•The Eternal State: Devlet-i Ebed-Müddet, one of the names of the Ottoman Empire
•I'm using Greece's human name because he was not a nation yet at the time
Heracles was growing up. He had no longer been hiding daggers inside his room, only to have them discovered with infuriating ease by the Turk whenever he'd casually enter it.
Turkey would react with even more infuriating calm upon unearthing some weapon from the Greek's chambers or from underneath the boy's clothes; like a parent who had found that their little brat had stolen candy from the jar yet again.
"Even if ya knew how ta use one of these and somehow managed to stab me, it still wouldn't kill me," Turkey had told him once, removing a small knife from underneath the boy's pillows. "That would be nothin' but a slight, temporary inconvenience ta me, kiddo." The fact that it would be much more than a painful regret to the Greek was not needed to be said.
Turkey was being referred to as The Eternal State those days, which made the boy laugh and ramble on and on to the roaming cats about how nothing is eternal, not humanity, not their ideas, not even the stars above them and definitely not some barbaric usurper of his mother's throne.
But he begrudgingly acknowledged that Turkey was partially right; an amateur stab through the heart or thick skull would not overthrow him and suddenly set everybody free. He had seen Turkey alone, with bloodied sword in hand and enemy arrows and daggers sticking all over him, chasing away the remaining Bulgarian raiders who had ambushed him. He knew that he was most of the time alone against multiple kingdoms, empires and republics of Europe, united just to defend themselves against his assault.
Even Venice, who prided himself for having the most powerful navy, was only able to achieve but occasional naval victories against his fleet. Any defeat was a delight for the boy, nonetheless, and he kept looking forward for more.
Heracles had come to understand that beyond a brief satisfaction, those conflicts had no positive impact on his own life. And that whoever was Turkey's enemy, was not necessarily his friend; just another ambitious master. So now in his teens, he had learned two lessons well: that there were no saviors and that he cannot defeat the Empire just with weapons.
An attack against the Empire would be nothing but a wave of the sea crushing against a boulder. Futile and destructive only to himself.
But Heracles knew the sea well; he was born surrounded by it, had learned to swim in it just after he had taken his first steps, was taught everything about it by his mother who knew that her time had been growing short and that her son needed to learn how to survive in a land of barren mountains and restless waters.
A violent wave cannot break a rock. But the sea's deep currents, the tidal changes, the salt, the continual swells, they quietly, patiently throughout the decades weaken the solid boulders. And then the terrible waves rise up and cover the once unmovable rocks into the abyss.
Musing those thoughts, the teenager glanced at the man sleeping beside him. It was one privilege he had earned, to be allowed to sleep in the Empire's bed, a clear indicator of his high status. He had no hidden daggers on him anymore.
The sea's ripples were kissing solid stone.