Fallen Eagle-Chapter 42: Rope's End

Fallen Eagle-Chapter 42: Rope's End

A blizzard was afoot. Kyriakos could smell it on the wind - that sharp, metal tang that bit the back of the throat. He could feel it in his bones, the dull ache in his knees. And he could hear it in the cracking groan of the frozen woods that dotted the god-awful excuse for a path that passed for the Principality’s roads.
It was a trick mercenaries used to read the weather, to know when to seek a roof and when to push on. A trick his father’d taught him.
That thought stung more than it had any right to, these days. It wormed in under his cloak and hurt more than the cold ever could.
God damn the wretches over in Mangup - couldn’t they keep the paths in a semblance of order? A little gravel or perhaps the occasional ditch filled in, was that so much to ask? Although now that he thought about it, if he was being honest, it was Lord Adanis’s duty to keep them passable.
It was an ingrained Nomikos response to curse the Mangup overlords on principle, but they really ought to own up to a few of their faults. Everyone had them.
Kyriakos knew that well enough.
Aiai, his thoughts were really wandering into darker, colder corners than usual. Where was he? Ah, yes- cold. It was cold. Terribly cold. Unbearably, teeth-rattlingly cold. Which, for the record, was the only reason why he sneezed.
It was a proper sneeze, too, a manly, chest-rattling explosion that startled a few crows from a nearby tree. Not some dainty, courtly little chirp. As Kyriakos was thinking this very important thought, another sneeze ambushed him and snapped his head forward, a fine spray of breath turning to glittering frost in the air.
“Looking rough there, boss.”
Dimos, his most veteran sergeant, called from behind him, voice dry as old leather. A shadow of a grin curled between his scarred cheeks and broken nose. A valuable poach from those damnable negotiations. “You need a cuddle to keep you warm?” He pounced on Kyriakos’s weakness in a heartbeat. Yes, truly the most valuable piece he’d managed to wring out of those cursed talks.
He had thought himself terribly clever when he’d wrangled a good crop of the best levies and the pick of the sergeants for a “discounted” price. It had been a special deal, Othon had said in that smooth, reasonable tone of his, and Kyriakos had laid out a significant portion of his hard-won gambling earnings with only the mildest of complaints. Only after the fact had he realized he’d been duped, and that everyone else had walked away with a similarly “special” crop of the better recruits. All at the cost of Theodorus, who’d gotten the worst of the worst and probably made a pretty sum off of the whole matter.
“I’d much enjoy that, were it not for your foul breath,” Kyriakos shot back at once, the retort springing to his lips on a pure instinct he’d perfected over the years into a deadly weapon. “I pity your wife, having to cook you food every night only to then kiss it - rotten and smelly - from your mouth later.”
“Hah!” Dimos slapped his thigh, the sound muffled by layers of wool and mail, taking obvious relish in anything that broke the monotony of the march. “If you had to eat her cooking, you wouldn’t feel so much pity for her as for me.”
“I imagine that is why her cooking is so terrible, my good man,” Kyriakos replied loftily from atop his stride, as if a king lecturing a peasant. “She has stopped trying.”
A few chuckles rumbled out from the nearest ranks, little puffs of steam in the frigid air. A rare moment of levity in the cold, and worth more than an extra layer of wool.
They sighted the walls of Suyren just in time to watch the sun sink behind them, the fortress rising out of the whitening hills. It was a welcome balm of poetic illustration that did absolutely nothing to make up for the fact that Kyriakos had to be on these thrice-damned ice patrols in the first place.
Christmas and the New Year feast were just around the corner. He should have been inside those walls, warm by a roaring hearth, winning yet more coin off the other unfortunates over cards and dice. Instead, he was out here, suffering in the cold like a particularly handsome pack mule. Now, he supposed, he knew how baby Jesus had felt: naked, miserable, and badly housed in terrible weather.
Silhouetted against the bruised orange sky, another company of unfortunates trudged along the road toward them, dark figures marching in loose order. Even at a distance, they were distinct if not by sight, then by sound.
“Damn those bastards,” Dimos muttered, breath pluming thick in the air as the faint sound of voices drifted over the snow. “Singing those damn tunes in the freezing cold. Do they fancy themselves bards?”
He snorted, but Kyriakos could see the tiny, treacherous spark of envy in the man’s eyes. Singing kept the blood moving. And right now, any warmth at all felt like sacrilege to resent.
It was Theodorus’s company, of course. It was always Theodorus’s company these days, and always, somehow, the reason Kyriakos found himself in his current mess. Damn that Theodorus. The man had been on a crusade of the most unorthodox, absurd things imaginable: rebuilding his company’s housing, singing on the march, patrolling in the snow on every god-forsaken round with his men.
And now Kyriakos had to follow suit, to ‘set a similar example’ for his own lot, because word travelled and soldiers compared captains the way old wives compared bread. If one captain froze with his men, the others suddenly had to do the same.
The unorthodox patrol didn’t do anything the usual way. The ‘Labourers Corps’ was made up of the most incompetent, scrawny miscreants ever scraped off the countryside. Rivalries between companies were common enough, but Theodorus’s makeshift rabble was the object of even more scrutiny and scorn than the others. The men of the regular companies took any chance they could get to lay into them - it made them feel better about their own lot.
“Hey, lads!” Dimos called over the wind, voice carrying easily along the column. “How about we show those pansies what a real company looks like?” A roaring wave of approval answered him.
They veered into the path of the Labourers Corps, edging their line over until the two companies marched side by side. It was close enough to hear the lyrics properly.
“High and low, a labourer marches and toils!
’Cause if we don’t, the Captain’ll nick our boils!”
Raucous laughter burst out from the stretch of company that marched in a precise, light-footed cadence, boots rising and falling in near-perfect unison with the beat of their song. It was a sharp contrast to the heavier, uneven trudge of Kyriakos’s company, where each man marched to the rhythm of his own complaints.
“Damn the bastards, proud of being labourers,” Dimos muttered in disgust, as if the very idea offended his sense of soldierly dignity. “Let’s give it to ’em, lads!”
Jeers rose at once from Kyriakos’s side.
“Do the soft little builders need warm houses and hot soup to survive a breeze?”
“Does your Captain also tuck you in at night to sleep better?”
The Labourers shouted back.
“At least we’re not freezing in our own cots!”
“Oy! If ya want, we can throw up a few new shacks for you sorry lot down by the Dung Quarter! You’ll certainly fit in nicely there, given you smell the part!” Howls of laughter sounded out from the men around the jester.
Kyriakos caught Theodorus’s glance through the drifting breath and snow and sent him a small, lazy smirk.
“Care for a little competition, Captain?” Theodorus called across the snow. “A race to Suyren, marching in good order.”
“I’d wager some coin, Captain, but I hear that’s a sore topic for you as of late,” Kyriakos called back, lips quirking. He was always up for easy money, but he wasn’t blind. Theodorus’s men, while utterly inept in proper combat and only just starting their drills this week, were nothing if not tireless. They’d been suffering through some dastardly morning runs for days now, trotting around the walls like condemned men, and Kyriakos recognized the trap for what it was.
“But I’d be glad to,” he added smoothly. He couldn’t afford to back down when his men were so obviously eager to pick a fight, even if it was only with their feet. However, Kyriakos always hedged his bets. He had to have some compensation out of the orderal if they lost.
“Men!” he bellowed at the top of his lungs. “If you lose, this week is extra drills for everyone!”
That, unsurprisingly, put a distinct pep into their step.
The two companies set off at the same signal, lines straightening as if a cord had been pulled taut. Kyriakos’s troops surged ahead at once, eager to outpace the so-called Labourers, boots pounding the frozen road, breath coming out in sharp white bursts. For the first stretch they made a fine pace, but the enthusiasm burned hot and brief. Before long, the weakest men in Kyriakos’s ranks began to falter.
A few started to drop half a pace, then a full pace, faces reddening, chests heaving as they wheezed in the biting air. Their comrades cursed and shoved at them, tried to drag them along by sheer fury, but the line began to ripple and break, the pace stuttering as men either slowed to stay with their fellows or pushed on and left them behind.
Beside them, Theodorus’s company kept to their steady cadence. Their steps rose and fell to a steady rhythm, not fast, but relentless.
In the last stretch before the gate, Kyriakos watched, jaw tightening, as the Labourers’ line drew level and then began to pull ahead. Only then did he notice Theodorus riding along the flank of his men, calling out a firm, unwavering count for them to follow, low enough that Kyriako’s own couldn’t readily her it to follow. Even the least fit among them could latch onto that beat and cling to it, matching the pace if only barely, the beat doing half the work their legs could not.
Something Kyriakos had neglected to do.
By the time the last stragglers from his own company stumbled in, Theodorus’s men had already finished and were catching their breath in orderly ranks. The Labourers had won decisively. Kyriakos’s soldiers were spent, slumped against spears and shields, while Dimos and the other sergeants tore into them with sharp, stinging words, their faces burned from the shame at having lost to the damned Labourers Corps.
Kyriakos seethed. He had expected a close affair, a hard-fought finish with both sides gasping at the gate, not the utter trouncing it had been. What had started as a friendly little competition to warm the blood had ended in bare-faced humiliation.
He gazed across at Theodorus’s band of misfits. The scrawniest of them, who’d once looked like half-starved scarecrows, were now filled out under their cloaks, shoulders broader, steps surer. Their gaunt, abject faces from the day they’d first shambled into Suyren now looked more at ease, more comfortable in their own skins. They joked around, clapped each other on the back, congratulating themselves between deep pulls of air. A few of the younger ones even started jeering back at Kyriakos’s men, but their officers cut that short with a word and a hard stare, and the line settled quickly.
They were orderly.
Kyriakos’s own company, despite having some of the best recruits coin and bargaining could buy, were haphazard and uneven. Most importantly, Kyriakos thought as their gazes followed the Labourers filing into the rebuilt Southern Quarter, they were envious.
From where they stood, they could see the steam rising from great cauldrons set out in the open, smell the rich, fatty scent of extra-thick broth. Laughter drifted faintly back on the cold air. Their eyes lingered on those bowls, on the sturdy roofs, on the easy camaraderie. That, more than the loss itself, irked Kyriakos in a way he’d rather not examine too closely.
The air in the felt tent was as warm as the last time Theodorus had been there, a close, smoky heat that clung to skin and clothing alike. But the weight of it, the heaviness pressing down on his shoulders, was another matter entirely.
“You are back,” Ilnur greeted him, voice flat. His tone held none of the warmth of the coals glowing in the brazier, even as sweets and dried fruits were once again set out for the guests on low wooden trays. Even when you did not enjoy a particular visit, nomadic custom dictated hospitality.
“I apologize for the intrusion, elder,” Theodorus began, remaining standing for the moment instead of immediately sitting. “You remember the last conversation we had?”
“Yes, I do.”
Ilnur’s dark, obsidian eyes took his measure, slow and unhurried. They noted the slight filling out of his frame, the way his shoulders no longer slouched quite so much. Theodorus’s training with the levy had continued, as had his inconvenient growth spurt; he no longer looked like an utterly scrawny scholar who had wandered into a war camp by mistake. Finally.
“I also remember how it ended,” the old man added, voice edged with memory.
“I have brought someone who might convince you that the dream I spoke of is not so far out of reach,” Theodorus said. He gestured toward the tent flap just as it lifted and Nikos stepped inside.
Ilnur’s eyes widened, the first true crack in his composure, at the sight of someone of Turkic heritage wearing the colours of the Principality so openly.
“
Selâm, aksakal
,” Nikos said, right hand passing over his heart as he walked in, measured but slow, toward the hearth.
“
Selâm bul
,” Ilnur replied. He gestured to the rough cotton pillows scattered around the low brazier. “Sit, my son.” Then he turned to Theodorus, his expression less guarded now, but more intent, like a hawk considering a strange movement in the grass.
“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded, a flicker of fear beneath the brusqueness, as if he half expected some elaborate trap.
“It is a message,” Theodorus said. “Nikos was born and raised in the Principality and now serves as a soldier in it. Not only that, but he has earned the rank of sergeant on his own merits.” He met Ilnur’s gaze steadily with his own pale, silvery eyes. “There are people of nomadic descent living in our lands who defend the Principality, and are part of it.”
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“Hah.” Ilnur barked out a laugh that turned into a rough cough halfway through. “You want me to throw myself at your feet and believe we can be part of a society that does not want us?”
“No,” Nikos answered before Theodorus could speak. “But we can carve out our own place in that society. Not by living forever on the fringes, but by finally finding somewhere to call home.”
“Home is where family is,” Ilnur countered. “It is where the Sky meets the steppe. It is nowhere and everywhere. You should know this, child.” His chiding was gentle, but there was iron under it.
“Why do you believe that will change with our proposal?” Theodorus asked quietly, leaning forward just a fraction, as if trying to bridge a distance much larger than the space of the tent.
“I know of these dealings,” Ilnur said, lips curling. “You would shackle us to a quarter, pen us like sheep, and then parade us as proof of your mercy. You want us as your servants in your stone fortresses. We have no interest in being chained to one patch of dirt, where the grass cannot sustain our herds and where our horses are penned, counted, catalogued. Unable to roam free.”
“If you will listen to our proposal, you will see that is not the case, Elder—”
“Drop the ‘elder’ and the niceties, pup.” Ilnur cut him off, spine stiffening. “I do not believe a single word out of your mouth.” The last words came out low and defensive, like a growl.
Nikos stepped in before Theodorus could answer. He spoke in Turkic, the words quick and clipped at first: a sharp, “
Bizi dinle, aksakal, bu sadece zincir değil
,” met with Ilnur’s irritated reply, the two trading phrases that rose in heat like sparks over the brazier. Then Nikos’s tone softened, his hands opening in a placating gesture as he murmured
torunlar
and
gelecek
- grandchildren, future - and the tension bled slowly out of Ilnur’s shoulders.
“I apologize, Captain,” Ilnur said at last in Greek. He gestured to the other men in the tent, who had been resting hands on hilts and hafts, watching the exchange with tight jaws, and motioned them down so they would relax. “I was out of line.”
“I believe in showing respect. And in being given respect, Elder,” Theodorus replied, his voice firm, even. “I do not call you by a title to cajole you, but to uphold my own principle. Rest assured: if you do not treat me with that same measure of respect, I will not treat you with it either.” His pale eyes were dead set on the older man, steady as drawn steel.
“Your warning has been taken seriously, Captain,” Ilnur said after a beat, inclining his head once. Theodorus returned the nod in kind, sealing the moment.
“Let us move on to the proposal, then, Elder. Specifically, to what you would gain from agreeing to it.”
Theodorus dragged his sleeve across the low table between them, clearing away crumbs and dust. He placed a fingertip on the bare wood, then slowly began to trace shapes as he spoke.
“Currently, many nomadic families graze illegally on Theodoran soil,” he said. “They contest our own herds for pasture. In the end, that simply means less grass for everyone and more pointless feuds. We can help you speak with the shepherds on our side and coordinate which grazing spots would be allocated to whom.” His finger drew an invisible line, looping and crossing to show the movement of herds and the sweep of seasonal migrations.
“And how,” Ilnur asked, “would you do that, Captain?”
“By instigating a discussion where all voices can be heard,” Theodorus replied, “between both our shepherds and your families. The goal is simple: to ensure that everyone has open land to range on without fear of sudden eviction or surprise herds trampling theirs. Right now, the problem is not hatred - it is a lack of communication. It truly is that simple. You know the land better than we ever will, and you would decide among yourselves.”
“A lot of questions arise from that pretty idea, Captain,” Ilnur said dryly. “A lot of back and forth would need to happen. Would you serve as our messengers for every single quarrel? Every boundary stone moved? And how long would this take?”
“One day,” Theodorus said. The certainty in his voice stilled the murmurs around them. “We would gather every family and every shepherd, yours and ours, into one place and discuss it together.”
“Hah.” Ilnur snorted. “Everyone would be at each other’s throats before the sun reached its height. That is a good way to sharpen tensions, not ease them.” In truth, Theodorus knew that the only reason things had not yet escalated into bloodshed was because their conflict had remained indirect. The Theodorans and the Tatars circled each other at a distance, clashing through herds and burned grass, never face to face.
“We would be there to maintain civility,” Theodorus answered, “and to ensure proper discourse. The meeting would be regulated. No one would be allowed to draw steel, and everyone would be under our protection.”
“Under Theodoran protection,” Ilnur repeated, eyes narrowing once more around the word.
“If you do not want to come, you do not have to,” Theodorus said, finality coiling through his tone. “Actions speak louder than words, so I will not waste my breath trying to convince you. Our results will speak for themselves. Nomadic families who choose not to take part will soon see others enjoying the benefits of having a steady, guaranteed grazing spot enforced and patrolled by Theodoran troops. Those who join will be given passes by the Crown. And if someone is caught grazing on land without such a pass, they will be chased out. Not because they are nomads, but because they broke an agreement all others respected.”
Ilnur was silent at that.
The word
Crown
had never meant much to his people beyond a distant threat or outlying patrol they had to avoid, but now it was finally taking proper notice of them - and cracking down on their illegal grazing. The boon of regular, guaranteed pasture was no small thing. At present, they had only a rough notion of the wandering patterns of a few close families, and even among the nomad clans roaming the Theodoran countryside, tensions flared over spent grass and emptied watering holes. Cousins bickered like strangers when herds met on the same exhausted slope.
“They will also miss out on the market day we will host monthly at the Suyren fortress,” Theodorus continued, dropping the next stone into the quiet.
“A market day?” Ilnur asked, astonished that the Christians would host such a thing specifically for the pagans, for the steppe folk they usually chased off with spears and curses.
“Yes,” Theodorus said, “it would be in a neutral place outside the fortress walls. Order and rules would be enforced by our troops, and civility would reign - a
Yarlik
.”
The word, shaped in their own tongue, surprised Ilnur again. Theodorus was speaking to him in concepts he understood, not merely in court edicts and foreign saints’ names. That alone gave him a sliver of confidence that their opinions might, for once, be taken into account. It was more than he had ever thought possible.
“There, you can show your wares to our people and sell them,” Theodorus went on. “Your qurt, your milk, your wool, whatever surplus you can spare. And in exchange, our traders can offer you what you lack.” His tone turned quietly persuasive. “Wouldn’t you want your children to have proper footwear? To know the taste of salt without counting each grain? For your hunters to carry iron heads on their spears instead of bone and wood? To no longer graze and hunt outside the law, always wondering if tomorrow the state will decide to take everything from you, or if the Khanate will suddenly remember you exist? To have a safe haven to return to each season?”
Theodorus opened his arms slightly, as if framing an invisible encampment in the air. “We are not asking you to build houses and never move again. We offer you the chance to have someplace safe to come back to. It will be hard, yes. There will be hatred, there always is. But perhaps the next generation will not have to swallow quite so much of it.”
There was a long pause as Ilnur digested this, and as the other nomadic men in the tent looked between one another and their chief.
“You speak pretty words as usual, Captain,” Ilnur said at last. “What can you offer now, besides them?”
“I can tell you who will be in charge of mediating between the clans,” Theodorus replied. “It will not be just me, but Nikos.” He patted Nikos’s shoulder.
Ilnur studied the young man’s mixed heritage. The dark eyes and high cheekbones of the steppe, the set of his jaw more common in the cities along the coast, and his steady, determined expression.
“And you will have your own elected leadership among yourselves,” Theodorus added. “Your own voices to speak on your behalf. You will be allowed to keep to your customs, so long as things remain civil.”
Ilnur’s attention shifted fully to Nikos.
He spoke to him in Turkic, voice low but intense. “
Sen kimin oğlusun, ha? Bizim mi, onların mı?
”
‘Will you truly carry our words, or are you just a Greek puppet in our clothes?’
Nikos did not flinch. “
Ben buralıyım
,” he answered, hand over his heart. “My mother grazed these hills. My father bled for their walls. This is a chance we have never had before. I want my family safe, and our people respected. I swear to you, I will do everything I can to defend our rights. If they try to twist this, they will have to step over me first.”
The old man searched his face for any sign of wavering and found none.
“Very well, Captain,” Ilnur said at last, turning back to Theodorus. “I will help you.”
He beckoned to one of the women - the same quiet one who had served them drinks during their last visit. She brought a simple wooden tray with three steaming cups of herbal infusion, fragrant with steppe mint and some bitter root. Ilnur took one of the cups and raised it in a toast. Theodorus and Nikos obliged him, mirroring the gesture.
And so the pact was sealed.
If the last week had been a miserable stretch for Kyriakos, today had been its crowning achievement. He forced one foot ahead of the other, muscles protesting, as he trudged into the section of the Lord’s hall where the aides took their supper at a long side-table.
Michail was quick to greet him as he practically collapsed onto his bench. “Well, well, look who finally joins us,” he drawled, popping an olive into his mouth. “Back from your
familial visit
? While the rest of us were out here working.”
Kyriakos didn’t even acknowledge him. He simply reached for the nearest platter and began piling food onto his plate.
He stretched out a hand toward the olives, but Michail had other ideas. His cousin snatched the bowl out of reach with a swift, practiced motion. “Not without asking nicely, you don’t,” he taunted.
“I’m not in the mood for this, Michail,” Kyriakos muttered darkly. Across the table, Apostolos noticed the tone and looked up sharply at Kyriakos’s face, eyes widening as he caught sight of his right eye.
“Kyriakos, what happened to—”
Michail cut across him. “Oh, you’re
not
?” he repeated, voice turning bright and cruel. “That’s too bad. I wasn’t in the mood to bet coin on our last gambling stint, but you made me do it anyway. So I guess we can’t always have our way.”
He set the olive bowl on the far side of the table like a prize. Kyriakos lunged for it on reflex, and Michail caught his wrist.
“No, you don’t,” he said.
Kyriakos drove forward, knocking Michail backward off the bench. They crashed together in a tangle of limbs, Kyriakos’s fist slamming into Michail’s ribs. Michail grunted, grabbed blindly for anything in reach, and his hand closed around the olive bowl. He swung it up in a wild arc. Clay shattered against Kyriakos’s temple in a spray of brine, olives and shards scattering across the flagstones as Kyriakos’s head snapped to the side.
Stunned but furious, Kyriakos still managed to get a few solid punches past Michail’s raised forearms before hands grabbed at his shoulders and hauled him back.
Chaos erupted. Benches scraped, cups toppled, aides and sergeants surged in to tear them apart, cursing as spilled stew and wine splashed their boots.
Even the Lord took notice as the rest of the hall, filled with laughter and song, fell into a heavy, curious silence.
“Is everything all right?” Lord Adanis asked from his high seat.
Kyriakos stayed quiet, chest heaving, not trusting himself to speak to that bastard without venom lacing every word.
“Yes, my lord,” Apostolos answered quickly, arms still wrapped around a struggling Michail. “Nothing is the matter.”
“Fighting amongst ourselves is unbecoming of a Nomikos,” Lord Adanis said. His gaze lingered on Kyriakos, and on the swelling around his right eye, before sliding away. “See that it does not happen again.”
Kyriakos and Michail cut a deep bow. “We apologize, my Lord,” they said together, though Kyriakos’s apology came out through clenched teeth.
Dinner resumed with a heavy, strained silence. Kyriakos and Michail were placed as far away from each other as the table allowed, the space between them feeling wider than the hall itself.
It was into this sour atmosphere that Theodorus descended. He entered with light smiles and easy grins, but his expression grew more thoughtful as he approached the table and took in the mood.
“Good afternoon to everyone,” he greeted, more sober now.
“Good evening, Theodorus,” Apostolos and Othon replied in tandem, both of them eager to dispel the foul humours hanging in the air.
“I trust your day went well?” Apostolos asked, always the goody two-shoes, always trying to steer conversation away from sharp rocks. Sometimes that grated on Kyriakos’s nerves more than outright hostility.
“Yes, I was able to do a lot today.” Theodorus wore a small, self-satisfied smile that instantly rubbed Kyriakos the wrong way.
It used to be that such a look belonged to Kyriakos on nights he racked up coin and prestige in equal measure at the gaming tables, fleecing the little captain without breaking a sweat. Now Theodorus played more conservatively, or not at all. He had learned. He watched Kyriakos through each game, measuring him.
Kyriakos had eventually realized that Theodorus knew he was cheating. The captain had never said a word about it; he simply learned to use that knowledge to his advantage, eking out small, careful wins between Kyriakos’s bolder gambles. He’d learned the rules and then twisted them to his own benefit - just as he had with the company selection.
That was what Kyriakos despised most. The cheating had always been just his ways of hedging his bets. He could win fair and square if he wished. At least that was what he’d told himself.
Now, watching Theodorus’s quiet little smile, he wasn’t so sure of that at all.
“How’s your company coming along?” Apostolos asked, with the easy tone of someone who was still comfortably ahead in that particular department. He lounged with his cup in hand, shoulders loose, the picture of a man whose levies drilled on time and obeyed the drum. Kyriakos wondered how long it would take the pretty boy to notice that Theodorus was catching up, and fast.
“They’re becoming more familiar with the drills,” Theodorus said.
Kyriakos had seen those drills. They’d started a touch better than the shambolic mess that Kyriakos’s own ‘veteran’ militia had managed at the beginning, which was a small feat in and of itself for the group Theodorus had inherited. The stick-limbed misfits now moved almost like soldiers. Almost. But Theodorus was still more than a full month behind schedule. For now.
“And the collection patrols?” Apostolos pressed.
“Ongoing. We haven’t had a delay yet.”
“You’ve been lucky, haha. My bunch already have a few sick from the cold air. Got into their lungs, they said.” Michail opened his mouth, snarky and self-important, leaning back as if he’d invented hardship. “Lazy bastards will find any excuse not to work these days.”
“Yes, I guess I’ve been,” Theodorus answered mildly.
No, he hadn’t, Kyriakos thought savagely. Theodorus had fuller men, better housing, better clothes. And his people didn’t complain as much, did their work quick. Meanwhile Kyriakos and the other two stooges were all just scrambling behind slowly and inexorably, blaming it on their companies. Kyriakos hated it. He saw it plain, but made the same mistakes as everyone else.
“You’ve been quiet, Kyriakos,” Theodorus said, finally turning to look at him.
His gaze caught on the bruised purple of Kyriakos’s right eye. The light in his face dimmed and the words died on his tongue. The rest of the table followed his stare, conversation thinning into an uneasy hush as attention settled back on the battered Nomikos.
Kyriakos hated it. Hated the way they looked at him with that soft, sticky pity. As if he were some kicked dog they wanted to feed scraps to. He didn’t need any of it.
“What happened?” Theodorus asked quietly.
“Nothing,” came the instinctive response, the word snapping out sharper than he meant.
Theodorus didn’t look away. “It doesn’t look like nothing,” he said, still soft but firmer now. “If someone-”
“I said it’s none of your business,” Kyriakos cut him off, anger flaring. “You’ve nothing to do with it. Go back to running that little labourer corps you’ve got going on and stop sniffing around my face.”
Theodorus’s jaw clicked shut. Around them, the silence deepened. Apostolos cleared his throat.
“That was discourteous, Kyriakos,” he said quietly. “Theodorus is just worried about who did that to you.”
“I couldn’t give less of a shit about that,” Kyriakos snarled. His pulse hammered in his ears. He was fuming, feeling miserable and raw, his temper and his tongue slipping further out of his control with every word.
Kyriakos pushed back his bench so hard it scraped against the stone, the noise chopping through the low murmur of conversation. He could feel their eyes on him - the worried glances, the half-started questions, the quiet, useless concern. It made his skin crawl. Before anyone could say anything that would set him off further, he turned on his heel and stalked out of the hall.
The corridor outside was cooler, the torchlight uneven, shadows pooling in the alcoves. His boots struck the flagstones too loud, echoing his heartbeat. He had made it halfway to the stairwell when he heard footsteps hurrying after him.
“Kyriakos, wait,” Theodorus called. “Talk to me.”
Kyriakos didn’t. “What do you want?” he threw over his shoulder. “Why do you care?”
A firm hand caught his wrist, not hurting, but enough to stop him. Theodorus stepped in front of him, a little out of breath.
“Because you are my friend,” he said.
The word hit harder than any fist. Kyriakos jerked his arm free as if burned.
“You’re friends with a cheater now?” he spat. “I see the way you look at me in the card games.”
Theodorus held his gaze, eyes steady, searching. “Yes,” he said quietly. “I am.”
Kyriakos blinked, thrown for a moment.
“I don’t know why you do it,” Theodorus went on. “But I’ve known you long enough to know it must have some reason.”
“You don’t know me at all,” Kyriakos muttered, but there was less bite in it.
“Then help me know you,” Theodorus said. There was no accusation in his voice, only stubborn, maddening sincerity. “You don’t owe me explanations. But I’d still like to know. And to help.”
Kyriakos stared at him, breathing hard, knuckles still sore from the earlier fight. The anger that had been keeping him upright all evening suddenly felt thin and brittle. In Theodorus’s honest expression, he saw no triumph, no smugness. There was only concern he hadn’t earned and didn’t quite know how to refuse.
“You’re a persistent bastard, I’ll give you that.” He said, and for once, there was no heat to it.
“Tomorrow,” Kyriakos said at last, voice low. “Tomorrow, I want to show you something.” Theodorus eyed him carefully. “You said you wanted to know why I ask for leave so many times. I will show you.” Kyriakos said by way of explanation.
As Kyriakos walked away toward the stairwell, the knot in his chest felt no lighter, but it felt…different. “We shall see if you’ll still call me friend after that.” He said as he left Theodorus frozen in the stairs behind.
Tomorrow, he told himself, he would come clean, come what may after that. Because he was at his rope’s end. And didn’t know what he’d do when it broke.

Chapter 42: Rope's End