EMPIRE REWRITTEN
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Side story: Helena Dragas POV
🕑 Added 2025-06-28 20:19:22 +0000 UTCSelymbria, May 1434.
Before dawn, Hypomoni knelt on the cold stone floor of the chapel as Matins began. The chill bit through her robes and into her bones; she welcomed the ache and offered it up as prayer. Around her, the sisters chanted the psalms in low, wavering voices. She kept her own lips still, letting the words wash over her while she prayed in silence.
Images flickered behind her closed eyes: Constantine as a toddler stumbling toward her with outstretched arms; John VIII on the day of his coronation, young and solemn beneath the crown; John again, as she last saw him, pale and lifeless after the coup. Her fingers curled against her palms. She had no tears, those were spent long ago, sealed away the moment she took her vows. “Kyrie eleison,” she breathed soundlessly. Lord, have mercy.
One by one she lifted her children in prayer, naming each son in her heart. For the dead, that they rest in light; for the living, that they find wisdom and repentance. She prayed too for the broken Empire they would inherit, that God might yet have mercy on it, or at least on its people.
A bell signaled the end of Matins. Hypomoni opened her eyes. In the dim incense-laden air, the other nuns began to depart. She rose slowly, her joints protesting, and steadied herself against the wooden stall.
Outside, the late morning sun found the courtyard stones, drying the last of the dew. After hours of chores in the kitchen and garden, the nuns gathered for their meager midday meal. In the refectory, a long, austere hall lined with plain benches, Hypomoni sat near the end of one table. A shallow wooden bowl of lentil gruel and a heel of brown bread lay before her.
As was customary, the meal was taken in silence. At the head of the hall, one of the elder sisters stood reading aloud from a heavy tome of saints’ lives. Her voice droned softly, a gentle undertone to the clink of wooden spoons against bowls. Hypomoni lowered her eyes to her food. She ate slowly, deliberately, minding each movement of hand to mouth as a minor ritual. The warmth of each spoonful spread through her chest, easing the emptiness from the long fast.
Halfway through the reading, she noticed a small slip of parchment lying beside her bowl, half-hidden under the edge of the bread. Hypomoni’s hand paused, the spoon hovering just above the rim. Her pulse skipped, then resumed, measured and calm, as she reached to break off a piece of the coarse bread. In the same motion, her fingers closed over the folded paper and slipped it into the wide sleeve of her habit. Years in the imperial court had taught her composure; now that old skill served a higher purpose. She placed the bite of bread in her mouth and chewed slowly, her eyes half-lidded in apparent contemplation, though her heart beat quicker beneath her robes.
No one seemed to notice. Opposite her, Sister Theoktiste gazed down at her own bowl, lips moving silently along with the holy reading. To Hypomoni’s left, the young novice who had ladled the gruel was moving down the row to collect empty dishes. He did not glance her way, not overtly, but as he bent to take a bowl two places over, she saw a faint tremor in his hand. A dot of ink stained the cuff of his grey robe. When he straightened, he risked the quickest flicker of his eyes toward her. There and gone. Then he turned back, face blank as the wall.
Hypomoni lowered her gaze to the faded blue wildflower painted on the rim of her bowl. Countless quiet meals, and never before a message slipped under her bread. The parchment felt like a live coal hidden against her wrist. Even so, her face remained a mask of placid devotion. She finished her gruel as the reading drew to a close and the prioress snapped the book shut. One by one, the nuns folded their hands and rose from the benches. Hypomoni moved without haste. She gathered the last crumbs of bread from the table, brought them to her lips, and brushed off her fingers. Then she stacked her bowl atop another and got to her feet.
A familiar figure loitered just beyond the cloister gate, a Selymbrian guard in a dull breastplate, posted not within the convent walls but at its threshold, where secular men were permitted to linger yet not enter. He leaned against the outer arch, arms crossed, feigning idleness, but his gaze was fixed, steady, unblinking, on the departing sisters. On her.
Officially, he was there for the monastery’s “protection.” In truth, he was a leash. A symbol. A reminder that, though cloaked in black and bound by vows, Helena Dragas remained a prisoner, not of stone, but of empire.
As Hypomoni stepped into the covered walkway with the others, her eyes flicked toward him. He straightened, not stepping forward, for he knew better, but he tipped his chin in her direction with a sliver of mockery. “Your Highness,” he murmured under his breath, just loud enough for the words to float across the threshold.
Her face remained composed. Not a flicker passed through her gaze. She offered a small nod in return, gracious, queenly, almost imperious. As if he had spoken a benediction.
The guard shifted uncomfortably, unsettled by her silence. She moved on, unhurried, each step deliberate, the hidden letter pressing like a brand against her wrist. Behind her, the man let out a low breath. Whether in frustration, fear, or unease, she could not say. Nor did it matter.
She did not look back.
Sunlight flooded the flagstones. A few sisters blinked in the glare and moved toward the shaded arcades, but Hypomoni welcomed the heat on her face. It warmed her, fortified her against the coil of anxiety tightening in her belly. Keeping her pace unremarkable, she crossed the courtyard and settled on a stone bench beneath the fig tree by the wall. The young leaves above cast flickering patterns of light and shadow across her lap. In the corner of her vision, she could see the guard beyond the cloister gate, still watching her like a hound awaiting its master’s whistle.
She breathed in slowly, easing the tension from her shoulders. It was not yet safe to read the message. Patience. The midday would afford no true privacy, but night would come. She folded her hands in her lap, the very picture of a serene nun taking in a moment of rest.
From across the courtyard, two young nuns at the well whispered together. Hypomoni caught a few words drifting on the air: “...Demetrios… ships... ” They fell silent the instant they noticed her nearby. Hypomoni lowered her gaze, turning away as if deep in thought, allowing them to continue without fear.
A dull thump echoed from the direction of the outer gate, followed by the rasp of a man’s voice and the slow creak of iron hinges. Likely a messenger or a farmer with his cart. From beyond the cloister wall came the bark of the guard’s reply, terse and sharp, then the fading jangle of his steps on the gravel path. As the sound receded, Hypomoni rose from the bench in one smooth motion. With the quiet rustle of robes, she slipped away beneath the arcade and through the side door into the chapel, unseen.
Cool dimness embraced her. Dust motes floated in a slant of sun that fell from a high window, painting a bright stripe across the stone floor. Hypomoni knelt just outside that beam, where shadow and light met at her folded hands, and bowed her head. The world beyond these walls was on the brink of upheaval, this she knew. Empires and armies were mustering to reap a terrible harvest. Yet here, in the silence of prayer, the chaos beyond did not exist.
She prayed there silently for a long time, until the dust motes shifted and a square of sunlight slid over her clasped hands like a benediction. Only then did she cross herself, rise from the floor, and return to her cell to await the evening.
Evening light bled gold and then red across the sky. The bell for Vespers found Hypomoni already in the chapel once more, her duties for the day completed. A drowsy warmth filled the air as the sun sank low. The sisters’ voices swelled in chant, but Hypomoni’s mind climbed the ladder of prayer and descended into memory by turns.
A line from the Gospel “Father, forgive them...” tugged her thoughts to Demetrios. Her son, an emperor crowned in fratricide. Perhaps even now he prowled the halls of Blachernae, restless beneath the weight of his stolen crown. Or, if God had mercy, maybe he knelt in secret prayer, seeking absolution. Somewhere beneath the layers of ambition and fear, she prayed the boy who once trembled at thunder still lived and remembered the words of the Lord.
The choir intoned Kyrie eleison. Hypomoni closed her eyes and joined them silently, letting the chant carry away the last of her wandering thoughts. Love was an exacting thing. To love sons who had grown into rival men, one striving to save their broken empire, one all but damning it, was a trial she accepted with steady resolve. She would not forsake Demetrios in her heart, even as she condemned his deeds. Her love for him took the form of intercession and penance, pleading with God to jar his conscience awake. And for Constantine, she prayed with equal fervor that he be kept strong but humble, brave but righteous. Let him not lose his soul in winning the world, she begged silently. Let him remember grace.
By the time the final Amen was sung, Hypomoni’s cheeks were dry, her breathing even, no trace of inner turmoil visible on her composed face. She crossed herself and rose with the rest of the nuns. Dusk had fallen; a few small lamps glowed now, islands of flame illuminating the worn frescoes on the chapel walls. In one, Christ Pantokrator gazed down in serene judgment, his painted eyes appearing to follow Hypomoni as she made her way to the door. Even in silence, nothing escaped divine sight, she reminded herself.
Night air greeted her outside, warm and still. The crescent moon already hung low above the fields, silvering the tops of the olive trees beyond the monastery walls. The sisters dispersed to their cells. A few whispered good-nights or exchanged soft smiles. Hypomoni drifted among them like a living ghost, nodding where needed, uttering not a sound. One young nun paused as if to speak, worry in her gaze. Hypomoni offered a gentle smile and laid a hand on the girl’s arm before any words could form. The novice flushed, pressed the elder nun’s hand, and hurried on without breaking the silence.
At last Hypomoni reached the door of her cell. Darkness greeted her like an old friend as she bolted the door behind her. A single cough from a nearby cell echoed and then faded into the hush. Hypomoni knew every inch of her small room by memory. She found her cot in the darkness and sat, hands folded in her lap, eyes open in the blackness. She would wait.
She knew this hush after Compline well, when the world balanced between one day and the next. An owl hooted softly outside. No footsteps sounded beyond her door. Only a faint noise seeped through the wall now, a gentle, rhythmic scratching of quill on parchment. Someone nearby was still awake, writing by candlelight. Perhaps the abbess penning a journal entry, or a restless sister copying scripture to calm her mind. The sound was soothing, a small reminder that life continued quietly here, that even in darkness there was prayer and purpose.
Satisfied that all was still, Hypomoni drew the folded parchment from her sleeve. Even in darkness, her fingers knew the fine cotton paper and the ridges of its dried ink. She allowed herself a slow, steady breath. Then, with practiced caution, she struck flint and lit the candle on the low table.
The flame quivered to life, casting unsteady amber across the cell’s whitewashed wall. Her heart gave a quick, hard beat; she stilled it with a murmured prayer. Shielding the flame with one hand, she unfolded the little parchment with the other. Lines of tight greek script filled the page. She recognized the handwriting at once, an old friend in Constantinople, one of her last loyal allies. The candlelight caught the first line of the message.
“Your son advances under the banner of the Cross. By summer’s end, he will stand before the city walls.”
She paused, the edge of her thumb resting on the next line. This was not the report she had expected.
The shape of things was shifting, faster than they had planned.
Helena’s throat tightened. She forced herself to continue reading, though each line tolled in her mind like a heavy bell. The letter was succinct, it spoke of a crusade forming to challenge Sultan Murad’s hold on their land, and of unrest in Constantinople’s streets as its people chafed under Demetrios’s rule and the Sultan’s ever-growing demands. One line made her catch her breath: “The usurper grows desperate; he sees traitors in every shadow. You must beware.” She closed her eyes a moment, steadying herself. Poor, lost boy. Paranoia was already tightening its noose around Demetrios’s heart. He had sown the wind; now he would reap the storm.
At the page’s end, her informant had added a line in Latin, a phrase they once used as a secret sign: Fiat justitia, ruat caelum. Let justice be done, though the heavens fall.
Hypomoni set the letter down on her lap. Her hands were steady; her soul was another matter. Yes, justice. Constantine sought it; Demetrios fled from it; God would mete it out in the end. But if heaven fell, all below would shake. She felt that truth in her bones.
For a few heartbeats she sat motionless, the candlelight drawing wavering lines on her face. The quill’s scratching had ceased; the night held its breath. Hypomoni made no sound, no gasp of triumph at Constantine’s imminent return, no curse for the traitor, no cry of fear at the blood to come. She simply refolded the letter along its creases. Then, with a quick pinch of her fingers, she snuffed out the candle. Darkness rushed back in, carrying the bitter scent of the extinguished flame.
Author’s Note:
This one was tough to write. Helena’s been in the background a long time, and stepping into her silence, her losses, her faith, her memories, took some digging. We’ll see more of her. Probably in another full chapter later on. There’s a lot under the surface, and it’s worth going deeper.
Comments
Elaine
good chappie
RENAISSANSE SI
A fair concern. She’s not safe, but not entirely alone, either.
Empty Crate
Hmm a bit worried for her long term survival based on the letters warning but we'll see. Hopefully Constantine saves his mom before a paranoid ridden Demetrios plot kills her.
