Agreeing with Norah - End of Issue 2

You wake slowly.

The morning air is cool, crisp with ash and dust, but it’s not the cold that stirs you—it’s the weight draped over your chest. Her arm slung lazily across your ribs. Her leg tangled over yours. Her breath warm against your neck, steady, calm.

She shifts as you move slightly beneath her, her lashes fluttering open just enough to show a flicker of green.

“You’re awake,” she murmurs, voice still husky from sleep.

You smirk faintly.

She chuckles softly, then stretches with a quiet groan, her body brushing against yours.

You study her for a moment, eyes flicking across her face, her collarbone, the slight smirk on her lips.

“So…” you start, teasing. “How’d I do?”

Your mother raises an eyebrow.

“You know,” you add, a little grin playing at your mouth. “For a first time.”

She hums, then leans in to kiss your jaw, slow and deliberate. “Exceeded expectations,” she whispers.

You exhale through your nose, a breath between pride and disbelief. “That good?”

She sits up, pulling her scarf back around her shoulders. “Let’s just say you learn fast, Habibi.”

You sit up with her, both of you brushing dust off clothes that had fallen in the night. You help her fasten a loose buckle on her vest, and she returns the favour by straightening your harness, hands lingering just a second longer than necessary.

She tightens the final strap, and you meet her eyes.

“I need you to check on the prisoner,” you say, voice sliding back into command mode, even if it’s still tinted with something softer.

Your mom nods. “And you?”

“I’m going to find Norah,” you reply.

Your mother gives you one last look and then she's gone.

You stretch, roll your neck, and exhale hard.

You move through the village with a slow, steady pace.

The Lions, patched-up and still limping, are hauling debris from the square. A few of the younger ones are reinforcing the half-collapsed mosque wall, working in rhythm with villagers who’ve traded their kitchen tools for hammers and makeshift rebar.

You pass an old man scrubbing blood from a step with water he clearly fetched himself. His hands shake, but he doesn’t stop. You crouch beside him, silently grabbing a rag and scrubbing with him for a few moments. He doesn’t speak, but his nod says enough.

Further ahead, two children laugh as they stack bricks. You know the sound is temporary but still, it digs into your chest in the best possible way.

You pass more of your fighters—Samir is giving orders, probably for the first time in his life without being laughed at. You spot Yousef lifting a broken beam off a roof, barking at two villagers to clear the foundation.

Everyone’s doing. No one’s waiting for permission anymore.

You keep moving. Helping where you can. Lifting a slab off a crushed garden. Helping a woman carry a crate of rice salvaged from a collapsed home. The work is raw, honest. No rifles. Just hands.

Off in the distance, sleeves rolled up, sweat glistening along her temples. Norah is crouched beside a boy no older than ten, showing him how to properly hold a hammer as they reinforce a makeshift wall. Her uniform’s filthy. Her hands scraped. But she’s working like everyone else.

You start toward her, weaving through buckets, broken fences, and exhausted faces. As you close in, she stands up, wipes her palms on her pants, and meets your eyes.

“Commander,” she says, the smallest hint of irony.

You stop beside her, eyes on the wall she’s helping rebuild.

“Didn’t think European assets knew how to use a hammer.”

She exhales a soft chuckle. “You’d be surprised what they train you for in Berlin.”

You look at the boy she was helping. He gives you a shy, suspicious glance, then scurries off with the hammer like it’s a sword.

Your arms fold slowly. “You settling in?”

“I’m adapting,” she says. Then adds, “Faster than you expected, I think.”

You nod once, eyes narrowing. “I’m still not sure what to do with you.”

“I know,” she says. “And I’m not here to make it easy.”

You glance up at the broken skyline of Kharbat al-Nour. “No,” you mutter,

Norah leans against the edge of the makeshift wall she helped rebuild, her arms folded now, demeanour relaxed, but eyes alert.

You exhale slowly, letting your back rest against a support beam, the wound in your side aching just enough to remind you it’s still there.

“I don’t trust your government,” you say plainly.

Norah nods without flinching. “You shouldn’t.”

That catches you off guard, but you let it pass.

“I don’t like the idea of flying another flag next to ours,” you continue. “Especially not one that sends emissaries wrapped in polished uniforms and fine print."

Norah looks at the street—the villagers moving slowly through it, carrying buckets, salvaging what little they have.

“My brother would’ve said no,” she says quietly. “Loudly. Probably with a rifle in his hands.”

“But I’m not him,” you add.

Norah tilts her head.

“I’m not saying no,” you tell her. “But I’m not saying yes to what Germany probably wants. I’ll accept help. In a very limited capacity. Aid. Medical supplies. Engineering support if you have it.”

Her brow lifts just slightly. “Limited intel sharing. No troop presence.”

You nod. “This is still my country. Our country. I won’t sell it. Not for weapons. Not for promises. But I also won’t let it die before it ever gets a chance to stand because of pride.”

Norah breathes deep, nods once. “Then you’re already leading better than half the men who call themselves kings,” she says. “And better than half the bureaucrats I’ve ever met in Berlin.”

You roll your shoulders, ignoring the flare of pain at your ribs.

“I’m not trying to be a king.”

Norah pushes off the wall. “I’ll contact Berlin. Tell them your terms. Do my best to help them see things your way.”