[piosenniel]

Nasr crouched down by the cooking fire and stirred the pot of thick mush that would be their breakfast. Qamar, even in the haste of packing herself and her three children up, had managed to provision him with dried fruits and pouches of nuts, and dried meats. He smiled as he stirred dried dates into the gruel, thinking of his wife and sweet children.

Husam watched from the doorway of the tent as Nasr made their breakfast. He envied the man, but not in a bitter way. Such happiness was not for him, through no fault of his own. And he laid no blame at Qirfah’s feet, either. He loved her and he knew she could never return his feelings for her.

Lost in his thoughts, Nasr did not hear the other man’s approach. Husam crouched beside him, and clasped him on the shoulder. ‘Smells good, brother! It will get us through this long day.’ He stood and started toward Jamílah’s tent. He could see her standing beyond it a way, to the east. ‘Let me fetch little-mother to come eat with us.’

‘Brother,’ thought Nasr, ‘I have never heard that from him. And “little-mother”, that’s how one speaks of one’s own mother.’ He shook his head, watching Husam as he walked away.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

A certain quality of unruffled repose settled about him as he walked to where Jamílah stood. As if he had fallen into a deep pool of still water; its surface, undisturbed by his entry, closing over him without a trace.

‘Little-mother,’ he called softly to her, his teeth flashing in a smile as she turned to him. ‘Come, Nasr is waiting . . . break your fast with us.’

‘The day is upon us,’ she said, taking his offered hand. Her face was grave as she regarded his. But he only smiled again, drawing her on toward the promise of a simple meal in the company of loved ones.