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Really, he'd just wanted someone to treat him like a normal person again, even if that meant getting them to punch him in the face.

And when his father had learned of what he was doing, that was the one and only time that Asad recalled him ever growing frighteningly angry. But it was not because of the fights that he'd picked, precisely. His father seemed to understand that part well enough.

No, what truly bothered Salim Najir was when Asad kept complaining.

Many times over the course of his life, Asad had remembered that moment for how strange it was. Of all the things that could have possibly set the man off, why had it been that? There were so many worse things that he and Haqq had done in their youth. Setting off fireworks in his office, for example. Or giving each other black eyes. Or eating so many sweets that they both vomited in the middle of a prestigious dining event with Hahl Saqqaf.

It hadn't been any of those. His father had been cool as a cucumber in each and every instance. Never yelling. Always gentle.

Aside from this one instance in which he apparently could not abide Asad's childish whining.

For many years, the oddness of that memory had continued to puzzle him. Maybe his father had just been having a bad day. Maybe his father had just gotten fed up after listening to him for too long. Or maybe it was some other thing.

But somewhere along his maturation into a man, Asad felt like he understood, because he remembered what his father had said afterwards, once he'd calmed down.

"Every man has his own burdens to bear. His own misery. But not every man has to let those burdens belittle him. Not every man has to become pathetic."

And if that didn't sum up his father's entire philosophy for life, then he didn't know what else would.