It was a pleasant day. The morning had dawned bright, with a soft breeze that ran through the air and turned down the summer heat to something more manageable. It was the perfect weather for the outdoors, and even Mihail, who so often shunned the sun for the comfort of shade, had chosen to spend longer outdoors. He had lengthened his archery session because he had wanted to practise his trick shots for a couple of hours after his usual practice, and would have left his time outdoors at that had he not felt so inexplicably enamoured by the fine weather that he had ordered one of the servants to prepare an area for his studies outside for once.

Once he had bathed and redressed in something more designed for fashion than sport, the Thanasi had returned outside with the chosen pile of parchments from his study. There was a reasonably secluded area of the garden — prettier than likely expected from the general appearance of the home — with a gorgeous marble overhang and a selection of comfortably cushioned klines. It was more intended for parties than much else, but it had been a long while since it had been used as such, and was more now a comfortable area for midsummer relaxation. Mihail had spent many nights there entangled in the arms of some fortunate soul or another, the whole lot of them dampened by the pleasures of wine and drugs and young romance, but now he had fallen into place with more scholarly intentions, only accompanied by the standard jug of wine that was always provided and the bowl of fruit from his chambers. He had balanced the parchment awkwardly on his knees to write, which did not especially help the already difficult scrawl of his handwriting nor the smudges provided by the edge of his hand dragging back across the written word, but such small details as handwriting had never mattered to him.

Philosophy was one of Mihail’s favoured subjects, though he tended to find few who wished to discuss it with him in the military mind that was Colchis. Even his sophist tutor had proved unappealing and less intelligent (as ever), and he had found himself alone in his musings. He liked to write for the opportunities it provided.

The sun had already passed its midpoint in the sky by the time he set down his work, sticking the pages under the fruit bowl so that they would not be carried off by the breeze. Not traditionally in the habit of abandoning his private work to where it could be discovered by anybody with prying eyes, he had planned to go upstairs and relax with the comfort of his pipe for a while in order to clear his head, then return to finish penning his thoughts. This was a fine plan in theory, but once he had relaxed himself sufficiently into the smoke and allowed his breathing to slow and his mind to drift elsewhere, it thoroughly slipped his mind.

Mihail was gladly enveloped in the delightful other world that consisted of such lack of thought that he did not need to worry about the world at large when a knock came at the door and it was pushed open by some unrecognised servant. He was usually well-versed in the faces of most of the family staff if not their names, but the individual (individuals? — they were half blurred and possibly doubled as he watched them hover in place) who appeared at the entrance to his chambers was not a known one of theirs, though could be identified as a servant by his dull clothing and nervous expression. Besides, most in the employ of Dynasteía Thanasi were rather more careful to wait for the command of their better before entry.

A plume of smoke was breathed out in the man’s direction as he stumbled through some confusing words about Lord Panos of Marikas and how he was requesting the youngest Thanasi’s presence. This was a surprising enough reality that Mihail let out a light and somewhat confused chuckle, not entirely understanding why he was wanted but too relaxed to question it. Instead, he waved for the messenger to wait outside (where he should have waited originally). “In a few minutes…” he responded vaguely, wondering where the words were going as they seemed to dance far too slowly from his mouth. “I am busy.”

There was no convincing him of urgency at that moment when everything felt so comfortably languid, and he certainly took more than a few minutes. But the servant’s comment hadn’t exactly expressed that he was needed immediately, so he felt rather justified in taking his time, emerging from the room somewhere between ten to fifteen minutes after the original request, pipe somewhat reluctantly replaced, taking an additional moment to wait until his vision faded back in from black after standing. He let the man lead him through the halls of the house to wherever Nethis had set up a study for the visiting Marikas patriarch (how long until they left?), half-distracted by the fact that he was quite certain the number of bangles on his wrist had multiplied from three to six in the past hour.

Lord Panos of Marikas was staring at him rather imperiously when he arrived, positioned in some stiff manner that implied chastisement, though Mihail didn’t quite believe that the man had any authority to do so. Nethis would know; he’d tell her later and then she would tell off the man for trying to tell him off. That seemed right. They were staring madly at each other, and he was not entirely certain why, only that it felt oddly uncomfortable. As a result, he let his gaze wander past the man for a moment instead, focussing his attention as best he could — it kept crossing over itself — on a mirror set on the back wall, examining an unexplained patch of redness that had appeared on the side of his neck, scratching absentmindedly at the itch that came with it. He gave it another awkward rub, then looked back at the man before him, curling his lips up into a small smile by way of greeting, assuming that was what the man wanted.

When the Marikas lord finally spoke, Mihail still wasn’t entirely sure what was going on. Yes, that was his name. Were those papers his? He wasn’t sure. He really wanted to sit down or drink some wine, but nothing was offered so, instead, he snatched the papers away from the servant and scanned them with that disdainful expression that came so naturally to any Thanasi. His scrawled handwriting was already difficult to understand (though he never usually had any trouble with it himself), and the letters seemed to merge into one another now as though they refused to be read. He blinked, trying to focus better, reaching out a hand to point awkwardly in what felt like the direction of the servant near the door. “I need some wine.” Wine always helped.

Still, it was his own work, and more than that: it was the work he had been doing earlier that same day. He could recognise it easily, and he remembered what he had been writing, regardless of his somewhat currently disorientated mindset. “Yes. This is my work on the existing yet underacknowledged dichotomy between one’s sexual and romantic identity, and the perceived notion that they are one and the same; it is an addition to my current collection on identity as a whole. I have been working on it for quite some time.” He flickered his gaze back up to the older Lord, an eyebrow quirked up accusingly. He hoped that he looked as angry as he craved, though he wasn’t quite certain, if mostly because his eyes did not entirely want to focus. This all felt rather uncomfortable. He had been comfortable just a short while ago, lost in the sheer euphoria that opium always provided him — a wonderful release from all the horror and boredom of the real world. “Why do you have it? What do you want with it?”