A name, an unspoken title, clung to Lysander Blackwood with the chill of a tomb-wrought chain: ‘Alaric Thorne’s Burden.’ Each time the unspoken epithet echoed in the shadowed halls of his mind, the weight of adulthood pressed deeper, a mantle woven from threadbare obligation and the crushing certainty of a life not his own. Adulthood. The syllables grated, an ill-fitting garment woven from coarse regret. He felt its unnatural seams chafing, binding him. Many nights blurred into a single, protracted vigil. Sleep offered no balm. Lysander wrestled with the inherited responsibility, a legacy he had never sought. He navigated the labyrinthine corridors of the Obsidian Lyceum by day, then journeyed to the infirmary’s austere quietude by dusk. Often, his studies languished, half-finished scrolls left unread. His mind, frayed and agitated, could not settle. A heavy heart preceded him to Alaric’s bedside. Alaric, seemingly attuned to his arrival, would stir, a pallid wraith beckoning from the bed of suffering. And then, as if a dam had broken, Alaric would unleash the day’s catalog of indignities, the mundane cruelties of his confinement. “The Arch-Healer speaks again of another grafting ritual. Damnation upon it! My thigh will be flayed anew. And the potions master’s gruel… it’s a vile brew, fit only for spectral hounds. My stomach, Lysander, is not yet a decaying crypt; why must I subsist on fare that even a famished ghoul would disdain?” Alaric's litany of complaints, delivered with genuine, wretched despair, stripped away the veneer of his eighteen years, revealing the desperate child beneath. His words, though bitter, carried a strange, unnerving resonance, stirring an answering tremor within Lysander’s own fragile composure. A sigh, barely audible, escaped Lysander’s lips. He delved into his satchel, its leather worn smooth from countless treks. Loathed the lingering scent of warmed provision. It clung to the ancient parchment, to the very leather, an invasive aroma that twisted his gut. Still, better this faint miasma than to clutch the cumbersome tin in his hand, drawing unwarranted gazes. “What now?” Alaric’s voice, raspy from disuse, pricked the quiet. A faint image surfaced in Lysander’s mind, unbidden: a large, shaggy tail, drooping, then twitching with nascent hope. Disgust, cold and immediate, snaked through him. He banished the repulsive thought, retrieving a carefully wrapped, warmed tin from his bag. Alaric’s gaze, previously dull with misery, sharpened, a flicker of something akin to starved expectation replacing the gloom. “Is that…?” “A convalescent’s repast. I enquired; the Arch-Healer’s aide confirmed you may partake, given the next ritual is still distant.” Lysander kept his tone flat, devoid of inflection. “A repast?” “Imbue it with no false significance. I merely acquired it from a provisioner near the Lyceum’s outer gates.” He spoke the words with practiced indifference, a shield against the truth. Reason for his dismissal of its meaning? He had already imbued it with too much. Never would he articulate the meticulous search, the quiet queries for a sustenance both palatable and suitable for one suffering Alaric’s blighting affliction. Never would he admit to seeking out the exact establishment, its arcane preservatives certified, its spices mild. He wanted only to present it as an act of detached, academic kindness. Nothing more. Nothing less. But even that bare gesture seemed to suffice for Alaric. A pale hand, its movements clumsy and ill-coordinated, scratched at his ear. Lysander glimpsed the earlobe, faintly flushed scarlet. His gaze drifted lower, to Alaric’s fingers. They curled unnaturally, a subtle deformity, a lingering scar of the ailment that had savaged his body. A phantom ache shot through Lysander’s own hand. Why did those fingers demand his attention? Why could he not look away? An invisible vise tightened around Lysander’s chest, stealing his breath. “...T-Thank you.” Alaric’s voice, strangely subdued, barely reached him. Alaric glanced up, his eyes meeting Lysander’s for a fleeting moment. He flinched, a surprised gasp catching in his throat, then fumbled with the tin’s intricate clasp. Was it genuine shock? Or a calculated performance, a feigned aversion, as if being caught looking at Lysander would incur some unknown penalty? As if he desired Lysander to remain oblivious to any deeper feeling. Alaric began to eat, shoveling the food with a mechanical, desperate efficiency. Lysander, exhausted, leaned back against the infirmary’s stiff, uncomfortable cot, its embroidered cushions offering scant comfort. It was an ungraceful sight. Crumbs scattered, a smear of broth clinging to Alaric’s chin. Alaric’s smallest three fingers, Lysander noticed again, did not flex properly. He couldn't discern if it was genuine impairment or a subconscious exaggeration of his injury. Slowly, Lysander shifted closer, taking the spoon from Alaric’s lax grip. “What do you desire?” “...” Alaric chewed, eyes downcast. “The spiced fowl? The root vegetables?” At the very least, Lysander felt a dark, primal responsibility to acknowledge Alaric’s wounds as real, undeniable. To believe in them, even if he doubted the boy himself. Alaric, lips smeared, chewed slowly, then lowered his head and offered a faint smile. He kept his gaze fixed on the bedsheets. Lysander could not fathom it. This boy, whose fingers would never again fully articulate, whose thigh and back bore the grotesque, shredded scars of arcane healing—how could he smile? A sickening lurch twisted Lysander’s stomach. He could not bear to look at that brightening, luminous face. What amusement could possibly reside in such suffering? Were it Lysander, he would wish for oblivion. He selected a choice morsel, the rich spiced fowl, and lifted it to Alaric’s mouth. Alaric accepted it, still smiling, chewing with exaggerated force. This damnable boy, always unsettling Lysander, always finding a way to breach his carefully constructed detachment. Truthfully, the repast wasn't a casual acquisition. Its genesis lay in an earlier errand, a visit to Alaric’s family estate before Lysander had journeyed to the infirmary. --- This was the second time since Alaric’s last painful skin-grafting ritual. Surprisingly, Lysander still possessed the Proctor’s Warrant, the document granting him passage and authority to oversee Alaric’s academic and minor personal affairs. He had encountered Alaric’s family only thrice within the infirmary’s cold confines. Once, his father, Lord Thorne, a man of rigid bearing and ancient lineage. Twice, his mother, Lady Thorne. She, especially, exuded an cloying gentility, as if to reward Lysander for shouldering the burdens she had so willingly cast aside. Alaric, meanwhile, merely rested his chin on a balled fist, staring at his mother’s retreating, silken back, his expression unreadable. Lysander’s purpose that day had been simple: gather some of Alaric’s personal effects. Trinkets, books, anything to alleviate the suffocating boredom of the infirmary room. That was all. Nothing more. He knew, better than anyone, the soul-crushing monotony of confinement within a sterile chamber. His own distant past, a blur of silent rooms and hushed footsteps, had taught him that bitter lesson. He understood precisely what Alaric would need. He convinced himself it was not sympathy. Not affection. Merely foresight, born of shared experience. That day, instead of returning to his Lyceum chambers, he had taken the longer route home, commuting from the family estate. He made a detour to Thorne Manor. The sprawling manor, a gothic edifice of dark stone and shadowed windows, still offered its tacit welcome. But Seraphina, Alaric’s sister, did not. She leaned against the carved oak doorframe of Alaric’s abandoned chamber, her voice a dry rustle of parchment. “Still lingering about Alaric’s shadow, Blackwood?” To be candid, Lysander harbored no particular fondness for Seraphina. How could she never visit the infirmary, not once? Her own kin, suffering. An instinctual sense of moral censure, cold and sharp, pierced him. He hadn’t even realized he was judging her. The moment the realization struck, he clamped his jaw shut, forcing more of Alaric’s trivial belongings into his satchel. “Aye.” “He truly has lost his wits, hasn’t he? That mad bastard… obsessed with you.” Her words, sharp as shattered glass, pierced the quiet. Lysander’s hands froze, mid-motion. He turned, as if drawn by some unseen, irresistible force. “...Obsessed with me?” The words tasted alien, cloying. “What, does that please your delicate sensibilities?” Seraphina’s lips twisted into a cynical smirk. “No. I merely inquired.” His voice, he hoped, conveyed utter indifference. “None merely inquire. One desires knowledge, thus one asks.” Seraphina scoffed, a low, derisive sound. Disgust. It curdled in Lysander’s throat. She muttered something under her breath, unintelligible, but he pretended not to hear. Yet, she moved closer, her presence invasive, ignoring his unspoken plea for distance. This whole damnable family possessed a perverse talent for ignoring him. Seraphina, Alaric, even Lord Thorne. “Tell me, where did you vanish after the Lyceum’s last term?” Her question was blunt, devoid of true curiosity, more a demand. “I returned home.” The whole district, he imagined, already knew. He kept his explanation terse. “It’s not as if I sought the knowledge myself. But Alaric… he pitched a fit. That bastard, who never darkens the threshold of a consecrated temple, suddenly he was invoking the Arch-Priests, then howling like a maddened specter. Not long after, he tore apart the gilded amulet his father had given him, screaming curses at the very firmament.” “Amulet?” Lysander’s breath hitched, a faint tremor running through him. “Aye, that thing. He once treasured it, you know? Called it a blessed token from his father. Then he called the Divine a 'forsaken cur' or some such blasphemy. Afterwards, he sealed himself in his chambers and refused to emerge. The manor finally knew a moment’s peace. He doesn’t even comprehend who the true bastard is. Imbecile.” Her voice, previously mocking, suddenly dipped, a subtle shift Lysander attributed to his own expression. “What now? Your face… it’s flushed.” “It is not.” Lysander’s voice was tight, thin. “Oh, it is. Do you truly harbor such sentiments for him? You… like him?” A perverse glee seemed to dance in Seraphina’s eyes. “I told you, no.” Lysander bit the words off, sharp and final. “...By the Elder Gods.” Seraphina gasped, covering her mouth with a delicate hand, as if genuinely horrified. “You are truly insane, Blackwood. Utterly so.” Why did she persist in this absurd accusation, even after his strenuous denial? Annoyed, Lysander yanked his satchel’s zipper shut with a violent snap, the sound echoing too loudly in the quiet room. He longed to retort, to lash out at her. “Why did you speak of such things to me? Your father claimed Alaric was his second-born, his chosen heir.” The contradiction, stark and bitter, tasted like ash on his tongue. A True Contradiction. He understood it now. Lord Valerius, the ancient scholar who often vexed Lysander with his cryptic pronouncements, had once observed: *“Young Blackwood, for all his shadows, invariably performs acts of genuine light. Whatever his initial intent, the outcome remains constant.”* But now, he possessed a potent excuse. The brown, puckered scars spreading across Alaric’s back, visible during a brief moment of shifted linen. Just as Alaric could not meet his gaze directly, Lysander found himself unable to truly look upon those grotesque marks. They spoke of a pain too profound, too raw. “Lysander.” Alaric’s voice, a hoarse whisper, broke through the heavy silence of the infirmary. He shifted, drawing infinitesimally closer. “Aye.” Lysander pretended indifference, his heart a frantic drumbeat against his ribs. “Then… may I believe in you?” His voice, rough-edged, crept nearer still. Lysander feigned not to care. But he listened. Every nerve was alight, quivering. “What in the Abyss are you speaking of?” “I will not like you.” In that single, agonizing instant, Lysander’s spirit plummeted. His stomach twisted into a knot of cold dread. Something tightened, a constricting band around his chest. He almost asked—the words forming, unbidden, on his lips— *Why not?* The moment the question nearly escaped, he realized the abyss he had approached. His true, hidden thoughts, the shameful, impossible yearning, had almost burst forth. *Lysander Blackwood, you are a damned fool.* He clenched his fists, forcing the poisonous words back down, swallowing them like shards of glass. Aye. This was for the best. For both of them. He told himself this with grim certainty. “Then instead, I will believe in you.” Alaric said something strange, his voice a disquieting blend of sorrow and nascent joy. Like a supplicant receiving a profound, terrifying revelation. How else could one describe him in that moment? Lysander did not comprehend Alaric’s words. Yet, he did not pull his hand away. Did not flee. The suffocating weight on his chest no longer merely squeezed; it stabbed, a cold, sharp blade. “I am an atheist now. Honestly, you are far more useful to my wretched life than that distant bastard in the sky.” Alaric’s blasphemy, delivered with a casual conviction, struck Lysander like a physical blow. “Cease your damnable profanity.” This bastard… always pushing, always provoking. “You blaspheme every day.” “No, that is untrue! I was raised a devoted believer, you know!” Alaric protested, his voice rising in mock indignation. “Then what in the void was that utterance just now?” Alaric frantically shook his pale, bandaged hands. As if his very life depended on Lysander’s belief. His tone desperate, as if on the verge of tears. If Lysander did not believe him, he truly might weep. Caught off guard, Lysander found himself speechless. Then, as if a sudden resolve had seized him, Alaric slid off the cot, dropping to his knees. A shiver traced Lysander’s spine. “Then I shall show you.” “Hold, hold. What in the hells are you doing?” A large, clammy hand grasped Lysander’s foot. He had been sitting with his legs drawn up onto the cot. The sudden movement caused him to slide forward, perched precariously on the edge of the seat. His foot, dangling, remained captive in Alaric’s grasp. Alaric’s gaze fell upon the faint, pale scar on the sole of Lysander’s foot. The lingering mark from broken glass, years ago, a foolish childhood misstep. Alaric’s brow furrowed. And, to Lysander’s utter disbelief, his eyes welled with moisture. Lysander jerked back, shocked, attempting to yank his foot free. Before he could escape, Alaric lowered his head. “What are you—” Lysander began, his voice choked. “In the name of the Ancestral Spirit, the Guiding Lumina, and the Whispering Veil.” Alaric’s voice was solemn, a low incantation. Cold fingertips brushed against Lysander’s ankle. A sharp ache shot up his calf, coiling deep in his stomach. What in the abyssal depths was this madman doing? He tried to pull his foot free again, but his strength abandoned him, his limbs suddenly weak, unresponsive. Alaric looked up once, his eyes clouded with an emotion Lysander could not name. And then, with a face that showed not a single ounce of revulsion— Like a devout acolyte touching a sacred relic, hallowed by ages— “I greet the Lord of my devotion.” He pressed his lips to the tip of Lysander’s foot. Alaric’s fine, soft hair brushed against Lysander’s ankle, a disturbing tickle. The gentle, fervent press of his lips rubbed against the base of Lysander’s toes. “S-Stop it…” Lysander threw an arm over his face, hiding the sudden rush of heat, the surge of revulsion, and something else, something terrifyingly akin to fascination. Alaric’s right hand, the one with the subtly deformed fingers, tightened around Lysander’s ankle. And in that moment— Lysander stopped resisting. Three weak, slightly twisted fingers held him. A delicate, fragile grip tapped lightly against his skin, a ghost of a touch. The lips that had cursed the Divine but moments before, now traced a path up his calf, tender and slow. He did nothing to stop him. That was when he understood. This relentless, incurable disease—not Alaric’s physical blight, but the suffocating entanglement they shared—this nightmare of his burgeoning youth, burdened by unwanted devotion— It still wasn’t over.

The Mark of Unwanted Devotion