The day had not begun well.

When Mihail had awoken at his typical sunrise hour, the honeyed quince that traditionally waited by his bed each morning was not as delicious as he would have hoped, noticeably unripened. Irritating though it might be, he could abide with it, for he was not a heavy eater in the first place, and it had not felt like a great detriment to his day. He had ignored it, slipped into one of his looser chitons designed for ease of movement, and made his way down to the garden that had already been prepared for his daily archery practice.

The sport itself had gone as well as it always did, and he was pleased to see shot after shot land comfortably in the target. It was clear that the past decade of dedication had paid off, but skill was no reason for undue cockiness, and he was not finished before close to three long hours had passed. Then, the world had turned against him once more, for the sole servant he had elected to trust with the collection of arrows — usually so efficient in their reasonably easy task — had tripped on some shot bolt to unceremoniously snap in half several of those in their arms. Few enough that the Thanasi was not overtly put out, but still sufficient that his lower lip jutted out in mild irritation, and he had offered the servant a few harsh words of rebuke.

His bath had been reasonable, though he had found the temperature a tad below his preferred heat, and the rubdown had passed without an incident, though there was an odd twinge in his shoulder blades that did not seem resolved despite it. They were little things — like the dark stain on his chosen chiton from some slight spillage of wine or the prick of the fibulae against his skin — but they were building to create a great sense of frustration within him. Of course, this was nothing new, for Mihail had found that, over the past couple of years, even the most minor errors quickly became hugely irritating, but he did have a breaking point, and with that slight expectation of near-instant gratification that he had developed over the years, it was relatively low.

With all the stressors today, that point had come soon after had applied his favourite facial cream and dropped himself on one of the few kline in his room with Draco resting on his chest and his favourite opium pipe clutched between his fingers (hopefully a habit that his oldest sister had yet to pick up on). His plan had been to enjoy some well-earned hours of relaxation, feeling quite sincerely that he deserved it after the morning thus far. To facilitate this desire, he had gone so far as to request that none of the staff bother him until he emerged from the room again, and sent away his philosophy tutor for what was not the first time that week, with some vague citation that he was not quite in the mood for his education at that moment (not that such a decision was likely to go without rebuke from either his sister or father).

It had all been designed to be a comfortable rest-of-the-morning, but when he had absent-mindedly reached for some fruit from his permanent bowl, his intentions had fallen apart. Mihail had always been a picky eater, but he was exceptionally so about the fruit he kept in his room, given that it was his primary source of sustenance throughout the day (save for those occasions when he was dragged down to a family meal against his will). Apple, grape, quince, nectarine and pomegranate were the typical choices, and he was quite adamant there should be no variations in the mixture. But, today, as he had lifted the first of the fruits to his lips, he found a strawberry instead, and he did not do strawberries.

There was nothing wrong with their taste, per se, but their effects were less than delightful. For a start, they made his throat itch, made it hard to think straight or stand properly, and gave him awfully unflattering rashes. At worst, he struggled to breathe, and he was not in the mood to die from some fruit-caused illness because some slave was foolish enough to put the wrong items in his bowl, as though it were hard to follow instructions.

He had dropped the offending strawberry with evident disgust, carefully lifted the viper from his chest to deposit him back on his pile of cushions as though he were entirely calm about the situation. Life really was unfair, wasn't it? He couldn't have a minute of relaxation, so it seemed.

The open-air passage outside his room was empty save for a passing maid, and he had summoned her with the disdainful flick of an index finger. “Who did my fruit?”

It was fortunate she knew at all, given the number of staff in the Thanasi home, though Mihail hadn't planned to care if she hadn't known, for she could substitute his displeasure easily. ‘Aristomache, my Lord.’

“Fetch him.”

He had chosen to wait in place, leaning against the doorframe as the girl scurried away, nails tapping impatiently on the wood. He might have let it pass on any other occasion, but with all the drama that had occurred that day, there was no chance. Gods, he had not even yet had the opportunity to remove his face mask, and he did not like to leave it much longer than was strictly necessary, but this had constituted an emergency in his well-indulged mind.

When the man had appeared at last — some boy of forgettable features who he would never have recalled otherwise, a little slow in his walk as if he was rightfully nervous — Mihail had already picked up his bowl of fruit once more, holding it out with an eyebrow raised in scorn. “What is this?”

‘Y-your fruit bowl, my Lord...?’

“Mm. I do not eat strawberries, and I do not abide incompetence.” He had tossed the bowl angrily towards the slave with all the archery-built strength in his arms, expression shifting into a scowl. A hand had lifted as the boy stepped forward, extending to wrap tightly around the man's throat though he was still taller than the sixteen-year-old. He hadn't objected, though who would when doing so was closer to a death sentence than not? “I work so hard to make my life perfect, and I do not need it ruined by some useless slave who does not know how to follow instructions and only wishes to harm me.” The other had spluttered, but the Thanasi was temporarily uninterested in anything he had to say, more focussed on his current role as victim. “You only want to hurt me, as if I were nothing? So I might suffer endlessly at your hands.” For a second, Mihail had released the man then, but his hand slid down to find his chest instead, already starting to push him forwards. “Have you nothing to say for yourself?”

There was a moment while Aristomache had tried to catch his breath again, then he had nodded and choked out an uncomfortable apology. ‘I...I’m sorry. I did no—’

“Do not care,” Mihail had interrupted curtly. “If you are so intent on causing me pain, then I am forced to reciprocate. You understand, no?” Not that it mattered, for he had not waited for a response, abruptly pushing his hand forward to shove the slave down the steep staircase leading down to the stone courtyard. It had been perhaps a little less of a hands-on approach than he typically favoured, but it was an easy punishment, and it was apparent from the pathetic way in which he lay on the ground, the awkward shape of at least one limb and the blood that seeped beneath him that, though still alive, he was unlikely to make another error anytime soon. It was unlikely he was going to complete any tasks at all any time soon.

“Fetch me a new bowl,” the boy had demanded of one of the servants who had stumbled over to examine the crumpled individual on the ground. “Oh! And send someone for my nails, I think.” His displeasure had vanished by then, moderately satiated by the slight bloodlust and what he considered a resolution to his troubles, and he had waved them off again as he returned to his room with a little smile resting on his face.

By the time another servant appeared with a tentative request that he come and see Nethis, Mihail had finally managed to relax. The cream had been rinsed away and replaced with the light make-up he had recently started to favour around his eyes, and he had spent a calm hour or so enjoying his pipe while his nails were re-tinted to their preferred crimson. The bowl of fruit, as it happened, had been refilled and returned to its usual place on the side table, though it remained untouched thus far. He was comfortable, but Nethis was one of those few whom he did not care to disappoint, and he reluctantly slipped from his seat to find her where she waited.

Usually, Nethis did not summon him as dramatically as this if it was not some matter of great significance, but, love for his sister or not, the youngest Thanasi had come to realise that he could do most of what he liked by convenient virtue of his manhood. Thus, he took his time making his way to their father’s study, wondering if the location meant that the man would be there as well, though he certainly hoped otherwise. Father was not a man he liked to deal with, mainly when most of his ideas went so fundamentally against everything that Mihail enjoyed.

Fortunately — or perhaps not — it was Nethis alone, and he greeted her with that friendly smile reserved only for her, hoping that she would not match the slight drowsiness of his pace in arriving to his earlier smoking and almost certain that he could cover the tardiness with a cute pout and a vague apology. Her tone, however, was not as kind as he preferred, and he was made to raise an eyebrow as he attempted to understand what she meant, not yet having taken the opportunity to speak. He was not ordinarily awful with names, but the staff mattered so little, and his judgement was clouded by the surprise of the question. The incident had all but been forgotten by then, so pleasant had the rest of his afternoon been thus far.

“Aristomache?” he repeated first, furrowing his brow in confusion, not certain why this topic was being raised at all. It was the implication of an injury that clued him in rather than the name in the end, and he gave a snort and a dismissive flick of the wrist in answer. This seemed unduly trivial. “Oh. Him. He did my fruit wrong. I cannot eat strawberries, and I have to assume it was a personal attack because my instructions are so clear. I could not leave him unpunished.” That felt like enough of an explanation, so Mihail crossed the room to fall onto the kline that graced the back wall, so obviously designed more for decoration than practical use with its lack of cushioning. It only hurt his back to drape himself across it, which was unusual and definite confirmation that his massage had been just as lousy as he had thought that morning, but he maintained the position anyhow, too far into his self-pitying drama to change things now, gazing up at the painted ceiling as though it held all the answers to his troubles. “You know, I have had a horrible day, Net, and it was just the final straw. My bath was cold and I accidentally pricked myself, and my quince was unripe and my shoulders are killing me. I could not help having a little outburst, you understand?”

He twisted his head to look at his sister then, expression clearly seeking some degree of compassion with his jutted out lip and fluttering eyelashes. If there was one thing Mihail did not like, it was punished, and he found that he had grown vastly unused to it since Ulla had died. He did not intend to receive a rebuke from the sister whom he cherished above all others and who, generally, he liked to think he could convince to coddle him more often (though he had never really been able to manipulate Nethis). “Maybe you could call for some wine and we can forget about it all, yes? After all, I am sure you can just replace him with someone more competent.”

That response was not precisely what Mihail had expected. He had thought his sister would understand him better than most, for she was often the one who understood him best when it came to matters of this kind. He had assumed that she might forget her harshness and tell him that he could have a glass of wine because the staff were foolish and incompetent, and it was evident that he was having a difficult day. But here she was, telling him the exact opposite of what he wanted to hear as though it were perfectly usual for her to think otherwise. And, somehow worse than all of that, she was telling him there was to be no wine, and they were going to discuss the matter as if something were indeed wrong with his actions and he had not simply acted as appeared logical for the situation. This was, categorically, not how Mihail liked to spend his days.

His mind was made up before he even spoke, and he was quite sure that Nethis knew as well as he that this was not going to be the end of his play as a victim, and that he would be disappearing to find his other sisters just as soon as they were done. One of them was sure to agree that he was in the right and give him the attention that he wanted. Mihail tended to thrive better when he was coddled than otherwise, although it seemed an expected side-effect of his upbringing.

“Stupidity does not render them incapable of planning an attack,” he countered, crossing his arms and twisting his features into an irritable little pout. He may only have been sixteen, but he thought he knew enough about the world to note that even the foolish were often able to cause significant damage and were often discounted as culprits by the benefit of their ineptitude. “I am entirely certain that he wanted to hurt me because everybody knows that strawberries make me sick. I am far from quiet on the matter.” If they weren’t aware, then he imagined he would have been served the red fruit more often than not. As it stood, it was exceedingly rare that he found himself inconvenienced as such. It did not seem complicated to put two and two together and understand that it had to be purposeful. “Solely because I am upset because I have had a horrible day, it does not mean that I am reduced to the level of a slave, and, frankly, Net, I am offended that you would think of me in such a way. I thought perhaps that you loved me as a sister is meant to, but I suppose I am only tolerated until you need someone at which to hurl your insults. I have feelings, you understand.”

What did Nethis even want from him? An apology? Mihail had no intention of giving one when he did not think himself in the wrong. Instead, he was confident that he was the one to suffer in this ordeal, and he did not like the implication otherwise. Whether he had caused the staff injury or not, he did not care, but he was not going to lower himself below them and apologise for the faults of another.

He dropped himself back in his seat to divert his attention from his sister again, momentarily uncertain what he was expected to say. “I do not understand why you are so angry. Even if he were dead, it would hardly matter. He was hardly the best, and he can be replaced. Perhaps with somebody who actually knows how to follow instructions. Even I could do his job.” Not that he wished to, but he was confident that it was not complicated. “He is only staff, and people do need to be punished when they are wrong, else they shall never learn. Surely you must understand that better than most, Net. I am only teaching him as is needed. After all, we cannot all have fine educations.” That felt like a good end of the argument, so far as Mihail was concerned. There was nothing else to say, and if Nethis did not understand him now, then he was not sure there was anything else that would turn her over to his opinion. For all her manipulation skills, she was famously tricky to coerce, and if she did not agree with him by now, he did not see much chance that anything would change her mind.

Still, he could not call himself a Thanasi if he did not try, and when Mihail looked at her again, his words were a blatant effort in that regard, attempting to touch on something he was sure would strike a chord with his eldest sister. “It is awful when you are only trying to make your way in the world and everybody is against you. I only wanted to relax for a while, and he was clearly adamantly against that. You would have done the same in an equal position.”