Scouting Report

Dusk settles over the Zahiri landscape like a tired sigh—dust cooling, wind quieting, stars beginning to poke through a burnt-orange sky. Your men are finally still, settling into camp just over the ridge from Kharbat al-Nour.

The smell of roasted lentils and scorched bread fills the air. Not exactly a feast, but after a day’s march in desert heat, it tastes like gold. You sit cross-legged near the fire, chewing slowly.

Footsteps approach. You don’t need to look.

Your mother nudges your boot with hers and doesn’t wait for permission before crouching beside you. Her rifle’s slung over her shoulder, her sleeves rolled up, a streak of dirt cutting across her cheek like a war paint smudge. She looks good like this. Too good.

Without a word, you take a dented metal plate and begin piling food onto it—generous portions. She watches you with a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

“You’re spoiling me,” she says.

You hand her the plate without looking. “You earned it. Talk.”

She sits beside you, knees brushing, and takes a bite before launching into her report. “Central square. Dry fountain. Ruined church some assholes turned into a community hall. Looks like they still hold meetings there.”

You nod slowly, visualizing the layout in your mind.

“There’s a small mosque,” she continues, softer this time. “Still standing, somehow. Looks like the villagers take care of it, even with bullet holes in the minaret. Saw some flowers by the door.”

“Population’s about two hundred,” she goes on. “Mostly elders and women. Some kids. A few young men left, hiding like scared dogs. They don’t have weapons.”

“Solar panels,” she replies. “NGO setup from five years ago. Your father tried to get some for us but they wouldn't arm a militia with power. Some homes still have basic power. Enough to keep lights on and one or two fridges humming.”

You nod again. “And the Russians?” you ask.

She finishes chewing, then licks her thumb clean before answering. “Forty soldiers. Two armoured vehicles, tracked. And one general—Russian. Hard to tell if he’s embedded for intel or punishment duty. But he’s settled in the church.”

Your jaw tightens.

She looks at you sidelong. “They’re not expecting an ****. Security’s relaxed. Complacent. This isn’t a base—it’s occupation with wine and cigarettes. We hit fast, we win.”

You watch the flames for a long moment, the wood crackling like broken bones under boots.

A beat passes.

She glances at you. “So? What’s the play?”

You stare ahead at the dark horizon where the village sleeps under occupation.

“Tomorrow, we wake them up.”

Later, when the fire has burned down to soft embers and the men are off polishing their rifles or passing around that contraband bottle of arak, you find her again.

She’s sitting on a crate behind one of the supply tents, the moonlight catching the line of her jaw, her braid loose and falling over one shoulder.

You step up, unscrew your canteen without a word, and offer it to her.

“Here,” you say, soft and low.

She looks up, eyes tired but alert. No resistance. She takes a sip, and when she lowers it, you thumb a streak of dried dust from her cheek. She lets you. You dampen a piece of cloth, brushing more dirt from her face—slow, methodical, almost reverent.

“You fuss more than a medic,” she murmurs, though she leans into your hand.

You chuckle. “Maybe I just like touching you.”

Her lips twitch, but she doesn’t answer. You keep cleaning her up, fingers moving to her hair, untangling bits of dirt and wind-knot. The braids loosen under your touch, and you sweep some of it back, letting your fingers trail gently across her scalp.

You lean in, not rushed. Not demanding. Placing your lips onto hers. Just once. Soft.

She doesn’t kiss back. Instead, she sighs. “John,” she says quietly, not looking at you, “we need to talk.”

You freeze.

You’re no expert on women. You’ve had more blood on your hands than lovers in your bed. But even you know what that phrase means.

You **** a half-smile. “Is my mother breaking up with me?”

She doesn’t answer.

She doesn’t move.

Not away from you. Not toward you. Just sits there, her knees pulled up slightly, fingers curled around the lip of the crate.

“It’s not fair to you,” she says finally, softly. Her voice isn’t cold—if anything, it’s warm. The kind of warmth people use when they’re holding a dying animal. “Your first... experiences. Your first feelings like that. They shouldn’t have been with me.”

You stay quiet.

Because part of you knows if you speak now, you’ll say something angry. Something proud. Something defensive and wounded.

“You should’ve had girls your age,” she says. “Flirting at the market. Sneaking out after curfew. Your first kiss under a fig tree. Someone giggling into your neck in the dark, not…”

She pauses. Her voice drops. “Not me.”

You breathe slowly. Measured. You feel the burn behind her words but don’t flinch.

“Is this what you were thinking about when you were scouting the village?” you ask quietly.

She nods, not looking at you. “Every step.”

You watch her for a moment longer. The lines in her face. The fatigue in her eyes that has nothing to do with the march. The way her hands won’t stop fidgeting.

You exhale through your nose. Controlled. Calm. “If I were a normal boy, I wouldn’t be leading a militia.”

She turns her eyes toward you. You don’t blink.

“If I were a normal boy,” you go on, “my country wouldn’t be tearing itself in half while the Russians play tourists in our backyards.”

Your voice is steady now. Not angry—just sharp.

“If I were a normal boy... my father wouldn’t have been vaporized by artillery. He’d be alive. And you’d still be his.”

Her lips part slightly, like she wants to say something, but she doesn’t.

“So stop fighting for a version of the world that doesn’t exist,” you say. “Not for me. Not for you. Not anymore. You and I—we don’t get the fig trees and the curfews and the awkward kisses in alleyways.”

You pause, then soften your tone.

“We get this. Whatever this is. The version of normal where last night happened.”

You ask her the thing that’s been burning through your chest like a slow bullet.

“Do you really believe it was a mistake?”

Her eyes flicker. The hardness behind them falters. She doesn’t answer right away.

Then, slowly, she shakes her head.

No.

A breath leaves your lungs.

She exhales hard, like she’s been holding her breath since the first time your lips touched hers.

“I don’t know what we are,” she says, eyes flickering between the dirt and your face. “Your father—my husband—he died two weeks ago. Two weeks… and now I’m—”

She stops. Can’t finish it. Doesn’t need to.

You know what she’s about to say. 'Now I’m with you. His son. My son.'

She presses a hand to her forehead.

You don’t rush her. You don’t flinch. You just reach out and take her hands in yours, steady and deliberate. Her fingers are cold. Tense. But they stay in your grip.

“Mom,” you whisper, voice low and warm. “We don’t have to be anything we’re not ready for.”

Her breathing slows.

You squeeze her hands just a little tighter.

“We’ll be whatever we need to be. For each other. Commander. Mother.” You hesitate only for a second, then say it. “Lover.”

She swallows hard. Her eyes lock onto yours—sharper now, clearer. But still uncertain.

There’s a pause. A deep, aching silence. Then her voice slips through it, soft but certain.

“Wife.”