Tyrant

You're sitting on a jagged chunk of concrete, a throne of rubble, holding the Polaroid with two fingers. The photograph’s corners are frayed, its colours faded, your mother’s smile captured mid-laugh, a fleeting glint of joy before artillery shells fucked the moment forever.

"Dad always had shitty timing, didn't he?" you murmur bitterly into the oppressive silence, squinting out across Zahiriya’s scorched horizon. The sky bleeds crimson through pockets of lingering smoke. Mountains claw upward in defiance, like stubborn bastards refusing to bow even after years of relentless shelling. Civil war’s a funny phrase—civil implies polite disagreement; war means blowing someone’s fucking face off.

“That's a nice photo, huh?”

The accented voice cuts smoothly, familiarly. She moves beside you silently settling onto the crumbled stone, her thigh brushing yours as she crosses her legs.

You glance sideways. Farah—your mother—her emerald eyes piercing, aged beautifully through the brutality of war. Her face, sculpted and strong.

"Well, mom," you say, half-smiling, eyes still trained on the polaroid, "Considering the last photo dad ever took of you was seconds before a missile blasted half him into dust… I’d say you look pretty in comparison to him."

She chuckles softly, a dark, knowing laugh that feels inappropriate but oddly comforting. “Your father had many faults. Photography was always the least of them.”

You inhale deeply, the scent of ash and charred earth filling your lungs like a perverse aphrodisiac. The morning sky overhead mocks your misery, draped in velvet oranges and violets. It so goddamn beautiful despite everything burning in the small island nation.

"How many men?" you ask abruptly, turning to meet her gaze directly. "How many stayed with me?"

Her eyes darken, expression tightening subtly—Mom’s way of telling the truth is never easy. “A handful,” she admits. "The rest splintered into militias the second your father’s heartbeat stopped. Loyalty doesn't extend much beyond the barrel of a rifle these days."

You snort bitterly, rubbing the photo between your thumb and forefinger, aware of its fragility. "So, I'm inheriting a handful of men, and a legacy built on blood."

She reaches over, her fingertips brushing your wrist gently. "Your father trusted you, John. He wouldn’t have left his name—or what's left of it—to just anyone."

You look back at her, your stomach twisting at the fierce intensity in her gaze. “Dad always believed in dying honourably. What he didn't consider was living might be the harder part.”

Your mom squeezes your wrist gently before letting go. Her lips part, breath quickening slightly as her voice lowers intimately, almost conspiratorially. "Maybe that’s the point, my love. **** is easy. Surviving is messy, cruel, painful—but it’s real. It's time to embrace it, to mould this into something worth dying for again."

Zahiriya sprawls before you, battered and bleeding, waiting to be fucked or saved—probably both, given your luck.

“I guess we'll see, won't we?” you murmur softly, sliding the Polaroid carefully into your jacket’s inner pocket.

She leans closer, her shoulder pressed warmly against yours, eyes alight with mischief and determination. "Oh, John, I promise you—we’re just getting started."