The sun hung low over Mystras, gilding the fortress walls and winding streets in a final burst of warm light. In one of the castle's private chambers, Theodore Palaiologos stood by a narrow window, his posture rigid with mounting unease. He watched the rolling hills beyond the city as dusk settled—a seemingly endless sea of silhouettes harboring threats he could not yet name.
A soft knock interrupted his thoughts. A servant appeared, bowing.
"Master Plethon awaits you, my lord."
Theodore's gaze lingered on the horizon a moment longer before he turned, jaw set. "Let him in."
The door opened to admit Georgios Gemistos Plethon. At nearly seventy, he possessed the dignified bearing of a seasoned scholar. His long beard, streaked with white, framed a face creased by time yet illuminated with intellectual fervor. Though his simple Byzantine robes were unadorned, they reflected both scholarship and the stature of a magistrate.
"Theodore," Plethon greeted with a respectful nod, his voice measured.
"Plethon," Theodore acknowledged. He gestured toward a chair by the modest hearth. "Sit. I trust you know why I summoned you."
Plethon settled with a deliberate grace, folding his hands in his lap. "You wish to speak of the emperor's pursuit of church unification."
A flicker of anger crossed Theodore's features. He took a step forward, then paused, as if restraining himself from pacing. "You have been advising my brother. And I know that he leans upon your counsel in these negotiations with Rome." His tone hardened. "Tell me: do you truly believe in compromising our Orthodoxy? Do you support bending the knee to the Latin Church?"
Plethon's expression turned contemplative. "Believe me, I do not lightly suggest any compromise. But the emperor thinks that unification may secure Western aid, without which our people could be overrun by the Ottomans. And I cannot dismiss his concern out of hand."
Theodore exhaled, his pent-up agitation spilling into the quiet. "I recall the Fourth Crusade all too well—the rampage through Constantinople, the desecrations... And now we're to trust the West to respect our traditions? Their promises ring hollow."
Plethon lowered his gaze. "I have not forgotten. The scars of those days remain with us all. But the Ottomans advance closer each year. If Byzantium stands alone, our heritage—and our faith—might vanish entirely."
Theodore moved toward a small table on which an icon of the Virgin Mary flickered in the candlelight. Tracing its edge with one calloused fingertip, he spoke softly, as if the words were drawn from a deep well of doubt. "What is faith if not the anchor of our people? Embracing the Latins is more than a diplomatic turn; it means shifting our very creed. The filioque, papal supremacy—all these blasphemies we have long withstood. Would we not taint Orthodoxy by accepting them, even as a tactic?"
Plethon tilted his head, a gentle, almost teacherly gesture. "I've studied our past, and also Plato's lessons on forging unity in times of crisis. Sometimes a measured concession can preserve the soul of a society. We might ensure that, in exchange for our fealty, our own rites remain protected."
Theodore's voice grew taut. "You speak of negotiation. I fear the Latins speak of conquest. Their appetite for dominion has not changed since they first set eyes on Constantinople."
For a moment, Plethon did not reply. He fixed his gaze on the dancing shadows upon the wall, as though searching for an echo of an ancient truth. "I have spent my life sifting through the wisdom of Plato and the old Hellenic sages. I've seen how an empire can crumble when it clings too tightly to old forms while the world transforms around it. We are at a crossroads, Theodore—one requiring creativity as much as faith."
Theodore turned abruptly, as though the philosopher's words struck a nerve. "We do not need to forsake our faith to adapt. There are reforms to be made, yes, but not this union. Would you have us part our lips in prayer to the Pope?"
A flicker of amusement softened Plethon's features. "I'm no Latin apologist, Theodore. My interest lies in ensuring that the empire does not succumb to the Ottomans. Even if we keep our liturgies, we must find a way to stand against the empire's inevitable decline. I do not believe survival and tradition must be at odds."
Theodore dropped into a chair, pressing a hand against his brow. In the wavering candlelight, the lines of worry on his face deepened. Memories of fallen cities and ruined icons rose unbidden, fueling the inner war between his devotion and his fear for Byzantium's future. "You know, old friend, how passionately I resist meddling with our creed. My father always cautioned me that our faith was the last bulwark against chaos. Sometimes I hear his voice, urging me to hold the line, no matter the price."
A hush fell. Plethon watched the younger man with an empathy born of many years in service to rulers who bore such burdens. At length, he spoke, his voice low yet unwavering. "I would not see Orthodoxy shattered. I would see it evolve, strengthened by a deeper understanding of philosophy and civic virtue. You call me radical because I study Plato's vision of a just society. But remember, Theodore—Plato taught that leaders must be willing to guide the people to what they need, even if they resist at first."
Theodore released a hollow laugh. "That's what unsettles me: the thought of an empire restructured by your Hellenic beliefs. The people are devout; they cry out to the Holy Virgin, to the saints. They do not look to the pantheon of ancient Greece. To them, your suggestions would be near-heresy."
Plethon spread his hands gently. "I'm aware of my reputation. Yet I do not preach an outright return to the old gods. Rather, I see wisdom in the philosophies of our ancestors. We can strengthen our present by integrating their insights into our governance and laws. Indeed, few truly understand that my aim is not to tear down the church, but to fortify our empire's spiritual foundation with knowledge that predates these bitter schisms."
Silence settled, thick with the weight of both men's convictions. Theodore gazed at the icon, noticing how the candle's glow lent life to the Virgin's serene face, and he felt an ache at the possibility of losing this cherished faith. Yet he also sensed that Plethon's counsel was not mere idealism—there was a practical urgency in the older man's words.
At last, Theodore spoke, a weary resignation in his voice. "You'd have me consider forging an alliance with the West, rethinking the role of Hellenic learning in our realm, all to stave off the Ottomans. I wonder if you see how precarious such steps could be. No matter how we frame it, many will call it betrayal."
Plethon rose with a slow dignity, weariness etched into his features. "Leadership demands more than pleasing the multitude. It requires looking beyond the immediate horizon, imagining what shape our empire might take after we weather this storm. You may find a middle path—one that spares Orthodoxy from corruption while securing the alliances we need. It is not an easy route, but it is there for those who dare to seek it."
Theodore closed his eyes briefly, letting out a long sigh. He pictured the emperor—his brother—caught in the grip of looming war, and the tattered remnants of a once-mighty empire scattered like leaves before an oncoming tempest. "Your words carry both promise and risk, Plethon. And still, you know the church elders will not bow to such bold reforms without a fight."
"There will always be a fight," Plethon said softly. "Better that it be on our terms, shaped by wisdom rather than desperation."
He inclined his head in a final show of respect and stepped toward the door. Theodore watched him go, then called after him, voice echoing in the dim corridor:
"Old friend—do not mistake my resistance for dismissal. I will reflect on your arguments. If there is a way to secure our empire without forsaking our soul, I wish to find it."
Plethon halted, glancing back. A gentle smile touched his lips, fleeting as candlelight. "That is all I ask. May reason and faith both guide you, Theodore."
Then he disappeared down the corridor, his footsteps fading into the hush of the castle.
Left alone, Theodore returned to the window. Night had fallen fully, and the stars dotted the sky like watchful sentinels. He placed a hand on the cool stone, recalling Plethon's fervent talk of a renewed Hellenic glory—a concept so radical that it unsettled him as much as the threat from the Ottomans themselves.
His gaze dropped to the icon of the Virgin Mary. "Will we find salvation in compromise, or damnation?" he murmured. No answer came from the silent icon, only the unwavering glow of the candle.
Long after darkness claimed the city, Theodore remained, torn between the pull of tradition and the call to adapt. Faith and survival—a delicate balance he could neither abandon nor confidently embrace. In the stillness, he felt every inch the ruler his father had raised him to be, bound by duty and haunted by uncertainty.