Night

The men cluster around a battered lantern, faces etched sharply in flickering yellow glow. You're pointing at the map, assigning positions with calculated precision, your tone authoritative yet casual, like organizing **** is your favourite late-night hobby.

Farah lingers nearby, arms crossed, chiming in calmly whenever she feels your strategy needs a subtle, irritating tweak.

“Yousef should move twenty meters east,” she interrupts smoothly, voice cool, assured, and irritatingly correct. “Better line of sight, easier escape route.”

You clench your jaw subtly, irritation gnawing under your skin. Her intervention chafes at your pride—your command—yet the men nod obediently, glancing at her with thinly-veiled respect.

"Fine," you concede flatly, masking your annoyance beneath **** humour. “You heard the lady—move your ass east, Yousef.”

The men chuckle uneasily, sensing the quiet tension between leadership. Farah smiles faintly, eyes glinting knowingly, infuriatingly beautiful in the dim lantern glow. You meet her gaze briefly—challenging, heated—before turning away, silently seething.

“Alright, dismissed. Get some rest—tomorrow we fuck Russians,” you declare, watching as the men scatter into murmuring pairs. Farah turns silently, gracefully striding toward a distant hill, lying down alone beneath Zahiriya’s stars.

You hesitate, briefly tempted to follow, but instead turn toward your men, joining their circle around the lantern. They glance up in surprise but relax quickly.

The conversation drifts lazily, fuelled by exhaustion and the raw honesty of imminent ****. Dreams start spilling forth, shyly at first, then boldly as the night grows thicker, whispers of fantasy drowning in the darkness.

“If we get through this shitshow,” Yousef murmurs, eyes dreamy yet bitterly realistic, “I’m opening a little café—quiet, peaceful, no fucking Russians. Just coffee and pastries.”

Someone chuckles softly. “Pastries? Really, Yousef? Didn’t know war turned you into a romantic.”

Yousef grins sheepishly, shrugging. "Fuck off. War makes you appreciate soft things. Plus, women love pastries. Maybe I’ll finally get laid regularly."

Laughter ripples around the circle, tension easing slightly. Another man—Hassan, scarred and usually quiet—speaks up hesitantly.

"I want kids," he whispers shyly, eyes fixed on the flames. "A family. Something clean and innocent in this godforsaken place."

Silence follows, solemn respect heavy in the air, until another voice breaks through gently teasing. "Careful, Hassan, kids require a woman who'll tolerate your ugly ass."

They continue, each man painting worlds free of smoke, blood, and bullets, worlds impossibly naïve, beautifully innocent. Dreams of normalcy, comfort, touch—dreams you no longer believe belong to you.

"What about you, boss?" Yousef finally asks quietly, eyes curious, probing gently into your guarded silence.

You pause, heartbeat heavy, thoughts slipping momentarily toward your mother—the forbidden, beautiful madness that taunts your dreams nightly. But you shake your head, lips quirking into a humourless smirk.

"Dreams are luxuries," you say softly, your voice rough with restrained emotion. "I prefer nightmares. Easier to manage expectations."

The men laugh nervously, uncertain whether you're joking.

You leave the murmuring circle of dreams behind, slipping quietly through shadows toward the small hill where Farah rests beneath Zahiriya's uncaring stars. Gravel crunches softly under your boots as you approach. Without a word, you lay down slowly, stretching out beside her, the earth cool beneath your back, the silence comfortably thick.

"What were they whispering about down there?" Farah asks gently, voice hushed, staring skyward, the starlight reflecting delicately in her emerald eyes.

"Dreams," you reply quietly, turning your gaze toward the infinite expanse of darkness above.

She smiles faintly, sadly, her profile illuminated subtly by moonlight, every feature etched lovingly by years of hardship and loss. "We were all innocent once," she murmurs softly. "Before war stole our innocence, our dreams… our lives."

"What did you dream of?" you ask curiously, rolling slightly to your side, propping your head up to look at her more clearly. "When you were young?"

Farah exhales slowly, eyes distant, a bittersweet smile playing at her lips. "When I was eight," she whispers, voice tender yet haunted, "I dreamt of being a princess. Stupid, beautiful dresses, jewelled tiaras, handsome princes coming to whisk me away. Fairy tale nonsense."

You smile softly, heart aching gently at her wistfulness. "A princess, huh? Can't picture you trading rifles for tiaras, Mom."

She chuckles quietly, gently nudging your shoulder. "Neither can I. The war took my princess fantasies and replaced them with something more... realistic."

"What's that?" you ask gently, your voice barely above a whisper, pulse quickening subtly.

Her gaze softens further, eyes shifting toward you, raw sincerity glimmering vulnerably behind their usual steel. "Survival. And a world where my son doesn't have to sleep with his finger on a trigger every night."

You swallow thickly, the intensity of her wish pressing sharply against your chest, constricting painfully yet warmly. Without hesitation, you reach out, fingertips brushing gently against hers in silent reassurance.

"I promise I'll give you that," you murmur firmly, voice rough with conviction, eyes locked fiercely onto hers. "One day. Somehow."

Farah laughs softly, breathy, fingers entwining with yours briefly, squeezing gently. "Oh, John. I know you'll try. But promises in war are about as stable as dreams—they’re beautiful lies we tell ourselves to get through each day."

You nod reluctantly, recognizing the harsh, bitter truth behind her cynicism. Yet your determination remains stubbornly intact. Silence falls once more, heavy yet comfortable as you both stare upward at the indifferent stars scattered across the inky sky. Occasionally, Farah points softly, her voice gentle and low as she identifies constellations, remnants of the innocence she once possessed.

"Orion," she murmurs softly, her hand tracing delicately, finger extending skyward. "The eternal warrior, forever destined to fight but never truly rest."

"Sounds familiar," you whisper dryly, drawing a quiet chuckle from her.

Night deepens, chill slowly creeping into the air, penetrating clothing, brushing cool against skin. Instinctively, wordlessly, you shift closer—necessary warmth, you tell yourself firmly—as Farah presses gently against your side, her shoulder fitting neatly beneath yours, bodies aligned close beneath Zahiriya’s merciless sky.

Gradually, silence transforms gently into slow, steady breaths. Your eyelids grow heavy, slowly fluttering closed, Farah's presence warm and reassuring against you.