Education could be such a bore.

Mihail had always possessed a rather autodidactic attitude — something he attributed primarily to the lack of resources in Colchis to fulfil his educational desires. Of course, the Thanasi family were exceedingly wealthy and similarly eager to ensure every member was the finest versions of themselves that they could be, so the tutors they hired were only the finest that could be found in Greece with the goal of ensuring that the children’s natural intelligence shone through. But those tutors rarely covered half the subjects that intrigued the youngest of the family, instead preferring to focus on the matters that were traditionally considered significant for individuals of such standing: the complexities of mathematics and rhetoric and politics and all that sat in between.

It was not enough. Over time, Mihail had come to consider himself far more intelligent than most of the rest of the world (a trait certainly accentuated by the fact that he primarily tended to surround himself with those who either thought similarly or treated him as such), and he didn’t especially think his tutors lived up to his needs, particularly as he grew older. They did not understand his questions and attempted to divert lessons back to the subjects they had planned, which he found thoroughly dull and often shunned, sending them away so that he could spend his days doing those things for which he actually cared (reports of which did not quite please his sister nor father). He taught himself the languages he desired instead, primarily aided by texts and lovers who knew them better, and soon developed a keen interest in philosophy that could not quite be fulfilled in Colchis, even by the best there was. No, he had come to require more specialist intervention to soothe his fascinations, and his home kingdom was not quite conducive to that.

Thus, plans had been made to travel to Athenia, where he could choose to study at the university for a while until his interests were either fulfilled or waned. This was not a great temporary loss to Dynasteía Thanasi, after all, for their youngest was hardly necessary to the family’s overall running and a few months abroad would hardly go amiss. Accommodation had been arranged in a pretty villa that the family owned for those rare visits that they made to the other kingdom, suitably located in the upper levels with a sizable staff and all the other necessary amenities to ensure that his visit would be comfortable enough. The journey had been mad (the boat trip somehow not horrendous despite Mihail’s distaste for water), and on actual arrival, he had come to find he was rather happy in Athenia. Perhaps it was not so much his kind of place as Taengea or those licentious provinces owned by his family, but it was not so awful that he regretted the temporary move.

The university too proved a delight. There were plentiful lectures and wonderful philosophers there constantly, and his questions were more appreciated rather than regarded as arrogant and ill-tempered like they had been by his tutors, although fault there was perhaps his when he had made a conscious effort to speak to them in a perpetually arrogant and ill-tempered manner. The debates were thrilling and gave him an opportunity to speak his mind to whatever degree he wished with oddities often accepted as peculiarities of opinion rather than anything else. Oh, and the library. There had always been a reasonably stocked library in the Thanasi home — documents of family and kingdom history that they thought relevant to keep sat beside a few pieces of poetry or prose that every well-read family possessed — and the individual studies were similarly suited to their users’ reading habits, but this was something vastly different and more wondrous and filled with like-minded individuals who wished to take a while to stop and nurture their minds. It was stunning, and when he was not quenching his particular penchants for debauchery or shopping, it was easy to find Mihail in such a place.

He was there now.

There had been a lecture at the university that morning on the subject of identity and how it tied intrinsically into one’s fate, which was a subject that Mihail found to be of great fascination to him. This he attributed to a lifelong struggle to comprehend his own identity in full, and he had relished the talk, glad to have so many individuals with which to discuss the subject for once. In fact, he had made plenty of comments that rather bored on snarky (as was, perhaps, his custom) in conversation with the other students, stabbing his finger angrily into the tabletops as he made his points and making abundantly clear just how idiotic he found others’ arguments, an activity made rather more enjoyable by how greatly they tended to doubt his ability from the prettiness of his painted nails and the elaboration of his jewellery. But even the pleasures of such debate had not quelled his mind on this particular topic, and he had made a point once the lecture was over to make his way to the library to find any supplementary writings on the matter before any of his academic rivals happened to stumble in themselves.

There was a nook in the impressive building that he particularly favoured for its positioning, inset on one of the side walls in the perfect position to allow sunlight to stream in from one of the windows on the upper walls and an over-stuffed cushion, which was a rarity when most of the spots to read were decorated by the thinnest cushions known to man, worn away by years of use. Already some strange youth had staked a claim to the seat as Mihail approached, which would not do in the slightest. He had never liked having his seats stolen, though they may not have been officially claimed as his, and offered the boy the type of smile that spoke to sarcasm and made no effort to hide any potential cruelty, a little wave of the hand flicking him away in whichever direction seemed the most as though it would mean they had to spend no further time together.

Seat taken and necessary scroll obtained, he dropped himself semi-disdainfully in place, legs curling comfortably beneath the crimson sea silk of his chiton — he had recently come to discover a particular affinity for the fabric, pricier though it might have been if anybody made the mistake of checking on the family’s spending habits — and leaning his body onto one of the smaller cushions that sat propped against the wall. It was quiet, the only sounds the infrequent mutterings of one or two scholars as they discussed their work and none of the rambunctious sounds of constant fighting amongst boys that came with being a Colchian (a horrific trait that, fortunately, Mihail had not developed). This was rather how he liked best to spend his afternoons, engrossed in some interest and unencumbered by the bother of conversation with others.