The Empire Strikes Back - Part 4

[Michaelangelo]

Constantinople
February 20, 1936

As the residents of the Temple District made their way to the docks, a lone figure shadowed them from the rooftops, remaining silent and out of sight. As they waited for the boats, the figure remained unseen above, watching and waiting. As they began loading onto the boats and departing out into the straits, the figure remained motionless, an imperceptible fixture above. It was only after the first shots rang out that the figure moved again, unsheathing two sets of claw-like blades.

The Ripper had been patient, observing the flight of the last bastion of Christian strength within the city. They had taken careful notice of the Ecumenical Patriarch and his entourage. It would have been a simple matter of slipping into their ranks and dispatching the Holy Father, although an escape would have been much more difficult. There were surely followers of Chernobog who would have done so if presented with a similar opportunity, seeing it as a gift of the Black God to take out the head of a rival faith. The Ripper was not one of them. Zeal was for short-sighted fools, and often got one killed. A pragmatic approach was preferred, even if it seemed somewhat contradictory to the edicts of chaos espoused by Chernobog.

So the Ripper waited. For what, they did not know. Master Sliver had given them the freedom to decide their own approach to this mission. Let the Ecumenical Patriarch escape or eliminate him before he could? Intervene or observe? The patriarch's death would certainly plunge the church into chaos, perhaps even with both sides of the civil war trying to influence the choice of successor. Then again, the patriarch leaving the city to flee to the rebels would only stoke the flames of war even more. It was a delicate balance, one that needed to be carefully maintained to maximize the chaos of this conflict. Ultimately they favoured to let events proceed as they were, perhaps because it was easier to choose inaction over action when faced with such a dilemma. There were also other factors they needed to consider, tied to deep-held beliefs that they kept buried and hidden from others of the faith for they could often times run counter to the edicts of Chernobog.

The evacuation proceeded rather smoothly considering how many people were involved and how strongly guarded the city had been the past few months. Perhaps God was showing his favour to his faithful. Or perhaps he wasn't as the Ripper noticed a half dozen fascists, armed with sub-machine guns clearly meant to do maximum damage without consideration for who was in the crosshairs. They were sneaking through an alley towards the docks. They had somehow managed to avoid the Temple Guard, who continued to fight their comrades elsewhere in the district. The Ripper made note of their path, which after a few more blocks would lead them right to the refugees. The closest group of refugees consisted of women and children who had missed the first batch of boats, possibly because they were latecomers or had opted to let others go ahead of them. The Ripper watched the fascists slowly approach, only three blocks between them and the refugees. Their eyes glinted mercilessly, anticipating the bloodshed they surely meant to inflict. The chaos that would ensue would be unimaginable. Chernobog would surely be pleased. The Ripper, however, would not.

As the fascists walked past below, the Ripper dropped down from the rooftop with barely a sound. They landed in the middle of them, startling the ones in the back who suddenly found an armoured and cloaked figure amongst their ranks. One of the men tried to cry out, but his throat was ripped out by the Ripper's claws before he could speak. He stared at the Ripper's masked face as the life drained from his eyes. He then clutched at his torn throat and collapsed to the ground. Another could only let out a surprised grunt as a set of claws pierced into his chest. He spat out blood and then slumped down onto the street.

The rest of the fascists had finally taken notice of the intruder. One of the men tried to bring his sub-machine gun to bear, but the Ripper kicked another of the goons into him, knocking them both back. Of the other two, one who looked barely eighteen was staring in horror at his dying comrades, while the other aimed his gun at the interloper. The Ripper rolled to the side, dodging bullet fire that sprayed the wall behind where they had just stood. They weren't close enough to get the shooter with their claws, so they opted for a ranged alternative instead. A throwing knife suddenly appeared in their hand, and a quick flick of the wrist sent it flying at the shooter. He let out a scream as it plunged into his left eye.

By now the two fascists who had been knocked into each other had gathered their wits. The Ripper quickly closed the gap before they could aim their weapons, going in fast with their claws. One of the soldiers used his gun as a shield, blocking the blow intended for his chest. Sparks flew as the blades cut into the gun, leaving deep scratches. The other man managed to get his gun up and was ready to fire. Twirling through the air, the Ripper continued through with their initial attack, striking again at the first soldier, managing to slice into their left arm. They then manoeuvred around the man, pushing him out between them and the other combatant. Before the second soldier could realize his mistake, he let loose a burst of fire into his comrade. The first fascist collapsed to the ground, bleeding heavily from the bullet wounds in his chest.

Without giving time for a follow-up attack, the Ripper lunged at the armed soldier, stabbing both sets of claws into his chest. They hoisted the man into the air and tossed him off the blades, his body lifeless before it even hit the ground.

An angry roar pulled the Ripper's attention to the side, where the man with the throwing knife in his eye had finally overcome the pain enough to attack. Before he could let off a shot, the Ripper tossed another throwing knife, this one lodging into the man's right eye. He let out a pained squeal as he unleashed a barrage of sub-machine gun fire. The Ripper dropped low and rolled towards the man, avoiding the gunfire as the blinded man fired wildly into the air. They kicked out the man's legs, dropping him onto his back and knocking the wind out of him. The gunfire stopped as the Ripper lodged their claws into the underside of the fascist's jaw.

Rising to their feet, the Ripper flicked the fresh blood from their claws as the action finally came to a halt. The sounds of the refugees a few blocks away and gunfire in the distance could be heard, but the alley remained silent except for the sobbing of the one remaining fascist.

The Ripper stood silently, watching the one enemy that remained. He had dropped his gun earlier in the fight and was now on his knees, his head bowed down and hands clasped in prayer. He was barely even a man and certainly no longer a threat, so the Ripper did not hasten to eliminate him. They listened as the teen whispered prayer after prayer to God, as though He would descend from the heavens and save him. The Ripper let out a deep chuckle, an ominous sound that reverberated through their metal mask.

"God will not save you," the Ripper said, stepping closer to the fascist. Sensing the armour-clad figure approach, the whimpering boy bowed his head further and more fervently whispered his prayers. The Ripper grabbed his chin and jerked his head up, their claws sticking out on both sides of his neck as a clear reminder of the threat they presented. "You were ready to murder innocent woman and children, and even men of the cloth. Why would God save you?"

"I was only serving my emperor," the boy said, his voice cracking, a mixture of tears and snot streaking down his young face.

It was pathetic and sad how easy it was it was to manipulate the young into believing anything. A smirk spread across the Ripper's face, hidden by the mask and only noticeable by the Ripper themself. There was a great irony in that thought, seeing as they served an equally troublesome cause. Yet there was a difference between blind faith and allies of convenience, and often the two were indistinguishable when the latter put on a show of seeming committed to the cause. This was something the Ripper had learned early on, and this boy clearly had not.

Careful not to accidentally slit the boy's throat, the Ripper forced him to his feet and pushed him away. They pointed back down the alley in the direction the fascists had come. "Go, and rethink your purpose in life." They walked around the boy and gave him in kick in the rear, forcing him to stumble back down the alley. "Do not make the same mistake again or you will find me less forgiving the second time."

Without hesitation, the boy scrambled off down the alley. He looked back only once, just as he started away, but the Ripper was already gone. He quickly picked up his pace and fled as fast as he could. The Ripper watched him go from the rooftop above until he he was out of sight before returning to observe the evacuation. They would need the time to devise an excuse for their recent foray against the fascists when they reported back to Master Sliver.

 

[zenphoenix]

Trebizond - February 19

Theodora briskly strolled down the hallway of the MSI building. She had been in a rush ever since she received the news from Prince Alvértos. Every minute counted—she needed to get a message out to her contacts in the capital as soon as possible. Every minute that passed meant another civilian dead at the hands of the blackshirts. Konstantinos wouldn’t be above targeting the clergy if it gave him a short term political advantage. But in the long term, it would only push the Church onto Alvértos’ side by necessity, Hey, nobody said those guys had great long term planning.

She reached the communications room. Normally, Justinian would be here as the point of contact for the MSI’s undercover operatives in Constantinople, but he had been recalled to Australia and wouldn’t be around for a while. So Theodora decided to do it herself. She sat at one of the specialized telegraphs the MSI had developed specifically for secure communications. It had an extra unit attached to it, an encryption device. The specific encryption code could be changed with a dial on the side, and it was standard practice to change it every day. Once all codes on the dial were exhausted, the dial was replaced and a new set of codes was installed. That was the job of the cryptography department. She personally only had to type normally, like with any other telegraph.

“EXECUTE OPERATION LIGHTHOUSE CONTINGENCY PLAN 4”

Fortunately, before his departure, Justinian had left extremely detailed instructions as to the specifics of Operation Lighthouse. So all she had to do was type those words, and the operative on the other end would know what to do.

Even if “what to do” amounted to, if Justinian wasn’t lying, “figure it out yourself.”


Nicomedia

“Let me get this straight,” Paul said, “You want me to deploy the Talos and the patrol boats in an attack formation?”

Ioannes nodded. “That’s right.”

“Even though we are in no position to actually attack?”

“Yes. That’s not the objective.” Ioannes pointed at the wharfs of Galata. “We just need to cover for the evacuation.”

“You really want us to go right into the Golden Horn for an evacuation?” Paul said.

“I’d have done it at Megarevma, like with the previous evacuation,” Ioannes said, “But the people we’re extracting can’t make it that far. Galata is even a distraction.”

“A distraction for what?”

Ioannes lowered his voice. “The historic center, Temple District, that general area.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“That should tell you just how delicate the situation is. Theodora’s activated a lot of her people in the city.”

Paul shook his head. “Did she even tell you who the evacuees are?”

“She said something about a need-to-know basis,” Ioannes said, “Yeah, I’d have liked to know too. So can you do it?”

“Yes,” Paul said, “The Talos probably can’t go into the Golden Horn, but I can put it at the mouth and provide cover fire. The patrol boats will escort the transports to the shore.”

“Good,” Ioannes said, “Let’s get it done.”


Constantinople

The dockyard was abuzz with activity. Apparently, there had been an MSI operative embedded within the union leadership. He activated one of the union’s contingency plans. It wasn’t the main one—that would be executed whenever the troops in the East End decided to cross the bridges—but it was still important. The MSI requested the union’s help with evacuating certain high profile individuals—among others—to Skoutarion. The workers weren’t given any names or identifying information, other than they would be gathering the next day. There were some complaints about helping out capitalists and aristocrats who likely wanted to evacuate more of their own, but then several hundred hyperpyra coincidentally appeared in the union’s donation box. Management looked the other way. The MSI had probably dropped another few hundred hyperpyra onto their desks.

Officially, the dockworkers continued their jobs as usual. But the union deployed them over a much larger area of waterfront in addition to the regular work in Kontostaklion. Gavrilo and his team were assigned to the wharfs on the Golden Horn. There was another union branch there which had “requested” their assistance repairing docks in Galata. Fortunately, Management hadn’t sent any inspectors since the whole crisis started, having deemed the city too dangerous for them. If they had, they would have found that the Galata docks were perfectly fine. In fact, they looked much better than Kontoskalion’s docks, Gavrilo thought.

That’s because they are, Wilhelm said, Galata has commercial docks. Kontoskalion is primarily shipping and military.

Why’d we decide to work at Kontoskalion, then?

You said the pay and union benefits were better.

True, the Galata branch isn’t as generous. No matter the universe, some things just don’t change.

The union’s main goal with Gavrilo’s team was to provide security at the extraction point. They were to clear out the area under the guise of construction, letting through only civilians trying to escape. To that aim, they would go around the surrounding blocks and asking people to evacuate inland. Ships from the East End would then shell the empty docks and buildings to eliminate any enemy military presence. If all went according to plan, the evacuees—and anybody else who chose to go with them—would board the ships and be ferried to the East End. Then Gavrilo and the other dockworkers would return to Kontoskalion, with nobody the wiser.

“Say, Gavrilo.” One of the dockworkers adjusted the wooden railing of one of the wharfs. “Who do you think we’re evacuating tomorrow?”

“If I had to guess, probably some defectors,” Gavrilo said, “This is too high profile of an operation to get spies out.”

Those two Inquisitors came to mind.

“I bet it’s some fancy purpleshirt.” That was apparently the local slang referring to aristocrats, but it was increasingly being applied to those who sided with Alvértos in general. It made no difference to these dockworkers. “Those guys only look out for themselves.”

“Purpleshirts think we’re cannon fodder.”

“Do we have a choice, though?” Gavrilo said. “The only other alternatives are the blackshirts.”

“Black, purple, they’re all the same in the end. Only difference is which one kills you faster.”

“I’m tired of choosing the lesser of two evils. What’s the point if nothing will change for ourselves?”

“Perhaps they will change,” Gavrilo said.

“How do you know?”

Gavrilo actually didn’t know. In Vrhbosna, things seemed to stay the same no matter what. The union at his factory said the same things for as long as he could remember. But Management was much stricter there. He remembered one time there was a strike, and Management retaliated by calling in a favor from Berlin. Angelos’ men marched into Vrhbosna and shot several dozen of his colleagues. His pay was cut in half that year. He never got his full salary back, because the next year Angelos drove out the Kaiser and attempted to seize ultimate power. Much like what happened here with Konstantinos and Alvértos. So why would he say things would get better if they didn’t?

Gavrilo, Wilhelm’s voice came, It may not seem that way, but these times won’t last.

What do you mean?

There will always be bad times. But they end eventually. Surely, people living through the Thirteenth Century Crisis or the Fifty Years’ War believed the Apocalypse was upon them. But those ended, and better times began.

Those times didn’t have modern technology and ideologies making things worse.

Gavrilo, humans are still the same at their core. Technology and ideology only amplifies what’s already within you. You all have a potential for evil, which is justified with ideology and made destructive with technology. But there is also a potential for good. Technology can be used to destroy, but it can save as well. Just think of all of the medical advances you’ve seen in recent years, both here and at home. Same with ideologies. Fascism and equalism may still exist, but there will always be ideologies to oppose them, to defend the freedom of the people.

So what you’re saying is…as long as there’s evil, there will be good to oppose it?

Yes. Through the many generations I’ve watched over, that has not changed.

Gavrilo worked up the strength to say something. “Maybe it’s faith.”

One dockworker scoffed. “What, you still go to church?”

Gavrilo shook his head. “Not exactly. It’s more like a…personal faith. No matter how bad things can get, we can still pull ourselves out of it the same way we got into it.”


February 20

Gavrilo made himself comfortable on one of the docks with a view of the Golden Horn. He was alone now. The rest of the team had left, since it was after hours. But Gavrilo wanted to see the whole thing up close and make sure things went smoothly. If anything went wrong, he could always rely on Wilhelm.

You do know I have to draw on my grace to heal you ever time, right?

I’m counting on it.

There was a feeling in his head that was like a sigh, but it went by without Gavrilo’s mouth moving. I’ve already used a lot of my grace to slow your aging. If you get really hurt, I don’t know how much longer it’ll delay reintegration.

Then make sure to keep me away from that.

It gets harder if you rush into danger.

What, you haven’t before? Isn’t that why you’re here?

For the record, that was Gabriel tricking us all.

Have you ever thought about what you’re going to do when you meet him again?

…you know what? I don’t think I have, yet.

Why?

BECAUSE I’M TOO FOCUSED ON KEEPING THIS OTHER GABRIEL ALIVE!

Okay, okay, fine! I get it!

The battle began. Flashes appeared from the guns of the destroyer at the entrance to the Golden Horn, and seconds later, shells struck an empty dockyard that the MSI had marked as an enemy asset. The union had been told to evacuate Galata’s waterfront as if preparing for an attack. Next, patrol boats advanced into the Golden Horn and deployed rowboats filled with marines, who secured beachheads on various parts of the waterfront. Gavrilo heard some gunfire from the areas where troops had landed. There seemed to be some blackshirts resisting.

The first of the evacuees should be arriving soon. I should make my way there.

Do you even know where the rendezvous point is?

…it’s here, isn’t it? Galata makes the most sense.

Were you listening when they said the historic center? Galata’s just a diversion.

…prokletstvo! You know what, why don’t you take over? I did my part, now you should do yours.

Okay.

Gavrilo closed his eyes and rested. Wilhelm opened his eyes and took in a deep breath, stretching his arms out. Then he looked across the Golden Horn at Hagia Sophia’s iconic dome.

It looks just like I remember.

There was the sound of flapping wings, and suddenly he was on a dock on the waterfront just outside the temple district. Nobody noticed him. Most of the people in the area had probably left for safer areas long ago or were indoors, preparing for the evacuation

Okay, then. Let’s get to work. Wilhelm mentally constructed a map of the district in his head, taking into consideration where the evacuees presently were and the likely route they would take to the dock he was on. Good. It’s more or less a straight line with few detours. Though the number of people involved will be pushing it. He took out a notepad and pencil. On five pages he wrote the word “trajectio.” The sounds of flapping wings were obscured by the waves lapping against the rocks under the dock. He reappeared in a quiet alley behind a hospital and slipped one page under a trash can. More flapping wings, and he put the next page in between two bricks in the district wall. Another, and the third was put in the belfry of a bell tower. The fourth went in a schoolyard, under some swings, and the fifth went on a buoy just offshore from the dock. That one required speed and precision so that he could set down the page without it falling into the water while also teleporting away before he too fell in. Wilhelm returned to the dock and barely managed to stay on his feet, panting heavily.

I have to stop doing that. That was too tiring. Too many teleports at once.

What did you do? Gavrilo asked.

A basic protection spell over the parts of the district the evacuees will likely take. I don’t have enough energy to cast the full spell as I learned it, but it should suffice for now. Wilhelm snapped his fingers. “Trajectio.” He saw a slight flash from the buoy in the distance. Okay, it’s active now. If anybody fires a gun, they’ll have a higher chance of missing.

What, not 100%?

I said it wasn’t the full spell. It was the best I could do right now.

How long does it last?

About twelve hours. Probably sooner if one of the pages falls out of the magic circle. But it should last.

We should have brought tape.

“Hey!” someone shouted.

Wilhelm looked up and saw who appeared to be a soldier in ceremonial armor. Probably a Church guardsman.

“Uh, hello,” he said.

“State your business.”

Wilhelm held up his hands. “I sought refuge with the Church earlier today. I came down here for spiritual contemplation.”

The guardsman approached. “Are you armed?”

“No. I generally abhor violence.”

I beg to differ.

Can you let me sell it?! “If you are unsatisfied, you may check.”

The guardsman did so, checking Wilhelm’s pockets and anywhere else he may have concealed a weapon. “Alright. You’re clear to go.”

“Thank you, sir,” Wilhelm said.

“By the way, what group are you in?”

“What do you mean by group?”

“For evacuation,” the guardsman said, “We’re evacuating the district.”

He pointed at the destroyer in the distance and the patrol boats off Galata’s shore. Later on, the patrol boats would cross the Golden Horn and probably dock around where Wilhelm was.

Gavrilo caught on. Oh, so that’s what it is. They’re evacuating the Church.

“I don’t have a group,” Wilhelm said, “I just got here. But is there room for one more within your ranks?”


February 21

Wilhelm knew the Church wouldn’t turn away an unarmed man seeking refuge. They didn’t officially take him in—which was fine in his book—but neither did they make him leave. He remained where he was on the docks for a long while. The evacuees began arriving after dinner. First it was the women and children. There were many wards of the Church, as well as the nuns who raised them, but there were also the disheveled faces of the orphans the Church had taken in too. After that came the staff and servants of the Church, as well as laypeople and their families. They crammed against the riverbank, patiently waiting for salvation, some chanting hyms and whispering prayers while others played games and ate leftovers from dinner. The injured were given the best ground to stand or lie on, while the ill were kept away from the rest of the crowd for everybody’s safety. In the back, Wilhelm saw more guardsmen standing watch in case the blackshirts got this far or some of Konstantinos’ men had infiltrated the crowd. These guards were armed with various melee weapons. Well, I should’ve thought that one through more. My spell isn’t as effective for melee weapons.

Once everybody had gathered on the waterfront, Wilhelm no longer stood out as much. He was now just one among many evacuees gathered there.

A light mist rolled in as the sun set, which helped the patrol boats pull away from Galata and approach the temple district. The first rowboats docked on Wilhelm’s side a little after sunset. The women and children went first. Then the injured and ill, followed by the laypeople, staff, and servants. The actual clergy, especially the higher ranks, had refused to go first, and the guardsmen had chosen to stay behind in case Konstantinos’ men broke through the walls.

The crowd slowly thinned over the next few hours as the rowboats returned to the patrol boats, dislodged their passengers, and went back to the docks to pick up new ones, with the patrol boats taking on passengers and then heading to Skoutarion in shifts so that at least three were available at any moment. Still, it took hours. Wilhelm kept deferring his seat to everybody else. They needed it more than him.

Now there were few on the docks other than some laypeople and the higher ranking clergy. From the garbs they wore, they appeared to be extremely important. One young man in the middle of the group—looking a little younger than Gavrilo was in 1939—seemed to be held to a higher degree of respect than the others. Perhaps this was the Ecumenical Patriarch. Gavrilo had heard about him in the news before. In person, he gave off a different impression. A humbler one.

After midnight, the shooting began. It started with some bursts of semiautomatic gunfire in the distance, with shouts and screams accompanying them. The blackshirts were beginning their assault, and the guardsmen were doing their jobs. Some hushed cries went up from the crowd. Wilhelm looked around, trying to see who was left. There was Alexander, the Ecumenical Patriarch, and those around him. There were a few civilians. Most of the guardsmen had been committed to the defense of the walls, so if they fell there, their only line of defense would be the few guardsmen left and the marines piloting the boats. No doubt his spell was already activating, but he had no idea how effective it would be. For all I know, it could end up making people on the same side shoot each other, and it’s not going to do anything if they start stabbing each other instead. I should’ve studied the Inquisition archives more thoroughly when I had the chance.

What about escaping, then? The buoy he had went to earlier was now barely visible in the fog, illuminated by the lights from the patrol boats. If they could all get onto the water, the fog could hide them.

“Everybody, into the boats!” His Holiness had apparently come to the same conclusion. “Go!”

The marines understood what he wanted and immediately pulled all of the empty boats alongside the dock and waterfront, in the latter case as close to the shore as possible without running aground.

“Organize into lines!” The clerics kept the crowds organized, using only their hands and voices to prevent a stampede. “Women and children first! The rest of you wait for your turn!”

Will we have enough time? Gavrilo asked. We’re cutting it a bit close.

I hope so.

From the sounds of the gunfire, the blackshirts are heavily armed. Submachine guns. They’d mow us all down in seconds.

Then we should get going before they get here.

What if we can’t? What are going to do?

Wilhelm hesitated. I’ll have to think of something.

The boats were filled, and they cast off. Now they just had to wait for them to return. Wilhelm caught snippets of a conversation nearby.

“You really should have gone with them.”

“I will abide. We have been given grace enough that almost everyone is safe already.”

“Not everyone.”

The shooting intensified, along with the shouting. It was getting closer.

They’re getting closer, Gavrilo said, Oh no, damnit. It’s just like Grodno.

As he said that, Wilhelm’s mind was filled with dark images. Artillery shells rained down around him. Men in Lithuanian uniforms charged a trench, while Gavrilo kept his finger glued on the trigger of a machine gun. One hand methodically fed ammunition into the gun as soon as it ran out, keeping him firing as often as possible. Crouching behind him were several wounded soldiers, including one general. His name was Potierek. A decent commander, but he had been too hasty and exposed them to a Lithuanian counterattack. Gavrilo knew that if he stopped firing, every single one of them wouldn’t live to see Ludendorff’s reinforcements arrive.

An explosion rocked the dock, and more screams came from the crowd.

“That’s the wall gone!” someone said.

Fortunately, the boats returned, coming out of the mist and pulling alongside the waterfront.

“Go! Go!”

“Form a line! Women and children first! You know the drill!”

Wilhelm could now see flashes of gunfire from among the churches, monasteries, hospitals, and orphanages. Smoke rose from further out. They were getting closer. But as the remaining evacuees boarded the boats, a ray of hope emerged. There were now few enough of them to fit on the next wave. Once that realization set in, everybody scrambled onto the boats in a surprisingly safe manner. Wilhelm patiently waited his turn. One by one, the boats filled up and cast off, disappearing into the fog in the direction of the patrol boats’ lights. Eventually, there was one left. And there were only a few people left to board. Wilhelm turned to the man next to him, beckoning to the boat. “You first—”

He then realized who he was talking to. Alexander beckoned back. “No, you should go.”

“I’m but a humble traveler,” Wilhelm said, “I shouldn’t go before you, Your Holiness.”

“Please,” Alexander insisted, “Don’t let my station get in the way. You should go on ahead of me.”

“Oh, for crying out loud,” the boatman said, “We’re running out of time! Just get on!”

In the end, they boarded simultaneously.

“That everyone, sir?” the boatman asked Alexander.

Wilhelm looked back at the now empty waterfront.

“I’m afraid not,” Alexander said, “But it is everyone who will be leaving.”

“Right, sir.” The boatman fired up the engine and turned the boat into the fog.

“Have you had any trouble so far?”

“Not too much. This fog is a blessing and a curse. Have to keep her straight, but also means we won’t be shot!”

“Mixed blessings indeed.”

They continued into the fog. Ahead of them, Wilhelm saw the fog lights of the patrol boats growing brighter. The engine was going as fast as it could, but it still felt too slow. Or maybe that was a trick of the mind.

“Almost there!” one of the other passengers said.

As if to prove him wrong, another light turned on, forcing everyone to shield their eyes. Squinting, Wilhelm saw it came from another ship. It seemed to be a small freighter, but two machine guns had been installed on its decks. Konstantinos’ imperial eagle had been painted on the hull.

It looks just like Angelos’ insignia, Wilhelm noted.

Damn, they found us! Gavrilo said.

“Skata!” the boatman cursed. “Should’ve expected them to sneak up in this fog!”

“What do we do?!” one of the clergymen said.

The blackshirts relayed a demand via loudspeaker. “Surrender at once, or we will fire!”

“Like hell I will!” the boatman grabbed his sidearm.

“Shouldn’t we be focused on escaping?” another passenger asked.

“At this range? We won’t have enough time to get out of range of those guns.”

Another passenger shook his head. “Of all of the boats they could have stopped, they stopped this one.”

The other passengers clasped their hands and bowed their heads in prayer, hoping for the best. The boatman’s eyes darted between the ship, his engine, and his sidearm as he tried figuring out what to do. But Wilhelm knew it was pointless. They couldn’t match up to that ship’s firepower or get away from it. That only left surrender. Wilhelm could heal Gavrilo’s body, but the others wouldn’t be as fortunate. But what could they do? They didn’t have any weapons.

Wait a minute, Gavrilo said.

What do you mean?

It’s like Grodno, right? Outnumbered, outgunned, nowhere to go?

Gavrilo, are you sure you want to talk about Grodno right now?

I’ll deal with that later. But reflecting on that day got me thinking. Potierek and his men were all injured and unable to fight. The Lithuanians were charging us. Only I was in fighting condition. So how did I win?

Wilhelm had been with a different vessel at the time, so he wasn’t at Grodno. So he had to rely on what Gavrilo had told him and shown in his memories later on. The machine gun.

We had a machine gun and enough ammo to at least hold them off until reinforcements arrived.

So our goal is to find a way until our own boats come to the rescue?

In a way.

Same issue, the patrol boat will take too long to get here.

But what if we make the time? In Grodno, I had a machine gun to push back the Lithuanians.

We don’t have a machine gun here, and that’s a whole freighter.

On the contrary, we have something better than a machine gun.

Wilhelm initially didn’t understand what he meant.

Does the word “grace” mean anything to you?

It suddenly dawned on him. No. I can’t do that, while there are so many people here. And the reintegration…

What’s another few years of delay? We’ve already been here for a while, we can stay a bit longer.

But the others!

Just tell them to shield their eyes. As long as you direct yourself at the freighter, it should be fine. With any luck, we’ll have bought ourselves enough time to get to the patrol boat.

I’m more concerned with how they’ll react.

There was a feeling almost like a scoff. Wilhelm, you’re a freaking angel. These aren’t just any clergymen, they’re the top brass of the Church. It’s the same here as at home. I’m sure they’ll find some way to spin it. Or dismiss it. You never know.

Wilhelm didn’t usually do this. He had only done it a handful of times since he had arrived here. Before, he had also largely stopped doing it a while ago. There was no need for it in an increasingly secular society, and he would prefer not to harm innocents that way.

Wilhelm, just do it. I promise you, it’ll be fine.

Wilhelm nodded. Fine.

He immediately began calculating a plan. Not only did he have to neutralize the blackshirt freighter, but he also had to preserve the “veil,” as the Inquisition called it. There was a growing debate within that organization over reducing its profile in a mundane world that had seemingly grown beyond the need for magic. Wilhelm was not an Inquisitor, nor was he in that world at the moment, but veil doctrine was perfectly in line with his activities during his time here. The plan came together within a fraction of a second, his thinking having been done in hyper-attenuated time. Now it was time to act.

He stood up, startling the other passengers.

“What are you doing?!” the boatman said. “Don’t make yourself a target!”

“Don’t worry.” Wilhelm adopted a serious and somber yet gentle tone. “Be not afraid.”

“What do you mean, be not afraid?!”

Wilhelm didn’t directly answer that question. “Please look away.”

He stepped off the boat, provoking another round of shouts and gasps when he didn’t fall into the water. His feet remained steady just above the surface. Wilhelm took one step, and then another. The crew of the freighter had noticed him by now and were similarly panicking. Wilhelm stretched out his arms like a cross, as if beckoning them to fire on him.

“Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven.”

One machine gun opened fire on him. Wilhelm snapped his fingers, and all of the bullets pierced the water around him.

“Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.”

Another snap of his fingers, and the next salvo of gunfire was redirected back to where it came from, reducing the machine gun to useless scrap metal.

“Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the Earth.”

He took another step closer. A second machine gun opened fire on him, its operator spewing profanities and fascist slogans.

“Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be satisfied.”

The bullets similarly missed.

“Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy.”

The second machine gun was destroyed by its own bullets.

“Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God.”

Wilhelm stopped in front of the freighter and looked up at the deck. Some of the blackshirts had pulled out pistols.

“Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called the Sons of God.”

There was the sound of wings flapping, and he was on the dock, much to the blackshirts’ surprise.

“Blessed are those who are persecuted because of righteousness, for theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven.”

The blackshirts all opened fire at point-blank range.

“Blessed are you when people insult you, persecute you and falsely say all kinds of evil against you because of me.”

When they stopped fire, they realized Wilhelm was still standing where he was, without a single scratch on him. All of them staggered back in fear, eyes wide with terror.

“Rejoice and be glad, because great is your reward in heaven, for in the same way they persecuted the prophets who were before you…"

Wilhelm grinned, because he was out of lines from the Beatitudes to recite. But he did have another line to say.

“Forget not to show love unto strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares!” Wilhelm raised his voice, as if wanting everyone in the area to hear what he had said.

And with that, Wilhelm revealed his true form, bathing the entire freighter in blinding white light and a piercing ringing. Gavrilo had retreated into what was equivalent to a nap at the moment, but he still heard the thuds and screams as the blackshirts fell to their knees and clutched their heads in pain, having not looked away. Despite the ringing seemingly filling every bit of space around him, Wilhelm could perfectly hear everything else around him. He only heard the cries of the blackshirts, though. That meant the passengers in the boat heeded his warning.

Okay, that’s enough. Wilhelm reverted to his mundane form, and the light and noise disappeared back into Gavrilo’s body. He straightened out his coat and shook off some water that had soaked into the bottom of his pants. The deck around him was completely scorched black, except for two areas where his wings’ shadows had gone. The blackshirts were all sprawled on the deck and clutching their eyes, their screams having given way to muted groans. They were lucky he was in his true form for only several seconds. Any longer, and their bodies would probably have been incinerated by the holy energy radiating off his angelic form.

The ship was effectively disabled now. With any luck, the other passengers could get away. But he wouldn’t be returning to the boat. They would inevitably ask questions he didn’t want to answer. Nor could he stay here. There were probably a few blackshirts below decks who hadn’t been injured, and he had to leave before they came upstairs.

“Well, make of that what you will, Your Holiness,” Wilhelm whispered, even though he knew nobody would hear him.

Wings flapped, and he was back in the temple district. He alighted on a random rooftop he picked out because it was the easiest to see in the fog. Back on solid ground, the first thing he did was sit down on the tiles and stretch out his legs.

“Man, I’m tired…” he muttered.

It was then that he sensed he wasn’t alone on this rooftop. He slowly turned around and saw someone else on the rooftop, observing the disappearing evacuation boats and the fog lights of the patrol boats. Most of the lights in the temple district had gone out, so he couldn’t make out that many details without casting a spell—and he felt too tired to do so—but he did notice what seemed like bladed gauntlets on his arms.

The other individual turned to face Wilhelm.

“Uh…” Wilhelm said. “Hey…nice evening we’re having…”

He concentrated, preparing the necessary calculations he needed for an emergency teleport just in case.

 

[Idhrendur]

Venice
Late January 1936

Artemisa Favero cut off a piece of steak as she admired the canal. She had spent the day shopping and enjoying the sights, and had decided to take an early dinner before the sun set. She bit into the tender piece of meat and let out a content sigh at the juicy texture. Just how she liked it. A gondola passed by with a young couple cuddling each other, further brightening Artemisia's mood. Truly this city was wondrous. Perhaps she could understand why her father missed Italy so much. There was no other city quite like Venice.

"Mind if I join you?"

The voice cut into Artemisia's revelry and she reluctantly turned her gaze away from the canal, ready to berate whatever fool had decided to disrupt her meal. Her temper dissipated the moment she spotted Giuseppe Lombardi. The corner of her lip curling up into smile, and she beckoned to the seat across from her. "Of course. I'm afraid I already ordered and am part way through my meal, but you are welcome to keep me company."

"I would love nothing more," Giuseppe said with a warm smile as he took the seat across from her.

Artemisia cut off another piece of her steak, but before putting it in her mouth she said, "What brings you to my table?" She held the slice of steak before her, admiring the pleasant mix of brown and red, not too cooked but not too raw. God, she was hungry.

"Well I happened to be passing by and noticed you," Giuseppe said, leaning back in his chair, perhaps the first time she'd seen the man relax his posture since meeting him. "You're not a hard woman to miss, Artemisia."

"You can call me April," Artemisia said, biting into her steak. Giuseppe cocked his head, obviously curious about the name choice. After finishing her bite, she continued. "All my friends and family call me April."

"So we're friends now," Giuseppe said, the firmness of his tone making it clear that this was a statement and not a question. He rested an arm on the table and watched her for a moment as she took another bite of steak. "So what brings you to Venice? Still exploring your father's birthplace?"

Artemisia went to answer, but got distracted by a clatter off to the side. A disheveled man in a heavy coat had bumped into a waiter and made him spill some silverware. The two apologized profusely to each other as the waiter quickly collected the spilled silverware and the man awkwardly sat down at the table behind Giuseppe. With that distraction finished, she returned her attention to Giuseppe. "Just enjoying a little sight-seeing. This city is unlike any I've ever visited."

"Indeed, it is truly a wonder," Giuseppe said, the two of them turning to look at the canal. They sat in silence for a minute, giving Artemisia some time to get in a few more bits of steak. It was Giuseppe who eventually broke the silence. "I saw you at my rally yesterday. I never took you for someone who would be interested in Italian politics."

Artemisia let out a light chuckle, covering the surprise that he had managed to spot her at the rally. There had been so many people there and she had been far from the stage. The man must have eagle vision to have made her out in that crowd. "I'm afraid that I'm not. It seemed like the whole city was there so I felt compelled to see what was going on."

Giuseppe nodded before leaning forwarding over the table and fixing Artemisia with a thoughtful look. "So what did you think? I would love to get the opinion from someone with an outside perspective."

Faced with such a daunting question, Artemisia took another bite of steak to bide herself some time. He was giving her that passionate look, one that unnerved her more so than if she knew that it was directed at her. This man's political ambitions were all-consuming.

Once her bite was finished, she couldn't avoid the question any longer. Artemisia said, "I can't say much regarding your goals, since I am not all that familiar with the domestic politics of Italy. You certainly have a loyal following though. The crowd was practically eating out of your hand yesterday."

Giuseppe gave a confident grin, pleased by Artemisia's word. "It is good to have such faithful followers, and their support is appreciated. I have managed to gather together brave men and women from all walks of life with a shared vision for Italy." He paused for a moment, before fixing Artemisia with an intense stare. "Unfortunately, not everyone is so pleased with me. The godless communists and their ilk would gladly see me dead if they could get their hands on me."

Attempting to avoid his gaze, Artemisia looked over his shoulder instead. That's when she spotted the disheveled man from earlier. He was still sitting at the table behind Giuseppe, but he was sitting there without any food and was just staring daggers into the back of Giuseppe's head. She watched as he riffled his hand through the inside of his jacket before he drew something metallic out of the folds. It took only a moment for her to recognize it as a pistol.

Running on pure instincts, Artemisia snatched up her steak knife and hurled it with surprising accuracy at the unknown assailant. The man had started to aim his pistol at Giuseppe when the knife lodged itself into his arm. He let out a pained yelp, his arm twitching to the side as he accidentally fired the gun. The shot rang out through the air, the bullet firing into the side of a building across the canal. A woman at the restaurant let out a shriek at the gunshot and people started to scatter. Giuseppe, with the instincts of a trained soldier, had watched the knife fly over his shoulder without flinching, and after the shot went off, he immediately rolled out of his chair and pushed the table down behind him, turning it into an improvised shield between him and the attacker. Artemisia immediately ducked out of her chair and put her back up against the table to shield herself, Giuseppe already sitting beside her.

"I think I owe you my life," Giuseppe said casually as he pulled a pistol from a holster at his side. "Now just give me a moment to deal with this traitorous pig and we can resume our dinner conversation."

Giuseppe was already leaning towards his side of the table, ready to jump out and fire a shot, when Artemisia saw the assailant's shadow off to her left. The man was coming around her side of the table. Instead of warning Giuseppe so he could prepare to shoot the perpetrator, she decided to take matters into her own hand. She grabbed her fork that was lying on the ground nearby and sprang out just as the man was about to round the corner of the table. She rushed straight at his chest, butting her head into him in an attempt to knock him over. She put her full weight behind her as she collided with the assailant, and with a forceful push she knocked him to the ground, temporarily stunning him as the wind was knocked from him. He desperately tried to raise his pistol to shoot at her, but with a grunt she stabbed the fork into his hand. He screamed in agony, dropping the pistol. She didn't give him a moment to recover. She pulled the fork free and immediately went for the jugular. The attacker, who she only now noticed could not be more than 20, was completely unprepared for her brutal assault. This man clearly had no combat experience. She felt a moment of regret as the prongs of her fork pierced the man's jugular and blood sprayed everywhere. Within seconds, the man was dead, his blood covering the ground and Artemisia.

The air felt heavy as Artemisia got back to her feet. She took a moment to grab a napkin and wipe some blood droplets from her face and hair. Her dress was absolutely ruined, absolutely covered in blood, a lost cause. She let out a sigh. It was one of her favourites.

The sound of footsteps behind her reminded Artemisia that she had not been alone. Giuseppe walked up beside her, coldly staring down at the man that had just moments before tried to take his life. He squatted down in front of the body, doing his best to avoid the pooling blood, and started checking the man's pockets and the rest of his clothes. Artemisia watched him in silence, neither seemingly fazed by the fact that she had just murdered a man and he was inspecting a freshly killed corpse.

Giuseppe letting out a sharp hiss of breath was the only sign he had found something. He slowly pulled loose a red bandana that had been tied around the man's neck. He held it up so Artemisia could see. "Communists sometimes use these to help identify each other." Giuseppe spat on the corpse and gave it a dirty look. "It's unfortunate that you died before I could force some answers out of you."

Giuseppe rose back to his feet and tossed the bandana back at the corpse. He clenched his fists as if not even death could stop him from beating some answers out of the communist. It took a few deep breaths for him to calm himself, and then he looked over at Artemisia, smiling as if the whole episode had never happened. "You handled yourself admirably there. I don't think I've ever seen a woman handle herself so well in a fight. Where did you learn to do that?"

A smirk spread across Artemisia's face. "My father made sure I was taught how to defend myself." Tilting her head up and standing up straight, she added, "I just took those lessons a little more seriously than he intended."

The two shared a smile before they were interrupted by the sound of marching boots. Half a dozen men in black uniforms stormed into the restaurant, pistols at the ready. They seemed ready to shoot on sight, but the moment they saw Giuseppe, they lowered their pistols and raised their right arms in a salute. "Lombardi, sir!"

"At ease, gentlemen," Giuseppe said, and the men noticeably relaxed. "My friend and I were just attacked by this communist scum." He motioned to the nearby corpse and the men immediately scowled. The one closest to it spat at it.

"How can we help, sir?"

Giuseppe placed an arm on Artemisia's shoulder. Her skin warmed at the touch, although his hand was quite clammy. "Could two of you please escort Miss Favero back to her hotel room." Artemisia snapped a cold look at Giuseppe. She had surely proven she was not some defenseless woman who could not walk alone through the city. She was about to open her mouth in protest when Giuseppe interjected. "April, it's best that you return to your hotel to change. You might cause quite a stir walking around covered in blood, and these gentlemen will ensure you don't get questioned or harassed on the way back."

Artemisia immediately shut her mouth and looked down at her dress again. She had almost forgotten about the blood. "Perhaps you're right," Artemisia said as two of the uniformed men stepped up on each side of her, beckoning for her to lead the way. She went to leave, but looked back at Giuseppe. "But what about the police? Shouldn't I stay around to explain what happened?"

Giuseppe let out a laugh, and the uniformed men shared in his mirth. Apparently the law enforcement around here was a joke. "Don't worry about that. I will handle everything. Just go back to your hotel room and get some rest."

Artemisia paused a moment before nodding. She turned and started to walk away. As she left the restaurant, she heard Giuseppe call after her. "Next time we meet, April, I hope there will be less bloodshed and more of our pleasant conversation." She couldn't hold back a smile as she started back to her hotel, escort in tow.

A Report on Recent Breakaway Provinces in the Imperial Core
The provinces are listed using their choice of titles for simplicity.

Kingdom of Aragon (Absolutist)
View attachment 954604
Yahyah al-Jayyani, with the backing of the Phoenix Party, has taken complete control of the government. He is claiming to be a Dictator to prepare to defend the province against aggression from the Iberian Empire. If they do survive that crisis, no doubt there will be another to protect against, meaning he will never need abandon the title.

Armenia (Neutral)
View attachment 954565
Adamantios Kanaris has gathered the Nationalist Party for the last month and is expounding something to them. He has maintained effective secrecy thus far though.

Kingdom of Azerbaijan (Absolutist)
View attachment 954566
Stylianos Charalambis has complete control of the province via his lackeys in the Nationalist Party. He is using his rich supply of oil to experiment with aviation tactics, though it’s mysterious what he hopes to accomplish.

Carthage (Absolutist)
View attachment 954569
Dux Anastasios Typaldos-Alfonstatos is making a bid to become King, but thus far has open support from only one-in-six people. The political shifts of the province should be monitored.

Cyrenaica (Absolutist)
View attachment 954570
Alexandros Vassos is backed by the Royal Faction despite no clear ties to any Imperial Royalty. This may be his best attempt to distract from the fact no legions nor ships had been assigned to the province. If that is unclear, he has no military whatsoever.

Dalmatia (Neutral)
View attachment 954607
Ilias Papadiamantopoulos, leader of the Freedom Party, has remained non-committal about his goals, but has promised elections in 1940 to choose the leader of the province.

Autonomy of Egypt (Absolutist)
View attachment 954575
With their control of the Suez Canal giving them an income from trade, it is no surprise that Dux Konstantinos tel Elladas is focusing on empowering his navy. Indeed, he may have the strongest navy in the Empire. His Pharoahnist Party is pulling in every direction, so he seems unlikely to try for greater authority in the near future.

Kingdom of Georgia (Absolutist)
View attachment 954567
Dux Anastasios Typaldos-Alfonstatos remains in control of the Caucausus and the plains to the north. But his government is fractured and Russia is still claiming Kuban as theirs. He will likely remain focused on internal affairs and on defending against Russia.

Dominion of Guiana (Absolutist)
View attachment 954574
In war-torn South America, the Guiana Patriotic Front party has put forth a military dictator to prepare a defense, lest England get any ideas.

Iberian Empire (Fascist)
View attachment 954606
A fascist state under Cristobal Miaja’s Partido Moderato. Looks to its Castillian heritage as the ‘correct’ form of Romanitas. Claims all of Iberia, meaning a war with the Kingdom of Aragon, which would no doubt lead to the abuses of the Andalucian people there.

Isrealite Commune (Communist)
View attachment 954576
The Miflaga Progresivit, which is known for organizing the kibbutzim — communal religious communities — in the province have taken control and put forth Mose Abramovitch as their spokesperson. They are concentrating on the well-being of Israeli people specifically, and seem wary of anything that would distract them from this single-minded mission. Despite this focus, non-Israeli Romans are not being abused in any way, and access is still being given to religious sites

Kingdom of Marrakesh (Absolutist)
View attachment 954577
Had he a navy, Dux Evripidis Papadopoulos would be well positioned to control access to the Mediterranean. Lacking one, he instead is redirecting industry to make consumer goods establishing his bona-fides. No doubt like many others, he is making a bid to become a King.

Moesia Inferior (Neutral)
View attachment 954578
Benizelos Charalambis’ Partidul Radical is rapidly building their armed forces, seemingly worried about Hungary and Konstantinos.

Moesia Superior (Neutral)
View attachment 954608
Anastasios Mavrocordatos’ Anarcho Liberal party is taking the opportunity to overturn worker protections and increase the output of the economy. Their political goals are unknown.

Numidia (Neutral)
View attachment 954579
Adamantios Tsolokoglou is the representative of the business owners of the province, who are rapidly tooling up their factories for greater profit.

Pannonia (Neutral)
View attachment 954609
Augustinos Zymvrakakis’ Radical Party is organizing their political efforts, but their platform is unclear.

Sicily (Neutral)
View attachment 954580
Spyros Sarafis has emerged as the spokesperson for a group of leaders running the region. They seem to have brought the military under control and again guarding the border with Italy, but their goals are unclear.

Autonomy of Syria (Absolutist)
View attachment 954581
Dux Pavlos Charalambis has expressed sympathy for Konstantinos. But he has also deployed his military away from the border with us, so it seems he does not plan to do anything active to support Konstantinos.

Further reports will cover sub-saharan Africa, Asia, and Oceania.

Trebizond - mid-February

"Come on, pick up," Theodora muttered, "Damnit, why is it so hard to make an international call..."

Finally, there was a click, and a woman's voice came through the receiver. "Hello, Thaddai residence here."

"Kyrene?" Theodora said. "That you?"

"Theodora?" Kyrene replied. "Yes, it's me. How are you?"

"Listen closely," Theodora said, "There isn't much time. You remember Kira? That girl who can see the future? Well, she saw something bad."

"Hold on, slow down—"

"It involves Timon."

There was a pause on the other end. "Timon?"

"Yes, and Irene and Heraclius."

Kyrene's voice grew serious. "Tell me exactly what she saw."

"Not much, other than they could be in trouble soon," Theodora said, "Damnit, if only we could have seen any details...at least beef up security until I learn more."

"Okay, Theodora, this is a lot to take in," Kyrene said.

"Kyrene, I have a bad feeling about this," Theodora said, "I'm going to talk to Kira some more and call you if she sees anything else. But in the meantime, can you at least increase security and make sure nothing happens?"

"I'll do what I can."

"Thanks. And, uh...I'm sorry I can't be there in person."

"It's okay," Kyrene said, "Nestorius understands. If it's any consideration, it's nice that Irene's coming to visit."

Theodora sighed. "Some consolation that is. Why did Kira have to foresee what she did when she did?"

"Don't sweat it," Kyrene said, "We'll figure something out. I know we will."

After the call ended, Theodora immediately picked up the phone again. Just in case Kyrene's security isn't enough, I need a backup plan. "Operator, patch me through to..."

Komnenion - February 19th

With the arrival of the Lemuria in Australopolis, New Smyrna, Irene and Heraclius would briefly find themselves with some free time prior to their ship departing for Komnenion, time spent fairly uneventfully. Soon enough, their ship would arrive, the mighty Tyche, helmed by Captain Vikéntios Kaísarídis and his crew. It was currently on its route to Aotearoa, from where it would reverse course and go through the entire Orient Line to either the Mediterranean through the Suez, or through the Persian Gulf to Kuwait.

Arriving in the early hours of the 19th, Irene and Heraclius departed from the ship and found themselves looking around the port, before noting what appeared to be government workers holding up the Imperial banner. The two approached and greeted the workers, before being asked if they were the Doukai set to arrive. Upon confirmation, the younger Doukai found themselves escorted to an Exarchate-owned car, bearing the iconography of the country, prepared for guests of honor. After seating themselves in the back, the car made its way out of the port and into the city. The chauffeur would begin talking:

"We would like to apologize for Exarchess Kyrene's absence at this time. Recent state affairs have proven increasingly distracting. She had requested we bring you two to the Thaddai estate, where you will be staying during your time here. If all goes well, she will come to see you around the afternoon, after which point we will make our way to the hospital," the chauffeur explained, as the Doukai recognized that the car itself seemed large enough to house more than five people.

As they made their way to the Thaddai estate, at the estate, Timon, utterly unaware that they were receiving guests that day, was hanging out with his friends. They had invited themselves over to ease his mind.

"Com'on, Tim, whazzall this?" one such friend, Vitous Georgiades, remarked, as he motioned towards Timon's pile of books, all of which have bookmarks in them.

"Whatsa problem with that?" Timon responded casually.

"Tim, you're such a dag," responded Viviana Ihaiades, "finish your novels for once!"

"Yeah, nah," Timon said on beat, "they just carked it hard. I'll finish 'em later."

"That the case? No problem with me borrowin' one for myself?" Maaka Kauwhata asked.

"Sure, but if my bookmark ends up lost, I'll be right dischuffed. Sound good?"

"Sounds sweet, chur," Maaka responded to Timon, helping himself to the pile as he checked out what he could pick out for himself.

Timon had been consumed much by the anxiety of his father's stay at the hospital. He hadn't gotten any worse, but he has been losing weight, which concerned him greatly. He was glad he had friends like Vitous, Viviana and Maaka who'd drop everything to hang with their pal Tim, though it's not like he didn't have other friends either. The four of them were planning to go out and see Naiti Neho and their cousins on the weekend, along with Mabry Carrig and Eus Perim Skaldson.

As Maaka was looking through the books, suddenly everyone heard the front door open. Timon seemed surprised. "...who'd be back home now?"

He looked at the others, and gave them a nod, and they returned it back to him; he was going to go and check. Heading to the front door, he found himself surprised to find two faces he absolutely did not recognize, along with the chauffeur, bringing what seemed to be their things in.

"Kia ora," Timon greeted the chauffeur, before turning his eyes to the newcomers. They seemed to be Greek, but they don't seem to be from around here. "Whozzis?" he asked in Aotearoan Greek.

The chauffeur put their gloved fist to their mouth, and coughed into it while staring into Timon's eyes, indicating to him that now was not the time for the local dialect. "Timon, sir, we have guests of the highest order," the chauffeur responded in common Greek.

Timon's eyes widened as he looked at the newcomers, before repeating the same action as the chauffeur: "Apologies for my rudeness," he responded in turn.

"I, uhm, was not told we would be having guests over, Ingo," Timon stated, feeling left out of the loop, "I even have my friends over at the moment."

Ingo the chauffeur seemed surprised at this, as Timon wondered who else knew, before the staff at the estate appeared to come and help the guests with their things. Timon felt incredibly ill-informed.

Komnenion - February 19

Australopolis looked great from the air, but Irene didn't get a chance to actually explore the city. The city's airport was right next to the harbor, or at least the part with service to Komnenion. So as soon as they departed, they were ushered over to the docks where the Tyche awaited. Still, they had some free time, so Irene left to explore the neighborhood. Everything felt so different down in the south. For one, it was swelteringly hot. It was winter back in the Empire, but in the southern hemisphere, it was summer. Irene had packed appropriate clothes, but it still took some getting used to. When the Tyche was ready to go, she and Heraclius embarked. Captain Kaísarídis was nice enough to personally greet each passenger as they got on. The ship's furnishings were nothing like those of the Lemuria, but they were still comfortable. Definitely better than the planes she was on. Once they were settled in, the Tyche set sail for Aotearoa.

They arrived in the early hours of the 19th. The dock they disembarked on looked like just about any other dock, which confused Irene at first. Huh, didn't Auntie say someone would be picking us up? Then she noticed a few men in suits—probably government employees—holding up an imperial banner.

"Excuse me, are you with the Thaddai estate? I'm Irene Doukas." She took out her passport. "This is my cousin, Heraclius."

Heraclius waved. "Uh, hello. I'm a doctor."

"Ah, Ms. Doukas," one of the workers said, "Mr. Doukas. Welcome to Aotearoa. Your car to the estate is waiting for you."

They were led over to a fancy-looking car, emblazoned with the symbols of Aotearoa. Once Irene and Heraclius had taken their seats, the workers drove off, heading through the city. While Heraclius reviewed some medical files, Irene looked out the window, taking in the sights. Komnenion was different from Australopolis. It was smaller, but there was more...she didn't know how to describe it, style? There was heavy Maori influence in a lot of the buildings outside the Japantown. If she rolled down the window when they were waiting at a traffic light, she could hear people talking in a variety of languages, even Japanese. The smells of food were also unlike anything she smelled in Constantinople and Athens. She wanted to try it out sometime.

None of them noticed the mysterious man from the Lemuria getting into another car and driving after them...

"It's fine," Irene replied, "I understand that the Exarchess is quite busy lately. I do apologize for adding more to her schedule."

"I have to apologize as well," Heraclius said.

"Herac, you don't have to," Irene said, "You'll more than make up for it when you show up at the hospital and provide your expertise."

"Yeah, haha," Heraclius nervously chuckled, "I'll try my best."

"Getting cold feet?"

"Admittedly, yes," Heraclius said, "I've treated soldiers and refugees before, but a senator? Especially Senator Thaddas? I'm worried I might mess up."

"Just do what you can," Irene said, "And don't worry more than you have to."

Heraclius nodded. "I guess so. Hold on, why aren't you scared or flustered or something?"

"I'm there as a representative of Auntie Theodora. Nothing I haven't handled before."

"Are you sure?" Heraclius raised an eyebrow. "Because from what I've seen, the way politics goes these days is not exactly 'handled before'. Especially in your record."

"Come on, that was just one session! I couldn't have expected that to happen!"

"Why don't we make a bet?" Heraclius said. "Something unexpected happens, you pay me one hyperpyron."

"One hyperpyron?!" Irene said. "Do you know how much money that is?"

"Good for a bet, right?" Heraclius said. "Hey, if everything goes fine on your end—and let's face it, it probably will—then you'll be one hyperpyron richer. Come on, Irene, just humor me!"

Irene glared at him. Then she sighed. "Fine. I'll bet."

Heraclius beamed. "Great!"

Irene had seen the Thaddai building in Constantinople, but the Komnenion estate was on a different level. It was like Theodora's estate in Athens, but it had far more Maori influences. It meshed well with the imperial architectural styles, all things considered. By comparison, the buildings in Constantinople, Athens, and Trebizond looked...basic? Was that the world Konstantinos wanted? If his troops reached Aotearoa, he would certainly have this building burned down for being "culturally impure," or whatever those blackshirts called it. Those idiots didn't know what good architecture was.

They walked up to the door, and their driver rang the doorbell. Irene fidgeted in place for several seconds, waiting nervously for it to open. Who was going to answer? Kyrene? Another of Nestorius' inner circle? Another government worker? The suspense was—oh, the door opened. Her eyes first saw a man who looked like a chauffeur. That was to be expected for the Exarch's estate.

Then she saw the other boy, and her face went red. She immediately suppressed it, but that only made it more obvious. Damnit, of all the times, why now?! Heraclius noticed and immediately snickered. Goddamnit, even worse, Herac noticed! This doesn't count!

"Kia ora," the boy said to the chauffeur. He then turned his eyes on Irene and Heraclius. "Whozzis?" He spoke with some kind of local slang. Kind of cute—WAIT WHAT AM I THINKING?! Irene couldn't help but get lost in observing his face. He looked a lot like Nestorius and Kyrene. Could this be...

The chauffeur cleared his throat in an obvious attempt to remind the boy of who had just arrived. "Timon, sir, we have guests of the highest order," he said in a more...appropriate dialect. So this is Timon. Interesting.

Timon's eyes widened, and then he cleared his throat the same way the chauffeur did. "Apologizes for my rudeness."

"Uh—um, ah, er..." Irene stammered. "Noworriesnotatallyou'refine—" She clamped her hand over her mouth to stop embarrassing herself more.

Oh God, he has his friends over too?! I literally just got here and everything's going to hell. She felt herself reddening again.

Heraclius couldn't help but snicker and jab her side with his elbow. "One hyperpyron, please."

"Not now, Herac!" she hissed back.

Nevertheless, she discreetly slipped a one hyperpyron coin into his hand. A bet's a bet.

She composed herself and put on a dignified air. "Not to worry. Thank you for welcoming us, uh, Mr. Ingo? Apologies if I addressed you incorrectly. And as for you, uh, Mr. Timon Thaddas...it's nice—er, I mean, it's an honor to meet you. My aunt has spoken very highly of you before."

Ingo the chauffeur gave Irene a thumbs up to show that he doesn't mind it. Frankly, the only ones who refer to him as anything other than chauffeur when he's on the job are the Thaddai family and those at work. The staff doorguard, Taiko, seemed confused at how Irene had looked at him, as if she was looking at him like a chauffeur. Ingo patted him on the back, as the two continued helping the menial staff moving the Doukai's things in.




Timon still had little idea of who these two were aside from them being important guests of some sort. The vague mention of an aunt didn't exactly help. He was more concerned about who these two were to notice how red Irene had gotten, as he didn't want to embarrass himself.

"Pleasure to meet you two, but, ehm, who might you two be?" Timon tried to ask as politely as he could. But before Irene or Heraclius could answer, a third party brushed up Timon's hair with their hand.

"Madame Irene Doukas, and Sir Heraclius Doukas, a pleasure to be receiving you!" said Mihi Rameka, the head of the menial staff at the estate, "It seems your mother forgot to tell you, ay, Tim?" she said as she continued to brush Timon's hair.

Timon seemed to be getting incredibly flustered, first with the hair brushing, something Mihi has done since he was a young boy, and now him realizing who these two were... Doukai. They couldn't be directly Imperial, so his best next thought went to that lady he had met once before a couple of years ago when visiting the senate, Theodora. That must be their aunt. Still, he couldn't believe he hadn't been told, especially with all this in mind.

"Mihi, please, lemme go and rark up my friends if we're dealing with Doukai!" Timon said with bluster. Rameka just chuckled.

"Go then, haha!" Rameka said, removing her hand from his hair, and allowing him to rush back to his room, "he'll never cease being adorable, I swear."

"While we wait for him, let me tell you about your rooms. The two of you will each have a room here to rest in. For the time being, consider this your home!" Rameka explained to the two Doukai.

Before either side could continue the conversation though, Timon returned with his friends in tow.

"...hope the plans for the weekend won't be changed because of this," Vitous could be heard saying as they made their way into earshot.

"Wouldn't wanna miss the grilled kumara and that," Timon could be heard responding.

Soon, all four of them were visible, and the three friends immediately caught sight of the two Doukai. Timon hadn't explicitly said they were Doukai to his friends, but they could all tell these two were from beyond the isles.

"Oo, look at that choice lass," Viviana openly expressed referring to Irene, "no wonder you wanted to rark us out, eh, Tim?"

"Don't be a hard-case Viv," Timon responded, looking further flustered.

"Imagine needin' books now, haha," Maaka chuckled, book in hand.

Timon looked increasingly red. "Com'on, don' spin yarn now, you."

Timon swung his arms and motioned for them to get out. "Make for the shingles!"

The three of them made their way out, chuckling. "See ya on the weekend, kia kaha, haere ra," Vitous said with a smile.

As the three leave, Timon visibly sighs and looks at the two Doukai.

"Sorry that you had to see that," he remarked tiredly, "should we show them to their rooms?" he asked.

Rameka clapped her hands: "Of course! I'm sure they could rest a bit before your mother comes back."

Irene knew she had messed up when she realized she had addressed the doorguard instead of the chauffeur. Her face continued to redden like a tomato, which didn't help Heraclius stop laughing. In any case, she quietly handed her suitcases to Ingo—the proper one, that is. Then she realized she had held out the suitcases to Timon instead.

Well, this is going to be a complete disaster. Auntie's going to throw a fit.

Irene eagerly opened her mouth to answer, but her mind raced, trying to choose between either a casual answer or a formal one. The formal one would have gone along the lines of "Irene Doukas, niece to Senator Theodora Doukas, Minister of Security and Intelligence." The casual answer would have just been "Irene Doukas," but knowing her luck she would have tripped a dozen times over the first "I."

Fortunately, another staff member—Mihi, from how Timon addressed her—saved her from that agonizing choice by steering the conversation another way. She introduced herself, made some jokes, and brushed Timon's hair like he was a little boy. Timon protested, his face also growing a bit red. Irene involuntarily let out a giggle.

"Look, Irene, the more you keep this up, I might as well ask for another hyperpyron," Heraclius said.

Irene shot daggers at him.

Rark? Irene thought. Must be local slang. Irene wondered what it meant. She needed to hear him say it more to figure it out.

"He'll never cease being adorable, I swear," Mihi said in Irene's direction.

At that, Irene snapped to attention, as she had been barely paying attention. "Eh, yeah, haha, definitely..." She nodded agreeably.

"While we wait for him, let me tell you about your rooms. The two of you will each have a room here to rest in. For the time being, consider this your home!"

Irene nodded. "Thank you."

"I get my own room?" Heraclius said. "Been looking forward to this."

"Bet you one hyperpyron it's not going to be as big as your room in Athens," Irene said.

"You're just trying to get back that hyperpyron, aren't you?"

"Just bet on it!"

"Jeez, fine!"

Timon soon returned with his friends. They seemed to be talking about weekend plans, local delicacies, and the usual stuff people her age did when off work.

The girl in the group looked directly at Irene, then said a few words, probably about her. Choice lass? Was that a good or bad thing? Best not to dwell on it. No wonder you wanted to rark us out, eh, Tim? Another use of "rark." Perhaps that meant "get rid"? She didn't want to risk embarrassing herself further. Also, they called him Tim...interesting.

"Imagine needin' books now, haha," the book-holding friend said.

While Timon reddened and tried talking his friends into leaving, Irene quietly took out The Return of Herlock Sholmes from her personal bag. Maybe he likes books?

Finally, the friends left, saying a few more words in both Maori and slang. She sighed with relief. Three fewer unpredictable variables to deal with. Good. I was starting to get tired.

"Yes, of course, lead the way," Irene said.

Mark my words, Herac, I'm getting my hyperpyron back!

Ingo passed the suitcases naturally over to the menial staff present, with Irene hearing some chatty Maori before Ingo left, presumably to rest up until Kyrene comes back. Rameka led Irene, Heraclius, Timon and the present staff to the second floor.

As they made their way through the second floor, the group passed by an open door. Within, on a table one could see a stack of books, before Timon closed it. Presumably that was Timon's room.

Further down the hall, they stopped. Rameka pulled out two keys, and unlocked two side-by-side rooms.

"Well, choose which one you want, either the left or the right," Rameka presented. Each room was average-sized, guest rooms through-and-through, though prettied up to appear more professional given the arriving guests. Each had a window with an ok view of the city, and all the usual furniture one would expect was present.

Once the two had chosen their rooms, Rameka handed each of them their respective key.

"If you ever want some private time, you can always lock the door from the inside. We've also got locks for the keys on the windows too, just in case," Rameka remarked.

Pointing down the hall, Rameka commented: "Down the hall is the toilet and the bathroom, and if either is occupied, you'll find another set downstairs next to the resting room."

The staff brought the Doukai's luggage into their rooms, as Timon rested his back against the wall and watched the two of them look at their rooms. Meanwhile, he noted Rameka looking through the window next to him. He wondered why she would be doing that.

Once everything was brought into their rooms, Rameka spoke once more: "Now, we could show you the dining room, the resting room, the study, and that, or you could choose to rest from your weary travel," she said, raising her tone near the end of the sentence, making it nearly sound like she was asking a question, whilst also sounding slightly sarcastic, given they also traveled by zeppelin.

Next, Irene and Heraclius were shown to their rooms. They took what seemed like a scenic route across the second floor. One of the doors they passed by was open, and Irene stole a look inside. It looked like someone's room. Her attention was drawn to a table on which a large stack of books had been hastily tossed together. Yep, definitely Timon's. She clutched The Return of Herlock Sholmes tighter.

They continued down the hall and arrived at two guest rooms. Rameka pulled out two keys and unlocked the doors. Inside, Irene saw two averaged sized rooms with the usual furnishings one would expect from a guest room.

"It's definitely smaller than your room in Athens." Irene held out her hand. "One hyperpyron."

Heraclius sighed. Defeated, he slipped the coin back into Irene's hand.

Irene felt herself reddening when Rameka said that. WHY AM I REDDENING AGAIN?! STOP! THIS IS A DIPLOMATIC VISIT! WE ARE NOT GOING THERE!

Heraclius chuckled again.

STOP IT, HERAC, OR I'LL BREAK YOUR JAW!

Okay, I think it's time we leave this place before I go off the rails even more. "Yeah, sure, let's continue on with the tour. I've got enough energy."

She really was tired, though. The staterooms on the Lemuria were cramped by design, and even though the Tyche was more comfortable, she couldn't forget that. No, no, I can't show weakness here. Got to put my best foot forward.

Rameka clapped her hands. "Alright, follow me then!"

The group continued around the house, with Irene and Heraclius being shown basically every space in it that would be relevant to them - on the second floor, they were shown where Kyrene, Nestorius and Timon's rooms were, along with the study, which itself held many books, and the toilet and bathroom; on the first floor, they were shown the dining room and the kitchen, the toilet and bathroom, a hallway which leads into a chapel (where another door leads to the room of the family priest), the garage, the menial staff rooms, and so on, until the tour reaches the resting room.

"...and that should be all then!" Rameka finished off with another clap. "It seems Kyrene hasn't returned yet, so how about we all rest up here and listen to some nice music on the radio?"

"Sounds great!" Irene said. "I'd love to hear what's on the radio here."

Everyone takes a seat in the living room, with Rameka turning on the radio.

"...the weather for today," the first words echoed. It seemed they just missed the weather report.

"Mesazon Ieni Papadopoulos has once more gained the ire of the public, following comments made during his visit of Hilandaris the day prior," the news reporter on the radio remarked, "Papadopoulos, as per KEA party policy, continues to maintain his critique of the state's involvement in church affairs following the establishment of the Exarchate, in quote, 'the Archbishop had apologized and asked for forgiveness, there was no reason for the state to aid in cleaning out the church's closet of skeletons,' a comment that had even prompted Archbishop Angelarios to vocally disagree, stating that 'the church had willingly asked for help in this, with all permissions in doing so, for even my predecessor would not had been able to fully deal with the sins our church carries with it by himself; the Exarchate represents the people, and without the people, we would be nothing.' At least several members of the public continue to refer to Ieni as, quote, a 'twit'. Exarchess Kyrene and the EKA have expressed their disappointment in Ieni's comments," the reporter over the radio said.

"That is our morning program, now we move over to the daily tunes," the reporter finished, before jazzy music began playing. Rameka and Timon looked at one another, sighing, before just making themselves comfortable as the music began playing.

Timon noted that Rameka looked over to the hallway, as footsteps could be heard. Timon tried glancing over, noticing what appeared to be a new guard. Were they buffing up security at the house? With Doukai present you'd think they would've done so before they arrived, unless they didn't want to alarm them. He decided not to think about it, and looked over to Irene and Heraclius, wondering if they got anything out of that news report prior to the music finally beginning. At that moment, he noticed that Irene had in hand a book...

"Irene, is that a copy of Herlock Sholmes?" he decided to break the ice, "'s good choice, always been a fond of the stories featuring him."

Trebizond
February 1, 1936

Donatello Favero meandered around the docks of Trebizond following the senate session, lost in thought and with nothing better to do. The session had been more of the same: the empire in shambles, Konstantinos desecrating the memory of the emperor, and a military deadlock at the straits. He questioned why he even bothered to attend the sessions at times. it was not as though he could single-handedly bring about the downfall of Konstantinos. He hadn't even wanted to be here in the first place. If he had been a bit more tight-lipped or Konstantinos had not had his phone tapped, he would still be in Constantinople, pretending this god-awful catastrophe of a war wasn't happening.

Coming to a lone pier outside a warehouse, Donatello sat down at the edge, dangling his feet above the water. He stared out at the Black Sea, taking in the scent of salt water on the breeze. It was a tad chilly out, but Donatello didn't mind. It was almost soothing having the cold wind nip at his face. He just sat there for what felt hours, swaying side to side with the flow of the wind. Every so often a dockworker would pass by behind him, carrying a crate or something else, but they paid him no mind. He imagined they saw quite a few wandering strangers around these parts as refugees made their way into Anatolia.

"Excuse me, sir, but are you okay?"

Donatello looked over his shoulder to see one of the dockworkers standing down the pier, staring at him, the crate he had been carrying left on the ground behind him. He looked to be in his mid-20s, unshaven and wearing some worn overalls. He approached cautiously, his hands in his pockets. The senator waved him off, not wanting the company. "I'm fine. No need to interrupt your work on my behalf."

The dockworker gave a polite half-smile, halting his approach. "Are you sure? It's just that the last time I saw someone sitting out here, I found his body the next day in the water beside the pier with a brick tied to his ankle."

Donatello's eyes widened and he looked down at the sea before him. Fortunately there were no bodies floating there. Realizing now what the dockworker was thinking, he sputtered out a response. "I'm not planning to end my life. I just needed a quiet place to think."

"Don't we all," the dockworker said with a nod. Not waiting for an invitation, he sidled up beside Donatello and sat down next to him. He looked over at the senator, a kind smile on his face, and extended his hand. "The name's Damianos."

After a few moments of contemplation, Donatello finally decided to take the man's hand. He gave him a firm shake, hoping that that would satisfy the man and he'd leave. "Donatello."

"Ah, an Italian," Damianos said. "Don't get many of those around here. So what's on your mind? It might be helpful to talk about it with someone."

Donatello remained silent for some time. What did some dockworker know of his struggles? He didn't feel inclined to share either. Despite that, Damianos stayed beside him, looking out at the Black Sea and swinging his feet over the water. When it became clear that this man wasn't going to leave, the senator let out an exasperated sigh.

"It's just this whole civil war. It's ruined everything for me."

Damianos nodded. "I imagine it's that way for a lot of folk. My brother just joined up to fight against Konstantinos and I worry for my cousins and their families in the Peloponnese." He looked over at Donatello. "Do you have family caught up in the war?"

Donatello closed his eyes, picturing his wife and daughter. He knew where they were at least, but they felt so far away from him. He wished that he could be with them, but he would only be putting them in danger if he brought them here. "My family is elsewhere in the Empire, out of harm's way but also away from me. I miss them dearly."

A hand on Donatello's shoulder startled him. He had even noticed that Damianos had edged closer, and now he was almost embracing the senator in a side hug. "At least they're safe," Damianos said, patting Donatello's shoulder. "It could be worse and they could be in Constantinople instead."

"I actually came here from Constantinople," Donatello said, memories of his impromptu escape from the capital rushing through his head.

Damianos pulled back, giving the senator and incredulous look. "How did you manage that? I heard they locked down city soon after the war started."

Donatello couldn't help but smirk. "Would you believe an airship."

The dockworker took a moment to look Donatello up and down and then a spark of recognition appeared in his eyes. "Wait a moment, you're one of the senators. I heard that a group had escaped the capital by airship." Damianos looked down at himself and then wiped at some dirt off his shirt, realizing that he was in the presence of someone important in the Empire.

"Yes, that would be me," Donatello said with a sigh. "A senator."

A grin started to spread across Damianos's face. "So that means you must be helping lead the war effort? How are we doing so far? Will we have Konstantinos's head on a spike by March?"

Donatello looked over at the dockworker with a glazed look. Such youthful enthusiasm. It was unfortunate that he could not muster such emotion towards this cause. Best not to dampen the man's spirits. "It's much too early to tell." He looked down at the planks of the dock and ran his left hand along the wood. "I'm afraid I'm not that involved in the actual war effort. I've been finding it difficult to contribute since this is all so far out of my realm of expertise."

The grin slowly faded from Damianos's face as he realized Donatello didn't have more to say than that, eventually nodding in acknowledgement at the vague answer. His head bowed down, and Donatello worried perhaps he should have put on a braver face for the man. Before he could muster up a follow-up comment, Damianos pointed at Donatello's left hand and asked, "What happened to your finger?"

Donatello instinctively withdrew his left hand and cradled it with his right, feeling the gap where his missing pinky should be. At times he forgot it wasn't there, and other times he couldn't help but feel the loss. At first it had been a reminder that the Cult was always watching, but over the years that fear had faded and he had found more pressing matters to focus on. What was the Cult in comparison to a mad prince dragging the Empire into war?

"I lost it in an accident," Donatello said, conjuring up a simple lie. "A result of a mistake on my part."

"Sometimes our mistakes can be made into opportunities," Damianos said. Donatello didn't even try to decipher that cryptic answer, and the dockworker didn't seem bothered to explain. He slowly got to his feet, looking down at the senator for a moment. "I'm confident enough now that I won't find your body in the sea tomorrow morning, so I'm going to leave you to your thoughts."

"Thank you for the conversation," Donatello said, the corner of his lip curling up into a smile. Despite his desire to be alone, the man had helped ease his mind a little. "It is nice to know that there are still some decent people out there who care about their fellow man."

Damianos merely nodded and began walking back down the pier. He picked up his crate and said over his shoulder, "If you're open to all opportunities, perhaps you will find a way to help the war effort."

Donatello merely shrugged, not seeing any way he could possibly help fight this war at the moment. He let out a sigh and returned to looking at the sea.

"Praise Chernobog."

The words were said like a whisper, yet carried all the way across the docks to Donatello's ears. He bolted to his feet the minute he heard the words, nearly tumbling into the water in the process. He spun around, expecting to see the dockworker nearby, but the man was nowhere to be seen. He instinctively clutched at his left hand, massaging the joint where his pinky once was. It would seem that the Cult had taken an interest in him again and had decided to remind him that the Cult was always watching.

They had tuned in to the radio just in time for the local news. Seemed the political shenanigans here were the same as in the Empire, at least from before Konstantinos did what he did. Irene had no opinion on what was happening here. She wasn't a local, so she didn't understand the trends and power dynamics. Though if Kyrene didn't like what this guy said, then he probably was, as she said, a 'twit.'

Next was the music. The jazz was catchy. There was a certain flair to it that Trebizond's jazz didn't have. She couldn't exactly describe it.

Just when she thought she was going to get lost in the music—her foot had started tapping, and her head was about to bob—she heard a voice behind her. Timon's voice. "Irene, is that a copy of Herlock Sholmes?"

Her face reddened, and her eyes widened. HE'S TALKING TO ME?! Out of the corner of her eyes, she could see Heraclius stifling yet another laugh. HERAC, HELP ME OUT HERE!

"'s good choice," Timon said, "Always been a fond of the stories featuring him."

"R-Really?" Irene stammered. "I love Herlock Sholmes! Read all of the books, huge fan, yeah, and that showdown with Joriarty was amazing! I just love mystery novels a lot. Same with you?"

Timon gave a bit of a smile as Irene gave her comments.

"Less so mystery novels, though you can never go wrong with a good mystery and corresponding deduction, but more so," Timon paused as he tried to think of the right word, twirling his hand as he thought, "character novels? Herlock Sholmes and Joriarty wouldn't be as interesting if they weren't characters you enjoy reading about, right? Mavridis' Migrations or Andreadis' novellas, for example," he tried to name examples, though he wasn't sure how well known either author he just namedropped were... which ends up flustering him.

"I-if you don't know them, that's fine..." Timon tried to remind himself that not everyone may read the stuff he finds time to read.

Ever briefly, Ingo pops into the room, speaking towards Rameka in Maori. It seemed she was needed, as she got up and followed him out of the room.

Ah yes, he seemed to really like characters, not just overall genres. Of course, the characters were the main draw of Herlock Sholmes. After all, no other mystery novel series had Sholmes, just other detectives with their own quirks.

Also, he brought up some rather...obscure names. Fortunately, she had read both of those books. Unfortunately, it was because Aunt Theodora forced her to read them for "homework." Something to do with the Time of Troubles, for the Mavridis book, and a deconstruction of traditional heroic tales or something, for the Andreadis book. She enjoyed the books, for what it was worth. But it wasn't exactly something she would seek out on her own.

Somewhere in Trebizond, her aunt was probably laughing at the fact that the homework she made Irene do was now coming in handle.

"I-if you don't know them, that's fine..." Timon stammered.

Irene acted fast. "Oh, no! I did read them, actually! It's been a while, but I did read Migrations, and, uh...I think it was the one with the bridge? Sorry, the title's slipping my mind."

Please don't ask me to go into detail, I don't remember too much...

Timon waved his hand in an embarrassed fashion. "N-no, no, it's fine! You mean the one Andreadis wrote about Oratios Monophthalmos, right? Defending the Pons Sublicious, right? That one's really interesting, how he uses Oratios to deconstruct the tropes of the traditional mythical hero, that you'd typically see associated with Heracles! And Migrations' use of the War of Three Emperors, concentrating not on the battles but instead on the common soldier's relationships with one another, especially with the three protagonists, was very novel in my opinion, really showed the author's own feelings after the Time of Troubles," he rambled on.

As he babbled on, suddenly knocking could be heard from the doorway of the room. Timon looked over and saw who it was.

"Mother!" Timon exclaimed, with Irene and Heraclius turning their heads towards the doorway, seeing the Exarchess herself having finally arrived. She seemed slightly exhausted, but happy to see the three of them.

"I hoped I didn't make any of you wait, but it seemed you are all enjoying yourselves," Kyrene smiled, "it's a pleasure to meet you two in person. My name is Kyrene Thaddas," she said as she approached to politely greet the two Doukai present.

After allowing the two to introduce themselves, Kyrene continued: "I see you two have already acquainted yourselves with Timon, glad you're all getting along."

"We were just talking about books," Timon added.

"I heard! I hope I wasn't intruding," Kyrene responded, unaware that Irene was likely thanking God himself at this moment for her intervention.

"Not at all!" Timon responded with a smile.

With a brief familial pause shared between the two, Kyrene's happy expression became more subdued, as she faced Irene and Heraclius once more.

"Well, I imagine you two are fairly tired, but if you're able, we can head for the hospital all together and see Nestor," Kyrene asked the two, with Timon seeming surprised.

"Wait, they're here because of father?"

"Y-yes," Kyrene stuttered, realizing that she had, in fact, forgotten to tell Timon if that's the question he has, "Theodora had asked us to take them in for the time being, given everything going on back in the mainland, but Heraclius here is also a doctor, so he might be able to add to the medical expertise of the staff watching Nestor over right now," she explained to him.

Timon nodded slowly, his expression getting sadder. To the two Doukai, it seemed that the topic of Nestorius gives Timon mixed emotions.

"We're all ready to head over," Kyrene turned again to Irene and Heraclius.

Just as Irene feared, Timon jumped right into the details, mentioning long names that she had little context for. It had been way too long since she read those books. But the themes? She knew what the themes were. Auntie had drilled that through her skull when she assigned those books. She steeled herself, trying to remember one of the thematic analyses she had done on Migrations a couple years ago. Hopefully it would be enough...

Suddenly, Kyrene stepped through the doorway. She looked just like the photos Irene had seen in Trebizond, but she looked far more exhausted in person. Oh thank goodness you're here...

Irene and Heraclius both shook her hand.

"It's an honor to meet you, ma'am," Irene said, "My aunt has spoken very highly of you."

"Same here," Heraclius said, "Nice to meet you, ma'am."

OH THANK GOD THANK GOD THANK GOD

What, Timon didn't know? Maybe since Kyrene was so busy...Irene didn't dwell on it. Now that they were talking about Nestorius again, Irene settled back into her usual demeanor, putting on an air of dignity and poise just like she had seen Auntie do.

"Yes, please," she said, "Let's head over as soon as we can."

"Alright then, get dressed if you need to and grab anything you want to bring with you for Nestor," Kyrene nodded, as Timon departed to get into his outside clothes.

"I hope you two will enjoy your time here with us," Kyrene said as they waited for Timon, with a smile.

With Timon returning ready, the four of them headed out. As they headed over to the car, where Ingo was sitting ready, the younger three noticed that there seemed to be a bit more security on the property, for whatever reason. With Kyrene getting into the front passenger seat, and the other three getting into the back, Ingo on beat began to drive out.

"I'm sorry for not having been back sooner, to greet you two when you arrived," Kyrene spoke, "I've been dragged left, right and center for the past while."

After hearing them being understanding, and even apologetic for adding more things to her schedule, Kyrene waved her hand in dismissal: "Oh, don't worry about it! At least it's only something extra on one day's schedule," she explained.

"I'll try to hang around when possible, but understand that I'll put 'state affairs' and 'seeing Nestor' above you two," she stated quite bluntly, "I've already asked Madame Rameka to prepare for you two pamphlets and folded maps, so you know what great sights, in our opinion at least, there are to see, as well as have a general understanding of where things are, including the public transit networks for Komnenion, Tamaki, Hilandaris and Otago. In ideal circumstances, you should be able to experience and enjoy the public transit," she elaborated, though having put a strange emphasis on 'ideal circumstances'.

"We should be coming up to the hospital just about now. Heraclius, after introducing yourself to Nestor, I'll guide you over to where the staff watching over Nestor is in the building, so you can look over what they have and hear their current hypothesis on his current situation," she turned to look at Herc.

Soon, with a turn around a corner, the hospital was plain to see. Ingo parked the car, and soon, everyone got out. Kyrene spoke with Ingo in Maori, with Timon explaining to the other two, who wondered briefly, that it's just her telling him he can go get himself lunch, so he doesn't needlessly wait in the car - they'd be here for a bit.

After reporting their presence at the front desk, Kyrene and Timon led the two Doukai to Nestor's room. With a polite knock, she opened its door and looked within.

Nestorius lied there in bed, covered under sheets. To his side, per usual, Father Erasmos sat there, watching him over. The two looked at the guests, and smiled. When compared to when he had been hospitalized nearly a month ago, Nestorius appeared somewhat more thinner than he did previously. His breathing, though stable, seemed slightly erratic. But one could tell there was still an immense amount of energy behind his eyes.

"Kyrene, Timon!" Nestor raised his arms towards the two, as if wanting to hug them, with the two prompting coming over and giving him one. As they hugged it out, Irene and Heraclius came into view for him.

"Ah, the two young Doukai have arrived!" Ness proclaimed, to Timon's surprise, who seemed to realize he was the only one out of the loop... "I hope you two didn't have any issues traveling over. I'm Nestorius Thaddas, a pleasure to meet you and for us to host you during your time here. And let me introduce you too to our family priest, Father Erasmos,"

Erasmos merely nodded, "Warmest greetings."

With the hug finished, it became apparent that there were only four chairs in the room, one already occupied by Erasmos. Timon, recognizing this first, opted to instead stand, with his back resting against the wall where the windows were, allowing Irene and Heraclius to take a seat. Herc would leave the room at some point, but at for now, they probably just wanted to chat a bit.

"Now, you two are Irene and Heraclius, yes? How are you two doing?" Nestor asked.

Getting up from her chair, Irene straightened out her dress. Having expected a lot of introductions today, she had already put on the most appropriate one back when she was on the Tyche.

"I hope you two will enjoy your time here with us," Kyrene said.

I sure hope so.

After Timon returned, they returned to the car, where Ingo was already prepared to drive. Irene took notice of the heavy security presence around the estate. Interesting. There's as much here as for the government buildings in Trebizond. Perhaps the assault on the Thaddai headquarters in Constantinople spurred Nestorius and Kyrene to increase their own security. A wise decision.

"I'm sorry for not having been back sooner to greet you when you arrived," Kyrene said, "I've been dragged left, right, and center for the past while."

"It's okay," Irene said, "I understand things are hectic here."

"if anything, we should be apologizing again," Heraclius said, "We added more to your workload."

Thankfully, Kyrene was understanding of their situation. Irene didn't want to ask too much of her. Even though she lacked most of the context, she knew Kyrene had much to handle at the moment, and there were priorities higher than herself and Heraclius. Rameka handed pamphlets and maps to the two of them, marked with great sights and useful information for getting around the exarchate. There were some really interesting places Irene would like to visit, but she doubted she would have the time to see them all. After all, this was a business trip, not a vacation. And she was first and foremost a representative for her aunt.

"Got it," Heraclius said, "I'm looking forward to meeting the team."

Finally, they reached the hospital. Kyrene said something to Ingo in Maori. Timon quickly noticed Irene's confusion. "She's saying Ingo can go get himself lunch. We'll be here for a while, so there's no need for him to wait here."

"Ah, I see," Irene said, "Makes sense."

They went inside, not noticing the mysterious man from the Lemuria casually loitering on the other side of the street...

Finally, it was time to meet Nestorius. Entering the room, Irene first noticed the priest sitting at bedside, keeping a constant vigil. Then she saw Nestorius himself, lying in his bed. He looked thinner than he did in the official photo Irene saw. His breathing was normal, but occasionally it became a little inconsistent. But his eyes still had the same fire as in the photo. This was Aunt Theodora's old friend, her partner in the KRA and through many crises over the last few decades.

Kyrene and Timon went over and hugged Nestorius first. Irene stepped aside to give them room, not wanting to intrude on the family moment. Once they were done—or at least Nestorius thought so, since they were still hugging—the old senator looked at Irene and Heraclius.

"Ah, the two young Doukai have arrived!" Timon looked surprised. Irene thought about who could have known they were coming. Obviously Kyrene knew, since Theodora had directly contacted her. The staff did too. And Nestorius definitely knew, as demonstrated just now. Was Timon the only one who didn't know? That's rough, buddy. "I hope you two didn't have any issues traveling over. I'm Nestorius Thaddas, a pleasure to meet you and for us to host you during your time here. And let me introduce you too to our family priest, Father Erasmos."

Erasmos nodded. "Warmest greetings."

"It's an honor to meet you, Senator Thaddas and Father Erasmos," Irene said.

"Likewise," Heraclius said, "Our trip here was slow, yet it was without incident."

"If you ignore the time we were haggling over the price of the tickets for the Lemuria," Irene said.

Heraclius laughed. "Yeah, but that's nothing to worry about."

The Thaddai family finished their hug and pulled back. Timon leaned against the wall by the windows, giving off an air of cool in Irene's opinion. Shut up, me! Irene and Heraclius sat down, intending to continue their conversation with Nestorius.

"Now, you two are Irene and Heraclius, yes? How are you two doing?"

"We're doing fine," Irene said, "Things are a bit rough in the homeland, but my aunt and the Senate are working on it. I convey her apology for not being able to make it here. She is quite busy these days. I hope I can more than make up for her absence."

"Same here," Heraclius said, "I'm looking forward to working with your team."

"Don't worry about making up for absences, the fact Theodora even thought of me at a time like this was gift enough for me," Nestorius responded, "a true friend, she is."

Nestorius paused slightly, breathing included, as if the thought of the conflict back in the homeland weighed heavily on him. But soon, a smile returned to his face.

"It is nice to have folks visiting who care about me as an individual though, not as a political figure or what have you. Trust me, I've had enough visits like that for the past mouth," Nestor chuckled somewhat strained-like.

"I do hope that while you're here you're able to take your mind off of what's going on back home, or at least more so than me..."

Kyrene grasped Nestorius' hand. "It's been hard... knowing there's nothing I can do to help," Nestor continued, "to go to Constantinople, confront Konstantinos, somehow end this peacefully..." he remarked, his expression getting sadder. "I can't imagine what everyone back in Trebizond is going through."

"My friend, please," Erasmos spoke up, with a knowing look. It seemed that dwelling on the issue wouldn't help Nestor at this time.

"...the nurses and doctors watching me asked Erasmos to make sure I don't get too down," Ness added.

"The very best in this country, they are" Kyrene supplemented.



Nestorius smiled at Heraclius. "I'm sure you'll learn a lot from them, and be able to share your expertise with them too."

Kyrene released Nestor's hand, and got up. "Speaking of, you should meet them. Follow me to their office."

It was nice hearing Nestorius talk about Theodora like that. Made coming all the way here worth it. Well, it was already worth it because of—DON'T GET AHEAD OF YOURSELF! It seemed like so many others had visited Nestorius recently, but they had their own goals in mind. Perhaps it would be prudent to lay off on the politics. Talk to Nestorius the man, not Nestorius the politician. Is that what Auntie would have wanted?

Irene continued patiently listening to Nestorius.

Heraclius nodded. "Let's get going, then. Lead the way."

Kyrene nodded in turn, and began walking out of the room, Heraclius in tow. As they made their way to the office, a nurse passed the two by and entered Nestorius' room.

Arriving at the office, Kyrene knocked on the door, and a few seconds later, it opened.

"Hello? Oh!" the older man reacted, "Madame Thaddas, pleasure to see you."

"The pleasure is mine, Doctor Hohaia," Kyrene bowed slightly, "here's the doctor I mentioned to you a while back."

Doctor Hohaia looked at Heraclius. "Ah, Heraclius Doukas, correct? I'm Doctor Ipu Hohaia," the doctor reached his hand out for a handshake, "nice to finally meet you."

After handshakes and introductions, the good doctor continued: "We were actually about to have our regular meeting on Ol' Ness, so if you would like to join us, come in."

Kyrene gave a maternal smile to Heraclius. "I'll leave you to it then," she said with a nod, as she departed for Nestor's room and left Heraclius with the staff.

Meanwhile, at Nestorius' room, after receiving water from the nurse, he continued on talking,

"Timon, everything going well on your end?" he asked his son.

"Y-yeah, I have plans on the weekend to be with my friends," Timon answered, not expecting to be suddenly asked.

"Aa, that sounds nice. Going somewhere specific or hanging out with someone specific?"

"We're going to Neho's."

"Oo, they always made the best grilled kumara whenever we're over. I hope you all have a lot of fun," Nestor beamed as much as he could.

"T-thanks, dad..."

Feeling satisfied with his son, Nestor turned his sights on Irene. "And what about you? What are you and Heraclius planning to do while you're here? I can't imagine it'd be much fun just coming to see me every other day, haha," he chuckled roughly, prompting a swig of water.

Heraclius shook Doctor Hohaia's hand. "Thank you for welcoming me. It's an honor to work with you."

He joined them in the meeting that was about to begin, and they discussed the details of Nestorius' treatment. The terms thrown around were familiar to Heraclius, and he found himself fitting in quite quickly. Soon, he was providing his own suggestions.

"Well..." Irene racked her brain, trying to find something she could answer with. She found nothing. "I really...don't have any other plans at the moment? I organized everything around my official business here. I didn't expect free time, so..."

Nestorius chuckled at her response. "Well, let me ask you this then - what sort of 'official business' were you expecting to do?" he asked, as his expression got somewhat more serious.

"You may be here in her stead, so she could have someone offer me condolences in person, and Heraclius may be the physical embodiment of the help she wanted to send me, but what else were you expecting to do? You're not here on Imperial terms, you're not about to deal with the pains of talking with important Aotearoan figures that aren't myself or Kyrene, like I have to do," he stated somewhat seriously, as he tried to lean in somewhat.

"When Kyrene told me you and Heraclius were coming, aside from his being a doctor, the main reason Theodora gave us for having you come was for you two to be safe from the conflict back home." he continued, before slowly lying back and getting a smirk on his face, "I don't know about you, but to me that reads like 'I'm going to have tons of free time'! Especially since, you know, neither you, nor I, nor Theodora, none of us know when all of this is going to end," his smirk slowly vanishing, as if highlighting his upset nature regarding the current Imperial affairs, emphasized by the radio's music, which Irene would realize had been playing Trauermusik on loop.

"You have to think realistically, Irene. Unless something happened that necessitated you having to shadow someone important here, you were always going to have free time," Nestor punctuated his point, before giving her a smile, "so, live a little, alright? You never know how time will pass you by," he finished with a paternal tone.

Timon watched as his father showed his prowess once more, sighing. He couldn't imagine having to do what he does. Erasmos, meanwhile, had switched to reading some holy book.

Before Irene could respond, Kyrene returned to the room. "Did I miss anything?" she asked.

"Oh, no, we were just talking and it seems Irene doesn't have any plans!" Nestor revealed.

"At least she and Heraclius have those pamphlets we had prepared for them," Kyrene replied, Nestor chuckling in response.

"Now, isn't that nice? Having the free time to enjoy yourself..." Nestor commented, as Kyrene took her seat. She patted his arm, as if they've gotten used to consoling one another.

Timon, noticing that Heraclius hadn't come back, uses the opportunity to take a seat. "...and we wouldn't have that free time if it weren't for you two, mom, dad," he decided to abruptly add, prompting wide smiles from his parents.

“If anything, I definitely have a lot of free time on my hands.” Irene looked over the pamphlet. “I suppose it couldn’t hurt to look around the area.”

The conversation shifted away from the serious tone it had previously had, back to a cheerier one as the topic of where to spend one's time was raised, Irene asking about various things brought up in the pamphlet and any combination of Nestorius, Kyrene, Timon and even Father Erasmos if the topic concerned the city of Hilandaris, no matter if the area in question concerned sights, food, or what have you. Time flied by, with the music in the background shifting to something more jazzy.

Eventually, a knock could be heard on the door. It was Heraclius, having returned from the meeting, with a somewhat muted expression. Makes one wonder what had been discussed.

Nestorius noted the time on the clock: "Aa, it's getting late now, it might be high time for you all to head back," he commented, "wouldn't want to deal with the evening traffic, haha."

Kyrene nodded with a slight smile. "I... I suppose you're right," she commented somewhat sadly, "I still have things to deal with back at the office too before the day ends."

Timon looked conflicted, as if he wanted to say something, but finding himself unwilling to do so. "Y-yeah, let's get going..." he managed to muster.

"Thank you two for coming here," Nestor referred to the two Doukai, "genuinely, I'm glad. You two still have a lot to grow, but I already see so much good in you two. Don't let yourselves be bogged down by me, rest up!" he said with as best of a hearty chuckle he could do, before coughing.

Timon patted his father on the back, to help steady his breathing, before coming in with a hug. Kyrene joined soon after. "I'll see you on Friday, alright?" Kyrene said.

"Of course! I know tomorrow's going to be especially busy for you, I'll be fine..." Nestor responded.

With the hug released, everyone gathered their things. Everyone said their goodbyes, both to Nestor and to Erasmos, and made their merry way out of the hospital.

Returning back to the car, Ingo was seen reading the newspaper, or rather, as they got closer, doing the crossword puzzle.

"Sorry to bother, Ingo," Kyrene said to him, with him merely waving his hand, wrapping up his newspaper, and starting up the car. It seemed she and Ingo have had this interaction many times before.

"Be sure to leave me over at the office, I need to finish up a few more things," she told him, with him merely giving an affirming nod.

Stopping at the office, Timon joined his mother out of the car, to give her a hug and a see-you-soon, before entering back into the car in the front passenger seat.

Soon enough, they arrived back at the Thaddai estate. Dinner would be held with neither Nestorius or Kyrene present, though the latter's dinner was prepared for when she comes back. Timon would head to bed early that day.

---

Komnenion - February 21st

Two days had passed since the arrival of the Doukai. For Timon, Thursday was a typical day, just with two extra people present, for whom he answered questions for alongside Rameka. Heraclius would opt to head for the hospital, to continue meeting with the medical staff watching Nestorius over his condition. Rameka, Timon and Irene would meanwhile go out (with a bodyguard in tow, oddly enough) to see the city a bit more, visiting spots Irene had found interesting.

This Friday morning, based on what he was seeing, was looking to lead to more of the same, at least until they visit his father in the afternoon. They were enjoying breakfast, though mother had already had hers and departed before they had woken up.

"So, Irene, Heraclius, you have any plans sorted up to the afternoon?" Madame Rameka asked the two Doukai.

The rest of the conversation covered lighter topics. Irene asked about places to go, what were good restaurants, and other things she should see during her time here. Even the priest chimed in at times, though Irene doubted she would need to visit Hilandaris. Probably if something involving the Church happened in the heartland and Theodora somehow needed to involve the clergy in Aotearoa.

After a while, Heraclius returned, but he was noticeably less talkative. Irene didn't want to ask what was going on. It was probably going to be some medical jargon she didn't understand anyways.

"Once again, thank you for having us," Irene said, "We'll make you proud, sir."

Heraclius merely agreed with what his cousin said. There wasn't much else for him to add.

Dinner passed, though neither Nestorius nor Kyrene were present. The food was great, but Irene couldn't help but feel something was missing without both of them. Kyrene came home a little later and ate separately, but by then Irene and Heraclius had finished.

Irene hoped this was the exception, not the norm.

The next day, Heraclius headed off to the hospital to help with Nestorius' care. Irene felt a little alone once they dropped her cousin off. After all, they had been crammed into the same lodgings and transportation for the last few weeks, so him being gone the whole day felt off.

Fortunately, Timon was there. She almost swooned when she realized he would be around instead of Herac—oh thank goodness he wasn't around—and then stopped herself when she found Rameka and at least one bodyguard would be going with them. Goddamnit, why can't they just—SHUT UP, ME! They went around and visited the spots she found interesting, which mainly consisted of good restaurants, bookstores, major landmarks, and cultural sights, both colonial and Maori. By the end of the day, she believed she had started to pick up on some of the local slang.

"Not really," Irene said, "I was thinking we could do the same thing as yesterday. Look around the place again."

"I was hoping to continue working on Senator Thaddas' treatment," Heraclius said.

Timon remained largely oblivious of Irene's swooning over him, as he had been thus far, seeming slightly confused whenever he caught glimpses on it on Thursday, leading to him getting flustered over the potential that she actually didn't find Aotearoa interesting. The presence of Rameka embarrassing him like a step-aunt didn't help. But the day had gone by smoothly enough, with everyone enjoying himself. He chuckled when she used some of the local slang.

Rameka nodded. "Solid plans! No issues for you, Timon?"

Timon nodded in response. "None whatsoever. Though I won't be available for that on the weekend. Promised my friends to hang out and all."

Rameka giggled. "Why don't you bring Irene with you?"

Timon frowned. "Mihi, you know how my friends are!"

Irene reddened the moment Rameka made her suggestion. "Wait, what are you—"

"She would love to," Heraclius interrupted, flashing a wink at her, "Right?"

I hate you, Herac. "Uh...yeah, definitely."

Timon didn't seem to be fine with this. "I don't know, I think it would be rather overwhelming."

As they talked, the phone rang in the hallway.

Rameka got up. "I'll handle that," she said as she headed out of the kitchen.

A minute or so later, Rameka yelled from the hallway. "Timon! Erasmos is calling you on the phone!"

"O-oh! C-coming!" Timon responded in surprise, as he got up and headed over to the phone, with Rameka returning to the kitchen.

"G-good morning, Father Erasmos! Why are you calling for me at this hour?" Rameka overheard Timon respond on the phone, as she moved away and entered the kitchen.

"Certainly odd, but it's not like this hasn't happened before. Erasmos seems to always call at odd times," Rameka told the two Doukai.

"What about you, Heraclius? You can't go every day to the hospital, can you? You could also join Timon!" Rameka continued on with the conversation.

Damnit, shot down, what an utter disaster! It took every bit of her willpower to make her face look absolutely unchanged.

Then Timon went away to answer the phone. It seemed to be Father Erasmos calling from the hospital. Rameka turned back to Heraclius and Irene and continued their conversation. "What about you, Heraclius? You can't go every day to the hospital, can you? You could also join Timon!"

"I wouldn't be against that," Heraclius said, "But I'm not sure about leaving the hospital team like that. Maybe I should get in touch and let them know."

Rameka nodded. "That would be the best move, if you wanted to join, that is!" she said with a smile.

As they continued eating breakfast, the three of them noticed something peculiar...

Timon hadn't returned yet. It didn't seem like he was talking on the phone anymore, yet he was still there. It had been several minutes already.

"...Erasmos doesn't typically do long calls unless they're with Nestorius..." Rameka looked over at the two Doukai with a worried expression, "I wonder what's going on."

"I suppose it wouldn't hurt," Heraclius said, "I'll send a message to the team first chance I can."

They continued eating breakfast. Soon, Irene's plate was empty, but Timon was still gone, his plate remaining half full. Weird. Was he still talking?

"...Erasmos doesn't typically do long calls unless they're with Nestorius..." Rameka said. "I wonder what's going on."

"Same here," Irene said, "I hope it's nothing too serious."

Several minutes more pass, and Timon still hadn't returned. Rameka had become genuinely visibly concerned by this point.

"I'm going to go check on him," she told the two Doukai. She got up and left the kitchen to go find Timon.

When she arrived back at the phone, she found Timon, just standing there. He had already put the handle down, but he just kept his hands on the phone. He seemed unmoving, and yet she could also hear... crying.

"T-Timon, is everything alright-"

"He's dead," Timon responded.

Rameka paused. She didn't mishear him, did she?

"D-dad's...." Timon began to tremble on the spot, as if he were about to collapse.

Rameka rushed over to Timon, giving him a hug. "Timon..." she told him, allowing him to cry as he tried to comprehend the situation herself, as it took her a bit before she also began to start crying.

Unbeknownst to Timon, Erasmos had chosen to call him first among all others to find out what had happened. The morning of February 21st, 1936, his nearly 87 year old father had passed away, having had the chance to do his last rites. Shortly after him, Erasmos called Kyrene, hoping to catch her while she wasn't busy yet. A week of mourning would be declared, expanded from the originally intended day of mourning, after public support.

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Spoiler

This event actually fired on the 2nd of February, but for roleplay purposes, I was allowed to push it forward in step with Nestorius being hospitalized being pushed forward time-wise. It's genuinely unlucky how he died this early on. Man could've lasted until June. The Emperor's death and the civil war really hit him hard.

Rameka went off to see what was with Timon, leaving Irene and Heraclius alone. They patiently waited for a few minutes. Then Irene noticed Rameka wasn't coming back.

"What's going on?" she asked.

"Beats me," Heraclius said, "You want to go see?"

They got up and went to where Rameka had gone. They didn't go far before they found Rameka and Timon gathered at the phone. Timon was...crying.

In that instant, Irene knew exactly what had happened.

"No..." was all she could say before she also burst into tears, followed by Heraclius.

…

19th February 1936

…​

Life went on.

Alexander reflected as much in his latest sermon, in front of the majority of the population of Constantinople. For the past few weeks, for various reasons, the cathedral had played host for mass, for everyone. It was…somewhat tense. Whilst the fascists as a rule were as Christian as the rest of the Empire, in practice, they had rather chosen a different idol to worship, that being their idea of what the state should be.

It was all the more bewildering that their avatar of that fantasy was the Crown Prince.

And yes, he remained Crown Prince. Despite nearly four weeks passing between the death of the old emperor and now, Konstantios refused to budge on the issue of having a priest bear witness and give rites to the body. He also had not given the vows required to defend the Faith and protect the Church as Supreme Governor.

In short, whilst he certainly presented himself as Emperor, he had abdicated the responsibility spiritually. As desperate as the Church was to avoid getting involved in what was still largely seen as a family squabble, Alexander’s position was becoming increasingly untenable. It was very difficult to remain neutral when one of the factions treated the Faith, the Church and the Office with such disdain.

Thus…today’s sermon.

He had noted a few confused and a few angry faces amongst the fascist hierarchy as he continued and knew that at least some of them grasped the undertone of the message.

Well. Good.

Despite himself, Alexander was afraid. He had responsibilities in this city outside the Church. There were several hundred people within the Temple District, which encircled the Holy Mound, the millennia old churches, monasteries, hermitages and cathedral of the old city. All would be placed in imminent danger by his actions today.

However, it could not be helped. Not this time.

He concluded with prayer, and steeled himself for the quiet, desperate, last chance he would offer the Crown Prince.

…​

Domingo and Achilles shared a glance as they dutifully followed Konstantinos and the Patriarch to the latter’s private office.

That had been the largest warning shot of the past month that the Orthodox Church was losing patience with their monarch. All that talk of the Christian Martyrs, the greatness of faith in adversity, goodness in the face of cruelty, and humility before the Lord…

Now, though their emperor seemed not to realise it, Alexander was beginning to fashion a net. Or a noose.

Alexander fixed all three of them with a beady eye.

“I shall be brief, gentlemen. Almost one month ago, the Emperor of the Romans died alone and without respite. Since then, and despite frequent and polite requests from all manner of officials within and without the Church from across the Empire, and two from Archbishops from across the seas, you have failed to account for his body or his disgraceful treatment at your hands-you will be silent!” He raised his voice suddenly as Konstantinos opened his mouth.

“You have made your opinion on the duties of any good Christian clear. You have made your own wickedness quite clear. I’m going to make this easy for you, Konstantinos. Either you immediately recant from this path you have decided on, release your father’s body over to my custody and swear your vows within the day, or you will be excommunicated from the Orthodox Church.”

Achilles’ face grew quite red and he seemed to be biting down on his tongue. Domingo on the other hand stared icily at Alexander, waiting for him to finish, and calculating how to survive his removal.

“I see no reason for you to linger or discuss this, as your options seem quite clear to me. Kindly escort these gentlemen out, Guard Captain.”

Domingo shifted, suddenly aware there were three men at his elbow. So…war it was to be.

“But-but,” the Crown Prince stammered, white in shock and deeply perturbed, whether at the tone or the content of the generally affable Patriarch in front of them.

“Out. Now.”

And they were gone.

Alexander turned around to face his now empty office, and slumped into a chair. The die had been cast.

…

The previous day

…​

Prince Alvertos glanced up from his writing and had to doubletake upon seeing Father Joseph, rather out of breath, being shown through into his office. He had grown quite fond of the old man after, quite by chance, wandering into his confessional booth. Over the past few weeks, the calm, quiet and thoughtful air, and occasional advice of the priest had been a comfort in a troubling time.

This was something new, however. Joseph had never come to his office before, nor ever seemed so excited or emotional before.

“Is everything alright?” the prince asked in concern.

“I fear not,” the old man said, regaining his composure and sitting in an offered seat. “You recall I had to send a request for approval when Your Highness began to regularly take confession with me?”

Alvertos frowned and nodded. He for one was glad of the long established boon of the clergy that gave them various exemptions from having to bow, kneel and generally lavish the Royal Family with praise at every turn. That being said, he reminded himself, the Emperor Himself had his own special position within the Church hierarchy…oh bother.

“I was wondering, my friend. Apologies,” he said, shaking himself. Father Joseph would not have come without cause.

“I received a writ today from His All Holiness, the Ecumenical Patriarch himself.”

Alvertos nodded again. “Yes, that is who would have to approve it, from what you told me?”

“Indeed, sire, but…not like this.” He slid over the message onto the desk, and the prince peered down at it.

“What are these markings?” he asked, pointing a various circles and scribbles in a different hand to the somewhat familiar script of the Patriarch.

“My own notes. The Holy Father sent an encoded message within the letter, I am sure of it. I checked my work a dozen times and had two scholars I deeply trust look it over. This is a genuine message for your eyes.”

“I see,” the prince said, not particularly reassured. What possible reason could there be for this sort of subterfuge, and to him of all people? He picked up the letter and focused on the code key and additions made, then paused, re-read from the start, and then again.

And again.

“Are you certain of this?”

“I ran from my rooms to the archbishop first, and he confirmed there had been rumblings for the past week, and was not surprised, though worried, at the news. I believe it is genuine, yes.”

“Good God…” the prince said to himself and smiled despite himself when the man across from him nodded in agreement. “This is…” he tailed off and reached for the telephone. “Get me the security minister and the War Cabinet at once. Within the next fifteen minutes or less. Yes, at once!” He glanced up at the old priest after reading through the missive once more. “I hesitate to ask but…”

“What do I think?” At the prince’s nod, Father Joseph sighed. “It has been a long time coming. It will mean a great evil is about to be done upon the Holy City. I fear, perhaps the whole Church. But it cannot be helped. Tyranny must be opposed, evil must be faced. The Holy Father is right to act as he does.”

“Still…I do not know whether we can help them.”

“That you will at least try, puts you in better staid than…others.” Father Joseph suggested. “I take my leave. Be well, and go with God, Prince Alvertos.” He reached the door just as two bodyguards and Theodora came round the corner. He walked away and shut his eyes when he just about heard the conversation drift from the office behind him:

“Alexander is going to excommunicate Konstantinos. He needs an evacuation, immediately.”

Trebizond

As soon as she received the summons, Theodora dropped everything she was currently working on. She halted her interrogation of their prisoner from Ioannes' attempted assassination and made her way to the imperial estate. Once she was there, Alvértos wasted no time getting to the point.

“Alexander is going to excommunicate Konstantinos. He needs an evacuation, immediately.”

So Konstantinos had finally managed to piss off the Church itself. Theodora couldn't help but silently laugh. The Church was the one institution that could utterly destroy one of the princes if it wanted to, and now it was about to. Konstantinos, being who he was, would probably attempt to avoid that fate by arresting the Church, or something like that. Which meant His Holiness and other high ranking clergymen needed an evacuation. The emergency escape route Justinian had established a while ago was now coming in handy.

"I'm on it," Theodora said, "I'll inform my operatives about this development. Rest assured, we will get His Holiness and other at risk individuals out of harm's way."

Her mind raced with potential contingency plans. Konstantinos wouldn't stop with going after the Church. If His Holiness escaped to Trebizond, Konstantinos would likely try to go after them. A full-scale assault on Constantinople's East End in retaliation was likely. It didn't matter if Konstantinos didn't have the manpower to take and hold any territory. He would try it, just to give the appearance of strength. She would have to warn Ioannes.

((Activating the escape route, feel free to write the clergy escaping through it.))

20th February 1936

…​

Patriarch Franciscus looked up at the façade of the Hagia Sophia, still visible in the darkening sky, wondering if he would ever see it again.

“I’m glad we finished putting it right,” the old rector said, also looking up. “Whatever happens next.”

“We did our duty, stood firm against evil, and protected the innocent,” Alexander looked down. “It was not enough. This is a retreat, as much as it is defiant.”

“The cathedral will survive. It always has. How many men have tried to tear it down, or the Church it represents over the millennia? This place, this city, is sacred for a reason. It embodies the human spirit to survive and go on, despite all the world throws at us. Evil may rise but it will never prosper.” Franciscus looked over at the Ecumenical Patriarch. “I voted against your anointment, as I believe I told you once before. But I have never misjudged a man so wrongly as you. No matter what happens, the Church will navigate through this crisis with clean hands and no blemish upon its soul. That is your influence and legacy. Not what happens here tonight.”

“They are going to force me to come with you.”

“As well they should. If the Latin Rite cannot afford to lose me, the world cannot afford to lose you before your time.”

“The Άγιος go to their deaths.”

“That is their purpose. The Temple District and Acropolis will not fall without a fight. The Holy Mound will see blood unjustly spilt defending its sanctity…but the helpless will live, and these men will lay down their lives to ensure we can fight on in their name.”

The Guard Captain came up to them, ready for war. Now he was dressed in the common dressage of every other solider who had volunteered to remain. None of them would live to see the sunrise.

“We are ready, gentlemen.”

Alexander took one more look at the cathedral, and then at the men who were busy readying themselves for what was to come. In a sudden gasp of inspiration, he understood that it was the latter that was far more important than the former.

“I once again order you to all come with us.”

The Guard Captain smiled slightly. “I once again disobey and will suffer whatever consequences ensue.”

“I had hoped to never write another name onto the history of Christian Martyrs. Let alone meet and know a hundred of them.”

“We’ll be alright, sir. Please, go now.”

“Philip…good luck, and God be with you.”

“God be with us all, Holy Father.”

He saluted and gestured to the escorting guardsmen to lead the holy men away. Just to ensure they actually left.

“The only respite in my soul is that we are taking most with us.”

“We would rather stand and fight, sir,” the young guardsman, Joseph, replied.

“Not on your life. I would rather this entire place be burnt to the ground than waste a man being slaughtered by the fascists who call themselves Roman.”

“Sir!”

“It can be rebuilt. I have done so once already. But enough…if you are insistent upon kidnapping us-”

“Peace, Alexander,” the rector said, touching his arm. “They are not at fault.”

“You are right…my apologies. To the boats then.”

The rebel ships had begun to show in the Straits in force yesterday, and would tonight be acting as both an escort and a distraction from the Crown Prince’s minions. They had already shelled the emptied dockyards (the workers by this time had numerous rebel agents spreading information and warnings) and were engaged in firefights up and down the waterfront.

With luck, even if anyone happened to spot the refugees escaping, they would have no means of response before it was too late.

The women and children went first, and unfortunately, there were quite a lot of them. Not only the nuns and the child members of the Church but also the vast majority of orphans in the city resided within the Temple District, and thus had to be evacuated. There were also families of servants, laypeople, and assorted others. Everyone in the hospitals and infirmaries were next. Then the evacuation of the major church officials (including the Abbesses and Mother Superiors, who had universally vetoed their seats on earlier boats).

All the while, the Άγιος Guard and everyone else was on tenterhooks as to when they would be discovered, when a shout or a spotlight would ring out and the fight would begin. The fascists would have to breach the walls of the district, fight their way through the Guard through the entire complex and then reach the water in order to do anything…but they had the numbers.

Still, Alexander hoped they would not be discovered at all, and the entire population of the place, including all the volunteer defenders, could retreat across the river.

He would not leave himself until they were either discovered, or on the last boat.

It was after midnight, closer to 1am on the 21st February, when the shooting started.

They had very nearly made it.

The water by now was enshrouded in mist and fog, such that once underway, any boat would be hidden from view and simply had to keep going. Thus, Alexander ordered everyone to go, right then and there. With little regard for overcrowding now return journeys had become that much more perilous, just over half of all remaining people on the riverbank were gone. There was now a tense dozen or so minutes wait to see if they could come back in time.

“You really should have gone with them.”

“I will abide. We have been given grace enough that almost everyone is safe already.”

“Not everyone.”

The shooting was beginning to be intermixed with yelling and screaming. It was still quite far away, but that only made the volume of the noise more ominous.

Suddenly, the boats emerged again through the mist, as an explosion shook everyone on the shore.

“That’s the wall gone,” the Rector said dimly, rather louder than he meant to say. Everyone was a little deafened after that.

“Go! Go!” Alexander encouraged everyone, the Guards and the priests, onto the waiting boats. He spared one last look behind him. From this angle, all seemed well, aside from the occasional flare of gunfire and a worrying amount of thick, black smoke rising in the distance beyond the buildings.

“That everyone, sir?” the boatman said as he went aboard, seemingly the last to do so.

“I’m afraid not, but it is everyone who will be leaving.”

“Right sir.”

The rebel, or perhaps just a brave civilian? In any case, he turned the boat around and made his way into the mist.

“Have you had any trouble so far?” shouted the Rector over the sound of the engine and the waves.

“Not too much. This fog is a blessing and a curse. Have to keep her straight, but also means we won’t be shot!”

“Mixed blessings indeed,” muttered the Patriarch.

As Constantinople, and the men he left behind, vanished from view, he uttered a quiet prayer for their souls, as the mist enveloped them all.

Constantinople
February 20, 1936

As the residents of the Temple District made their way to the docks, a lone figure shadowed them from the rooftops, remaining silent and out of sight. As they waited for the boats, the figure remained unseen above, watching and waiting. As they began loading onto the boats and departing out into the straits, the figure remained motionless, an imperceptible fixture above. It was only after the first shots rang out that the figure moved again, unsheathing two sets of claw-like blades.

The Ripper had been patient, observing the flight of the last bastion of Christian strength within the city. They had taken careful notice of the Ecumenical Patriarch and his entourage. It would have been a simple matter of slipping into their ranks and dispatching the Holy Father, although an escape would have been much more difficult. There were surely followers of Chernobog who would have done so if presented with a similar opportunity, seeing it as a gift of the Black God to take out the head of a rival faith. The Ripper was not one of them. Zeal was for short-sighted fools, and often got one killed. A pragmatic approach was preferred, even if it seemed somewhat contradictory to the edicts of chaos espoused by Chernobog.

So the Ripper waited. For what, they did not know. Master Sliver had given them the freedom to decide their own approach to this mission. Let the Ecumenical Patriarch escape or eliminate him before he could? Intervene or observe? The patriarch's death would certainly plunge the church into chaos, perhaps even with both sides of the civil war trying to influence the choice of successor. Then again, the patriarch leaving the city to flee to the rebels would only stoke the flames of war even more. It was a delicate balance, one that needed to be carefully maintained to maximize the chaos of this conflict. Ultimately they favoured to let events proceed as they were, perhaps because it was easier to choose inaction over action when faced with such a dilemma. There were also other factors they needed to consider, tied to deep-held beliefs that they kept buried and hidden from others of the faith for they could often times run counter to the edicts of Chernobog.

The evacuation proceeded rather smoothly considering how many people were involved and how strongly guarded the city had been the past few months. Perhaps God was showing his favour to his faithful. Or perhaps he wasn't as the Ripper noticed a half dozen fascists, armed with sub-machine guns clearly meant to do maximum damage without consideration for who was in the crosshairs. They were sneaking through an alley towards the docks. They had somehow managed to avoid the Temple Guard, who continued to fight their comrades elsewhere in the district. The Ripper made note of their path, which after a few more blocks would lead them right to the refugees. The closest group of refugees consisted of women and children who had missed the first batch of boats, possibly because they were latecomers or had opted to let others go ahead of them. The Ripper watched the fascists slowly approach, only three blocks between them and the refugees. Their eyes glinted mercilessly, anticipating the bloodshed they surely meant to inflict. The chaos that would ensue would be unimaginable. Chernobog would surely be pleased. The Ripper, however, would not.

As the fascists walked past below, the Ripper dropped down from the rooftop with barely a sound. They landed in the middle of them, startling the ones in the back who suddenly found an armoured and cloaked figure amongst their ranks. One of the men tried to cry out, but his throat was ripped out by the Ripper's claws before he could speak. He stared at the Ripper's masked face as the life drained from his eyes. He then clutched at his torn throat and collapsed to the ground. Another could only let out a surprised grunt as a set of claws pierced into his chest. He spat out blood and then slumped down onto the street.

The rest of the fascists had finally taken notice of the intruder. One of the men tried to bring his sub-machine gun to bear, but the Ripper kicked another of the goons into him, knocking them both back. Of the other two, one who looked barely eighteen was staring in horror at his dying comrades, while the other aimed his gun at the interloper. The Ripper rolled to the side, dodging bullet fire that sprayed the wall behind where they had just stood. They weren't close enough to get the shooter with their claws, so they opted for a ranged alternative instead. A throwing knife suddenly appeared in their hand, and a quick flick of the wrist sent it flying at the shooter. He let out a scream as it plunged into his left eye.

By now the two fascists who had been knocked into each other had gathered their wits. The Ripper quickly closed the gap before they could aim their weapons, going in fast with their claws. One of the soldiers used his gun as a shield, blocking the blow intended for his chest. Sparks flew as the blades cut into the gun, leaving deep scratches. The other man managed to get his gun up and was ready to fire. Twirling through the air, the Ripper continued through with their initial attack, striking again at the first soldier, managing to slice into their left arm. They then manoeuvred around the man, pushing him out between them and the other combatant. Before the second soldier could realize his mistake, he let loose a burst of fire into his comrade. The first fascist collapsed to the ground, bleeding heavily from the bullet wounds in his chest.

Without giving time for a follow-up attack, the Ripper lunged at the armed soldier, stabbing both sets of claws into his chest. They hoisted the man into the air and tossed him off the blades, his body lifeless before it even hit the ground.

An angry roar pulled the Ripper's attention to the side, where the man with the throwing knife in his eye had finally overcome the pain enough to attack. Before he could let off a shot, the Ripper tossed another throwing knife, this one lodging into the man's right eye. He let out a pained squeal as he unleashed a barrage of sub-machine gun fire. The Ripper dropped low and rolled towards the man, avoiding the gunfire as the blinded man fired wildly into the air. They kicked out the man's legs, dropping him onto his back and knocking the wind out of him. The gunfire stopped as the Ripper lodged their claws into the underside of the fascist's jaw.

Rising to their feet, the Ripper flicked the fresh blood from their claws as the action finally came to a halt. The sounds of the refugees a few blocks away and gunfire in the distance could be heard, but the alley remained silent except for the sobbing of the one remaining fascist.

The Ripper stood silently, watching the one enemy that remained. He had dropped his gun earlier in the fight and was now on his knees, his head bowed down and hands clasped in prayer. He was barely even a man and certainly no longer a threat, so the Ripper did not hasten to eliminate him. They listened as the teen whispered prayer after prayer to God, as though He would descend from the heavens and save him. The Ripper let out a deep chuckle, an ominous sound that reverberated through their metal mask.

"God will not save you," the Ripper said, stepping closer to the fascist. Sensing the armour-clad figure approach, the whimpering boy bowed his head further and more fervently whispered his prayers. The Ripper grabbed his chin and jerked his head up, their claws sticking out on both sides of his neck as a clear reminder of the threat they presented. "You were ready to murder innocent woman and children, and even men of the cloth. Why would God save you?"

"I was only serving my emperor," the boy said, his voice cracking, a mixture of tears and snot streaking down his young face.

It was pathetic and sad how easy it was it was to manipulate the young into believing anything. A smirk spread across the Ripper's face, hidden by the mask and only noticeable by the Ripper themself. There was a great irony in that thought, seeing as they served an equally troublesome cause. Yet there was a difference between blind faith and allies of convenience, and often the two were indistinguishable when the latter put on a show of seeming committed to the cause. This was something the Ripper had learned early on, and this boy clearly had not.

Careful not to accidentally slit the boy's throat, the Ripper forced him to his feet and pushed him away. They pointed back down the alley in the direction the fascists had come. "Go, and rethink your purpose in life." They walked around the boy and gave him in kick in the rear, forcing him to stumble back down the alley. "Do not make the same mistake again or you will find me less forgiving the second time."

Without hesitation, the boy scrambled off down the alley. He looked back only once, just as he started away, but the Ripper was already gone. He quickly picked up his pace and fled as fast as he could. The Ripper watched him go from the rooftop above until he he was out of sight before returning to observe the evacuation. They would need the time to devise an excuse for their recent foray against the fascists when they reported back to Master Sliver.

Trebizond - February 19

Theodora briskly strolled down the hallway of the MSI building. She had been in a rush ever since she received the news from Prince Alvértos. Every minute counted—she needed to get a message out to her contacts in the capital as soon as possible. Every minute that passed meant another civilian dead at the hands of the blackshirts. Konstantinos wouldn’t be above targeting the clergy if it gave him a short term political advantage. But in the long term, it would only push the Church onto Alvértos’ side by necessity, Hey, nobody said those guys had great long term planning.

She reached the communications room. Normally, Justinian would be here as the point of contact for the MSI’s undercover operatives in Constantinople, but he had been recalled to Australia and wouldn’t be around for a while. So Theodora decided to do it herself. She sat at one of the specialized telegraphs the MSI had developed specifically for secure communications. It had an extra unit attached to it, an encryption device. The specific encryption code could be changed with a dial on the side, and it was standard practice to change it every day. Once all codes on the dial were exhausted, the dial was replaced and a new set of codes was installed. That was the job of the cryptography department. She personally only had to type normally, like with any other telegraph.

“EXECUTE OPERATION LIGHTHOUSE CONTINGENCY PLAN 4”

Fortunately, before his departure, Justinian had left extremely detailed instructions as to the specifics of Operation Lighthouse. So all she had to do was type those words, and the operative on the other end would know what to do.

Even if “what to do” amounted to, if Justinian wasn’t lying, “figure it out yourself.”


Nicomedia

“Let me get this straight,” Paul said, “You want me to deploy the Talos and the patrol boats in an attack formation?”

Ioannes nodded. “That’s right.”

“Even though we are in no position to actually attack?”

“Yes. That’s not the objective.” Ioannes pointed at the wharfs of Galata. “We just need to cover for the evacuation.”

“You really want us to go right into the Golden Horn for an evacuation?” Paul said.

“I’d have done it at Megarevma, like with the previous evacuation,” Ioannes said, “But the people we’re extracting can’t make it that far. Galata is even a distraction.”

“A distraction for what?”

Ioannes lowered his voice. “The historic center, Temple District, that general area.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“That should tell you just how delicate the situation is. Theodora’s activated a lot of her people in the city.”

Paul shook his head. “Did she even tell you who the evacuees are?”

“She said something about a need-to-know basis,” Ioannes said, “Yeah, I’d have liked to know too. So can you do it?”

“Yes,” Paul said, “The Talos probably can’t go into the Golden Horn, but I can put it at the mouth and provide cover fire. The patrol boats will escort the transports to the shore.”

“Good,” Ioannes said, “Let’s get it done.”


Constantinople

The dockyard was abuzz with activity. Apparently, there had been an MSI operative embedded within the union leadership. He activated one of the union’s contingency plans. It wasn’t the main one—that would be executed whenever the troops in the East End decided to cross the bridges—but it was still important. The MSI requested the union’s help with evacuating certain high profile individuals—among others—to Skoutarion. The workers weren’t given any names or identifying information, other than they would be gathering the next day. There were some complaints about helping out capitalists and aristocrats who likely wanted to evacuate more of their own, but then several hundred hyperpyra coincidentally appeared in the union’s donation box. Management looked the other way. The MSI had probably dropped another few hundred hyperpyra onto their desks.

Officially, the dockworkers continued their jobs as usual. But the union deployed them over a much larger area of waterfront in addition to the regular work in Kontostaklion. Gavrilo and his team were assigned to the wharfs on the Golden Horn. There was another union branch there which had “requested” their assistance repairing docks in Galata. Fortunately, Management hadn’t sent any inspectors since the whole crisis started, having deemed the city too dangerous for them. If they had, they would have found that the Galata docks were perfectly fine. In fact, they looked much better than Kontoskalion’s docks, Gavrilo thought.

That’s because they are, Wilhelm said, Galata has commercial docks. Kontoskalion is primarily shipping and military.

Why’d we decide to work at Kontoskalion, then?

You said the pay and union benefits were better.

True, the Galata branch isn’t as generous. No matter the universe, some things just don’t change.

The union’s main goal with Gavrilo’s team was to provide security at the extraction point. They were to clear out the area under the guise of construction, letting through only civilians trying to escape. To that aim, they would go around the surrounding blocks and asking people to evacuate inland. Ships from the East End would then shell the empty docks and buildings to eliminate any enemy military presence. If all went according to plan, the evacuees—and anybody else who chose to go with them—would board the ships and be ferried to the East End. Then Gavrilo and the other dockworkers would return to Kontoskalion, with nobody the wiser.

“Say, Gavrilo.” One of the dockworkers adjusted the wooden railing of one of the wharfs. “Who do you think we’re evacuating tomorrow?”

“If I had to guess, probably some defectors,” Gavrilo said, “This is too high profile of an operation to get spies out.”

Those two Inquisitors came to mind.

“I bet it’s some fancy purpleshirt.” That was apparently the local slang referring to aristocrats, but it was increasingly being applied to those who sided with Alvértos in general. It made no difference to these dockworkers. “Those guys only look out for themselves.”

“Purpleshirts think we’re cannon fodder.”

“Do we have a choice, though?” Gavrilo said. “The only other alternatives are the blackshirts.”

“Black, purple, they’re all the same in the end. Only difference is which one kills you faster.”

“I’m tired of choosing the lesser of two evils. What’s the point if nothing will change for ourselves?”

“Perhaps they will change,” Gavrilo said.

“How do you know?”

Gavrilo actually didn’t know. In Vrhbosna, things seemed to stay the same no matter what. The union at his factory said the same things for as long as he could remember. But Management was much stricter there. He remembered one time there was a strike, and Management retaliated by calling in a favor from Berlin. Angelos’ men marched into Vrhbosna and shot several dozen of his colleagues. His pay was cut in half that year. He never got his full salary back, because the next year Angelos drove out the Kaiser and attempted to seize ultimate power. Much like what happened here with Konstantinos and Alvértos. So why would he say things would get better if they didn’t?

Gavrilo, Wilhelm’s voice came, It may not seem that way, but these times won’t last.

What do you mean?

There will always be bad times. But they end eventually. Surely, people living through the Thirteenth Century Crisis or the Fifty Years’ War believed the Apocalypse was upon them. But those ended, and better times began.

Those times didn’t have modern technology and ideologies making things worse.

Gavrilo, humans are still the same at their core. Technology and ideology only amplifies what’s already within you. You all have a potential for evil, which is justified with ideology and made destructive with technology. But there is also a potential for good. Technology can be used to destroy, but it can save as well. Just think of all of the medical advances you’ve seen in recent years, both here and at home. Same with ideologies. Fascism and equalism may still exist, but there will always be ideologies to oppose them, to defend the freedom of the people.

So what you’re saying is…as long as there’s evil, there will be good to oppose it?

Yes. Through the many generations I’ve watched over, that has not changed.

Gavrilo worked up the strength to say something. “Maybe it’s faith.”

One dockworker scoffed. “What, you still go to church?”

Gavrilo shook his head. “Not exactly. It’s more like a…personal faith. No matter how bad things can get, we can still pull ourselves out of it the same way we got into it.”


February 20

Gavrilo made himself comfortable on one of the docks with a view of the Golden Horn. He was alone now. The rest of the team had left, since it was after hours. But Gavrilo wanted to see the whole thing up close and make sure things went smoothly. If anything went wrong, he could always rely on Wilhelm.

You do know I have to draw on my grace to heal you ever time, right?

I’m counting on it.

There was a feeling in his head that was like a sigh, but it went by without Gavrilo’s mouth moving. I’ve already used a lot of my grace to slow your aging. If you get really hurt, I don’t know how much longer it’ll delay reintegration.

Then make sure to keep me away from that.

It gets harder if you rush into danger.

What, you haven’t before? Isn’t that why you’re here?

For the record, that was Gabriel tricking us all.

Have you ever thought about what you’re going to do when you meet him again?

…you know what? I don’t think I have, yet.

Why?

BECAUSE I’M TOO FOCUSED ON KEEPING THIS OTHER GABRIEL ALIVE!

Okay, okay, fine! I get it!

The battle began. Flashes appeared from the guns of the destroyer at the entrance to the Golden Horn, and seconds later, shells struck an empty dockyard that the MSI had marked as an enemy asset. The union had been told to evacuate Galata’s waterfront as if preparing for an attack. Next, patrol boats advanced into the Golden Horn and deployed rowboats filled with marines, who secured beachheads on various parts of the waterfront. Gavrilo heard some gunfire from the areas where troops had landed. There seemed to be some blackshirts resisting.

The first of the evacuees should be arriving soon. I should make my way there.

Do you even know where the rendezvous point is?

…it’s here, isn’t it? Galata makes the most sense.

Were you listening when they said the historic center? Galata’s just a diversion.

…prokletstvo! You know what, why don’t you take over? I did my part, now you should do yours.

Okay.

Gavrilo closed his eyes and rested. Wilhelm opened his eyes and took in a deep breath, stretching his arms out. Then he looked across the Golden Horn at Hagia Sophia’s iconic dome.

It looks just like I remember.

There was the sound of flapping wings, and suddenly he was on a dock on the waterfront just outside the temple district. Nobody noticed him. Most of the people in the area had probably left for safer areas long ago or were indoors, preparing for the evacuation

Okay, then. Let’s get to work. Wilhelm mentally constructed a map of the district in his head, taking into consideration where the evacuees presently were and the likely route they would take to the dock he was on. Good. It’s more or less a straight line with few detours. Though the number of people involved will be pushing it. He took out a notepad and pencil. On five pages he wrote the word “trajectio.” The sounds of flapping wings were obscured by the waves lapping against the rocks under the dock. He reappeared in a quiet alley behind a hospital and slipped one page under a trash can. More flapping wings, and he put the next page in between two bricks in the district wall. Another, and the third was put in the belfry of a bell tower. The fourth went in a schoolyard, under some swings, and the fifth went on a buoy just offshore from the dock. That one required speed and precision so that he could set down the page without it falling into the water while also teleporting away before he too fell in. Wilhelm returned to the dock and barely managed to stay on his feet, panting heavily.

I have to stop doing that. That was too tiring. Too many teleports at once.

What did you do? Gavrilo asked.

A basic protection spell over the parts of the district the evacuees will likely take. I don’t have enough energy to cast the full spell as I learned it, but it should suffice for now. Wilhelm snapped his fingers. “Trajectio.” He saw a slight flash from the buoy in the distance. Okay, it’s active now. If anybody fires a gun, they’ll have a higher chance of missing.

What, not 100%?

I said it wasn’t the full spell. It was the best I could do right now.

How long does it last?

About twelve hours. Probably sooner if one of the pages falls out of the magic circle. But it should last.

We should have brought tape.

“Hey!” someone shouted.

Wilhelm looked up and saw who appeared to be a soldier in ceremonial armor. Probably a Church guardsman.

“Uh, hello,” he said.

“State your business.”

Wilhelm held up his hands. “I sought refuge with the Church earlier today. I came down here for spiritual contemplation.”

The guardsman approached. “Are you armed?”

“No. I generally abhor violence.”

I beg to differ.

Can you let me sell it?! “If you are unsatisfied, you may check.”

The guardsman did so, checking Wilhelm’s pockets and anywhere else he may have concealed a weapon. “Alright. You’re clear to go.”

“Thank you, sir,” Wilhelm said.

“By the way, what group are you in?”

“What do you mean by group?”

“For evacuation,” the guardsman said, “We’re evacuating the district.”

He pointed at the destroyer in the distance and the patrol boats off Galata’s shore. Later on, the patrol boats would cross the Golden Horn and probably dock around where Wilhelm was.

Gavrilo caught on. Oh, so that’s what it is. They’re evacuating the Church.

“I don’t have a group,” Wilhelm said, “I just got here. But is there room for one more within your ranks?”


February 21

Wilhelm knew the Church wouldn’t turn away an unarmed man seeking refuge. They didn’t officially take him in—which was fine in his book—but neither did they make him leave. He remained where he was on the docks for a long while. The evacuees began arriving after dinner. First it was the women and children. There were many wards of the Church, as well as the nuns who raised them, but there were also the disheveled faces of the orphans the Church had taken in too. After that came the staff and servants of the Church, as well as laypeople and their families. They crammed against the riverbank, patiently waiting for salvation, some chanting hyms and whispering prayers while others played games and ate leftovers from dinner. The injured were given the best ground to stand or lie on, while the ill were kept away from the rest of the crowd for everybody’s safety. In the back, Wilhelm saw more guardsmen standing watch in case the blackshirts got this far or some of Konstantinos’ men had infiltrated the crowd. These guards were armed with various melee weapons. Well, I should’ve thought that one through more. My spell isn’t as effective for melee weapons.

Once everybody had gathered on the waterfront, Wilhelm no longer stood out as much. He was now just one among many evacuees gathered there.

A light mist rolled in as the sun set, which helped the patrol boats pull away from Galata and approach the temple district. The first rowboats docked on Wilhelm’s side a little after sunset. The women and children went first. Then the injured and ill, followed by the laypeople, staff, and servants. The actual clergy, especially the higher ranks, had refused to go first, and the guardsmen had chosen to stay behind in case Konstantinos’ men broke through the walls.

The crowd slowly thinned over the next few hours as the rowboats returned to the patrol boats, dislodged their passengers, and went back to the docks to pick up new ones, with the patrol boats taking on passengers and then heading to Skoutarion in shifts so that at least three were available at any moment. Still, it took hours. Wilhelm kept deferring his seat to everybody else. They needed it more than him.

Now there were few on the docks other than some laypeople and the higher ranking clergy. From the garbs they wore, they appeared to be extremely important. One young man in the middle of the group—looking a little younger than Gavrilo was in 1939—seemed to be held to a higher degree of respect than the others. Perhaps this was the Ecumenical Patriarch. Gavrilo had heard about him in the news before. In person, he gave off a different impression. A humbler one.

After midnight, the shooting began. It started with some bursts of semiautomatic gunfire in the distance, with shouts and screams accompanying them. The blackshirts were beginning their assault, and the guardsmen were doing their jobs. Some hushed cries went up from the crowd. Wilhelm looked around, trying to see who was left. There was Alexander, the Ecumenical Patriarch, and those around him. There were a few civilians. Most of the guardsmen had been committed to the defense of the walls, so if they fell there, their only line of defense would be the few guardsmen left and the marines piloting the boats. No doubt his spell was already activating, but he had no idea how effective it would be. For all I know, it could end up making people on the same side shoot each other, and it’s not going to do anything if they start stabbing each other instead. I should’ve studied the Inquisition archives more thoroughly when I had the chance.

What about escaping, then? The buoy he had went to earlier was now barely visible in the fog, illuminated by the lights from the patrol boats. If they could all get onto the water, the fog could hide them.

“Everybody, into the boats!” His Holiness had apparently come to the same conclusion. “Go!”

The marines understood what he wanted and immediately pulled all of the empty boats alongside the dock and waterfront, in the latter case as close to the shore as possible without running aground.

“Organize into lines!” The clerics kept the crowds organized, using only their hands and voices to prevent a stampede. “Women and children first! The rest of you wait for your turn!”

Will we have enough time? Gavrilo asked. We’re cutting it a bit close.

I hope so.

From the sounds of the gunfire, the blackshirts are heavily armed. Submachine guns. They’d mow us all down in seconds.

Then we should get going before they get here.

What if we can’t? What are going to do?

Wilhelm hesitated. I’ll have to think of something.

The boats were filled, and they cast off. Now they just had to wait for them to return. Wilhelm caught snippets of a conversation nearby.

“You really should have gone with them.”

“I will abide. We have been given grace enough that almost everyone is safe already.”

“Not everyone.”

The shooting intensified, along with the shouting. It was getting closer.

They’re getting closer, Gavrilo said, Oh no, damnit. It’s just like Grodno.

As he said that, Wilhelm’s mind was filled with dark images. Artillery shells rained down around him. Men in Lithuanian uniforms charged a trench, while Gavrilo kept his finger glued on the trigger of a machine gun. One hand methodically fed ammunition into the gun as soon as it ran out, keeping him firing as often as possible. Crouching behind him were several wounded soldiers, including one general. His name was Potierek. A decent commander, but he had been too hasty and exposed them to a Lithuanian counterattack. Gavrilo knew that if he stopped firing, every single one of them wouldn’t live to see Ludendorff’s reinforcements arrive.

An explosion rocked the dock, and more screams came from the crowd.

“That’s the wall gone!” someone said.

Fortunately, the boats returned, coming out of the mist and pulling alongside the waterfront.

“Go! Go!”

“Form a line! Women and children first! You know the drill!”

Wilhelm could now see flashes of gunfire from among the churches, monasteries, hospitals, and orphanages. Smoke rose from further out. They were getting closer. But as the remaining evacuees boarded the boats, a ray of hope emerged. There were now few enough of them to fit on the next wave. Once that realization set in, everybody scrambled onto the boats in a surprisingly safe manner. Wilhelm patiently waited his turn. One by one, the boats filled up and cast off, disappearing into the fog in the direction of the patrol boats’ lights. Eventually, there was one left. And there were only a few people left to board. Wilhelm turned to the man next to him, beckoning to the boat. “You first—”

He then realized who he was talking to. Alexander beckoned back. “No, you should go.”

“I’m but a humble traveler,” Wilhelm said, “I shouldn’t go before you, Your Holiness.”

“Please,” Alexander insisted, “Don’t let my station get in the way. You should go on ahead of me.”

“Oh, for crying out loud,” the boatman said, “We’re running out of time! Just get on!”

In the end, they boarded simultaneously.

“That everyone, sir?” the boatman asked Alexander.

Wilhelm looked back at the now empty waterfront.

“I’m afraid not,” Alexander said, “But it is everyone who will be leaving.”

“Right, sir.” The boatman fired up the engine and turned the boat into the fog.

“Have you had any trouble so far?”

“Not too much. This fog is a blessing and a curse. Have to keep her straight, but also means we won’t be shot!”

“Mixed blessings indeed.”

They continued into the fog. Ahead of them, Wilhelm saw the fog lights of the patrol boats growing brighter. The engine was going as fast as it could, but it still felt too slow. Or maybe that was a trick of the mind.

“Almost there!” one of the other passengers said.

As if to prove him wrong, another light turned on, forcing everyone to shield their eyes. Squinting, Wilhelm saw it came from another ship. It seemed to be a small freighter, but two machine guns had been installed on its decks. Konstantinos’ imperial eagle had been painted on the hull.

It looks just like Angelos’ insignia, Wilhelm noted.

Damn, they found us! Gavrilo said.

“Skata!” the boatman cursed. “Should’ve expected them to sneak up in this fog!”

“What do we do?!” one of the clergymen said.

The blackshirts relayed a demand via loudspeaker. “Surrender at once, or we will fire!”

“Like hell I will!” the boatman grabbed his sidearm.

“Shouldn’t we be focused on escaping?” another passenger asked.

“At this range? We won’t have enough time to get out of range of those guns.”

Another passenger shook his head. “Of all of the boats they could have stopped, they stopped this one.”

The other passengers clasped their hands and bowed their heads in prayer, hoping for the best. The boatman’s eyes darted between the ship, his engine, and his sidearm as he tried figuring out what to do. But Wilhelm knew it was pointless. They couldn’t match up to that ship’s firepower or get away from it. That only left surrender. Wilhelm could heal Gavrilo’s body, but the others wouldn’t be as fortunate. But what could they do? They didn’t have any weapons.

Wait a minute, Gavrilo said.

What do you mean?

It’s like Grodno, right? Outnumbered, outgunned, nowhere to go?

Gavrilo, are you sure you want to talk about Grodno right now?

I’ll deal with that later. But reflecting on that day got me thinking. Potierek and his men were all injured and unable to fight. The Lithuanians were charging us. Only I was in fighting condition. So how did I win?

Wilhelm had been with a different vessel at the time, so he wasn’t at Grodno. So he had to rely on what Gavrilo had told him and shown in his memories later on. The machine gun.

We had a machine gun and enough ammo to at least hold them off until reinforcements arrived.

So our goal is to find a way until our own boats come to the rescue?

In a way.

Same issue, the patrol boat will take too long to get here.

But what if we make the time? In Grodno, I had a machine gun to push back the Lithuanians.

We don’t have a machine gun here, and that’s a whole freighter.

On the contrary, we have something better than a machine gun.

Wilhelm initially didn’t understand what he meant.

Does the word “grace” mean anything to you?

It suddenly dawned on him. No. I can’t do that, while there are so many people here. And the reintegration…

What’s another few years of delay? We’ve already been here for a while, we can stay a bit longer.

But the others!

Just tell them to shield their eyes. As long as you direct yourself at the freighter, it should be fine. With any luck, we’ll have bought ourselves enough time to get to the patrol boat.

I’m more concerned with how they’ll react.

There was a feeling almost like a scoff. Wilhelm, you’re a freaking angel. These aren’t just any clergymen, they’re the top brass of the Church. It’s the same here as at home. I’m sure they’ll find some way to spin it. Or dismiss it. You never know.

Wilhelm didn’t usually do this. He had only done it a handful of times since he had arrived here. Before, he had also largely stopped doing it a while ago. There was no need for it in an increasingly secular society, and he would prefer not to harm innocents that way.

Wilhelm, just do it. I promise you, it’ll be fine.

Wilhelm nodded. Fine.

He immediately began calculating a plan. Not only did he have to neutralize the blackshirt freighter, but he also had to preserve the “veil,” as the Inquisition called it. There was a growing debate within that organization over reducing its profile in a mundane world that had seemingly grown beyond the need for magic. Wilhelm was not an Inquisitor, nor was he in that world at the moment, but veil doctrine was perfectly in line with his activities during his time here. The plan came together within a fraction of a second, his thinking having been done in hyper-attenuated time. Now it was time to act.

He stood up, startling the other passengers.

“What are you doing?!” the boatman said. “Don’t make yourself a target!”

“Don’t worry.” Wilhelm adopted a serious and somber yet gentle tone. “Be not afraid.”

“What do you mean, be not afraid?!”

Wilhelm didn’t directly answer that question. “Please look away.”

He stepped off the boat, provoking another round of shouts and gasps when he didn’t fall into the water. His feet remained steady just above the surface. Wilhelm took one step, and then another. The crew of the freighter had noticed him by now and were similarly panicking. Wilhelm stretched out his arms like a cross, as if beckoning them to fire on him.

“Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven.”

One machine gun opened fire on him. Wilhelm snapped his fingers, and all of the bullets pierced the water around him.

“Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.”

Another snap of his fingers, and the next salvo of gunfire was redirected back to where it came from, reducing the machine gun to useless scrap metal.

“Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the Earth.”

He took another step closer. A second machine gun opened fire on him, its operator spewing profanities and fascist slogans.

“Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be satisfied.”

The bullets similarly missed.

“Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy.”

The second machine gun was destroyed by its own bullets.

“Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God.”

Wilhelm stopped in front of the freighter and looked up at the deck. Some of the blackshirts had pulled out pistols.

“Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called the Sons of God.”

There was the sound of wings flapping, and he was on the dock, much to the blackshirts’ surprise.

“Blessed are those who are persecuted because of righteousness, for theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven.”

The blackshirts all opened fire at point-blank range.

“Blessed are you when people insult you, persecute you and falsely say all kinds of evil against you because of me.”

When they stopped fire, they realized Wilhelm was still standing where he was, without a single scratch on him. All of them staggered back in fear, eyes wide with terror.

“Rejoice and be glad, because great is your reward in heaven, for in the same way they persecuted the prophets who were before you…"

Wilhelm grinned, because he was out of lines from the Beatitudes to recite. But he did have another line to say.

“Forget not to show love unto strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares!” Wilhelm raised his voice, as if wanting everyone in the area to hear what he had said.

And with that, Wilhelm revealed his true form, bathing the entire freighter in blinding white light and a piercing ringing. Gavrilo had retreated into what was equivalent to a nap at the moment, but he still heard the thuds and screams as the blackshirts fell to their knees and clutched their heads in pain, having not looked away. Despite the ringing seemingly filling every bit of space around him, Wilhelm could perfectly hear everything else around him. He only heard the cries of the blackshirts, though. That meant the passengers in the boat heeded his warning.

Okay, that’s enough. Wilhelm reverted to his mundane form, and the light and noise disappeared back into Gavrilo’s body. He straightened out his coat and shook off some water that had soaked into the bottom of his pants. The deck around him was completely scorched black, except for two areas where his wings’ shadows had gone. The blackshirts were all sprawled on the deck and clutching their eyes, their screams having given way to muted groans. They were lucky he was in his true form for only several seconds. Any longer, and their bodies would probably have been incinerated by the holy energy radiating off his angelic form.

The ship was effectively disabled now. With any luck, the other passengers could get away. But he wouldn’t be returning to the boat. They would inevitably ask questions he didn’t want to answer. Nor could he stay here. There were probably a few blackshirts below decks who hadn’t been injured, and he had to leave before they came upstairs.

“Well, make of that what you will, Your Holiness,” Wilhelm whispered, even though he knew nobody would hear him.

Wings flapped, and he was back in the temple district. He alighted on a random rooftop he picked out because it was the easiest to see in the fog. Back on solid ground, the first thing he did was sit down on the tiles and stretch out his legs.

“Man, I’m tired…” he muttered.

It was then that he sensed he wasn’t alone on this rooftop. He slowly turned around and saw someone else on the rooftop, observing the disappearing evacuation boats and the fog lights of the patrol boats. Most of the lights in the temple district had gone out, so he couldn’t make out that many details without casting a spell—and he felt too tired to do so—but he did notice what seemed like bladed gauntlets on his arms.

The other individual turned to face Wilhelm.

“Uh…” Wilhelm said. “Hey…nice evening we’re having…”

He concentrated, preparing the necessary calculations he needed for an emergency teleport just in case.

 

[Idhrendur]

2 March 1936

Alvértos readied himself to enter the conference room. It had been a very eventful month, and he was excited to give the overview. He also felt better prepared, having revived some old traditions. He had supplied copies of the most significant newspapers to his advisors instead of just setting aside copies for the archives.

He had also found a local cartographer to create large maps indicating current accepted borders in the world, and known controlled territory, which was different at points.

(( If you right-click on the maps and open them in new tabs, you can zoom in on them quite a bit. ))

 

[Damian0358]

A private, quiet funeral would be held for Nestorius Thaddas on the 24th of February, attended by Kyrene Thaddas, Timon Thaddas, members of the Waata family such as Kyrene's siblings, and select family friends, including all those that had come with Nestor and Kyrene from Constantinople to Komnenion all those years ago. During the ceremonial proceedings, messages passed on by phone from those in Trebizond and those few Thaddai Nestor had permitted to join him from the Septiadis family were shared. His body would be laid to rest in the most prestigious cemetery in Komnenion.

Though no state ceremony would be dedicated to Nestorius at Kyrene's request, the public was allowed to do their own during the national week of mourning, resulting in several marches across the country carrying banners with Ol' Ness' visage. By the end of the week, on the 28th, Kyrene, who had taken it upon herself to fulfill requests to be present for public demonstrations remembering Nestor, would find herself slinking away on the 29th. To everyone that had seen her, it was clear in her eyes the effect his passing has had on her.

 

[Idhrendur]

A private, quiet funeral would be held for Nestorius Thaddas on the 24th of February, attended by Kyrene Thaddas, Timon Thaddas, members of the Waata family such as Kyrene's siblings, and select family friends, including all those that had come with Nestor and Kyrene from Constantinople to Komnenion all those years ago. During the ceremonial proceedings, messages passed on by phone from those in Trebizond and those few Thaddai Nestor had permitted to join him from the Septiadis family were shared. His body would be laid to rest in the most prestigious cemetery in Komnenion.

Though no state ceremony would be dedicated to Nestorius at Kyrene's request, the public was allowed to do their own during the national week of mourning, resulting in several marches across the country carrying banners with Ol' Ness' visage. By the end of the week, on the 28th, Kyrene, who had taken it upon herself to fulfill requests to be present for public demonstrations remembering Nestor, would find herself slinking away on the 29th. To everyone that had seen her, it was clear in her eyes the effect his passing has had on her.

 

[Idhrendur]

As Alvértos entered the room, he reviewed the faces there. There were most of the familiar ones, but one of Theodora’s agents was missing, with the new person she had given a briefing about. As well, the Aotearoan representative now had a group

“Welcome everyone! This has been quite the month!”

“Above all, the advice to press on the issue of my father’s death was correct, as this was the issue that led to Konstantinos being excommunicated.”

“It would have happened regardless, as his attack on the Hagia Sophia shows, but my statements and the rumors so helpfully spread by the MSI means that where Konstantinos had had broad support he now has much less.”

“And with the Holy Father visiting, our people are feeling much easier. Even without a formal statement of support, the demonstration that I am in the good graces of the Church and support it means people are more ready to support my cause.”

“Which is fortunate, because this month has been a setback on the military front. Konstantinos finally assigned a commander to the forces opposing Laskaris’ landing on the Dardanelles. Markos Makriyannis has proved effective. There was a week of heavy fighting with Laskaris rotating forces to allow them to rest, but eventually they were pushed back completely. Makriyannis tried to push his advantage and make a landing on our side of the Dardanelles, but the reinforcements arrived late on the 10th. When they joined the battle on the 11th, they forced Makriyannis’ forces back. The straits are now a stalemate, as in Constantinople.”

“As discouraging as this is, it is not terribly surprising. It would have been a great advantage to hold the straits, but it was always a long shot. And it has bought time to better prepare infrastructure. The rail line to our side of the Bosporus is complete, with the line to the Dardanelles under construction. There are also enough trucks to supply Laskaris’ forces from the nearest depot. He has actually drawn up plans to again take the strait once his forces have rested and fully resupplied, and is confident they would succeed.”

“And this is where my diplomatic efforts have become relevant. There have been a flood of volunteers from Livonia and Ukraine. Most have been formed into international legions set to guard our Mediterranean coast. This means we can be more daring in our attacks.”

Alvértos paused for just a moment. If this next information slipped to Konstantinos, it might jeopardize the war effort. But keeping secrets would also jeopardize Alvértos’ plans for the future of the Roman people, and he was determined to ensure this was the last of the civil wars. “The remaining volunteers are preparing for an appropriately daring raid across the Black Sea. With luck this will pull enough forces from the Dardanelles or Bosporus to allow us to push across.”

“The naval support for the Holy Father’s escape has been a good cover. The Black Sea fleet is now actively patrolling the coasts. While they don’t have enough oil for full operations, they are able to discourage any activity from Konstantinos and are wearing down the operational readiness of everyone in his ports.”

“In other news, the MSI is continuing to rebuild. They’ve trained a new agent and are sending her to gather intelligence from Thrace. I’m told they will begin preparing to gather signals intelligence once I can redirect resources from the soon-to-be-completed railroad line.”

“Finally, we should not miss the opportunity to honor Senator Thaddas. Many of you knew ‘Ol Ness from even before my birth, and are no doubt grieving his death. To reduce his memory to just his service to the Empire and to Aotearoa would be to diminish a great soul, but that service alone would be enough to count him as one of the greats of the Roman people. Let us honor him with a moment of silence.”

Alvértos bowed his head and waited. He reminded himself of various interactions with the senator, old already in Alvértos’ youth. He remembered Nestorius showing him small kindnesses, somewhat grandfather-like. He would miss Nestorius, and hoped his death didn’t mean more instability in another part of the world.

“All right. Thank you everyone. Now, any questions? Concerns? Thoughts I should hear?”

 

[Damian0358]

The arriving participants to the session would note two things from the group representing the late Nestorius Thaddas - firstly, it was a group, not just Franco Lazaretos as per usual. He was joined by an unfamiliar face to the senators, Konstas Pilokalos. At Franco's request, Konstas, whom he had been grooming to some degree to take his position in representing Nestor, had joined him this morning. The man carried pencil and paper, ready to write as he attended his first ever session. Secondly, if Franco had previously looked tired, now he looked deadly so.

The news of Nestor's passing had hit those in Trebizond intensely. Many hadn't seen Nestor since his last visit, and in turn mourned they wouldn't have the opportunity to see him one last time. Though being able to pass their messages through their secure line for the funeral helped calm their hearts somewhat, it still didn't change the reality of the situation. Many of them had been working with Nestor since his days in Naples, and consequently had aged just as he had. His death had reminded all of them of their own mortality, and perhaps more importantly, the age skew within their ranks towards the older. They needed to hire more younger folk and train them up, pass their lessons onto them before it is too late... even Konstas, whom Franco wanted to succeed, was only a decade or so younger than him. And they could absolutely not imagine how Kyrene was feeling, especially as their last correspondence with Komnenion had already raised questions of the inheritance...

The news of Konstantinos' excommunication and the Church evacuating from the City had been massive news the past week, so it was hard to miss. The religious quarters of the city were in high demand correspondingly. Much discussion was had once more on military and MSI affairs, which once more neither Franco nor Konstas had more to say on, though Franco smiled seeing Konstas dutifully noting it down. A Black Sea landing did have much potential, he had to admit.

But, rather unexpectedly in Franco's eyes, Prince Alvértos honored Nestorius. Konstas put his hand on Franco's shoulder, and smiled at him, as the prince spoke in his memory. To know even a would-be Emperor honored him, that made the two smile, and they were sure the others back at HQ would be further calmed by it too.

The two considered what they could bring up based on what had been presented. Franco found himself perplexed, per usual, but out of the blue, Konstas raised his hand.

"Yesterday's paper mentioned the Holy Father was planning on leaving for Syria at some point. Per the previous report on the recent breakaway provinces, Syria is not the most... sympathetic to our cause, even with recent developments in mind. We obviously cannot control what he ultimately does, but if he chooses to go to Syria regardless, could we request of him to act as a third-party mediator ensuring no military action occur from Syria's end? Peace in the core episcopal see of Antioch would be preferred to the church too, I would imagine," Konstas remarked.

 

[Michaelangelo]

Trebizond
March 2, 1936

Senator Donatello Favero attended the senate session in a brighter mood than usual. The news of Konstantinos's excommunication was spreading rapidly, especially following the flight of the Ecumenical Patriarch from the capital and the subsequent raid on the Temple District. Konstantinos had lost the support of the Church, one of the cornerstone of imperial rule. Without its support, his rule was becoming more unstable, and an opportunity had been given to strike directly at the legitimacy of his claim to the throne. Once Prince Alvértos had finished his address and a few comments were made, Donatello decided it was time to give his input.

"My fellow senators, the Holy Father has presented us with the means to effectively challenge Konstantinos's right to rule, and all we had to do was sit back and let the prince dig his own grave. While our claims against the prince were previously based on rumours surrounding the emperor's death that were difficult to prove at best, Konstantinos's excommunication is not something that can be dismissed so easily. The Crown and the Church have been intrinsically tied to each other for centuries, and the idea that an emperor could rule without the Church is unheard of. I believe it can now be argued that without the official sanctioning of the Church, Konstantinos has lost all legitimacy to rule, and his excommunication has thus barred him from succession."

Donatello turned towards Prince Alvértos, choosing to address him directly. "Your Highness, for all intents and purposes, you are now the legitimate heir to the throne. I recommend from here on out that all official communications from both the Crown and the Senate refer to Your Highness as the crown prince, and that all of Konstantinos's titles no longer be recognized." Donatello paused for a moment, licking his dry lips as he gathered the last of his thoughts. "I am hesitant to go so far as to use the title of emperor yet. I feel it would dishonour your father's memory to claim that title before we can properly lay him to rest, something your brother has so far denied him. Once this conflict is over and the capital reclaimed, it would be best that a state funeral be held for the late emperor. After that, we can look into arranging a proper coronation, one ideally sanctioned by the Church."

 

[TheButterflyComposer]

Trebizond
March 2, 1936

Senator Donatello Favero attended the senate session in a brighter mood than usual. The news of Konstantinos's excommunication was spreading rapidly, especially following the flight of the Ecumenical Patriarch from the capital and the subsequent raid on the Temple District. Konstantinos had lost the support of the Church, one of the cornerstone of imperial rule. Without its support, his rule was becoming more unstable, and an opportunity had been given to strike directly at the legitimacy of his claim to the throne. Once Prince Alvértos had finished his address and a few comments were made, Donatello decided it was time to give his input.

"My fellow senators, the Holy Father has presented us with the means to effectively challenge Konstantinos's right to rule, and all we had to do was sit back and let the prince dig his own grave. While our claims against the prince were previously based on rumours surrounding the emperor's death that were difficult to prove at best, Konstantinos's excommunication is not something that can be dismissed so easily. The Crown and the Church have been intrinsically tied to each other for centuries, and the idea that an emperor could rule without the Church is unheard of. I believe it can now be argued that without the official sanctioning of the Church, Konstantinos has lost all legitimacy to rule, and his excommunication has thus barred him from succession."

Donatello turned towards Prince Alvértos, choosing to address him directly. "Your Highness, for all intents and purposes, you are now the legitimate heir to the throne. I recommend from here on out that all official communications from both the Crown and the Senate refer to Your Highness as the crown prince, and that all of Konstantinos's titles no longer be recognized." Donatello paused for a moment, licking his dry lips as he gathered the last of his thoughts. "I am hesitant to go so far as to use the title of emperor yet. I feel it would dishonour your father's memory to claim that title before we can properly lay him to rest, something your brother has so far denied him. Once this conflict is over and the capital reclaimed, it would be best that a state funeral be held for the late emperor. After that, we can look into arranging a proper coronation, one ideally sanctioned by the Church."

[By their own logic, that would require the church to recognise such a title switch, or potentially not object to it I suppose. Either way, something to talk to them about first.

There's something of a difference between disliking Konstantios and supporting the Prince. Though in practice, K being excommunicated essentially does remove him from succession, legally and liturgically...so yes, A is now Crown Prince.]

 

[Idhrendur]

“First of all, welcome to the briefing, Mister Pilokalos. That is an excellent suggestion. While a formal non-aggression pact is unlikely at this time, a reminder of the importance of peace to the people of Rhomania will surely aid in quelling any adventurism.”

“And again, Senator Favero, you are correct. It is important to insist on my legitimacy. I also agree that insisting on being Emperor would be greatly premature. There is much to do before claiming that title. But Crown Prince would certainly be correct with my brother’s excommunication. This is implicit with the Holy Father’s actions, though I will speak to him to ensure he will not feel the need to publicly object.”

“Some final items to keep you all informed. With the assistance of the International Legions, we nearly have enough forces to protect our Mediterranean coast. I will have one more light infantry brigade begin training, which will give a total of six units, enough to surround and contain any landing. This means we have nearly 1900 units of infantry equipment and over 250 units of artillery in storage. I will allocate these to upgrading our weaker units. First will be to give the light infantry brigade helping defend the Bosphorus some artillery. Further upgrades will be made from there depending on how the situation changes.”

“Finally, I’ve nearly completed an initial review of my family’s industrial holdings. It’s become clear that raw resources are a limitation of our industrial capacity, so I will be reviewing that aspect of the holdings more deeply to discover what can be more improved.”

"Any final concerns before I go speak to the Holy Father?"

 

[zenphoenix]

2 March 1936

Alvértos readied himself to enter the conference room. It had been a very eventful month, and he was excited to give the overview. He also felt better prepared, having revived some old traditions. He had supplied copies of the most significant newspapers to his advisors instead of just setting aside copies for the archives.

View attachment 962962​

He had also found a local cartographer to create large maps indicating current accepted borders in the world, and known controlled territory, which was different at points.

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(( If you right-click on the maps and open them in new tabs, you can zoom in on them quite a bit. ))

Trebizond - March 3

Before heading to the Senate, Theodora looked over the papers the archivist had sent her. The map had a few points of interest, mainly the war in the New World, but she was more interested in the European situation. While there were no meaningful changes, the areas of control of the various nations and rebel regimes would help her plan out future operations. And then there was the bear in the north, Russia. It had to be dealt with eventually. She was already vetting several resistance groups across the big nation for potential allies to support. It would be a while before she decided who to send weapons and money to, but it wouldn't hurt to start planning.

The newspaper was entertaining, at least. It helped to keep up to date with the latest trends in culture and society.

A private, quiet funeral would be held for Nestorius Thaddas on the 24th of February, attended by Kyrene Thaddas, Timon Thaddas, members of the Waata family such as Kyrene's siblings, and select family friends, including all those that had come with Nestor and Kyrene from Constantinople to Komnenion all those years ago. During the ceremonial proceedings, messages passed on by phone from those in Trebizond and those few Thaddai Nestor had permitted to join him from the Septiadis family were shared. His body would be laid to rest in the most prestigious cemetery in Komnenion.

Though no state ceremony would be dedicated to Nestorius at Kyrene's request, the public was allowed to do their own during the national week of mourning, resulting in several marches across the country carrying banners with Ol' Ness' visage. By the end of the week, on the 28th, Kyrene, who had taken it upon herself to fulfill requests to be present for public demonstrations remembering Nestor, would find herself slinking away on the 29th. To everyone that had seen her, it was clear in her eyes the effect his passing has had on her.

Komnenion - February 24

Irene didn't expect to be attending a funeral, but here she was, watching as Nestorius' coffin was lowered into his grave. She didn't know what to do. It had all happened so suddenly. It felt like yesterday she was just talking to the man. Now all that was left was the coffin. And soon, dirt was being piled onto it. Eventually, he was gone again. All she saw was the headstone.

One by one, everybody passed around the grave, laying down flowers or paying their last respects to the elder statesman. Timon and Heraclius and the others went first. Irene hesitated, not knowing what to do or say. But eventually it was her turn. She was still at a loss for words. How could she pay her respects, when she was still trying to come to terms with what had just happened?

"You two still have a lot to grow, but I already see so much good in you two."

Those words popped into her mind at that moment. Among the last words Nestorius had said to her. They had stuck around since then. Irene thought about why he had said that. They'd only met once, didn't they? So why was he saying that? Maybe he saw something she didn't. Room to grow, to become worthy successors to his legacy. To Auntie Theodora's legacy too. Irene looked at Timon and then back at the headstone. They were all part of the new generation, the ones who would eventually run the Empire. The old would be there to guide them and pass down their wisdom, but they would eventually leave. They would have to pass the torch. Perhaps Nestorius thought she and Heraclius were worthy to bear his torch.

If so, then she had a legacy to continue now.

Irene nodded and clasped her hands. "Don't worry, sir. I'll make you proud."

“Above all, the advice to press on the issue of my father’s death was correct, as this was the issue that led to Konstantinos being excommunicated.”

“It would have happened regardless, as his attack on the Hagia Sophia shows, but my statements and the rumors so helpfully spread by the MSI means that where Konstantinos had had broad support he now has much less.”

Trebizond - March 3

Alvértos wasted no time getting to the most important bit, Konstantinos' excommunication. Theodora's operation had gone off without any complications. The evacuation was a success, and His Holiness was now safely under Trebizond's protection. Even if he hadn't officially declared Alvértos the rightful heir yet, his very presence and the circumstances of his escape would grant legitimacy to Trebizond. The rumors Theodora had spread throughout the capital helped, but they seemed to be unnecessary at this point. The people were talking about it on their own.

It didn't help that there were certain...irregularities about the evacuation that the more religious couldn't help but talk about currently.

“And with the Holy Father visiting, our people are feeling much easier. Even without a formal statement of support, the demonstration that I am in the good graces of the Church and support it means people are more ready to support my cause.”

The Church would be a powerful ally, even if it was still officially neutral. All Theodora needed was for it to not support Konstantinos. It was that simple.

“Which is fortunate, because this month has been a setback on the military front. Konstantinos finally assigned a commander to the forces opposing Laskaris’ landing on the Dardanelles. Markos Makriyannis has proved effective. There was a week of heavy fighting with Laskaris rotating forces to allow them to rest, but eventually they were pushed back completely. Makriyannis tried to push his advantage and make a landing on our side of the Dardanelles, but the reinforcements arrived late on the 10th. When they joined the battle on the 11th, they forced Makriyannis’ forces back. The straits are now a stalemate, as in Constantinople.”

Theodora had heard the news early on. Theodoros' losses had grown too much, and he had to abandon Gallipoli Base in the end. After destroying everything of value there, he retreated across the straits. The enemy's general attempted to pursue across the straits. That was Theodora's doing. She had directed Theodoros to "leak" false intelligence that implied his forces were weaker than they were. Theodoros' set up a defensive line outside the village of Ilion, fielding units with the heaviest casualties to continue the illusion. After Makriyannis committed to the attack, Theodoros' deployed the rest of his forces, and reinforcements arrived soon after. The enemy was pushed back across the straits.

Theodora hoped the ruins outside the village were unharmed. It would be a blow to humanity's cultural heritage if Troy was destroyed yet again.

"Níki d' epameívetai ándras," she whispered to herself.

“As discouraging as this is, it is not terribly surprising. It would have been a great advantage to hold the straits, but it was always a long shot. And it has bought time to better prepare infrastructure. The rail line to our side of the Bosporus is complete, with the line to the Dardanelles under construction. There are also enough trucks to supply Laskaris’ forces from the nearest depot. He has actually drawn up plans to again take the strait once his forces have rested and fully resupplied, and is confident they would succeed.”

Theodora heard a supply depot was being set up in Ilion, for use in a future assault on Gallipoli. Theodoros had sent her plans for that attack. Everything checked out. With the supplies and logistics they were setting up, he could probably push inland from Gallipoli.

“And this is where my diplomatic efforts have become relevant. There have been a flood of volunteers from Livonia and Ukraine. Most have been formed into international legions set to guard our Mediterranean coast. This means we can be more daring in our attacks.”

More volunteers had arrived from Eastern Europe. The Ukrainian volunteers interested her the most. Perhaps, once their situation was more secured, they could be recruited for operations against Russia, to liberate their homeland.

Alvértos paused for just a moment. If this next information slipped to Konstantinos, it might jeopardize the war effort. But keeping secrets would also jeopardize Alvértos’ plans for the future of the Roman people, and he was determined to ensure this was the last of the civil wars. “The remaining volunteers are preparing for an appropriately daring raid across the Black Sea. With luck this will pull enough forces from the Dardanelles or Bosporus to allow us to push across.”

“The naval support for the Holy Father’s escape has been a good cover. The Black Sea fleet is now actively patrolling the coasts. While they don’t have enough oil for full operations, they are able to discourage any activity from Konstantinos and are wearing down the operational readiness of everyone in his ports.”

"I assure you," Theodora said, "I will make sure this information does not make it to Konstantinos. That being said, I am all in favor for this operation. If we were to pair it with General Laskaris' assault on Gallipoli and push to the western suburbs of the capital, we could encircle Constantinople."

“In other news, the MSI is continuing to rebuild. They’ve trained a new agent and are sending her to gather intelligence from Thrace. I’m told they will begin preparing to gather signals intelligence once I can redirect resources from the soon-to-be-completed railroad line.”

Aggelike Dousmani was doing well on her first mission. She was scouting ahead to help with Theodoros' Gallipoli operation, but she could easily be assigned to scout out potential Black Sea landing locations.

"Agent Dousmani has exceeded all of my expectations so far. I cannot comment on the specifics she is working on, but the intel she gathers will be of great help for our military operations in Thrace."

“Finally, we should not miss the opportunity to honor Senator Thaddas. Many of you knew ‘Ol Ness from even before my birth, and are no doubt grieving his death. To reduce his memory to just his service to the Empire and to Aotearoa would be to diminish a great soul, but that service alone would be enough to count him as one of the greats of the Roman people. Let us honor him with a moment of silence.”

Theodora bowed her head in silence, but her mind couldn't help but race. Irene was still in Aotearoa, wasn't she? How was she putting up with all this? Neither of them had expected this to happen. Okay, Theodora would be lying to herself if she said she didn't think this was possible. There was always the chance that 'Ol Ness would die this year. She just didn't expect it to happen so soon. Theodora had been hoping for his recovery and waiting for the day he would show up in the Senate again. That day would never come now.

"Yesterday's paper mentioned the Holy Father was planning on leaving for Syria at some point. Per the previous report on the recent breakaway provinces, Syria is not the most... sympathetic to our cause, even with recent developments in mind. We obviously cannot control what he ultimately does, but if he chooses to go to Syria regardless, could we request of him to act as a third-party mediator ensuring no military action occur from Syria's end? Peace in the core episcopal see of Antioch would be preferred to the church too, I would imagine," Konstas remarked.

Legally, Theodora was still the governor of Syria, but in practice, she had no power there. She had been to Damascus a few times, and the people were nice every time she visited, but she didn't know if that translated into a generally positive opinion from the public as a whole. Theodora had sent a few letters and telegrams to whoever was in charge in the province, but she hadn't received a reply yet. Whether it was due to infrastructure issues, indifference, or outright opposition was unclear. Whatever the case, she had done what she could at the moment. But perhaps the Church could do more.

"I agree. Having the Church mediate as a neutral party would achieve more at this point. It would be ideal if we could at least preserve the current status quo of no military action in the Levant. We cannot afford to wage another war on the other side of our territory right now."

Trebizond
March 2, 1936

Senator Donatello Favero attended the senate session in a brighter mood than usual. The news of Konstantinos's excommunication was spreading rapidly, especially following the flight of the Ecumenical Patriarch from the capital and the subsequent raid on the Temple District. Konstantinos had lost the support of the Church, one of the cornerstone of imperial rule. Without its support, his rule was becoming more unstable, and an opportunity had been given to strike directly at the legitimacy of his claim to the throne. Once Prince Alvértos had finished his address and a few comments were made, Donatello decided it was time to give his input.

"My fellow senators, the Holy Father has presented us with the means to effectively challenge Konstantinos's right to rule, and all we had to do was sit back and let the prince dig his own grave. While our claims against the prince were previously based on rumours surrounding the emperor's death that were difficult to prove at best, Konstantinos's excommunication is not something that can be dismissed so easily. The Crown and the Church have been intrinsically tied to each other for centuries, and the idea that an emperor could rule without the Church is unheard of. I believe it can now be argued that without the official sanctioning of the Church, Konstantinos has lost all legitimacy to rule, and his excommunication has thus barred him from succession."

Donatello turned towards Prince Alvértos, choosing to address him directly. "Your Highness, for all intents and purposes, you are now the legitimate heir to the throne. I recommend from here on out that all official communications from both the Crown and the Senate refer to Your Highness as the crown prince, and that all of Konstantinos's titles no longer be recognized." Donatello paused for a moment, licking his dry lips as he gathered the last of his thoughts. "I am hesitant to go so far as to use the title of emperor yet. I feel it would dishonour your father's memory to claim that title before we can properly lay him to rest, something your brother has so far denied him. Once this conflict is over and the capital reclaimed, it would be best that a state funeral be held for the late emperor. After that, we can look into arranging a proper coronation, one ideally sanctioned by the Church."

"I have to agree. If anything, the very fact of his excommunication would at the very least bar him from succession. It is unthinkable to have an Emperor who has been cast out from the Church. To do so would set a dangerous precedent for both the monarchy and the Church which we would do well to avoid."

 

[Bullfilter]

Just a note to let you know I’m still following along. And for you and the other contributors to advise I passed on the WritAAR of the Week award to @Idhrendur (and by inference a nod to all the contributors as well) for this work a couple of days ago.

 

[Damian0358]

Trebizond - March 2nd

Pilokalos nodded in agreeance, as Theodora affirmed his opinion. And soon thereafter, the as-of-now-Crown Prince himself also agreed, prompting a small bow on his end. As the topic of the light infantry and industry was brought up, Lazaretos patted him on the back. Just as he had anticipated, the man seemed a perfect fit for this environment.

Pilokalos returned to note-taking, writing down the developments, as Alvértos slowly brought the session to a close, seemingly to speak with the Holy Father soon after. Pilokalos didn't have much to add, so Lazaretos decided to stand up.

"No concerns on our end, but one final remark - thank you," Franco said simply, clear in his appreciation of the honor bestowed upon Nestorius earlier, before sitting back down. He asked Pilokalos for some paper, to be able to write a message to be passed to the prince later, expressing a slightly more detailed thank you which would mention how, had he been able to, Nestorius would have likely been here this very moment for the Empire.

---

Komnenion - March 3rd

It had been slightly more than a week since the private funeral. Though the week of mourning had come and gone already, many in the country were still holding services in remembrance of Nestorius, though they were slowly coming to a close. The awkwardness of having two guests who had, at least on the surface level, come for Nestorius' sake hadn't yet faded away for the Thaddai estate, though those present tried their best to weather through it and emphasize them being away from the conflict of Asia Minor.

Kyrene had taken an extended leave to be at home, having communicated her decision clearly to those in her staff and those in the government she spoke to on the regular. While she had not specified how long her leave would last, those that spoke with her clearly saw what she was going through, and given the authority she wielded, acceded to her decision. For her staff at least, there was much she had already aided in organizing, so they would be able to act autonomously without her presence. The only calls she would be receiving were those she viewed as worth receiving, such as those from Trebizond.

Kyrene needed rest. She had been overworking herself for the past months extensively, and she thought back to how Nestor would raise the prospect of her taking leaves just to relax and be with him, like the good old days. The only opportunities they had for that the past months were purely to help Nestor cope in what were his final months... she needed a distraction, something to give her peace, something that Nestor would've been glad to see her do over endlessly working herself to the bone.

She needed to finish her autobiographies... and do something about that journal she had stashed away. She didn't want to think about what was to come for Timon, whether it be inheritance, or what Kira had said a decade ago.

And so, since the start of March, she had kept herself in her own room or in the study, with the staff at the estate bringing her food to either or. The times Timon, Irene and Heraclius would see her would be just as sparse as they had been when she was busy doing her exarchal duties.

For Timon meanwhile, he had cancelled his plans for social gatherings, despite the protests of his friends. He had not continued to read the books in his room, and he seemed quieter than usual. He just spent most of his day just... sitting in the living room, where his father sat, listening to music on the radio. The staff at the estate found themselves melancholic, and visiting Father Erasmos at the estate's chapel, with Rameka carrying a forced smile to try and keep things as light as possible, and trying to be of help for the two outsiders, stuck in a foreign land in mourning.

 

[Michaelangelo]

((Private))

Location Unknown
February 22, 1936

The Ripper entered the deep dark cavern that served as their master's lair. The great pyre remained lit as it always did, and as expected Master Sliver kneeled before the flames. He was staring directly into the fire, and only the slight tilt of his head to the side showed that he had noticed Ripper's presence.

"So you have finally returned?" Master Sliver said without turning around. "I expected you back yesterday after the evacuation was complete."

Ripper dropped down to the one knee and bowed their head. "My apologies for the delay. Escaping the city proved more difficult than expected, and I wanted to make sure that everything proceeded as planned before leaving."

"And did it proceed as planned?" Master Sliver said as he rose to his feet, grabbing his walking stick that had been laying beside him. He fixed his beady eyes on Ripper. "Was the plan to allow the head of an enemy faith to escape the city unscathed?"

As expected, Master Sliver was not pleased with the results, and Ripper bowed their head even lower. They had known this would likely happen and had spent the last day devising a rationale for their actions. "It was indeed, master. While his death would have caused great strife within the Church, we need Konstantinos's break with the Church to be complete. A rabid animal backed into a corner is far more dangerous and destructive."

Master Sliver continued to stare at Ripper, showing no signs of emotion. After several seconds had passed, he let out an annoyed huff of air. "Maybe you are right and this will lead Konstantinos to act more rashly out of desperation, but you may have also pushed the Church into a position where it must back Alvértos and that will grant their movement greater legitimacy. We cannot allow the scales to swing too heavily towards one side."

Ripper slowly rose to their feet, rising to meet their master's gaze. "Or perhaps this break with the Church will make Konstantinos more susceptible to others outside the Christian faith. Perhaps he could even be made to see the benefit of working with the Cult, even if he does not know the truth of its identity."

Master Sliver began to stroke his beard with a thoughtful look on his face. He turned to face the fire again. "That is not a possibility that I have considered. Having the future emperor as our unwitting pawn could prove most useful."

A mischievous glint in their eye, Ripper's gaze bore into the back of their master's head. "This may also be an opportunity for the Cult to take a more active role and openly support Konstantinos. We could finally come out of the shadows with the support of the emperor behind us."

Master Sliver spun around so wildly, his walking stick swinging right towards Ripper's head, that Ripper was almost taken by surprise. Almost. They swept one arm forward, the blades at their wrist slashing through the walking stick, cutting the top half off and letting it tumble to the floor. Master Sliver seemed surprised for a moment to be only holding half a walking stick before an indignant look spread across his face. He threw the remainder of the walking stick to the ground, fury in his eyes. The Ripper then realized that they had gone too far. They immediately dropped to one knee and bowed their head, awaiting their punishment.

It seemed like hours that Ripper waited for the inevitable blow, although it was likely only a few minutes. The blow never came. Ripper did not dare to raise their head. Eventually the tension in the room was broken when Master Sliver let out the first of several deep chuckles. His hand reached out and grabbed Ripper by the chin, gently lifting their head up to meet his gaze. "I sometimes forget just how spirited you are, as well as how new you are to our ways."

Master Sliver let go of Ripper's chin and paced over towards the pyre. "The Cult survives, no, thrives in the shadows. It is the source of our strength and allows us to manipulate events behind the scenes. It does not benefit us to step into the open, no matter how tempting that may be." He paused a moment before looking over at the Ripper. "I accept your decision to allow the Ecumenical Patriarch to escape. We will use this as an opportunity to manipulate Konstantinos behind the scenes to serve our ends. Praise Chernobog."

Knowing that this conversation was at an end and they have managed to successfully defend their decision, Ripper bowed their head and began backing their way out of the cave, disappearing into the darkness. "Praise Chernobog."

 

[zenphoenix]

February 21

Wings flapped, and he was back in the temple district. He alighted on a random rooftop he picked out because it was the easiest to see in the fog. Back on solid ground, the first thing he did was sit down on the tiles and stretch out his legs.

“Man, I’m tired…” he muttered.

It was then that he sensed he wasn’t alone on this rooftop. He slowly turned around and saw someone else on the rooftop, observing the disappearing evacuation boats and the fog lights of the patrol boats. Most of the lights in the temple district had gone out, so he couldn’t make out that many details without casting a spell—and he felt too tired to do so—but he did notice what seemed like bladed gauntlets on his arms.

The other individual turned to face Wilhelm.

“Uh…” Wilhelm said. “Hey…nice evening we’re having…”

He concentrated, preparing the necessary calculations he needed for an emergency teleport just in case. But it was unnecessary, as the other man—he was a man, right?—quietly looked away and left, disappearing into the darkness without saying a word.

Wow, rude, Gavrilo thought.

It's as if he didn't notice me.

Perhaps it's for the best. You never know what might happen if this world catches on to what you really are.

Wilhelm was reminded of what he experienced while imprisoned in Vienna. Perhaps this world is better off without the supernatural.

And yet the Cult and Kira are out there.

Kira is one person, and the Cult...well, we've still got to figure out what they are.

Yeah, can you do that tomorrow morning? It's already past midnight. My body's tired, and I've got work tomorrow.

Alright, alright. Let's head home.

More flapping wings, and the rooftop was empty again.


Nicomedia - February 22

Ioannes shambled into his office, a cup of coffee in his hand. He slumped at his desk and stared at the stack of papers that Paul had placed there. With the Church and other refugees passing through on their way to Trebizond, today was going to be busy. But Ioannes was hoping for other reports to be present in that giant stack. In particular, he was hoping his friends and family were safe.

Many of his younger subordinates would be surprised to hear the old general still had friends and family. Ioannes didn't blame them—in recent years, he had spent so much time with the Athenian Lancers that it must have seemed like he had nothing else to do. But he still had loved ones. His wife Mara, eternally forgiving and understanding, was in Athens, managing the family estate. Jim Stavridis, the old doctor, was teaching medicine in Naples. Professor Albrecht von Habsburg was in Vienna, debating philosophy with the sharpest intellectuals in the city. All of them had once banded together during a certain incident involving a certain Transylvanian, and together they overcame the odds. They stuck together in the intervening years, even after Michael Doukas—the last of their group—died at the start of the Time of Troubles. But as was usually the case, the flow of time eventually pulled them apart as they pursued their own interests.

Ioannes wished that hadn't been so, because now he feared they were dead.

As soon as he was in good enough shape to lead, back when it all began, Ioannes immediately sent telegrams out to everybody's last known locations. His wife was likely still in Athens; knowing Mara, she likely barricaded the house and ordered the guards to turn away any blackshirts attempting to barge in. Naples was on the verge of exploding any day now—Ioannes had to contact Jim before that happened. Albrecht seemed safe enough in Vienna, but Central Europe was another powder keg. Michael was long dead, and his son Niketas...Theodora refused to tell him where her brother went and when he would return.

He sifted through the papers. His eyes scanned report after report, briefing after briefing, looking through classified dossiers and maps of enemy bases to find any response to his telegrams. Slowly, the pile of paperwork shifted from one side of the desk to the other. Soon, it had entirely been transferred. But Ioannes didn't find the telegrams he was looking for. Another day of disappointment, compounded with increasing fear that the worst may have already happened.

The old general solemnly sipped his coffee. Perhaps tomorrow, then...

Ioannes really missed his friends.

 

[Michaelangelo]

Rome
Mid-February 1936

A crowd was quickly growing within the Piazza Navona in Rome. A stage had been set up in front of one of the fountains, and Giuseppe Lombardi stood nearby, ready to take the stage once the moment was right. For now he listened to comments and concerns from his more dedicated followers that had been granted permission to pass through the wall of Squadristi protecting their leader. He offered them all a polite smile and nodded along as he listened to what they had to say. Occasionally he received some insightful information that he would act on as part of his campaign, but most were sycophants praising him or offering their undying loyalty. He appreciated the support, for without it he would have no chance to win the next election and his designs for Italy would fall apart, but it quickly became tiresome to be surrounded by those who were too busy trying to lick his boots to form any thoughts of their own. He wished that Artemisia, or April as she had asked to be called, had accepted his offer to join him in Rome, for it was refreshing to be around someone who did not want anything from him. Unfortunately she had informed him that she had business elsewhere to attend to and could not join him. He suspected this was not the last he'd see of her though.

When it seemed that the plaza had nearly filled, Giuseppe politely excused himself from his current conversation and made his way towards the stage. The crowd began to chant his name as he went up the first few steps, and were cheering loudly by the time he reached the podium. He let them continue for a few moments before raising his right hand in a salute. The plaza went nearly silent within a few seconds, and he lowered his arm to his side.

"My fellow Italians," Giuseppe said, projecting his voice across the entire plaza. "I thank you all for taking the time out of your busy lives to come listen to me speak. It honours me greatly that you value my words so highly, and I will not waste your time with needless pomp and get right to the heart of the matter."

"There is a great blight affecting our nation, and I speak of none other than our glorious consul, Ugo Saletta." Giuseppe pointed off to the east, towards the Palazzo Madama. "Even now as I speak he cavorts with the Senate a few blocks away, finding ways to pick your pockets of your hard-earned money to feed his endless greed and fund his bloated administration. Money is surely changing hands and bribes are being made. Corruption in the Saletta administration is rampant. This is something we are all aware of, for you feel it each time he siphons more of your wages away to fund one of his vanity projects or to fill his lackeys' pockets."

Giuseppe slammed his fist down on the podium, a grimace on his face. "Well I say no more! The Italian people tire of being misused and abused. The fathers and mothers of our beloved nation should not have to worry whether they can afford to feed their children while Saletta and his supporters gorge themselves at lavish parties. The diligent worker should not be worrying about whether he can survive paycheck to paycheck while Saletta lines his own pockets. The brave soldier should not need to fear that he will be thrown into the meat grinder of war while a general who barely speaks Italian sits in a tent far behind the front lines sipping tea. These are all realities we face under Saletta. These injustices must be dealt with, and I fully intend to root out the corruption that plagues our government if elected consul."

Before he could move onto his next topic, Giuseppe noticed several dozen police officers filtering into the plaza, spreading out around the outskirts of the crowd. For now they seemed content to watch, but Giuseppe knew exactly who had sent them. Saletta was feeling the pressure and had decided to make a move, an unwise one considering the size of the crowd. The number of Squadristi mixed in with the crowd outnumbered the officers on their own, but the other attendees could easily overwhelm the police if it came to arms. Blood would be shed if that happened, but he knew he would win in the end. It would be a temporary victory though, since Saletta would surely use this as ammunition against him. For now he would pay the officers no heed and continue on with his speech.

"It is time that the Italian people make their voice heard. We stand within the birthplace of the greatest empire the world has ever seen, and Rome can yet again serve as the capital of a great nation. As your consul, I will see Italy reborn to the benefit of all Italians. No longer will we cower to foreign powers or bow to the whims of corrupt politicians. Together we can shape this nation into something great, and it all starts with making your voice heard by voting the unscrupulous Saletta out of office."

Taking a moment to take in the resulting cheers from his speech, Giuseppe scanned the crowd. The admiration, and more importantly belief, was clear on the faces of all those gathered in the plaza. They listened because they knew what he said was true. Italy had fallen on hard times and only he could save it. While reveling in the widespread support of those gathered before him, Giuseppe couldn't help but notice that the police officers had started to encircle the crowd and had their hands near their weapons. Something was about to happen. He half expected a gunshot to go off as the first signal of violence, but instead he caught motion out of the corner of his eye. One of his campaign supporters had moved up on to the stairs and was waving to get his attention. The man held what looked to be a letter in one hand. Based on the frantic look on his face, this was urgent.

Turning back to the crowd, Giuseppe said, "Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen, but it appears I have an urgent message. This will take just a moment." Murmurs spread through the crowd as he walked away from the podium and approached the man with the letter.

"This better be important," Giuseppe muttered as he grabbed the letter.

"It is, sir," the campaign supporter said, nodding his head. "This just arrived from the Consul."

Giuseppe didn't need the confirmation, for the seal for the office of the Consul was on the letter. He quickly skimmed the contents, a wry smile spreading across his face. Saletta had made his move; a foolish one, but a move nonetheless. He clenched the letter in one hand and paced back to the podium.

"My apologies for the interruption," Giuseppe said, addressing the crowd. He held up the letter so everyone could see it. "Our wise and generous consul has just sent me this letter to inform me that we do not have all the proper permits to hold this rally and must disperse immediately." Boos emitted from the crowd, and Giuseppe waited a moment to allow the crowd to express their anger. Continuing to hold the letter aloft, he added, "Here we have yet another example of Saletta using his bloated bureaucracy to get his way and stifle opposition. Indeed, your tax dollars are all paying for this unnecessary permitting process and the wages of the fine gentlemen here to escort us from the plaza."

Giuseppe's final words brought attention to the police officers who had gathered on the edges of the plaza. They now held their guns in their hands, pressed against their chests. The crowd grew incensed at the police presence, and a brawl seemed likely to start if the attendees were left unchecked. Giuseppe knew they could take down these officers at the costs of many lives, and that would surely send a message that he and his followers were not to be trifled with. Yet now was not the time for violence, for it would alienate those who had yet to take a side and strengthen Saletta's position against him. He would take the high road for now, but would remember this slight after the election was over.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I thank you for attending today," Giuseppe said, drawing the attention back to him and away from the officers. "While I would love to continue to regale you with tales of corruption in our government, I believe the Consul has just made a stronger argument than I ever could." He let out a light-hearted laugh, one he hoped would lighten the mood. Some in the crowd shared his mirth, but it seemed strained. "I ask that you return to your homes for now, but remember this when election day comes around. Saletta would see you silenced and cowed into submission, but with me I shall see our glorious nation reborn." Giuseppe raised his right hand up in a salute. "A strong leader for a strong Italy!"

Arms shot up across the plaza, returning Giuseppe's salute. He held his arm aloft for a good minute as the crowd cheered his name. The officers, perhaps sensing that the rally was over or fearing what the supporters would do once it was, were starting to disperse. When they had finally left, he lowered his arm and marched off the stage. That rally had gone well, all things considered, and Saletta had foolishly played his hand too early. That little stunt may have well cost the Consul the election, and it surely would after Giuseppe made sure that every Italian knew about it by election day.

 

[Idhrendur]

"Well then, thank you all again."

Alvértos left the meeting room and returned to his quarters to change clothes. He found it useful to distinguish his roles, that of Prince — Crown Prince now, he reminded himself — versus that of a member of the Church. He was able to quickly switch and was soon ready to meet with Alexander. Fortunately a meeting had already been scheduled, he didn't want to disrupt the Holy Father's preparations or distract him from other Church matters.

Alvértos and Alexander made the usual courtesies and greetings, and Alvértos decided to start with the potentially riskier topic, so that in the worst case they could still end on a good note. "I have two topics to mind. First, with my brother's excommunication, he is legally removed from the line of succession. I plan to begin using the title of Crown Prince. I am not asking for official acknowledgement from the Church at this time, but if you will feel obligated to object, I would rather know now."

 

[TheButterflyComposer]

21st February 1936 – 4am​

Alexander traced, once again, the holes that had torn through the vessel. They, at least, were certainly real. As was the thin piece of wood the stranger had left behind at the bottom of the boat.

The Rector, whom had been speaking quietly to a few men slightly further up on the shore, strode up.

“They want us to move. It isn’t safe, so close to the water.”

Alexander hummed but did not move.

“Please, Alexander. We have tempted fate enough today.”

The Patriarch slowly nodded, and stood up, grasping the stick, or he supposed, more of a stave.

“How on earth are we going to explain this?”

“Explain?” Alexander replied, turning to face the old man in surprise. “We shall tell the truth, I think. All of us shall sign a writ to that effect…the boat serves as evidence as does this,” he gestured to the stave. Or perhaps, a staff? He was reluctant to label it the latter, for the connotations were…positively alarming. Still, considering who crafted and held it, perhaps it was the most suitable?

“You remember what he…it?...the being said?”

Alexander nodded, bringing a notebook out of his robes. “I have it here exactly. A liturgical chant…escalating in devotion and increasingly ancient languages from new Greek to High Middle German of all things, to old Latin, Ancient Greek, Aramaic and…was that Koine Greek at the end?”

“I am not such a polyglot as you,” the Rector said, with some amusement.

“No matter. I am sure others will pour over this in time…my God!” He crossed himself. “What on earth to make of this…deliverance?”

“Grace, at the very least.” The Rector too, despite himself, was awed. As was the boatman who drove them silently through the waters after the event. As was the Patriarch of Rome, whom had cried silently at the sight. “I…I do not know what to think.”

Alexander didn’t either, except that it should of course be told about. An actual miracle upon the Bosphorus! In a time like this, just after the excommunication of an emperor…it boggled the mind. Was it…acceptance or support of his decisions? Had he done right in staying so long, and getting out when he did? Was he forgiven for the deaths upon his conscience? What did it all mean?

‘Make of it what you will.’

He had heard words to that effect just as the larger ship was engulfed in light and disappeared into the mists. Heaven knows what the imperial faction would find on their shore tomorrow. Were the crew alive? He hoped so…but what did they see and hear?

So many questions.

“We must write it now, today. Everyone must know, before the philistines across the straits pull out a story.”

Alexander grimaced. It seemed sacrilegious to put things in such a earthy, political way, but he knew the Rector was quite right.

“I agree. But…one wonders.”

“Indeed. I…do you wonder now whether we did the right thing?”

“Often,” Alexander muttered, “long before this point.”

He turned the stave over and over in his hands. It had been whittled and played with by the man…by the angel, on the shores as he waited to be borne across, a random stick picked up by a bored dockworker. Or so it had seemed. Alexander had worried as the man seemed in no hurry to leave at all and refused his place multiple times.

Now, of course, it made more sense. Or at least that part did.

“A reminder. A relic.”

He nodded at the Rector’s words. His hands found a small carving atop the staff, hidden or very small within the grain.

Hei Yod Mem Nun.

Believe.

…​

Their journey across Anatolia had been a noisy one. Thousands and thousands of people flocked from all around to see one or all of their party, from the old Patriarch of Rome to the Ecumenical. Thousands more missives and communications from the Church, now no longer heeding a censor, flooded into their residence every evening. Financial records, meetings, bishop elections, priest commendations, the College, the universities, the hospitals, the many businesses and charities, a million and one words begging for advice or giving it.

It was…normal. And yet things had been far from normal for months.

There were telephone appointments too. The Pentarchy had already been informed of all that occurred that night, and the wider Church Press had in following days. Now the whole world was enraptured by the report, as signed by two Patriarchs as witness, a trusted and faithful Rector of the Hagia Sophia, and a humble boatsman. All had seen, and been saved by, what appeared to them to be an angel. Machine gun bullets pierced all around them, damaging the boat and destroying their clothes, and yet they were all unharmed.

Alexander glanced across at the staff leaned up against the far wall. That had received attention too, though far less than the people themselves. In time however, the boat and the wood would no doubt be relics, when the human witnesses were long departed.

Another headache to deal with another day.

They were fast approaching Trebizond, and with it the conclusion to the Church’s unwilling foray into this civil war. As it stood, they had already implicitly chosen, or been forced into, declaring a side by the idiotic actions of Konstantinos. In excommunicating him, the remaining Prince was now legally and liturgically the Crown Prince, and the rightful heir to the throne…something Alvértos no doubt would wish to be made explicit as soon as they met with him.

The Patriarch sighed. For the first time, he felt old. He, apparently, was fated to remain in this position for many years to come and yet, for the first time, he did not know what to do next. How was a man supposed to respond to being so overtly paid divine attention, and spared death at that? He had already intended to conduct a world tour, to take advantage of his youth and diplomatic nature. Now it was essential. Clearly, aside from the modernisation of the Church, there were other, more spiritual considerations required to move forward. He would have to pay special attention to the more mystical of the rites and arts, find those who immersed themselves more deeply in magic and ancient Christian folklore.

In the face of all that, one man’s political squabble with his brother had no room, and certainly no fear from him.

…​

The city looked as though it had been freshly washed and painted. Perhaps it had been. There were two monasteries and a grand cathedral, if memory served, and aside from the rebel hotel he no doubt he to visit, there were more pressing matters. Such as…

“Father Joseph.”

First impressions were not everything, as Alexander had often found in his work. Still, the sight of a bare-footed old man in simple habit, washing the floor of his church…that was an uplifting sign.

“Holy Father,” the old man bowed in the traditional fashion. As with all church fathers since the time of the great reformation of the Empire nearly one thousand years ago, Father Joseph had the privilege of the Church. He would bow low only to God and His Alter, a shoulder bow to the Ecumenical Patriarch, and a head bow to the Emperor. No one else commanded the priests of the Orthodox Church, though in recent times the secular courts had made inroads into that area, occasionally, rightly so.

“I am pleased to meet you. We thank you for serving the Prince so well, and hearing his confession.”

“I thank you for allowing it,” the old man grinned up at him. “He had a great many things to get off his chest, and I doubt he would have spoken to the Archbishop as affectingly.”

“You are a good man,” Alexander said, taking off his dusty sandals and stepping bare footed to join the priest. “Tell me of him.”

“He is afraid. Worried. He feels the strain and stresses of a Crown he did not entirely wish placed upon him. Better than his brother, from what I hear.”

“Indeed,” the Patriarch sighed. He inclined his head towards the alter, noting the statues, candles and scripture flowing around the small church. It was a beautiful place. He ached for Constantinople.

“Do you require confession?”

Alexander laughed. “Always. Though I hardly know where to begin these days.” He sat down opposite Father Joseph in a pew, the staff coming down beside him.”

“Is that-?”

“It is,” he handed it over.

Joseph took it curiously, reverentially. “Made by a dockworker. See the scuff of the penknife? Saltwater imbued wood. Hard, reliable. He did this?” He pointed to the top and the carvings that flowed almost invisible down throughout the shaft.

“He did, though I have no idea how. Whenever I examine it, I seem to find more. It was dark when he began. I have no idea how…”

“I suppose we need not understand everything.” Joseph handed it back, with a full bow. “I am blessed to have seen it, and you. It is rare for faith to be so obviously rewarded.”

“I do not know what to do with it.”

“The only thing you can. By being the best version of yourself. The Lord asks no more, and no less.”

“You agree with our position?”

“I agree…that the Prince you left behind was unworthy and incapable of ever becoming so. This one…has potential, at least. It is so hard to know what a man may do when given the world. As you have learnt, no doubt.”

Alexander nodded.

“Speak with him. And think on God.”

…​

The Senate session had end, or what served as a session. Whilst the Senate for the most part had fled Constantinople with the Prince, even many who would have otherwise followed Konstantinos, it was not complete. There were only three church officials present, not enough for a proper quorum were things done correctly in the actual chambers. His representative, of course, was also no present, and only the Archbishop of the city stood in the place of the Church.

So much would have to be changed in the years to come. And the Crown, and perhaps the Senate also, would not appreciate it.

Alexander eyed the Prince as he entered his office, the reduced Άγιος Guard seeing him sat comfortably and served with tea before withdrawing.

“Holy Father.”

He inclined his head. “Prince Alvértos.”

The courtesies continued for a few more minutes. They really had not seen much of each other in a year, and had not the relationship to deal with what had occurred during the past few months. Not yet, anyway.

“I have two topics to mind. First, with my brother’s excommunication, he is legally removed from the line of succession. I plan to begin using the title of Crown Prince. I am not asking for official acknowledgement from the Church at this time, but if you feel obligated to object, I would rather know now.”

Alexander stared at the other man. He seemed in earnest, and rather worried the Church would begin to inflict the hammer blows it had done upon his brother. In this case, he was mistaken. Alexander pulled out a drawer in the desk and took out a file.

“The official documentation for the excommunication of Prince Konstantinos,” he said quietly. “Here is your copy. We have dispersed another to the Church Press for official communication to the world. It has been signed by the Pentarchy and the sufficient majority of the College, indeed, the entirety of the College. It has also been witnessed and affirmed by sixty archbishops and Church leaders of other realms. In this, the Church stands united behind expelling him from us. We have duly stripped him of his status as Crown Prince, and remind you that the monarchy itself reserves the right to disbar and raise its members of titles.”

“He remains Prince until an Emperor wills otherwise, but is barred from succession to the Empire?” Alvértos pressed.

“Correct.”

“And my status?”

Alexander sighed. “The Church is…aggrieved…that we have been dragged into this fiasco. However, we understand that something had to be done, and in so doing, we have implicitly elevated you to the rank of Crown Prince. However, we stress that this is in the eyes of the Church only. The title of heir to the throne is within the gift of the Crown, the Senate and the Church of Rome. That is,” he paused, “you will have to be appointed by the senate in full as well if you wish to rely on this title legally. The fact there is no other suitable candidate serves you well in practice, however…” he raised a hand.

“I understand. My father’s will and body would suffice as the Emperor’s appointment. The senate can be convened after the war is over, though I would like to do so sooner. What do you advise?”

“I suspect the excommunication of Konstantinos has hurt him deeply. If you were to humble yourself in remaining publicly a ‘Prince’ rather than that which you would no doubt attain in time…that would also aid you.”

Alvértos frowned. “You don’t think I should?”

Alexander shrugged. “It is a matter of thinking of precedent and how one ‘should’ act. In ages past, there was good reason why the transition of power was held so sacredly by the three institutions, and why most civil disputes between the royal family or other groups did not bring forth the rank of Crown Prince into question. If anyone with an army can claim himself to be the rightful heir to the crown…well…any old province might claim their own leader as one.”

“I did not think of that,” he grimaced.

“It is up to you. We can tacitly approve of your new rank if you so choose and explain why. We can also approve of your humility in refusing it until the proper time, though also more openly support your case as the war continues, given there are no other candidates.”

Alvértos grumbled. “And here I thought the Church did not do politics.”

Alexander smiled faintly. “We are the richest and most powerful organisation in the world and hold governmental and legislative seats in the majority of nations that currently exist. Of course, we are political, inherently so. But there are good reasons why we generally refuse to get involved in such…messy things as this. Konstantinos was a fool to push us so far. But rest assured, the wider Church beyond this empire is watching carefully. So long as you continue to pursue your claim nobly and with piety, there should be no real issue. But…” some steel came into the Patriarchs voice, “I should warn you that several things will be changed when this war is concluded. For the good of the realm and the Church. Now…does that answer your first query?”

 

[Idhrendur]

Alvértos was annoyed. Mostly at himself, for he should have foreseen the broader political consequences that Alexander stated. He had spent his life expecting to be at most an unofficial advisor to the real authority in the Empire, and had clearly not practiced thinking through all of the consequences as much as he would need. But thinking through it some more, he saw how the path of humility might help him towards some of his additional goals. Yes, it would do for now. And in the end, it would be the battlefield that won this civil war. Rhetoric and prestige might help, but they were mostly just the aspects of the war within his and the Senate's control while soldiers and generals did the main work. It was important to remember to not overemphasize them.

"Yes, I think that does. My second will be more straightforward, I hope. When you are in Syria, urge Dux Charalambis to continue his stance of peace with me. While he hasn't sent many troops to the border, the Senate is still nervous about a second war and how that might affect the existing war. And in the end, I would rather us find peaceable solutions to our political divisions."