Rafail was not happy.
One might have said it was rare to see him happy, and they would be very right. It was much more common to see him in his semi-permanent state of irritation with a pout on his face and some carefully prepared complaints designed to get him exactly what he wanted. That was just the case at present and had been for the past few weeks.
Only a few days away from turning eighteen, he had found himself thrown into military service, in a unit under his brother's command. He had, of course, believed that his connection to the man would make army life more comfortable - he had already attempted to get out of the service entirely by using Pavlos's name - although the man was never so coddling as Papa could be, and it was only through family name that he had obtained the perks he had, private room in the barracks, presence of Deucalion and all because, he, a Marikas, could hardly be expected to share like a commoner.
They'd been so proud to find that name amongst their ranks again. Another Marikas. Already comparing him to his brother, and so stupidly too. Rafail was not Pavlos. He thought himself above the other, free to do as he wished while the other was trapped in a horrid marriage. Besides, there were two princesses soon to come of age, and he was going to have the pick of the crop. But that didn't matter here. They only cared for his name and the fact that that meant he was supposed to be an expert in fighting.
Rafail was not Pavlos, but he was not awful when it came to combat. He could certainly handle himself with a shortsword. But, urgh, he hated the effort, and he hated the filth. He had beautifully delicate skin on his hands. He did not need it ruined. He had excessively expensive clothing; he did not need it destroyed. He hated the idea of working with others when others should have been working for him - quite frankly; he hated the mere thought of anything that involved 'teamwork.' Rafail was not the sort of person who played well with others; it simply did not suit his self-serving nature. This had, of course, led to problems on various occasions, multiple warnings issued and oh-so-much fuss from those who called themselves his superiors. He did not care, he continued his morning beauty routine to the best of his ability (the facilities here were so lacking, and Deucalion's improvisations did not always work as Rafail would have preferred), and he continued to do things at his rhythm and he continued to refuse all tasks that he deemed below him.
Evidentally, they had reached a breaking point.
A note had been received that morning when he had failed to report to his duties at the ludicrous hour they had requested - as though he would be ready for the day before the sun hung fully in the sky - a demand that he report to Pavlos's quarters immediately. Of course, Rafail knew this was not going to go well.
He had dressed out of his training garb: the stunning blue silk chiton so different from the disgusting clothes he was forced to wear here, and the sandals more fashionable than practical for the military. Deucalion had ensured the rest of his appearance was perfect as required - Rafail had checked everything himself, wholly untrusting the man despite six years of reliable service - and the younger Marikas had made his way to where he had last met the man on his first day of attendance just a couple of weeks prior.
Pavlos was a boring man, so far as Rafail was concerned. He did not share the same interests as his younger brother (quite specifically, he was not as incredibly adoring of the youngest Marikas man as he was of himself) and that did not sit well with him. Still, he usually imagined he could handle his brother, partially because the man was less harsh than Papa, and partly because they were close enough in age.
"You wanted to see me, Pavlos?" he greeted his brother as he entered the meeting chamber, taking a half-reclined seat on a klismos across from the man to drape an arm over the back of it, an eyebrow quirked upwards expectantly. "Is this about my transfer to the cavalry at last? Because Papa did tell you to make sure I'm comfortable and that I should be placed where my skills lie and, besides, he bought me that lovely new stallion. I don't want it wasted."
Pavlos of Marikas
One might have said it was rare to see him happy, and they would be very right. It was much more common to see him in his semi-permanent state of irritation with a pout on his face and some carefully prepared complaints designed to get him exactly what he wanted. That was just the case at present and had been for the past few weeks.
Only a few days away from turning eighteen, he had found himself thrown into military service, in a unit under his brother's command. He had, of course, believed that his connection to the man would make army life more comfortable - he had already attempted to get out of the service entirely by using Pavlos's name - although the man was never so coddling as Papa could be, and it was only through family name that he had obtained the perks he had, private room in the barracks, presence of Deucalion and all because, he, a Marikas, could hardly be expected to share like a commoner.
They'd been so proud to find that name amongst their ranks again. Another Marikas. Already comparing him to his brother, and so stupidly too. Rafail was not Pavlos. He thought himself above the other, free to do as he wished while the other was trapped in a horrid marriage. Besides, there were two princesses soon to come of age, and he was going to have the pick of the crop. But that didn't matter here. They only cared for his name and the fact that that meant he was supposed to be an expert in fighting.
Rafail was not Pavlos, but he was not awful when it came to combat. He could certainly handle himself with a shortsword. But, urgh, he hated the effort, and he hated the filth. He had beautifully delicate skin on his hands. He did not need it ruined. He had excessively expensive clothing; he did not need it destroyed. He hated the idea of working with others when others should have been working for him - quite frankly; he hated the mere thought of anything that involved 'teamwork.' Rafail was not the sort of person who played well with others; it simply did not suit his self-serving nature. This had, of course, led to problems on various occasions, multiple warnings issued and oh-so-much fuss from those who called themselves his superiors. He did not care, he continued his morning beauty routine to the best of his ability (the facilities here were so lacking, and Deucalion's improvisations did not always work as Rafail would have preferred), and he continued to do things at his rhythm and he continued to refuse all tasks that he deemed below him.
Evidentally, they had reached a breaking point.
A note had been received that morning when he had failed to report to his duties at the ludicrous hour they had requested - as though he would be ready for the day before the sun hung fully in the sky - a demand that he report to Pavlos's quarters immediately. Of course, Rafail knew this was not going to go well.
He had dressed out of his training garb: the stunning blue silk chiton so different from the disgusting clothes he was forced to wear here, and the sandals more fashionable than practical for the military. Deucalion had ensured the rest of his appearance was perfect as required - Rafail had checked everything himself, wholly untrusting the man despite six years of reliable service - and the younger Marikas had made his way to where he had last met the man on his first day of attendance just a couple of weeks prior.
Pavlos was a boring man, so far as Rafail was concerned. He did not share the same interests as his younger brother (quite specifically, he was not as incredibly adoring of the youngest Marikas man as he was of himself) and that did not sit well with him. Still, he usually imagined he could handle his brother, partially because the man was less harsh than Papa, and partly because they were close enough in age.
"You wanted to see me, Pavlos?" he greeted his brother as he entered the meeting chamber, taking a half-reclined seat on a klismos across from the man to drape an arm over the back of it, an eyebrow quirked upwards expectantly. "Is this about my transfer to the cavalry at last? Because Papa did tell you to make sure I'm comfortable and that I should be placed where my skills lie and, besides, he bought me that lovely new stallion. I don't want it wasted."
Pavlos of Marikas