A name, an unspoken title, clung to Elian Vane like an unwanted sigil: Lord Kaelen’s Watchman. Each time a hint of Thorne’s recklessness reached his ears, Elian felt the chilling weight of that silent designation. An adult’s burden, heavy and ill-fitting, settled upon his frame.
Adulthood. A brittle, unfamiliar cloak.
Many nights Elian wrestled with the uninvited responsibility, a quiet guardian of a chaos he couldn't control. His mornings were a blur of ancient texts and arcane theory in the Academy’s hallowed halls.
Evenings found him navigating the labyrinthine corridors towards the restricted study annex, Kaelen’s temporary confinement. Truthfully, his own classes, his own scholarly pursuits, suffered under this peculiar vigil.
A heavy knot tightened his chest each time he approached. Just as anticipated, Kaelen Thorne would emerge from his chamber, a coiled spring, as if tethered to Elian’s arrival.
Kaelen, notorious for his volatile temper and unyielding pride, would then unleash the day’s torrent of grievances. His voice, usually a command, was now a low, agitated growl.
“Another week confined. They say I lack ‘temperament control.’ Gods, Elian, my family’s reputation is a jest! And that incessant prattle from the Arch-Lector about Seraphin Alar’s ‘sanctity’—it drives me mad. I’m not some witless squire, my blood runs true, why must I endure this incessant humiliation?”
He paced, a caged predator, his frustrations raw and unvarnished. His expression, tight with fury, still held a childish petulance Elian found both aggravating and, in a way he wouldn't admit, compelling.
Elian let out a silent sigh. He reached into his satchel, careful not to betray the meticulous nature of its contents. A faint scent of dried herbs and aged vellum clung to the worn leather.
He despised the way the heavy aroma permeated his belongings, yet carrying the items openly felt worse. His lips thinned instinctively.
“What?” Kaelen stopped pacing, a shadow of suspicion flickering in his eyes.
Elian imagined a bristling, unseen fur, thick and dark. Disgusting. The thought recoiled from his mind, leaving a bitter tang.
He quickly pulled a small, intricately carved wooden box from his bag. Not a lunchbox, but a carefully selected assortment of rare distillation components and a precisely calibrated divining crystal.
Kaelen’s gaze, initially hostile, softened, then narrowed. The customary gloom in his eyes gave way to something else, something akin to surprise, perhaps even a flicker of unacknowledged need.
“What is this?”
“Arcane components. The Arch-Magister mentioned you’d exhausted your standard reserves during… your recent exertions. Said a fresh batch might aid your focus.” Elian’s tone was deliberately flat.
“Arcane components?” Kaelen’s brow furrowed.
“Don’t read into it. I merely acquired them from a purveyor near the Grand Conclave Archives.”
He instructed Kaelen not to ascribe meaning, because he had already imbued the act with profound, unwanted significance. Elian had spent half an afternoon, ignoring his own demanding studies, to locate a supplier renowned for both purity and efficacy, specifically chosen to address Kaelen’s specific magical deficiencies.
He would never voice this detail. He merely wished to appear as a neutral facilitator, an act of intellectual courtesy, nothing more. But even this carefully constructed facade seemed to be enough for Kaelen.
Kaelen’s gaze swept over the meticulously arranged items. His barely restrained right hand twitched, his fingers drumming against his thigh. Elian noticed the slight, almost imperceptible tremor that ran through Kaelen’s knuckles, a sign of recent magical strain, or perhaps, something deeper.
Elian’s gaze slowly drifted to Kaelen’s face. A faint flush touched his high cheekbones. The customary arrogance softened, replaced by a strange vulnerability.
His chest tightened with a familiar, unwelcome ache.
“……Elian. Thank you.” Kaelen’s voice was oddly subdued, thick with unspoken emotion.
Kaelen glanced up, hesitant, and when their eyes met, he flinched, quickly averting his gaze. Was it a genuine recoil, or a practiced pretense of surprise? As if being caught looking at Elian, letting his guard down, was a transgression.
As if he didn’t want Elian to notice the nascent gratitude, the sudden vulnerability.
Kaelen, still avoiding eye contact, reached for the box, his movements stiff, almost mechanical. He began to organize the components with an unfamiliar clumsiness.
Elian leaned his exhausted body against the cold stone of the chamber wall. A disgusting sight, perhaps, watching the proud Lord Thorne struggle with such simple tasks. The slight tremor in Kaelen’s dominant hand, the one that usually wielded powerful spells, was more pronounced now.
Elian couldn’t tell if it was genuine physical weakness or a manifestation of his emotional turmoil. He slowly pushed himself from the wall, moving closer.
“Which component are you activating first?” Elian’s voice was low, careful.
“……”
“The auric capacitor?”
At the very least, Elian felt a responsibility to acknowledge the *wounds* Kaelen stubbornly refused to show anyone else. With his lips pressed thin, Kaelen slowly lowered his head, a ghost of a smile playing on his mouth.
Elian didn’t understand. This man, whose name was synonymous with privilege and power, whose pride was a legend, now displayed such raw, uncharacteristic vulnerability. Why could he smile?
If it were Elian, he’d want to disappear.
Elian picked out a crystalline lens, a delicate piece, and guided Kaelen’s hand to it. Kaelen’s fingers, still trembling, closed around it.
This man, Kaelen Thorne, always made Elian profoundly uncomfortable. The truth was, Elian hadn’t brought the components because the Arch-Magister mentioned it. His true motivation had surfaced much earlier, after his encounter with Gareth Blackwood.
This was the second time Elian had sought out Kaelen’s presence since the Lord’s latest outburst. Surprisingly, Elian still held a silent, almost clandestine, pass to Kaelen’s personal chambers, a privilege born of Elian’s perceived utility.
Elian had encountered Kaelen’s intimates only a handful of times since joining the academy. His father, the formidable Duke Thorne, twice. And Gareth Blackwood, Kaelen’s estranged peer, far more often.
Gareth, especially, seemed to relish in his veiled warnings, as if to remind Elian of the volatile nature of the Thornes, and of Elian’s own precarious position. Kaelen, meanwhile, simply brooded, chin in hand, glaring at Gareth’s retreating back.
Elian had only gone to gather some of Kaelen’s neglected research notes. To ensure Kaelen wouldn’t fall too far behind, wouldn’t risk even greater disgrace while confined. That was all. He convinced himself it wasn’t sympathy.
Or affection. He knew, better than anyone, the crushing weight of academic failure, the ignominy of diminished standing. And having experienced it himself, he instinctively knew what Kaelen needed to avoid that fate.
One afternoon, instead of returning to his own private study, Elian had sought out Gareth Blackwood. He found Gareth leaning against a wall outside Kaelen’s primary quarters, a smirk playing on his lips.
“Still hovering around Kaelen, Vane?” Gareth’s voice was dry, laced with a familiar disdain.
To be honest, Elian felt a surge of resentment towards Gareth. How could he speak so casually of Kaelen’s struggles, never offering genuine aid, only snide observations? This instinctual sense of morality, Elian’s own hidden compass, made him judge Gareth.
He hadn’t even realized he was doing it. It wasn’t intentional. The moment the thought registered, Elian clamped his mouth shut, pulling his satchel strap tighter.
“His research notes required attention,” Elian said, his voice flat.
“He really is quite taken with you, isn’t he? That mad dog is obsessed.”
Elian’s hand froze on his satchel strap. He turned, a sharp, cold jolt through him, as if possessed.
“……Obsessed with me?”
“What, does that please you?”
“No, I merely asked for clarification.”
“Nobody ever ‘merely asks.’ You craved the answer, so you sought it.”
Disgusting. Gareth muttered something under his breath, but Elian pretended not to hear. Still, Gareth stepped closer, ignoring Elian’s discomfort. This entire family, the Thornes and their satellites, had a talent for overlooking others. Kaelen, his father, and even Gareth in his own way.
“Tell me, where did you vanish after the Winter Gala?”
“My studies required my full attention.” Elian remembered the gala, the brief, intense conversation with Kaelen, the sudden realization of his own feelings, and his subsequent retreat.
The entire damned Academy must have known. Gareth continued, unfazed.
“It’s not as if I *wanted* to find out. But Kaelen threw quite the fit about it. The bastard never once attended a formal House Conclave without a sneer, but suddenly he was ranting about ‘treachery’ and ‘abandonment.’ Not long after, he shattered his family’s oldest ceremonial signet ring, the one his father treasures, and started screaming.”
“His signet ring?”
“Aye, that thing. Said it was a gift, a symbol of his house. Called the Imperial Mandate a ‘fucking cage’ or something. Then he shut himself in his chambers, wouldn’t emerge for days. Our halls were finally peaceful for once. He doesn’t even realize who the real fool is. Blind imbecile.”
Gareth’s voice, which had been mocking, suddenly dipped lower. Probably in response to Elian’s expression.
“What the hell? Your face is flushed.”
“It is not.”
“No way. Do you actually… *like* him? Is that it, Vane?”
“I said no.”
“……Holy shit.” Gareth gasped, covering his mouth as if horrified.
“You’re utterly mad. Seriously.”
Why did Gareth persist, when Elian had already denied it? Annoyed, Elian yanked his satchel’s clasp shut, a sharp click echoing in the quiet corridor. He wanted to lash out, to challenge Gareth’s cruelty.
“Why did you tell me this? His House Magister informed me Kaelen’s ‘distemper’ was merely a seasonal affliction.”
“What? What in the blazes are you rambling about?”
A true contradiction. Elian recognized it himself. Lord Valerius, his mentor, once remarked: “Elian, for all your calculated reserve, you invariably find yourself drawn to acts of unexpected grace.” No matter his intentions, Kaelen's plight stirred something within Elian.
But for now, he had an excuse. The metaphorical scars Kaelen bore, etched onto his very soul. Just as Kaelen couldn’t meet Elian’s eyes fully, Elian couldn’t bring himself to confront the true depth of Kaelen’s turmoil.
“Elian?” Kaelen’s voice, hoarse, drew closer. He pretended not to care. But he listened.
“Yes, Kaelen.”
“I won’t… seek your affection.”
In that instant, Elian’s heart plummeted. His stomach twisted. Something tightened, agonizingly, around his chest. He almost asked—without thinking—*Why not?*
The moment the words nearly left his lips, Elian realized the abyss he’d almost plunged into. His true, hidden thoughts, the secret yearning, had almost escaped. Elian Vane, you’re a fool.
He clenched his fists, swallowing the question, the longing, whole. Yes. This was for the best. For both of them. Their complicated, untenable bond.
“Instead, I’ll believe in you.”
Kaelen, however, uttered something strange, unexpected. His voice, a blend of sorrow and a desperate, rising hope. Like a weary acolyte receiving an unexpected blessing. How else could one describe him in this moment?
Elian didn’t fully grasp the import of his words. And yet, he didn’t pull his hand away, didn’t retreat from the intimate space Kaelen had created. The suffocating weight pressing on his chest no longer merely squeezed—it twisted, like a blade turning.
“My own counsel has proven… lacking. Truly, your intellect, your foresight, serves my life more profoundly than my own stubborn pride.”
“You blaspheme every damn day.” Elian attempted a deflective sharpness.
“No, that’s not true. My House raised me in strict adherence to tradition, you know!” Kaelen protested, a flicker of his old arrogance returning.
“Then what was that just now?”
Kaelen frantically shook his head, a desperate gesture. As if his fragile composure depended on Elian’s belief. If Elian didn't believe him, Kaelen might truly shatter.
Caught off guard, Elian found himself speechless. Then, as if reaching a silent, agonizing decision, Kaelen suddenly slid off the cushion of his study chair and dropped to one knee before Elian.
“Then I’ll prove it.”
“Kaelen. What in the Nine Hells are you doing?”
A large, trembling hand reached out, closing around Elian’s wrist. Elian had been standing, leaning against the edge of a study table. He lurched forward, barely maintaining his balance. His hand, suspended in the air, was held by Kaelen’s grip.
Then, Kaelen’s gaze fell upon the faint, almost invisible lines etched into Elian’s skin – the faint calluses from long hours gripping quills, the almost imperceptible tremor from sleepless nights spent in concentrated study. Marks of Elian’s quiet burdens, his self-made scars.
Kaelen’s brow furrowed. And to Elian’s disbelief, his eyes welled with moisture. Elian jerked back in shock, trying to pull his hand away. Before he could escape, Kaelen lowered his head.
“What are you—” Elian began, his voice tight.
“In the name of the Ancestors, the Archons, and the Sacred Truths.”
Cold fingertips, surprisingly delicate, brushed against Elian’s pulse point. A sharp ache shot up his arm, deep into his stomach. What was this madman doing? Elian tried to yank his hand free, but his strength, usually a weapon of swift refusal, abandoned him.
Kaelen looked up at him once, his eyes wet but clear. And then, with a face that showed not a single ounce of disgust – like a desperate believer touching a hallowed relic – he pressed his lips to the back of Elian’s hand.
His fine, soft hair brushed against Elian’s skin, a feather-light touch. The gentle press of his lips, a raw, almost suppliant reverence. Elian’s breath caught in his throat.
“S-Stop it….” Elian threw his free arm over his eyes. Kaelen’s right hand, the one that usually commanded such power, tightened around Elian’s wrist. And in that moment—
Elian stopped resisting. Three weak fingers, trembling with uncharacteristic vulnerability, held onto him. A delicate, fragile grip tapped lightly against his skin. The lips that had cursed his house, his fate, traced a path up Elian’s forearm.
And Elian did nothing to stop him. That’s when he realized. This relentless, incurable disease—this silent, self-inflicted nightmare of his hidden longing—still wasn’t over.