All those who know of the existence of nations will tell you that it all began when Michael the Wanderer and Antonius the Gaul met young Constantine. Not Constantine the Great, the mortal emperor who gave them their dream. But little Tine, half-mortal son of Rome.

From My confession,

By Kyla Bolgar.

Constantine snorted when his father showed him a painting of him hugging a bunny. There was nothing wrong with it, on the outside. But Constantine Romulus did not hug bunnies. He ate them.

“When will you draw me in armor?” That was the same question young Constantine, ten years of age, asked his father.

“When you grow up and actually done it,” his father, Romulus Vargas, flicked him on the nose and Constantine rubbed the spot. There was an amused smile on his dimpled lips. Someday was not never, after all.

Romulus ran his big hand through Constantine’s caramel curls and smiled at him. For all that Constantine was the youngest of his children, he grew like a weed. One day, his son will age and die. That brought a sudden pain to Romulus.

“Papa, I met a boy with the delegation. The Scythian one. He was staring at this weird colorful handkerchief and said that he had things written on it, but I saw no words,” the pale skinned boy had ignored him, for the most part. Constantine put a hand inside his tunic and took out the item he spoke of.

“See? No words,” Romulus, the glorious nation of Rome, scrunched up his nose at his son.

“Did you steal this?” He scanned the fabric and found that the patterns did indeed make sense. And here he was thinking that this form of scrip was long gone.

“He gave it to me. Said that he shouldn’t keep it because it meant nothing to him. But it could mean something to me. He was peculiar,” Rome couldn’t begin to think what this love letter could mean to his son. The space where the name of the recipient was supposed to be being left empty.

“And, what did he tell you to do with it?” He had the urge to tease his son that he got a love letter so young, but he knew who might have given it to him. He wouldn’t call Kyla Bolgar a boy. The dark-haired male was nearly a man grown. If this was something underhanded, he was going to give the son of Scythia a piece of his mind.

“He asked me to give it to my greatest love. He looked sad when he said it,” so the rumors that Bulgaria had broken off with his long-time lover were true. Which was good. Seeing as, the boy’s mother disapproved of the match. Not that Rome knew or cared who the mysterious person was.

“Well, then do as he says. Find someone to give this to and be happy. So happy, that he wouldn’t be able to be sad in your presence,” Constantine nodded and then snatched the piece of fabric from his father.

“Do you suppose he made it himself?” Constantine liked the colorful lines and the patterns. Vines and roses and even the moon. What a weird combination.

“He must have, this is a love letter, after all. Tine, I want you to meet someone significant to me. A friend,” Constantine scoffed. Here came the time when he had to put on airs and pretend that his father’s mortal magistrates were funny or smart. He supposed they were the latter, or else his father wouldn’t have suffered them. But funny, they were not.

“Now, now, don’t make such a face. Beshter is a good man. He has this dream that will see you with land of your own,” Constantine perked up at that. He was born immortal, but without any land.

The problem was that most of the world worth having was his father’s, and Constantine did not want to go against his father. He loved him dearly, and no among of land would force them against each other.

“I don’t know if it will come to pass. After all, I have been disappointed before,” there was something bitter in the tone of the newcomer. He was a handsome man with blonde curls and green eyes sprinkled with gold, like a cat’s. Constantine regarded him with curiosity.

“You are not human?” Constantine was very observant and could always tell when a non-human came before him. The boy with the delegation had not been human. And this man gave off the same vibe, somehow. But stronger.

“Disappointed how?” Asked Constantine’s father. Beshter waved his hand and smiled disarmingly.

“Enough about that. You were right about barbarians being a bad stock to put ones’ dream in. Selfish and grasping, the lot of them. Quick to blame too,” if they were similar, the boy and Beshter, was the blonde talking about him? Constantine felt the need to defend him.

“People are people. You can’t judge like that. I met one barbarian that gave me this,” Constantine walked to the non-human and presented him with the handkerchief. He could have sworn that a trickle of blood fell from Beshter’s eye.

“How quick he is to forget…” Beshter touched the cloth and tugged it towards himself, but Constantine did not want to let it go. “I suppose you are protective of this rug?”

Constantine disliked the fake amusement in Beshter’s voice. He was regarded as a child. And, while he was one, he hated it when people did that to him. He was the son of Rome and Helena, daughter of Ancient Greece. If for no other reason, then for that, he was worthy of respect.

“I will give it to the most precious person I have one day. So, I can’t let you take it,” Constantine returned the handkerchief in the folds of his tunic and for once, Beshter’s smile reached his eyes.

“So, that is what it meant? Maybe you will even give it back and prove that barbarians can be loyal lovers?” Constantine blushed at the implication and went to stand by his father, who ruffled his hair.

“Now, you said you wanted to speak to my boy before telling him of the dream?” Rome reminded the guest. Beshter laid down on a divan and breathed in deeply.

“How would you like to be the center of the world? A Heaven on Earth. Where your conviction, one you show so strongly now, is used to protect those weaker than you?” Constantine pointed a finger at himself and the guest chuckled. It was like a bell chime.