Tourkokratia
Title: Tourkokratia
Summary: Greece comes under Ottoman rule.
He sat at the table, his hands balled into fists, holding onto his shirt. They spoke rapidly in crisp, foreign tongues around him and he imagined them speaking with sticks in their mouths. There were words that he was able to make out, but just barely and sometimes he wondered if he had the right word in mind.
…Byzantine… Ottoman… Christian… Giaour. . .
Beside him, sitting in his own chair, the man rested his masked face against his hand and watched. His mouth, which was fixed in a thin line, opened in a yawn and the boy knew he was bored.
One of the men broke from his conversation to give the Empire a disapproving scowl. He spoke in the same foreign tongue, “Pay attention, Sadiq.”
No one could see it, but the empire rolled his eyes behind the mask before speaking roughly, “I don’t care about politics.” He leaned back in the chair, grinning, “I’m only in this for conquering.”
The men scolded the rambunctious nation and promised more conquering was to come before setting papers down on the table. The boy looked up, taking in the appearance of these documents. Maps and important looking documents written in beautiful but illegible script covered the table and the men warily covered several of the papers with their hands.
They asked a question and looked in his direction. Heracles now knew they were talking about him. “Is it wise to let the boy see?”
The Ottoman Empire turned his head slightly, looking at the smaller nation, “Nah,” He replied, reaching out and ruffling the boy’s hair, “’S not like he understands-- he’s just a stupid giaour.” And he pushed his head down before reluctantly focusing on the task at hand.
Of course, Heracles could not understand any of these words but he tried.
The men removed their hands, revealing the maps and letters once again. He did not know what they were talking about but he was able to figure out that when they circled his home on the map and called it ‘Rumelia’ they were calling it their own.
“Greece.” The boy corrected, interrupting the Ottomans who now stared at the green eyed boy.
“What was that, brat?”
“Greece.” He repeated strongly, leaning forward, stretching across the table and placing his finger on the map. “It’s Greece,” he corrected in his native tongue before struggling to find the foreign words to continue, “Not Rumelia.”
He was hit in the back of the head with such force, his forehead crashed into the table. He tried to raise his head but the larger nation who sat beside him, held him down. “Get it right, brat,” He snarled, “It’s the Ottoman Empire.”
“Greece.” The boy grunted, placing both hands on the table and forcing his head up by a few inches.
His head crashed into the table, “Otto-man Em-pire.” He articulated, proceeding to press harder as if he was going to force the boy through the table. There was silence and he loosened his hold, allowing the boy to rise if he so desired.
His head felt heavy, as if someone had stuffed it with rocks. As he sat up again, he raised a hand to his forehead. He now felt light headed and dizzy. He could feel a grainy sort of wetness on his brow and he knew that ink from the papers had gotten onto him. Glaring at the masked man and all of the men in the room, he growled once more, “It’s Greece.”
A chair was thrown back and he could feel himself being lifted out of his own by the back of his shirt. The boy gasped, raising his hands and pulling to get free but as soon as his fingers touched the larger hand, he was thrown across the room.
Before he could even think about getting up, the Empire was on him, grabbing him by the hair. “Not another word from ya,” He snapped, using his other hand to hold the boy’s jaw shut. “Listen t’me,” He shook the child to get his attention and once the boy’s green eyed glare was locked on his mask, he knew he had it, “You can call it whatever the hell you want but you need to get it outta yer head right now--“ He shook him one more time, “That yer anythin’ important ‘cos yer nothin’.”
Rising from the ground, dragging the Greek up with him, he dropped the boy who fell hard on his rear. “Liar!” The boy accused, “I am Gre---“ He gasped as a heavy boot rammed into his stomach.
The empire did not hold back. He stepped on his legs and kicked at his face. The boy did not yell but the man could find himself catching a high from the stubborn, screaming glare he received. He grinned maliciously, pausing from the beating just when he had the child against the wall.
With the toe of his boot, he raised the defeated boy’s chin to look up at him, “Y’see these men behind me?” He asked, tossing his head in their direction, “It’d make their jobs a hell of a lot easier if ya’d stop actin’ like a stubborn Giaour.”
The Ottoman allowed a few moments of silence to fall so that the stupid child could comprehend things. He pulled his foot away and watched as the boy held his head up high, maintaining his constant glare. Kneeling down to be at the Greek’s height, he flicked him in his ink-stained forehead. “Now, tell me yer name one more time.”
He glared into the mask until he thought he could see eyes.
“I’m wait-ing.” The man mused, tapping the boy’s head after each syllable.
Biting his lip, the boy looked away. He opened his mouth to speak but quickly caught himself. The words were forming in the back of his throat like vomit and the mere thought of saying them out loud made him sick. Quietly, he mumbled his name to himself.
“I can’t hear you, brat.”
“Greece,” The boy whispered and the man raised his hand to hit him, “Rumelia.” No sooner had the words been spoken that he held his stomach and threw up for real. He felt sick to his stomach. His head hurt. Every part of his body felt heavy and ached. He felt. . . defeated.
“Good boy,” The Ottoman praised, ruffling the boy’s hair playfully. “And don’t forget it.”
Summary: Greece comes under Ottoman rule.
He sat at the table, his hands balled into fists, holding onto his shirt. They spoke rapidly in crisp, foreign tongues around him and he imagined them speaking with sticks in their mouths. There were words that he was able to make out, but just barely and sometimes he wondered if he had the right word in mind.
…Byzantine… Ottoman… Christian… Giaour. . .
Beside him, sitting in his own chair, the man rested his masked face against his hand and watched. His mouth, which was fixed in a thin line, opened in a yawn and the boy knew he was bored.
One of the men broke from his conversation to give the Empire a disapproving scowl. He spoke in the same foreign tongue, “Pay attention, Sadiq.”
No one could see it, but the empire rolled his eyes behind the mask before speaking roughly, “I don’t care about politics.” He leaned back in the chair, grinning, “I’m only in this for conquering.”
The men scolded the rambunctious nation and promised more conquering was to come before setting papers down on the table. The boy looked up, taking in the appearance of these documents. Maps and important looking documents written in beautiful but illegible script covered the table and the men warily covered several of the papers with their hands.
They asked a question and looked in his direction. Heracles now knew they were talking about him. “Is it wise to let the boy see?”
The Ottoman Empire turned his head slightly, looking at the smaller nation, “Nah,” He replied, reaching out and ruffling the boy’s hair, “’S not like he understands-- he’s just a stupid giaour.” And he pushed his head down before reluctantly focusing on the task at hand.
Of course, Heracles could not understand any of these words but he tried.
The men removed their hands, revealing the maps and letters once again. He did not know what they were talking about but he was able to figure out that when they circled his home on the map and called it ‘Rumelia’ they were calling it their own.
“Greece.” The boy corrected, interrupting the Ottomans who now stared at the green eyed boy.
“What was that, brat?”
“Greece.” He repeated strongly, leaning forward, stretching across the table and placing his finger on the map. “It’s Greece,” he corrected in his native tongue before struggling to find the foreign words to continue, “Not Rumelia.”
He was hit in the back of the head with such force, his forehead crashed into the table. He tried to raise his head but the larger nation who sat beside him, held him down. “Get it right, brat,” He snarled, “It’s the Ottoman Empire.”
“Greece.” The boy grunted, placing both hands on the table and forcing his head up by a few inches.
His head crashed into the table, “Otto-man Em-pire.” He articulated, proceeding to press harder as if he was going to force the boy through the table. There was silence and he loosened his hold, allowing the boy to rise if he so desired.
His head felt heavy, as if someone had stuffed it with rocks. As he sat up again, he raised a hand to his forehead. He now felt light headed and dizzy. He could feel a grainy sort of wetness on his brow and he knew that ink from the papers had gotten onto him. Glaring at the masked man and all of the men in the room, he growled once more, “It’s Greece.”
A chair was thrown back and he could feel himself being lifted out of his own by the back of his shirt. The boy gasped, raising his hands and pulling to get free but as soon as his fingers touched the larger hand, he was thrown across the room.
Before he could even think about getting up, the Empire was on him, grabbing him by the hair. “Not another word from ya,” He snapped, using his other hand to hold the boy’s jaw shut. “Listen t’me,” He shook the child to get his attention and once the boy’s green eyed glare was locked on his mask, he knew he had it, “You can call it whatever the hell you want but you need to get it outta yer head right now--“ He shook him one more time, “That yer anythin’ important ‘cos yer nothin’.”
Rising from the ground, dragging the Greek up with him, he dropped the boy who fell hard on his rear. “Liar!” The boy accused, “I am Gre---“ He gasped as a heavy boot rammed into his stomach.
The empire did not hold back. He stepped on his legs and kicked at his face. The boy did not yell but the man could find himself catching a high from the stubborn, screaming glare he received. He grinned maliciously, pausing from the beating just when he had the child against the wall.
With the toe of his boot, he raised the defeated boy’s chin to look up at him, “Y’see these men behind me?” He asked, tossing his head in their direction, “It’d make their jobs a hell of a lot easier if ya’d stop actin’ like a stubborn Giaour.”
The Ottoman allowed a few moments of silence to fall so that the stupid child could comprehend things. He pulled his foot away and watched as the boy held his head up high, maintaining his constant glare. Kneeling down to be at the Greek’s height, he flicked him in his ink-stained forehead. “Now, tell me yer name one more time.”
He glared into the mask until he thought he could see eyes.
“I’m wait-ing.” The man mused, tapping the boy’s head after each syllable.
Biting his lip, the boy looked away. He opened his mouth to speak but quickly caught himself. The words were forming in the back of his throat like vomit and the mere thought of saying them out loud made him sick. Quietly, he mumbled his name to himself.
“I can’t hear you, brat.”
“Greece,” The boy whispered and the man raised his hand to hit him, “Rumelia.” No sooner had the words been spoken that he held his stomach and threw up for real. He felt sick to his stomach. His head hurt. Every part of his body felt heavy and ached. He felt. . . defeated.
“Good boy,” The Ottoman praised, ruffling the boy’s hair playfully. “And don’t forget it.”