Prophecy

You find her sitting under the broken statue in the village square. What used to be some old nationalist hero, now nothing but cracked marble knees and a severed boot sticking up from the rubble.

Um Sawsan.

Her shawl is wrapped tight around her shoulders, dust catching in the folds like ash. And in her lap, a weathered, oil-stained Kar98 bolt-action rifle, its wood scarred, its metal blackened with age.

The rifle looks like it’s older than the war. Older than you.

She sees you before you say anything, eyes like glass catching the morning sun.

“Come, Commander,” she calls softly. “Don’t keep an old woman waiting.”

You walk over, boots crunching over spent brass and dry leaves. You stand before her and offer a tired smile. “Is that your weapon of choice today?”

She chuckles. “It’s the one I married. Figured we should die together.”

You glance at the rifle. It’s still loaded. Bolt open. Round in the chamber. This isn’t a gesture.

“You planning to fight?”

“I’m planning to die,” she replies evenly.

The words hit harder than they should. You shake your head. “You won’t. Not today.”

She raises an eyebrow. “You’ve seen tomorrow?”

“No,” you admit, crouching beside her, “but I’m betting on it.”

Um Sawsan looks away, toward the village. The people moving like a single body, loading sandbags, stacking crates, children passing water skins, a boy barely ten years old dragging an old belt of bullets twice his size.

“I’ve lived too long,” she says. “Seen this island chewed up by kings and killers, flags and flames. Every time someone promises salvation, all that follows is fire.”

You follow her gaze.

She shrugs. “You’re different, John. I’ve seen many lions in this land, but none who learned how to weep.”

You say nothing.

She pats the stone beside her. “Sit. Indulge an old woman a moment. They’ll manage without you.”

You look around. The square still a storm of motion, orders, purpose. No eyes on you.

You sit in silence beside her, the noise of the village warping into something distant.

She doesn’t look at you when she starts speaking. “I was born in this village when the streets were still dust and donkeys,” she says, a faint smile tugging at the edge of her lips. “Before electricity. Before concrete."

You nod silently, listening.

“I remember when the olive groves stretched from the mosque to the ridge,” she continues, pointing to the northeast. “They cut them down during the second invasion. Said they needed space for tanks. Even trees had to learn to bleed.”

She pauses, runs her hand across the cracked stock of her rifle, “my mother used to tell me stories at night, before the shelling started in those early years. One in particular. A myth passed down from her mother… and her mother’s mother before that.”

You tilt your head. “What kind of story?”

She leans back, her eyes fixed on the dying statue overhead.

“She used to say that Zahiriya was once ruled by beasts. Before men. And the greatest of them was a lion. Huge, golden, with a mane that shimmered like the sun itself.”

You say nothing.

“They called him Asad al-Zahir. The Lion of Zahiriya. The beast who devoured conquerors and spat out bones. No army could kill him. No man could tame him.”

Her voice lowers, becoming almost reverent.

“But he grew curious. About the people. About their love, their pain, their hope. So, the lion made a deal with the wind: ‘Give me the form of a man,’ he said, ‘so I may walk among them.’ The wind agreed. And the lion shed his skin, bone by bone, and rose as a man.”

You glance over at her, and she finally meets your gaze.

“He taught the people how to fight. How to lead. But in shedding his beast, he lost his immortality. When the last battle came, he stood alone at the gates and died with a smile, because he’d become something more.”

You breathe in slow, the tale sinking into your blood. You sit with her in the shifting light, the village humming behind you, the sky sharpening toward noon. The old rifle creaks in Um Sawsan’s lap as she adjusts it, her fingers moving over the stock like it’s an old friend.

You glance at her, jaw tight, voice quiet. “Why that story?” you ask. “Why now?”

She doesn’t look at you at first. Her eyes are on the statue above. Just the shattered legs now, pointing nowhere.

“Because I know what’s coming,” she says. “And I’ve seen enough endings to know my place in one.”

You shake your head. “You don’t get to decide when your story ends.”

She smiles, soft but sad. “I already did, ibni. I made peace with it the moment you marched back into this village with that look in your eyes. You brought the lion with you, whether you know it or not.”

You look away, into the square. Into the faces of people building barricades, patching walls, digging trenches.

“They need a leader, not a legend,” you say.

She nods once. “They need both.”

You don’t respond. You don’t know how.

She places a gnarled hand over yours. Her palm is calloused, but warm.

“You are Asad al-Zahir now,” she whispers. “Not the beast. Not the man. The idea.”

You glance at her, caught between reverence and fear. “What does that even mean?”

“It means you must become more than blood and bone. More than vengeance. You must be what this place remembers. What it believes in.”

You search her face.

She leans in slightly, eyes sharp as ever. “I want you to outlive yourself.”

Silence again. But this time, it’s heavier. Deeper.

You stand, brushing dust from your palms, and she smiles up at you, rifle still in her lap. “Conquer, kill, and fight if you must,” she says. “But also, love, lead, and give them hope.”

You offer her a quiet nod.

Then turn.