The Lyceum isn't hard to find at all on campus. It is a small pillared building on the edge of the lawn, old and covered with ivy in such a manner as to be almost indistinguishable from its landscape, home to the humble Classics Department and their personal reference library of epic poetry and archeological studies. Downstairs were the lecture halls and classrooms, all of them with stiff seating and clean blackboards and freshly waxed wooden floors, and upstairs were the faculty offices for tenured staff. At the very end of the long hall near the side door was where Alecto Crabtree, Professor of Greek Literature, held his mid-level seminars. It was a small and intimate space, paper and pens and bottles of ink spread everywhere, looking incredibly archaic and troublesome.
Alecto was a distinct and curious figure to say the least. He was commonly seen stalking across the lawn dressed like Lord Alfred Douglas or the Comte de Montesquiou: beautiful starchy shirts with French cuffs; magnificent neckties; a pale greatcoat that billowed behind him as he walked and made him look like a cross between a prince and a heron. He was popular in that niche sort of way, not only for his stunning, visual features - sharp and defined by a touch of old-world grace - but also his grueling teaching style. His lectures were notoriously difficult to understand, and his exams were near to impossible to get a full score on. And yet students flocked to him each semester, determined and desperate for a challenge, allured by the heat of Professor Crabtree’s passion for the ancient world, daring to follow him into the glorious past.
Now, it’s 3:45 pm and Alecto is leaning against the podium at the front of the room, listening to his class struggle. His face is startling, small and severe, alert and poised as a question, waiting for their response to his initial assignment for the hour.
"Well,” someone in the front row declares, “if the Greeks were sailing to Carthage, it should be accusative, right, Professor? Place whither? That's the rule." The poor boy looked so hopeful, Alecto actually felt sympathy for him.
"Can't be," another student chimes in, his voice nasally and garrulous. "It's not place whither, it's place to. I put my money on the ablative case."
"No, you're mixed up, man, the ablative is in Latin you dumb fuck."
There is a sudden, confused ratting of papers and Alecto considers the group before him carefully, patiently, watching as the entire classroom struggles to try and impress him, furiously flipping through heavy lexicons and pointing fingers at each other as they debated loudly.
Gods, this was getting nowhere.
"Do consider," Alecto finally offers, voice clear as a bell in the dead of winter, "the Greeks are not just sailing to Carthage, they're sailing to attack it."
A thoughtful pause.
And the room collapses into an unmitigated uproar.
("You're crazy. Look at the next sentence, we need a dative." "Are you sure?" "Absolutely. Epi tō karchidona." "Look, this dative just won't work." "Yes it will, they're sailing to attack, the Professor just said - were you even listening?" "Yes, but the Greeks sailed over the sea to Carthage." "But I put that epi in front of it." "Well, we can attack and still use epi but we have to use an accusative because of the first rules.")
Alecto glances at the clock on the wall and lets the infighting continue for a few more seconds before he turns gracefully to pick up a piece of chalk, taking pity on his students and deciding to toss them a titillating hint. The dull hiss of the chalk against the blackboard silences the room entirely as Alecto explains while writing: "Segregation. Self. Self-concept. The Greeks sailed over the sea to Carthage. Place whiter. Place whence. Carthage. No one has considered the locative case yet, adding zde to karchido." He puts the chalk back down to the stunned faces of his students, and he keeps his gaze steadily on them as he pats his hands clean of dust, glancing only briefly at the light smile gracing the face of his old...friend, sitting in the back but so obviously noticeable with his shock of blonde hair and unfairly handsome features.
Someone begins to raise their hand again but Alecto sighs.
"Enough," he says, and the entire room seems to deflate. "We'll continue this discussion on Friday,” he says with finality. “Please come better prepared than you were today. Dismissed."
As his students shuffle out in a furious whirlwind of tweed and scuffed brogues, Alecto slowly removes his glasses - tiny, old fashioned, with round gold rims - feeling Professor Archer's sudden glare of attention burn into him now that they were alone.
“...Joshua,” he says, with chill distaste, hoping the affected tone hides any semblance of affection he might be feeling at the moment (which he is. Of course). “Are you really so bored here that sitting in on a sophomore level class was the best thing you could think of to do with your afternoon? “He tucks his personal leather-bound copy of the Odýsseia under his arm and walks over to the door, next to where Josh was currently sitting, and walks out, leave it open, knowing he’d follow.
no subject
Alecto was a distinct and curious figure to say the least. He was commonly seen stalking across the lawn dressed like Lord Alfred Douglas or the Comte de Montesquiou: beautiful starchy shirts with French cuffs; magnificent neckties; a pale greatcoat that billowed behind him as he walked and made him look like a cross between a prince and a heron. He was popular in that niche sort of way, not only for his stunning, visual features - sharp and defined by a touch of old-world grace - but also his grueling teaching style. His lectures were notoriously difficult to understand, and his exams were near to impossible to get a full score on. And yet students flocked to him each semester, determined and desperate for a challenge, allured by the heat of Professor Crabtree’s passion for the ancient world, daring to follow him into the glorious past.
Now, it’s 3:45 pm and Alecto is leaning against the podium at the front of the room, listening to his class struggle. His face is startling, small and severe, alert and poised as a question, waiting for their response to his initial assignment for the hour.
"Well,” someone in the front row declares, “if the Greeks were sailing to Carthage, it should be accusative, right, Professor? Place whither? That's the rule." The poor boy looked so hopeful, Alecto actually felt sympathy for him.
"Can't be," another student chimes in, his voice nasally and garrulous. "It's not place whither, it's place to. I put my money on the ablative case."
"No, you're mixed up, man, the ablative is in Latin you dumb fuck."
There is a sudden, confused ratting of papers and Alecto considers the group before him carefully, patiently, watching as the entire classroom struggles to try and impress him, furiously flipping through heavy lexicons and pointing fingers at each other as they debated loudly.
Gods, this was getting nowhere.
"Do consider," Alecto finally offers, voice clear as a bell in the dead of winter, "the Greeks are not just sailing to Carthage, they're sailing to attack it."
A thoughtful pause.
And the room collapses into an unmitigated uproar.
("You're crazy. Look at the next sentence, we need a dative." "Are you sure?" "Absolutely. Epi tō karchidona." "Look, this dative just won't work." "Yes it will, they're sailing to attack, the Professor just said - were you even listening?" "Yes, but the Greeks sailed over the sea to Carthage." "But I put that epi in front of it." "Well, we can attack and still use epi but we have to use an accusative because of the first rules.")
Alecto glances at the clock on the wall and lets the infighting continue for a few more seconds before he turns gracefully to pick up a piece of chalk, taking pity on his students and deciding to toss them a titillating hint. The dull hiss of the chalk against the blackboard silences the room entirely as Alecto explains while writing: "Segregation. Self. Self-concept. The Greeks sailed over the sea to Carthage. Place whiter. Place whence. Carthage. No one has considered the locative case yet, adding zde to karchido." He puts the chalk back down to the stunned faces of his students, and he keeps his gaze steadily on them as he pats his hands clean of dust, glancing only briefly at the light smile gracing the face of his old...friend, sitting in the back but so obviously noticeable with his shock of blonde hair and unfairly handsome features.
Someone begins to raise their hand again but Alecto sighs.
"Enough," he says, and the entire room seems to deflate. "We'll continue this discussion on Friday,” he says with finality. “Please come better prepared than you were today. Dismissed."
As his students shuffle out in a furious whirlwind of tweed and scuffed brogues, Alecto slowly removes his glasses - tiny, old fashioned, with round gold rims - feeling Professor Archer's sudden glare of attention burn into him now that they were alone.
“...Joshua,” he says, with chill distaste, hoping the affected tone hides any semblance of affection he might be feeling at the moment (which he is. Of course). “Are you really so bored here that sitting in on a sophomore level class was the best thing you could think of to do with your afternoon? “He tucks his personal leather-bound copy of the Odýsseia under his arm and walks over to the door, next to where Josh was currently sitting, and walks out, leave it open, knowing he’d follow.