Deep in my enemy I find the lover;

— Pierre Corneille

THE THUNDER ROARS and wakes him from his sleep. The rain begins to patter. His foggy, half asleep minds cannot distinguish dream from reality. He closes his eyes and thinks of himself to be on his ship. The thunder roars again and he shifts in his bed. His legs come in contact with something. Furat opens his eyes again.

Lightning hits the sky outside and somewhat illuminates the darkness of the night. As it falls in through the window from the gap in the curtains, he realizes he's not in his cabin. Whatever dream he was dreaming begins to dissolve as he slowly comes to his senses. When lightning lights once more and his eyes catch sight of the ceiling, he's reminded of where he's lying and looks to his right.

Rahaf lies asleep facing him, oblivious to the sound of the thunder and rain. In the dark he can make out only little as his sight adjusts, but she's lying too close to him where her face is inches away and their legs can touch, much to his dislike. He carefully rolls away from her, making sure not to put too much pressure on the wound on his left side. Though it's healing and hurts only little now, he prefers not sleeping on that side. But between facing the woman on his bed and taking the pain, he chooses the latter.

Yet sleep wouldn't come to him. Not because of the pain but because of the rain and thunder. What a curse it is sometimes to be a light sleeper.

He looks behind him to find Rahaf still asleep. Quietly dragging the blanket off his body, he gets off the bed. And as quietly, he finds his cloak and his small perfume bottle before leaving his chamber.

The palace is silent like a graveyard and would've been haunting if not for the torches that are lit around and the rain singing lullabies on its windows. He makes sure that his steps don't echo off as he walks to no where in particular. Yet he has this strong desire to go outside and stand in the rain. Only if he wouldn't catch a cold. But he does so easily. And he's newly married. He'll have no explanation about why he left his bride and went outside to get sick in the rain.

Taking out his perfume bottle, he removes its lid and sniffs it. This is what heavens must smell like.

As he passes by a corridor, he hears someone crying. A child. Furat follows after the voice.

"I hate the rain," she complains. "Baba. Where is my baba?"

She's sobbing loudly and asking for her father. At first he thinks of ignoring it and continue being on his way to nowhere. He should return to his chamber before Rahaf wakes up and finds him missing. But for some reason he cannot move from his spot as he listens to her crying.

"Where is my mother? Take me to my home."

It isn't the girl's voice he's hearing. It's Rouzbeh's voice hammering in his head. He clenches shut his eyes, trying to drown it out, but a bitter memory briefly resurfaces and possesses him so intensely that for a moment he loses his sense of reason and judgment. Before he knows it and against his will, he knocks on the door. He blinks as he's pushed back to the present. But it's already too late as the door opens and a woman comes into view.

"Ameer Furat?" She looks at him in slight bafflement. "What are you doing here, sayyidi?"

"I heard the child crying. Why does she cry?" he inquires.

"Baba!"

The little girl comes running to the door, mistakening him for her father. But she falters and rushes to hide behind the woman upon seeing him.

He recognizes her. General Marrar's daughter. Furat tries to recall her name as she peeks at him with her glossy eyes and tears stained cheeks.

"She fears the thunder, sayyidi," the woman tells him.

"Hamama," he recalls and smiles at the child. His memory hardly ever fails him. And though good memory too can be a curse sometimes, it isn't for him this once. "Why do you hate the rain, habibti?"

She doesn't answer him and hides some more behind her caretaker. Furat looks at the woman.

"Where is General Marrar?"

"He went on his night patrol to check on the guards around the palace. He shall return soon."

The thunder shakes the walls of the palace and Hamama clings to the woman's legs. She begins to cry once more. Furat crouches down to her level.

"Here, habibti, will you come to me?"

"No. I don't like you," she says between her sobs.

"Why not?"

"You stole Rahaf from me."

"Hamama." The caretaker shushes her, looking at him apologetically. "She's close to the Amira, sayyidi."

Furat smiles, although feeling a little flustered. He asks Hamama, "What do I do to make up for it?"

The child stops crying, thinking, eyeing him with uncertainty and innocence. She comes out from behind her caretaker.

"Do you know the story of the crow and the sparrow?"

"No, but I know many other stories."

"I don't want to listen to those."

"Then how about you narrate to me your story?" Furat tries to bargain with her. Though she's only a child, he notices she's smart for her age with how she skeptically regards him and keeps away from him.

"Rahaf knows the story," she tells him, cleverly declining him, making him chuckle at her sweet intelligence.

"Ah, then I shall ask her about this story and tell her that Hamama doesn't know it."

"I know it!" she protests, taking offense. "Rahaf told me the story when I was scared of the thunder."

"But you wouldn't tell me. I'm scared of it too."

She pauses, looking at him as if choosing between taking pity on him or doing it for the sake of her friendship with Rahaf. Hamama doesn't look like Marrar, Furat thinks. He knows Marrar is raising his sister's children. But if his sister looked anything like him, then these children must resemble their biological father more than their mother with their dark eyes and black hair against the general's green eyes and reddish brown hair.

"Once upon a time lived a sparrow and a crow," Hamama begins to narrate to him the story.

RAHAF WAKES FROM her sleep at the sound of the thunder tearing through the sky. Startled and drowsy, she shifts in the bed towards Furat and finds the spot empty and cold beside her. She sits up and looks around the chamber. It's dark and she can hear the rain pouring outside.

"Furat?"

Silence greets her. Except for the sound of thunderstorm answering her.

"Furat?" she calls again as she crawls out of the blanket and steps down on the floor.

She navigates her way through the dark and finds her robe and stole. Covering herself up, she leaves her chamber.

Where could've her husband left in the middle of the night? And when did he leave? She was in such a deep slumber, if it wasn't for the storm that seems ready to wake the world, she wouldn't have noticed him missing.

Rahaf stops before a window in the corridor overlooking the palace grounds. She holds the curtain and slightly lifts it away. Besides the few torches lit here and there that the wind tries to blow out, she sees nothing. Marrar might be doing his rounds and this takes her thoughts to Hamama. She must be frightened by the storm.

Not knowing where to look for Furat and wanting to make sure Hamama is alright, she makes her way towards Marrar's chamber.

She remembers running into Furat one similar night before. She was out looking for Hamama and he had sneaked up on her. And once more where she had sneaked up on him and broke his perfume bottle. Back then he told her that he loved the rain. Perhaps he's out again now to watch it. Though it isn't a storm one might love to bask in.

As she nears Marrar's chamber, she hears Furat's voice. Thinking she might be mistaken, Rahaf slows down to a stop at the intersection, quietly looking around the corner. To her utter astonishment, she finds her husband sitting cross legged on the floor before the door to Marrar's chamber. Hamama sits with him with an excited but confused expression on her face.

"The sparrow helps the crow. She's good," she's telling him.

"Well, I think she shouldn't have, to teach him a lesson," Furat replies.

"But Rahaf says we should help those in need," Hamama argues.

"Sometimes helping them is to make them see the consequence of their mistakes so they don't repeat them in the future."

Hamama draws her brows together and wrinkles her nose, seemingly not understanding his logic. Rahaf bites down a smile at the sight before her.

"Rahaf?" Someone calls her.

Furat turns to look in her direction, and she looks in the direction of the voice, finding Marrar having returned from his patrol.

"What are—"

Marrar doesn't get to finish his sentence and stops in his tracks as his eyes fall on someone behind her. Rahaf doesn't know when did Furat leave the floor and joined her, but she feels his presence close behind her.

"Baba!"

Hamama runs to her father and he's quick to lift her up in his arms, hugging her to his chest.

"Were you scared, my dove?"

She nods and he kisses her head. "But uncle kept me company," she tells him.

Marrar looks at Furat, tipping his head at him in a gesture of gratitude. "Thank you."

She doesn't hear Furat acknowledge him. He simply puts his hand on her back, leading her away from him. But he's not taking her towards their chamber. Rahaf doesn't question him. His hand falls to his side as they walk beside each other.

"Do you come to Hamama every time it rains?" he asks her. And though it would've been an innocent question, but she's doesn't miss the concern behind it. It instantly makes her conscious of the situation and the hundred possibilities one might assume.

"Yes, but Dimah and Masruq are always with me," she answers him honestly. "Although tonight I left looking for you. Then I was reminded of Hamama, and knowing how General Marrar might have been out on duty, I wanted to check on her."

"The general could be at his chamber."

"Then there's no need for me to be with Hamama."

He doesn't say anything, but Rahaf gathers that he doesn't like it. Their knuckles brush, and she dares not to hold his hand despite the desire to do so. Furat doesn't seem to notice and withdraws his hand to fix his cloak.

"Where are we going?" she asks him.

"Outside."

"In the rain?"

"As much as I would like to soak in it, no. But we can still enjoy it."

They come out of the palace. The storm is raging and ready to blow away everything. She holds her stole and robe tightly to herself.

"Here." Furat takes off his cloak and wraps it around her.

"You'll be cold."

He shakes his head. "I'll be fine. Don't worry about me."

They walk through the veranda to a bench. Rahaf sits down on it while he stands by a column, his palm extended out in the rain. She watches him have his moment without a word. When he's satisfied, he comes to join her on the bench.

"Rouzbeh doesn't like it when I soak in the rain. Sometimes he acts like my mother."

Rahaf smiles at him. "Do you love the rain so much?"

He returns her smile. "I do."

"What else do you like besides the rain?" she asks.

"My ship, my sword, and my rose," he smoothly declares.

Her face heats up at once at his reply. And when he leans closer to her, Rahaf feels she might turn to ashes in his proximity.

Every time the wind plays with the fire in the torches around them, it draws patterns across his skin, glowing in his eyes. He's handsome, with the crinkles forming at the corners of his eyes every time he smiles and displays his slightly pointy canines. With those eyes deeper than the ocean he rules and darker than its depths. And with the way the strands of his hair fall over them like thick clouds.

He has let his stubble grow more than the first time she saw him. It suits him, she thinks. His jaw is neither too wide nor is the frame of his face too narrow. Though his cheeks appear a little hollow. But that too suits him. And there's a very small hump on the bridge of his nose, one that might not be noticed until closely looked at. Rahaf feels this strange urge to touch it.

Furat smirks upon catching her studying him but doesn't comment on it. She averts her gaze, returning to the conversation in an attempt to distract them both.

"I remember you telling me about the reason why you like the rain."

He only hums, leaning back on the bench.

"What happened?" she inquires.

He's quiet, staring out at the rain. Rahaf thinks he might not answer her. But then he does, in a voice so low she isn't even sure if she's hearing him right.

"My mother died in the village fire."

She looks at him, her heart suddenly aching at his revelation. Furat doesn't look at her.

"The rain burnt out that fire. People could never have. It was wild. The rain saved what it could. It saved..."

He doesn't finish and frowns, as if catching himself saying something he shouldn't have. But he's swift to fix his expression into a neutral one and turns to her.

"I met Rouzbeh then. He was four, hence he doesn't remember much of it now. His mother died in that fire too. He was a difficult child. He loved to cry all the time. And the only other thing he loved was to make me miserable." He shares the memory with her with a rueful but fond smile. "He still makes me miserable sometimes. But I'm really grateful to have him. Earlier when I saw Hamama crying, I was reminded of him and felt this need to comfort her."

"You must love sayyid Rouzbeh very much."

"He's a brother to me."

"Did you have any siblings of your own?"

He blinks, looking at her as if not understanding her. "Tell me about your mother," he says instead.

Rahaf feels slightly puzzled with him but she doesn't linger on it as she replies to him, "I don't remember much about her. But she was very beautiful and kind. She used to tell me all these lovely stories with their wise lessons. Aswad tells me her and I are much alike."

"Ameer Aswad might be right in saying so. You do have lovely stories to tell, and you're very beautiful too."

His compliment makes her blush once more. Rahaf tugs the hood of his cloak forward, trying to hide her face, making Furat chuckle softly at her.

"But anything that is beautiful must be very dangerous, is it not?" he says.

"Then you must be very dangerous yourself, my Ameer."

He leans in to whisper into her ear, his lips lightly grazing her ear shell. "As are you with calling me your Ameer, my Rahaf."

She shudders and burns and is out of the bench running back to their chamber, hearing Furat laughing behind her.

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Pray for Palestine.