for him in peace, and slept by his window every night.
“One morning, the falcon refused to fly.
The king called for it again and again, but it just sat there — still, silent, wings half-folded.
Filled with wrath, the king thought it had grown lazy.
He took the bird in his hand, cursed its weakness, and struck it down.
“The falcon fell — and from its beak dropped a small thorn.
Only then did the king understand.
The bird had been holding the thorn, keeping it from pricking his skin while it perched on his arm.
It hadn’t refused to fly out of pride — it had stayed still because it was protecting him.”
The old woman’s voice softened.
“They say the king never hunted again after that day.
But by then… what did it matter?”
She looked down at the boy, her eyes distant.
“The bird was gone.”
The evening had turned into a dark, cold night.
The wind bit at the skin — sharp, relentless.
Everything was blurred, but a silhouette of a woman stood clear against the dim light.
“Khashm… you’re cheap,” her voice trembled. “No one can ever love you. You’re filled with wrath. Don’t ever show me your face again.”
Tears streamed down her cheeks, falling onto the cold green grass until the blades lost their color beneath them.
“But… Azimané—”
His voice broke.
The word was cut short, swallowed by the wind.
Khashm’s eyes flew open.
Darkness surrounded him — the familiar shadow of his small room. His chest heaved as he tried to catch his breath.
From across the dim light, two golden eyes watched him — still, unblinking.
The eagle’s beak was half open, as if mocking him.
Khashm groaned, rubbing his face.
“What are you staring at, you moron bird?”
The bird only tilted its head, those fierce eyes glinting with something that looked a lot like judgment.