NOVEL NEXT Chapter Two: The Weight of Two Worlds
Theodora slept soundly beside him, her breath slow and even, a gentle rhythm against the chaos in Michael’s mind. The rise and fall of her chest, the soft murmur as she shifted in her sleep—each minor detail was a reminder that she was part of this world, Constantine’s world. A world that, for two long, torturous days, he had been trapped in.
Michael perched on the bed's edge, shadows cloaking the chamber. The silence pressed in, broken only by the distant tolling of a bell. Two days had passed since he'd awoken in this alien body, two days of wrestling with a reality that defied explanation. He could no longer hide.
Rising abruptly, he crossed to the window and threw open the shutters. The cold night air hit his face, sharp and invigorating. Below, the castle grounds stretched out, torches flickering along the walls. He needed to step into this world to confront whatever awaited.
He exhaled, the breath heavy, weary. **I can’t keep pretending.** He knew that much. But what was he supposed to do? Hiding here, in this stone chamber, wasn’t solving anything. And yet stepping into Constantine’s life—**his life now**—felt like a prison. Every hour that passed was like the walls of that prison closing in tighter, suffocating him.
Slowly, careful not to wake Theodora, Michael rose from the bed and moved toward the narrow window. The cold stone floor chilled his feet, but he welcomed the sensation—it was something real, something he could feel. As he gazed out at the dark hills of the Morea, the distant flickers of firelight from the villages below did little to comfort him. This world, this **foreign** world, was now his reality.
He gripped the window ledge, his fingers tracing the rough stone, his hands calloused and scarred— Constantine’s hands. They were strong, capable hands of a warrior. Michael stared down at them, still unable to reconcile the sight. **How long can I keep this up?** How long before someone saw through the mask and realized that the man they thought was their leader was an imposter, a fraud?
His thoughts drifted, unwillingly, to the family he had left behind. **What happened to my body?** Was he lying unconscious in a hospital, his ex-wife Ellen and his two sons, Jason and Nick, at his bedside? Or had he simply vanished from their world, leaving them to wonder if he had abandoned them completely? The thought cut deep. **Would they even notice I’m gone?**
Jason was always the ambitious one, diving headfirst into college and barely looking back. The last time we'd spoken, he'd been rushing off the phone, promising to visit "when things settled down." On the other hand, Nick was my quiet shadow, content with a good book and a cup of cocoa. We'd spend hours in comfortable silence, each lost in our own worlds yet together. Had I taken those moments for granted? A lump formed in my throat at the thought that I might never see them again.
He clenched his fists, frustration rising in his chest. **There might not be a ‘later’ anymore.** He had taken his time for granted, assuming there would be endless tomorrows to make things right. Now, those tomorrows felt as distant as the 21st century itself. Would his sons even realize how much he had cared? Or had they already written him off, just as Ellen had?
Ellen's laughter echoed faintly in my memory—the way she'd tilt her head back, eyes sparkling. We hadn't shared a laugh like that in years. Our last conversation had been strained, filled with awkward pauses and half-hearted promises to "catch up soon."
Ellen. His ex-wife. She was busy with her career and with her life. He knew she wouldn’t miss him immediately— weeks could pass before she even realized he was gone. **And when she does?** The thought stung, but there was no escaping it. His life, the life he had worked so hard to rebuild after the divorce, was slipping away from him, just like everything else.
He sighed, leaning his forehead against the cold stone wall. **What does any of it matter now?** The 21st century was out of reach. His family, his old life—they were gone. And yet, they still haunted him no matter how far away they felt. How could he focus on this strange, medieval world when all he could think about were the people he had left behind?
Theodora stirred behind him, her soft voice mumbling something unintelligible in her sleep. She had been nothing but kind these last two days, offering him gentle words and space to recover from his supposed illness. But Michael couldn’t bring himself to meet her kindness with anything but distance. This woman—Constantine’s wife—looked at him with trust, with the comfort of a partner. And yet, he was a stranger. How long before she sensed it? Before the mask he wore slipped, and she realized the truth?
His mind wandered to his grandmother, the woman who had filled his childhood with tales of Byzantium, Constantinople, and the great emperors who had once ruled these lands. **If she could see me now...** But the thought wasn’t as triumphant as he had once imagined it would be. Standing here, in the shadow of an empire on the brink of collapse, Michael felt nothing but the crushing weight of inevitability. His grandmother’s stories had been full of glory and heroism. But this—this was suffocating.
He knew what was coming. The Ottomans. The fall of Constantinople. And here he was, in the thick of it. **How can I stop it?**
Michael gripped the windowsill tighter, the cold stone biting into his skin. Constantine’s memories, his life, pressed in on him from all sides, drowning out his own thoughts. His hands, his muscles—everything felt different, as if Constantine was seeping into him, erasing who he had been. **I’m still Michael Jameston,** he told himself, but it felt less true with each passing moment. Each time someone called him "Despot," each time he looked into the mirror, that identity slipped further away.
**Twenty-five years.** He had twenty-five years before the final blow fell, before Constantinople crumbled. But what could he do in that time? He wasn’t a leader. He wasn’t a strategist. He was a man from the future, armed with knowledge but no idea how to wield it. **What if I can’t change anything?**
The thought terrified him. What if he failed? What if this empire, this world, was destined to fall no matter what he did? His hands trembled as he pulled them away from the window, staring at them as if they didn’t belong to him.
The weight of Constantine’s life was overwhelming. **I’m not Constantine.** But here, in this world, he had no choice but to be. Could he become that man? Could he save the empire?
He leaned heavily against the wall, trying to still the rising panic. Michael’s life—his family, job, modern comforts—was gone. But he still had something. He had **knowledge**. He could use that. He had to use it.
But even as he thought it, the doubt gnawed at him. Was he capable of changing history? Could one man— one man out of time—really save an empire?
He shook his head, unable to focus. His thoughts were a jumble, the weight of two worlds pressing down on him. Tomorrow, he would have to leave this room. He couldn’t hide forever. He would need to start... something. But tonight, just for a little longer, he allowed himself to mourn. To be Michael Jameston, a father, a man from a future he might never see again.