The student with the oldest eyes.

The Talk

Camlannson's P.O.V

I'd decided to finally ask him.

Myriddian had been troubling me for a while, I'd thought it over many times but there was no way to explain his seeming mastery of every field, so I'd just decided to ask him.

It was the day before his graduation (he was going to pass with as many honours as I could give him) and I called him into my office.

I'd been waiting for him for approximataley five minutes when the lanky, raven haired youth gracefully walked into my classroom, navigating the desks and dropped pencils with a practised ease.

"Hello Proffesor." He greeted me warmly, although I knew him to be of a much higher intellect than myself, he still seemed to regard me with respect. In fact, he seemed to regard everyone with respect or at least kindness unless they had disproved themselves through wrongdoings.

"Hello Myriddian. Excited about tomorrow?" He smiled proudly.

"Of course proffesor, it seems my hard work has finally paid off."
"Yes, although I suppose a graduation ceremony won't be too daunting, you have afterall gone through it before when the Proffesor managed to tempt you with that medeavel poetry course."
"That course was quite interesting, and a good teacher, I'm glad I sucummed to my curiosety on that front, it was most certainly worth it."
"I heard you completed it early with a masters degree."
"That's true Proffesor."
"And I also think that you could have easily done the same with my course if you hadn't enjoyed the conversation so much."
"Pardon Proffesor?"
"My course was easy for you wasn't it, you already knew the material back to front."
"One must always go over the basics once more to ensure full knowleadge of their favourite subject. Once cannot afford to become complacent." This type of language was almost  a game for us.
"But I was lead to believe that you'venever studdied Camelot and it's legends before." I was trying to get him to admiit to something. But I wasn't sure what.

"Surely you dono't believe eerything you hear proffesor. And if you are having such doubts thn I'm sure you've already researched my name?" I swallowed, he was good at this. As if he'd had years of prectise, but again, that was absurd.

"I have."
"And what's you're conclusion?"
"Well, I would think that it was a family tradition or something of the like if it weren't for such a frequent change of surname, however, as the change in name is too evident to ignore, I am left with no conclusion except the outlandish theory of an immortal scholar. Any chance you'd care to enlighten me as to how you, a 21 year old man, have knowledge which could only be gained after decades, possibly centuries, of study?" He laughed.

"I'm afraid not Proffesor, I'm just a colleage student with a wide variety of hobbies, sorry to disappoint." Seeing as it was obviouse I would get no more from this echange I gave up my fruitless efforts.

"Oh well, thank you Myriddian, good luck tomorrow."
"Thank you proffesor, sleep well."

That conversation did nothing to relieve my curiosety except confirm that he was hiding something, he was too well spoken, divirting my questions with smooth skill only borne of experience.

He graduated the next day and, on  my invitation, decided to stay for a while and assist me in teaching my class, possibly earning a teaching scholarship for his efforts, I had no doubt he would.

While he was helping me I called in expert in as many fields as I could think of and got them all to talk with him. Proffesors in art, science, mythology, history, geography, computing, botany, sport, politics music, manufactoring, crafts, any other subject you could name and most of all Camelot. Any scholar I knew who had knowlaege of the era and anything about it and everyone I brought in told me the same thing.

That he was extraordinary.

That he knew more than anyone they could think of, that he could beart them with ease in a debate and even that they would cuvet the chance to learn under him. He could beat the masters in every subject, he understood greek scholars' therums and artists techniques in such detail, everything from how any weapon, modern or ancient worked to how architecture had changed and advanced over the last few milleium. There was not one subject he was lacking in, not one where he did not know all the detils from application in practice to the theories and it's complex history.

It was astounding, such knowlaege. In his time with me I know he took many more courses at Oxford and a couple of other universities besides, and all his teachers said the same. In three years he had more qualidications than I could name, Masters, docterates, PHDs and more; I wouldn't have been surprised if someone old me he'd taken every course evailable at Oxford and it's brother universities and exelled in them all.

Eventually, all his teachers here in Oxford got together and talked about him, it would've been impossible not to. Such intellect was hard to ignore.

"How does he know so much?"

"I felt like he was the one teaching me."
"We should try to get him to become a teacher here, no school would be able to beat us."
"Does he even have a teaching degree?"
"He has a degree in everything else, why not teaching?"
"I've been studying for decades and now a boy in his mid twenties knows more than me, I felt like a freshman again."
"Having a conversation or debate with him is like reading every book on the subject, every old tome, and having it all explained nicely, with wit, enthusiasm and opinion."
"He got a masters in under a year!"
"When I approached him about world records or glabal competitions he turned me down, saying he didn't want the attention."
"He deserves the highest awards possible."
"How does he know all this."
"When he talks about his subjects, especially Camelot, it's as if he saw the theories as they were come up with."
"As if he was next to Leonardo Davinci as he painted the Mona Lisa."
"As if he rode beside the knights of Camelot."
"His accounts of historical battles are like he saw the empires rise and fall, as if he helped fight in the wars."
"It's like he's been studying for centuries, for no other reason than a love of knowledge and an enthusiasm for the subjects."
"But his eyes looks so old."
"And I've never seen him get close to anyone."
"As if he's scared to get close."
"Like he's scared of losing them."
"I feel like I'm being confronted by the wisdom of millenia every time I look into his eyes."
"But he's only 25."
"He's still a boy."
"So how does he do it?"

"Why does he do it?"

None of our questions got any closer to being answered that day.

All we knew was that Myriddian Emrys was one to be respected, to be learnt from and to be liked.