Archive of Our Own

o1.

Sadiq had conquered Syria ages ago it seemed, enough ages ago that the insurrections and fights and general bitchiness should have ceased. And while he really did prefer Syria to stay somewhere other than his Istanbul palace, these treks to Damascus to do nothing other than yell and shout about taxes unpaid and attacks against his soldiers were long and tedious and ended up with sand in his shoes. Sadiq sighed, glaring at the door; he'd been staring at it for at least twenty minutes. He hated talking to Syria, hated how the man's eyes penetrated past his mask and saw his youth so plainly, the youth he easily hid from Greece and Hungary and Egypt.

"Either there is an ox breathing outside my office, or the Ottoman Empire has deigned to visit." The wood did little to muffle Syria's contempt, a growl like a lion's. "Just come in already," the beast snarled.

God damn it.

Sadiq pushed open the door. "Syria, you--"

"Do you know how I knew it wasn't an ox outside my door?" Syria didn't even glance up from his writing. "Oxes smell so much better."

Ouch. "Any of my other territories would lose their head for saying as much." Sadiq slammed the door behind him, a book falling from a shelf like a bird with clipped wings. "What makes you think you're any different?"

A soft snort, and Syria finally set down his pen. "Save your posturing for Greece; you'll need it when he finally sees what an idiot you are, novice."

Sadiq ground his molars together. "How is it you manage to be the biggest pain in my ass, even all the way out in a damned desert?"

Syria's lips twitched. "I've had stronger men than you to practice on, novice."

o2.

And Sadiq would never really question his sultan, not out loud at least, and perhaps it was possible to catch more flies with honey, and sending more soldiers to Syria's lands wasn't really working anyway but... but... Surely playing nice with him would do even less and give Sadiq a bigger migraine than usual.

Cautiously, Elizaveta set the tray of lokum and tea between them, watching warily as she poured two cups. "Will you be needing anything else?"

A dull scimitar with witch to murder the man across from him. "No," Sadiq muttered. "Get outta here--and take the brat with you."

With a huff and whip of her hair, Elizaveta grabbed Heracles from behind the curtain--all curious eyes and indignant shouts--and left the room. It grew considerably chilly as a stretch of minutes passed between them, Sadiq grasping for topics not related to how much he would rather be anywhere else in the world. "So. Nice... weather today."

A dark eyebrow lifted at that, and nothing more.

Sadiq cleared his throat. "Try the tea; Hungary's gotten good at making it."

"A barbarian training another barbarian. How wonderful."

"I'm going to stab you before the afternoon is through, do you know that?"

Syria chuckled; Sadiq thought it was perhaps the first time he'd ever heard the man make such a sound. It was low and brassy, like a dusty antique, unused for ages but still with some shine underneath. Unnerving, really, Sadiq thought, and he gave up his search for safe conversation.

o3.

"What's so fuckin' funny?"

"Sometimes you remind me of an old friend who was just as much a novice as you."

"Bullshit--you've never had friends."

"A human friend."

With a short bark of laughter, Sadiq pulled down his veil just enough to take a quick sip of tea. "Don't be ridiculous. Humans can be friends with nations as much as cats can be with a bucket of water."

A look of intense patience crossed Syria's face. "You have much to learn, novice. One day you'll find a human you love more than all others; just wait. You will give all of yourself to them, whether they know it or not. And they will serve you beautifully, even if they don't know it. You will never be the same afterwards."

Syria was gazing right through him, past him. Sadiq frowned, felt a chill in the bottom of his belly as the silence spread too thin. He glanced at the limp sleeve of Syria's coat, and suddenly had to know--thought he did know: "How did you lose your arm," Sadiq asked softly.

Finally, the dark stare returned to Sadiq, to the mask, to the present. At first Syria looked like he wasn't going to answer, lips stretched in a thin line, but--never one to miss a chance to prove what a novice the Ottoman Empire truly was--Syria cleared his throat: "Rome lost a finger for Caesar, Greece her eye for Socrates, Mongolia an ear for Ghengis Khan. Although I did not yet realize it, I lost my arm for Altair--"

"Who?"

"--you do not know him, nor do I think you will ever. There will come a day when you gladly bear a wound like a badge of pride for all to see. It is but a small sacrifice compared to the one he made."

Syria finished his tea in silence, Sadiq watching and wondering, still disbelieving. For the most part.

o4.

Istanbul was his again--he'd told that fucker he'd get it back, hadn't he? He'd told Greece--bit down, blood pouring from his nose, whispered, "I will have this again."--before Greece had thrown him from the balcony. And now Istanbul was Sadiq's once more; but he'd not gotten it by his own will alone.

“Is it difficult…” Sadiq cleared his throat, started again. “Is it difficult, after they die?”

“Absolutely.” A long line of smoke shot from Syria's mouth as he tapped the cigarette against the side of the tank. “You will know no greater sorrow. The wound on your body will never match the one in your heart.”

"I figured." When that man died, Sadiq would morn terribly. He would lose a part of himself.

"Perhaps that shows some growth on your part, novice."

"Still callin' me a novice after all these years? Shit."

"You still have much to learn." And with that Syria left, Sadiq once more appreciative of the desert and long miles between them.