your love for me has just got to be real
The state of Osman sends Herakles to find out what Romania is up to and make him stop that; or, in which everyone is a collaborator and no one is happy about it.
Mature, Greece/Turkey. Greece, Turkey, Romania, Serbia, Egypt. Contains characters being nasty about imperialism and each other’s sex lives.
"I need you to tell me what he's up to," Sadık said, pacing across the room. Herakles had noticed over the years how Sadık hated to sit still and certainly found it unbearable to think that way. Perfectly on form, he had started this conversation seated on the sofa, fidgeting with his book stand; but soon he had risen and gone to the window as though to look out; then he came back over to Herakles, and now he went back and forth without even a pause.
The light through the latticed windows formed a pattern over his skin that whirled as he moved. It was dizzying.
Herakles focused on the conversation again with effort. "That isn't hard," he remarked. "Romania is very predictable. I can tell you what he's doing from right here."
"And what would that be?" Sadık whirled. The robes flared around him as he turned, red silk flashing like rubies in the afternoon sunlight. He formed a very pretty picture, Herakles admitted.
"Plotting sedition and drinking too much alcohol," Herakles said. "It's possible that he's also branched out to coffee, lately. But I wouldn't put money on it." Romania wasn't a fan of Ottoman culture as far as Herakles knew.
Sadık didn't like that. His brows arched, then contracted over his forehead, and he scowled. "I know he's plotting sedition, Herakles," he said. "That's the problem."
"It isn't as if it's a change in the situation," Herakles muttered.
Most likely it was fortunate that Sadık paid no heed to this.