Fallen Eagle-Chapter 3: Carved from Weakness

The air still vibrated with the charge of a world overturned. Theodoro knew this was a moment of pure potential, and to not seize it was sacrilege. The sentimentality of the original Theodorus was a luxury that could not be afforded, not when faced with the sheer scale of the task ahead. He would use everything and everyone at his disposal. That began with the kind, loyal servant who had witnessed the transformation.
“Demetrios,” he began, his voice low and steady. “To honour my father’s memory, I will need your help. Can I count on you?”
Awestruck, Demetrios could only manage one answer. “Of course, Young Master. No…my Lord.” He bowed his head, his old knees nearly buckling as he knelt on the cold, stony ground, under the shade of the great hazelnut tree.
“Rise, Demetrios. Please.” Theodoro offered a hand, a deliberate gesture. A wise leader elevates his subjects; he doesn’t grind them down. As the old servant took his hand and rose, Theodorus felt the subtle shift of allegiance settle between them. “There is much to do, and I would value your counsel.” The authority in his voice was a stark contrast to the meek boy he’d replaced, but Theodorus felt it was in character with his new persona. He had sworn to become strong. Now he had to act it.
“Of course, my Lord.” A flicker of hope ignited in Demetrios’s eyes. He latched onto this new Theodorus, this sudden, impossible chance that the gentle third son could somehow protect his father’s legacy. It was a fool’s hope, perhaps, but it was the hope of an old hand who had nothing to lose following his master's passing.
“Tell me,” Theodorus said, picking up his breakfast plate, “what happens now that my father has passed?” He kept the question deliberately vague. His knowledge of this world was a patchwork of assumptions still; the more Demetrios volunteered, the fewer holes he would have to conceal.
Demetrios also began picking at his plate. “Now… the funeral, my Lord.” The old servant was still uncomfortable around the topic. “It will likely be tomorrow. The seneschal, the men-at-arms, the staff from all three estates… they will gather. Your father valued every soul in his service. He would want them all present and they will have received word by now.”
Three estates,
Theodorus logged the detail. His mind raced through what he knew of medieval inheritance. Primogeniture was the standard for high nobility by the 1400s, but for lesser landowners, variations in customs could still occur.
“Did my father leave anything in writing?” A written testament was harder to sabotage than a deathbed declaration.
“He did, my Lord.” Demetrios said, a touch of surprise colouring his voice.
This is common knowledge, then.
“And its contents?” Theodorus pressed gently, briefly surprised at the vibrant taste of the authentic medieval cheese, compared to the processed ones of his era.
“I was not privy to the details, my Lord. Your father was… insistent… that it be read only after his passing.” A fractional hesitation. A slight flicker of the eyes. Demetrios was an adequate liar, and he was hiding something. Theodoro decided against a direct command; trust could not be built on threats.
He softened his tone, leaning in conspiratorially. “Demetrios, I don’t ask this for my own sake. I ask because our house is about to tear itself apart. You heard them at our father’s bedside. They nearly drew steel while he was breathing his last.” He let the shameful image hang in the air, a stain on the memory of the man to whom Demetrios was truly loyal. “I pray it ends in silent resentment, but I fear it ends in blood and fire. This,” he gestured to the hazelnut tree, having noticed how Demetrios also had a special attachment to it. “Everything he built could be turned to ash. Help me prevent that.”
It was the perfect lever. Inaction now made Demetrios complicit in the very destruction he feared.
The old man let out a long, defeated sigh. “...You are right, my Lord. I do fear what is to come. I fear it because the Lord decided to eschew tradition. He divided his lands among all three of you. Your brother, Iohannes, will not take it well.”
That seemed like an understatement. Iohannes likely expected a full transfer of all the estates. He’d said as much yesterday when confronting Georgios. He wouldn’t take this lying down. He might even take more drastic measures if necessary. Access to the will was suddenly paramount in Theodorus's mind.
“ Demetrios… the will. Where is it now? In my father’s study?” If so, it would be the worst-case scenario. Iohannes, as the current de facto head of the family, would have priviliged to Lord Konstantinos's study. And he wouldn’t put it past Iohannes to tamper with the written will if he thought it possible.
“No, my Lord.”
“Where is it then?”
A small, knowing smile touched Demetrios’s lips. “I have it, my Lord.”
This was his lucky break. His chance to upend Theodorus's current fate. “My father was a canny man.” Theodorus’s shoulders sagged with relief, a small laugh escaping his lips.
“I’m afraid not, my Lord.” Demetrios’s smile grew. “It was quite hard to convince him of the need to keep the will a secret. The Lord had too kind a heart. He could not see the storm his decree would unleash.”
Theodorus looked at Demetrios with new respect. He had approached the old servant on a half-formed instinct to seek a source of information, an overlooked pair of eyes. He didn’t expect a clever plotter with a fair few secrets to his name. Here they were, young noble and old servant, both hiding their own secrets, but taking the first steps in the beginning of a strange and fragile alliance forged under the shade of a hazelnut tree.
Theodorus stood, his plate picked clean. “Come, Demetrios. I would see this will of ours.”
Theodorus handed his empty plate to a stout cook who smelled of flour and warm bread. “Excuse me,” he asked her, his voice polite. “Have my brothers taken their meal yet?”
“No, my Lord,” she answered, not pausing in her kneading of a great mound of dough. “Neither Young Master Iohannes nor Georgios has come down.”
Theodorus gave a slight nod. The brothers’ absence was expected; they would be securing their power base before the funeral, most likely. Whispering loyalties, stoking resentment, promising positions. And, of course, searching for a will they did not know was in Demetrios’s possession. The opening moves were already being made, but Theodorus held a trump card that would make them all mute.
“Demetrios, tell me truly,” Theodorus asked, his voice low as they moved through the quiet corridor leading to Demetrios’s quarters. “Do you think my brothers will come to blows and wage petty war against each other?”
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The old servant’s steps slowed. He considered the question with a heavy heart, “In time, my Lord. When the grief has cooled, and only ambition remains. I fear it is a path they are both capable of walking.” The old servant seemed uncomfortable admitting to it.
“But not now?” Theodorus pressed, his gaze sharp. “Not during the funeral rites?”
Demetrios stopped and turned, his expression one of genuine shock, almost offense. “My Lord, no. Never.” He shook his head, aghast at the very notion. “They are proud and hungry men, yes, but they are still Christians and sons of this house. To draw swords while their father’s soul journeys towards God’s judgement…it is unthinkable. Such a sacrilege would invite a curse upon us all. Some lines are not crossed.” Theodorus could think of a few notable examples in history where such lines had been crossed. Moral goodness had a funny way of being sidelined in favour of power.
“Of course,” Theodorus said, his tone softening at once. “You are right, Demetrios. Forgive the question. My fears made my mind stray to dark places.”
They reached Demetrios’s quarters. To Theodorus’s modern sensibilities, the room was little more than a cell: a straw pallet, a water basin, and a few wooden pegs holding a spare, stained tunic. Demetrios closed the door and reached up, wedging his fingers into a crack in the rough-hewn wood. He slid out a folded vellum document, sealed with dark wax depicting what seemed like a long-beaked heron, its wings rendered in sharp, predatory angles. Demetrios held the paper with the reverence one would expect for a sacred text.
“It is here, my Lord.”
Seeing it made everything real. “Keep it safe, Demetrios. It is our greatest weapon, but a weapon is useless if brandished at the wrong time.”
Demetrios nodded, his expression grave. The gesture was more than agreement. He understood the gravity of the task, but he was also beginning to understand the new nature of the man before him.
“Iohannes knows a will exists,” Theodorus stated, “but does he know you are the one who has it?”
“He knows of the document’s existence, my Lord, but not that I am its keeper. Your father gave it to me in confidence.”
“That gives us an advantage,” Theodorus mused, “but not safety. Iohannes will not be satisfied with just a search through my father’s study. He will begin questioning those who were close to him. He will likely come for you, Demetrios. We cannot speak like this again before the funeral. Any hint of an alliance between us or the will’s location will put a target on our backs and alert my brothers that the game has changed.”
“I have served in this house for twenty years, my Lord,” Demetrios replied, his voice a low whisper. “I know how to be invisible when I must.”
“Tell me what you know of the estate division my father had planned.”
“Your father sought to be fair in his own way,” Demetrios explained, his voice low. “He knew your brothers. To Iohannes, the eldest, he left the main estate - with its vineyards and large manor house. To Georgios, he left the fertile hills to the west and the large flocks of sheep.”
“And to me?”
Demetrios hesitated. “He knew you…cared little for such things. He left you the northern frontier plot, the smallest and least profitable. It is mostly untamed forest, but still holds respectable grazing pastures for goats and sheep alike. He hoped its wildness and lack of prestige would make it worthless to your brothers, and that they might leave you to your books in peace.” His posture was reticent, as if bracing himself for Theodorus's disappointment.
The most worthless frontier plot, then. Meant as a kindness, a way to be left alone. Theodorus saw it differently. He saw an opportunity.
“It is no matter,” Theodorus said, his calm surprising the old caretaker. “It is a greater kindness than I expected, Demetrios. In truth, I couldn’t have asked for more.” Seeing Theodorus's mature response, a flicker of pride touched Demetrios’s face.
“Of far more importance,” Theodorus said, leaning forward, “is what my brothers are up to. Demetrios, I will admit I spent my youth with my head in books of poetry, not household ledgers, but I am not a fool. My brothers did not take breakfast this morning. They are already moving, consolidating their power for what comes after the funeral. I need you to be my eyes and ears. Tell me, who will stand with Georgios? Who is loyal to Iohannes? And who will wait to see which way the wind blows? Speak candidly, I would value your judgement.”
A flicker of pride, sharp and bright, lit in the old man’s eyes. He was not just being asked for gossip; he was being consulted, his life’s quiet observations suddenly valued as a strategic asset.
“Lord Georgios,” Demetrios began without hesitation, “will have the swords. Every man-at-arms on this estate, led by their captain, Lycomedes. They are still bitter over the raid, and keen for the vengeance Georgios promises. Plus, he conducted himself with honour during the battle. He doesn’t command from the rear, my Lord. And the men respect that.”
Theodorus filed the name away. “And Iohannes?”
“Lord Iohannes has the keys,” Demetrios stated plainly. “He has been acting steward for the last three years. The seneschal Spiros, the reeves, the household clerks…they are his creatures. Lord Iohannes may be severe and uncharismatic, but he is meticulous, and he is fair. He understands their forms and their functions, and is keen to keep the status quo. They will cling to the man who guarantees their place.”
“So, one brother has the swords, the other has the administration,” Theodorus mused. “And the neutrals?”
“There are no neutrals, my Lord. Only those whose loyalty is for sale. The household staff, the farriers, the tenants…their allegiance belongs to whoever feeds and pays them. For now, that is Iohannes. They will bow to him, but they will not bleed for him.”
Over the next hour, Theodorus engrossed himself in deciphering the intricate map of his own home, laid bare for the first time by Lord Konstantinos’s cunning aide. He had just been handed the keys to the kingdom by the unlikeliest of suspects. The man was no simple servant; he was the keeper of secrets, an intricate webweaver in all but name.
“This changes everything, Demetrios. Thank you,” Theodoro said, placing a hand briefly on the old servant’s shoulder, a gesture of sincere gratitude. “You have given me much to consider. We cannot be seen together until the funeral, but we will speak more after it.”
Demetrios bowed low, his posture no longer just deferential, but imbued with a new, solemn purpose. “Be safe, my Lord. The walls of this house have ears, my Lord. Tread carefully.”
“You more than I,” Theodoro replied, his voice barely a whisper. “You are the one who must sleep among them.”
Theodorus excused himself and walked from the servant’s cramped quarters, his mind no longer a storm of worry, but a workshop of calculation. He made a point of parading himself in view of the staff during the rest of the day, aimlessly wandering the grounds, his expression one of somber grief. Let them think his mind was on his father’s soul, not on the intricate web of power he was about to dismantle.
The grand, daunting mission - to save a dying principality from the tides of history - was an ocean. He could not drink it all at once. He had to focus on the immediate battle, but with a focus on this huge, impossible goal.
The air was thick with a tension that threatened to snap, a frantic energy buzzing just beneath the surface of the evening’s quiet. Servants scurried past, their movements hurried, their quiet whispers echoing from dark corners. Warriors patrolled in pairs, their faces grim in the flickering torchlight, their hands resting on the hilts of their swords. The main players were executing their opening gambits, and he remained an ignoble pawn, ignored by all.
He retired to his room early, his mind exhausted by the myriad possibilities he’d considered. He sat on the edge of his bed and did a final mental accounting, like a merchant reviewing the last details before a risky venture.
He’d considered every variable: Iohannes, with the full household administration, the income of the estates, and the power of patronage. Georgius, with the household guard, the loyalty of the fighting men, and a warrior’s reputation. The principality, a tiny speck on the map, weak and insignificant, clinging to obsolete traditions. The Crimeans, savage and ruthless, the Genoans, greedy and industrious. And the Ottomans, imperious and absolute.
Then him. An insignificant, bookish third son to a disgraced, dead frontier lord. An old, canny servant. A piece of faded parchment promising him a worthless plot of land. And an unbreakable promise.
It was a laughable arsenal. He could not out-maneuver Iohannes in the halls he controlled; he could not out-fight Georgios in the training yard; nor was he in any position to intervene on the grand stage of global politics.
If he could not play the game, he had to shatter the board.
A slow, wolfish grin spread across Theodorus’s face in the dim light of his room. The path forward became clear. Forged not from strength, but carved from weakness.