Work Text:
Jabal Al-Druze, Syria. June, 1927.
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Syria had failed. He had failed to win independence, failed to avenge his father, failed to keep alive the last ember of his people’s hope. Maybe it was written. Maybe he was always doomed to rise, burn, and fall.
He lay on torn earth, surrounded by bodies that once shouted his name. Dust and smoke choked the air; in the distance he could hear the echo of French shouted and boots scraped gravel. Sunset bled into the ground’s red.
It amazed him he was still alive, or rather that France hadn’t killed him right then and there. He’d laugh at the irony, if he could that is. Maybe this was France’s punishment: to keep him breathing while everything around him died. His chest rose and fell unevenly; blood, his and others’, mixed together and dried, clinging on to him like a reminder of the lives lost in trying to bring his “fantasy” to life.
He thought of Lebanon. He pictured him in Beirut, far from this ruined field. France had probably finished with him by now. God, he hoped he was safe. But safety was a word that did not belong to any of them.
Boots stopped. A shadow fell across his face; a soldier’s stomp drove pain through his abdomen, as if to see his reaction. “Still alive,” France said. Cold, precise.
Syria tried to move. The rifle butt pressed him down. France crouched, despite the chaos, brushing dust from Syria’s uniform as if cleaning a broken statue. “You could have been something,” he said softly. “You could have built something with me.”
“You mean for you,” Syria rasped.
“Semantics,” France smiled. Silence stretched. “Take him. He’ll live.”
The soldiers moved quickly, dragging him upright by his arms and shoulders. Every movement sent jolts of pain through ribs, bruised muscles, and battered limbs. The world spun around him; the ground beneath his feet seemed to tilt and shift. Dust mixed with the iron-like taste of blood filled his mouth, acrid and choking. His vision blurred, red and brown bleeding together, and each shout from the soldiers sounded distant, echoing from far away.
He tried to protest, tried to hold onto something familiar, a hand, a voice, anything for that matter, but his body betrayed him, to weak to even move. A heavy fist pressed against his back, forcing him forward. Pain shot through his side, a flare that stole the last bit of coherence from his mind.
Somewhere in the distance, he thought he heard France speak again, calm and cold, but the words were meaningless, he couldn’t understand a thing. His knees threatened to buckle, and the world narrowed to pounding in his skull, heat and blood and dust. Then the floor seemed to tilt away entirely.
And then nothing.
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Metal slammed. The cell door closed like judgment.
When he woke, the air was thick and cold. His head throbbed as though the earth itself pulsed beneath his skull. For a long moment, he didn’t move. The world came back to him slowly. First sound, then weight, then sharp pain across his entire body. A slow dripping echoed somewhere above, steady and rhythmic, the kind of sound that made time stretch and made you grow impatient with every passing second.
He was lying on stone: rough, damp, and cold. The chill of it had seeped into his skin, and when he tried to move, his body refused. His throat was dry; the taste of blood lingered on his tongue. The faint light that filtered in through a barred slit high in the wall cast long shadows that shifted when he blinked.
He pushed himself up, each motion dragging fire through his ribs and arms. His wrists were raw where rope had rubbed, and dried blood clung to his skin like dirt. For a second, he thought he was still on the battlefield, until the reality of confinement settled around him.
The walls were close. A single bucket sat in the corner. Nothing else. He exhaled slowly. Every breath felt heavy, deliberate, as though the air itself fought against him. When he pressed his palm to his chest, his heartbeat was faint, uneven, but there. Still there. He was alive.
Three hours had passed since Syria had lain on the scorched field. His body ached in ways he hadn’t known possible: ribs bruised and misaligned, a shoulder refusing to bear weight, and a jaw that throbbed with every heartbeat. He tried to curl himself into some semblance of comfort, but stone walls offered none.
The cell pressed around him like stone and shadow. The air smelled of rot, and somewhere above, water dripped in uneven rhythm. He tried to close his eyes, but every nerve screamed with memory of the stomp, the rifle, the smell of his own blood, the sheer presence of France looming over him.
Then the sudden knock came which brought Syria out of his trance, boots, slow and deliberate, echoing like a death sentence. France entered, with that stupid, taunting smile that made Syria go insane.
“You never learn,” France said, pacing the damp floor. Boots clicked against the stone. “You still believe rebellion makes you noble.”
“It makes me alive,” Syria rasped, voice hoarse.
The faint smile on France’s face faltered, the edges of control slipping from his voice. His expression hardened, a storm breaking through the calm. “Ça suffit.” The movement came fast, sudden, vicious. France ripped the rifle from his shoulder and swung. Metal met bone with a sickening crack, ribs first, then jaw. Air ripped from Syria’s lungs; his vision staggered on the edge of black. Another strike drove his head into the wall, the cold stone answering with a hot, ringing pain that traveled down his spine. He doubled, retching, each breath a razor.
France didn’t wait. A fist smashed into Syria’s stomach, folding him inward; bile rose threatening to choke him. He gagged once, then doubled over as the acid tore up his throat, the taste sharp, bitter and burning. It spilled onto the floor, mixing with the dirt and blood beneath him, splattering against himself and France’s “immaculate” boots. France looked down at Syria with pure disgust in his eyes, as if he were some disgusting animal. France’s eyes narrowed, a thin, cruel smile forming.
For a heartbeat, silence hung heavy. Then France’s voice cut through it, cold and dripping with contempt. “Regarde-toi,” he hissed. “Pathetic. Even your own vomit can’t keep you dignified.”
Before Syria could process what France had just said, a boot snapped against his side, spinning him across the floor. His shoulder struck the wall with a pop that sent heat racing along the joint. He gasped, each inhalation a knife. Every nerve felt aflame.
When Syria tried to lift his head, France’s hand forced it back, pressing it roughly against the hard wall. Mint-scented breath ghosted over his cheek. A knife appeared, as casually as a handkerchief. The blade gleamed in the dim light.
“Listen,” France said softly, almost tenderly. “Look at Lebanon — in Beirut, safe because he learned to listen. He adapted. He kept his head down when that kept him breathing.”
Syria’s throat closed. “Leave him out of this,” he croaked.
France stared at him blankly, calm eyes delivering the answer without a word, no. He traced the knife along Syria’s cheekbone in one slow, deliberate line, a shallow slash that flared hot and sharp. Blood welled along the line. Before Syria could even register the ache settling into his cheek, France’s hand moved with the same precision. The blade slid across Syria’s forearm in a brisk, clean line, not deep enough to snap a limb, but long enough that fire raced up his nerves. Syria hissed, fingers clamping against his palms as crimson liquid stained his sleeve.
For a moment, the world narrowed to that sound the faint drip against stone, the echo of his own unsteady breath. His vision pulsed at the edges; the walls tilted, the air too thick to draw. Every heartbeat hammered inside the wounds. He tried to steady his hand, but it trembled uncontrollably, leaving smears of red on the floor and himself. Pain came in waves, cold and hot, until he forced his breathing to slow.
France stepped back, studying him like a painting. “You’ll remember this,” he murmured. “These lines, my permanent signatures on you. You will carry a piece of me with you, for the rest of us your pitiful existence.”
Syria spat, the bitter taste of blood sharp on his tongue, mixing with salt and dust. France’s smile was small, immaculate.
Then his gaze hardened, and he moved closer. “Lève-toi. Montre-moi que tu tiens encore debout,” he said, voice calm but deadly.
Syria shook his head slightly, body too heavy, legs trembling, ribs screaming. He couldn’t, or wouldn’t. Not for him.
France’s expression darkened. Knife in hand, stained in sin, he stepped closer. “Alors, tu veux rester à terre et mourir comme un lâche?” he said, voice low and sharp, it was apparent his patience was running thin.
Syria’s breath hitched, defiance simmering. For a heartbeat he stayed still.
Without another word, France seized him by the shoulders, gripping him like a fallen statue. Syria’s knees buckled immediately, muscles refusing to cooperate, but France forced him upright, dragging him across the floor until he teetered on unsteady feet.
Once Syria was barely on his feet, France moved with swift, deliberate precision, slashing the knife between his shoulder and collarbone. Fire lanced through him, scorching chest and arm. He gasped, choking on blood, but the physical dominance and the sting of the blade forced him to remain upright. Legs trembling violently, knees threatening to give way, he swayed but stayed on his feet.
France’s mint-scented breath brushed over his cheek as he studied him. “Good, hopefully now you’ll learn to obey.” He murmured, almost approvingly. Then he turned and left the cell. The door closed with a final, echoing click.
The moment the echo of France’s boots faded, Syria’s strength abandoned him. His knees buckled, and he collapsed to the floor, groaning. Every bruise, every rib, every slash stung in protest.
For a long while, he lay there, chest heaving, trembling. When he finally forced himself to move, it was slow and methodical. He tore a strip from his already bloodied sleeve, pressing it against the gash between shoulder and collarbone. Pain flared sharply, but he held the fabric tight to slow the bleeding.
He tended to the other wounds next: the slash along his arm, burning and sticky, and the shallow line across his cheek. Every motion sent sparks of pain up his nerves, but he worked carefully, wiping away coagulated blood and wrapping torn cloth where it would hold.
Leaning back against the cold stone wall, Syria breathed through the pain. The air was damp, heavy, and thick, but his pulse remained steady, slow, deliberate, a stubborn rhythm that refused to break. Every drop of blood, every ache, every throb was a reminder: he was alive. And he hated it.
The next days stretched like iron. Guards treated him carelessly, slamming bowls of cold water, throwing dry bread at his feet, every motion reminded him of subjugation. Every sound of boots or a rattling key froze him in anticipation. Sleep was fractured; dreams of his father, his people, and France invaded in bursts. Pain radiated from every bruise, every scar, every movement reopening old wounds.
The wounds themselves became constant companions. His cheek burned with every flicker of torchlight; his arm throbbed with a pulse all its own. The gash across his chest and shoulder reminded him with every breath that he was living, but also vulnerable. Simple movements sent shockwaves through him, but he forced his breath, forced himself to remain upright. He counted small victories: a meal eaten, a stretch without collapsing, a heartbeat survived without fear.
He thought of Lebanon — the boy with clenched fists and bright eyes. Maybe France was right: Lebanon had learned to listen. Maybe that was why he “survived” and why he was still here, even in this damp, oppressive cell. Syria forced himself to cling to the thought, even as pain, isolation, and despair pressed from every direction.
Slowly, he brought his bleeding hand to his chest, smearing red across his uniform as if sealing a promise there: he would live. He would rise.
But the promise felt hollow. Every heartbeat throbbed in his ears like a drum of judgment. Each breath drew fire through his bruised ribs and shoulder. Hunger gnawed at him, cold and insistent. Pain radiated from every wound: cheek, arm, chest, shoulder, a constant, burning reminder that he was alive, but barely.
He sank to the floor, shaking uncontrollably. Tears stung his eyes, but he didn’t care. He let them fall freely, hot and unrelenting, carving rivers down the dirt-streaked face of the boy who had once stood proud, shouting for freedom. The boy who had been Syria was gone. Now there was only raw, trembling survival.
Sobs tore from his chest, ragged, half-choked, and utterly pathetic. His body shook with the effort of crying, muscles quivering under the weight of exhaustion and pain. He curled into himself, knees pressed to chest, pressing his bloodied hands to his face, as if the world could be pushed away if he just held tightly enough.
Food arrived, meager and cold. Bread that cut raw through his throat, water bitter as coffee. He couldn’t eat. Not yet. Even if he could, he wouldn’t anyways.
He couldn’t move without sending waves of agony through every bruise, every gash. Guards laughed at his trembling, tossing scraps as if mocking him. Every glance, every footstep, reminded him how small he had become, how completely stripped of dignity. He whimpered like a child, pitiful and helpless, and hated himself for it. He hated who he had become.
The nights were the worst. Darkness pressed against him like a living weight, shadows crawling across damp walls and floors. He imagined France’s knife sliding across his skin again, imagined the blows he could not escape, the humiliation, the rage he could not release. He screamed into the walls, throat raw, but no one came. No one heard.
Syria’s mind fractured further. He counted steps, heard voices in the dark, he imagined it to be the ones he loved, he despised this feeling. He was alone. He was weak. He was screaming in silence. His hands shook as he pressed them to his chest, trying to feel the pulse, trying to remind himself he was alive, but the rhythm felt like a cruel joke.
He rocked back and forth on the stone floor, crying, whimpering, sobbing, small and insignificant in the vast, cold cell.
Every scar burned anew with each movement: cheek, arm, shoulder, chest, each a proof of torture, a brand of France’s dominance. He pressed his hands over them, trying to smother the pain, to hold back the tidal wave of humiliation and despair, but it was useless. It overwhelmed him, filling every hollow cavity of his chest.
Syria let himself break entirely. He screamed into his own hands, tears streaking across blood and dirt, sobbing like a helpless infant, like a pathetic child lost in a world that had no mercy. The fire that had once burned inside him flickered and threatened to die, buried beneath agony and shame.
And yet, even in the darkest moments, a small, stubborn ember persisted. Between gasps, between tears, he whispered to himself, broken, trembling: I will rise. I have to. I will not kneel.
But the whisper was thin. Fragile. Almost swallowed by the darkness of the cell and by the unbearable weight of his body and his mind. For hours, he sat there, shaking and crying, blood on his hands, bruises throbbing, his body barely holding together as if it was about to collapse if he didn’t hold on tight enough. He had fallen apart completely, a shell of the man he had been, a baby wailing against a world that had taken everything from him.
He layed there, chest heaving, tears streaking his bloodied face, and the sobs slowly subsided into a hollow quiet. But the quiet was not peace. It was a heavy, simmering rage that coiled tight in his chest, venomous and dark. His body shook less now, but inside, fire burned hotter than ever, a cold and silent fury.
Hatred twisted his stomach. He hated France with a purity that burned hotter than any physical pain. Every deliberate slash, every mocking word, every calculated stomp replayed in his mind in endless loops, sharpening the contempt until it throbbed like a second heartbeat. He hated the cruelty, the precision, the way France had reduced him to this: powerless, bleeding and vulnerable version of himself.
And somewhere within that hatred, something else began to take shape, faint at first, but growing heavier with each breath. Not defiance, not courage, but the thought of what it would mean to make France feel this. To see him bleed, to see him stripped bare of control, to watch the same terror flicker in his eyes. It wasn’t justice he wanted anymore. He wanted retribution, slow, deliberate, and cruel.
And just as much, he hated himself. Hated his weakness, his trembling body, the way he had succumbed so completely. How easily he had broken, how pitiful he had been in his own eyes. Rage and shame twisted together in a brutal knot, each pulse through his bruised chest a reminder that he was still alive, and yet entirely defeated.
No whispers of rising. No ember of survival. Only quiet, undiluted hatred, for the man who had done this to him, and for the man he had become under the weight of it. He could almost feel it radiate outward, a pressure behind his closed eyelids, a torrent waiting to erupt, but he said nothing. He did nothing. He could not. He only let the darkness sit in him, solid and immovable, a mirror to the cruelty and failure that defined these long hours.
Shame on him. Shame on France. Shame on them both, for every second that he had to live this hell.
Time lost meaning. The cell shrank around him until it was nothing but shadow and breath and heartbeat. The hatred dulled everything else, pain, hunger, even thought. It became his air, the only thing that kept him tethered to existence.
He stopped noticing when the guards came. Stopped flinching at footsteps. The world beyond the walls blurred into a distant, meaningless hum. All that remained was the cold press of stone and the echo of France’s voice, threading through his mind like a curse.
Sometimes, in the darkness, he whispered to himself, sometimes prayers or even just the sound of breath, the proof that he still existed. He wasn’t sure if it was a comfort or a brutal punishment from the man he hates.
He pressed his hand against the wall, tracing the cracks as if they were lines of his own scars. He couldn’t remember how long he had been there, hours, days, maybe weeks. The world outside no longer mattered. He no longer cared at this moment.
France had taken everything from him. What remained of him was only a body that refused to die and a heart that refused to forget.
Somewhere far away, he thought he heard the sound of wind outside the cell. He closed his eyes (maybe he could get some rest, for once) and listened until even that memory faded.