[center][h2][i][sub]Θεόδωρος[/sub][/i][/h2][hr][i]Ὑπὸ τὴν σὴν εὐσπλαγχνίαν καταφεύγομεν Θεοτὸκε, 
τὰς ἡμῶν ἱκεσίας μὴ παρίδῃς ἐν περιστάσει ἀλλ᾽ ἐκ κινδύνου λύτρωσαι ἡμᾶς, 
μόνη ἁγνὴ, μόνη εὐλογημένη.[/i][hr][/center]

Despite any shaky dispositions, hope was given to Theodoros through the Captain’s pious regards. The young Greek man’s fidgety fingers felt stronger this morning, having worn themselves over the black wool of his parting gift into the late last night. He was not so much the newest of recruits, but resting his mind seemed to be an impossible feat the night before.  A shot of vodka, perhaps, would have calmed his soul, but he was not ready for such measures. [i]Such measures![/i] Theodoros jokingly scoffed in his mind.  He knew better.  His life as a farmer had reared him to rise early in the morning, and so, this regime seemed less stressful than his thoughts had lead him to believe. [i]This is why I am here, after all.[/i] He raised his right hand and crossed himself, right-to-left. His three fingers, pinched together, pressed inward as his fist molded over the center of his chest. There was no such time to waste, he knew, to lie idly in awe of the moment.  

Swiftly, Theodoros sat his body upwards from his sleeping arrangement and rushed himself to the lone standing triptych iconography of the Most Holy Theotokos holding the Divine Infant.  The two Archangels were on either side.  The icon had actual gold leaf. Although, it was assumed to be some copy of an original.  Nonetheless, Theodoros was quite proud of it.  It shined radiantly in his little quarter. The triptych was no more than two inches tall, but if even the faith of a mustard seed could move a mountain, then Theodoros saw no reason why his window into heaven needed to be much larger.

His waist bowed before the artwork, and his fingers touched the ground.  His chapped thirsty lips parted and mumbled quickly the Trisagion and those other morning and personal prayers to follow.  [i]Through the prayers of our Holy Fathers, Lord Jesus Christ our God, have mercy upon us, and save us. Amen.[/i]  Again, Theodoros’ three fingers pinched together and crossed over his body.  A militant arm stiffened as his hand fell back to his side.  His eyes stared at the Holy Lady, and quickly shifted to the left Archangel, clothed in chainmail and cloak and armed with a sword and sheath. Nervously, the man crossed himself again and quickly turned from the faces to better arm and protect his own physical body before joining the platoon’s morning procession.

[center][i]+[/i][/center]

The militant line appeared to be nurtured in phrases and tones that he knew somewhat in a strangely familiar way; their pitch was not as high as his mother’s -- something similar in seeming to that of a viola, perpetually strung and wavered in A (of course, Theodoros has no knowledge of viola’s aside from maybe their shrilling sounds and similarity to that of a violin).  It was the presidence of the octaves he knew.  They were drilled into the chambers of the voice and Theodoros could not help but feel slight guilt trickle down his tan face, as his muscles flexed to keep afloat with the training. It appeared, his body was astute in persevering through the physicality of the labor, where his grunts were steady and knowledgeable.  However, amongst an army of men, his biggest regret was that of how he had spent most of his upbringing pestered by his nagging mother, only to realize the truth behind his disrespect.

However, second chances were second chances. Theodoros was a [i]doer.[/i] Regardless of what he was yesterday, starting at this very hour he was of the [i]Imperial Dragoons.[/i]  It was not a new chapter in his life, Theodoros decided, contemplating some mischievous competition with his brother, Kodros (now Brother Athanasius). This was entirely a new beginning for him.  He thought of the book held in abstraction in Christ's arm.  His past would be washed away, and he imagined his name being written inside the Eternal Word and kept for Memory Eternal. He was no longer a farmer from Hellas.  He was a warrior of the Triune Godhead.  The Father was his hope.  The Son was his refuge.  The Holy Spirit was his protector.  He would not forget from where he came, but he would not let it burned him, any longer. 

Holding his sword tightly, Theodoros’ eyes gazed back with determination at Cornet Leventis. It took his parents decades to gain respect for the Theotokos (and flashes of his morning prayer resonated in his mind), and today, the Greek decided, he would begin magnifying her.  He would no longer fight her, but fight to defend her stainless honor. His sword would be a weapon to preserve her most-purity and the fruit of her womb. He would sacrifice whatever he need, as an impure as he was, to sing praises of her to God through his works on the battlefield against the Catholics.