My full designation, given at birth, is Elias Thorne. Yet, within the austere, echoing halls of Aethelgard, few ever utter the forename. I am simply ‘Thorne.’ The contraction, a sharp, almost guttural sound, settled upon me during our first year, a casual decree from Alaric Beaumont. It possessed a certain blunt elegance, he’d declared, a better fit than the soft lilt of Elias. The name stuck, clung to me like the academy’s pervasive damp. Some, a dwindling few, still used my given name, but that quiet, personal history is for another time.
Alaric, in our first year together, stood in stark opposition to my own self. His frame, tall and athletic, moved with an arrogant grace, a stark contrast to my own somewhat reclusive bearing. His eyes, the colour of warmed amber, held a reckless glint. My skin, usually pale beneath the dim academy gaslight, felt almost luminous next to his perpetually sun-kissed complexion. Even in academic pursuits, we were antipodal. I found my solace, and my purpose, in the brittle pages of forgotten texts, while he, with an enviable nonchalance, languished near the lowest rung of the academic ladder.
Did I instinctively dismiss him upon our first encounter? My worldview, shaped by centuries of established lineage and the academy’s rigid social order, often led me to a quick, almost visceral assessment of one's rightful station. Yes, normally, I would have. But Alaric Beaumont defied such easy categorization. His gaze, even then, carried a strange, compelling weight that burrowed into my periphery, refusing to be ignored.
He possessed a peculiar scent, too. Not the heavy, cloying perfumes favoured by some, nor the sharp tang of ink and aged paper that clung to me. It was something elusive, a faint, almost colourless fragrance that spoke of damp earth and distant, wild flora. I found myself drawn, a moth to an invisible flame, to initiate conversation, a departure from my usual, self-imposed silence.
I often sought out superficial commonalities between us. Things like our shared prominence within the academy’s social echelons, or our equally storied family names. Such surface-level traits provided a fragile justification for my fascination.
Aethelgard Academy, with its spires piercing the ever-present mists, sat geographically between two vastly different domains. To the north, the ancestral estates of the venerable families, generations of wealth and influence etched into every manicured hedge. To the south, the sprawling, less-refined manors, their fortunes newer, their legacies unproven.
My own lineage, thankfully, hailed from the former. My family’s estate, with its sprawling, cold stone and meticulously kept grounds, occupied a prime position within the most prestigious quadrant. Born an only child, cradled in a web of doting attention, I had been granted every conceivable advantage. Beyond mere wealth, my parents wielded considerable influence, a potent legacy placed into my small, clutching hands. It was no wonder, perhaps, that I had cultivated a certain sharp-edged shrewdness.
This dichotomy of wealth and burgeoning influence created a curious blend of students within the academy walls. Alaric, I quickly discerned, belonged to the established gentry. The revelation sparked a quiet, almost shameful surge of relief. With that knowledge as my shield, I approached him without hesitation. Our camaraderie, if one could call it that, bloomed with a disquieting ease.
While I excelled in the arcane pursuit of knowledge, Alaric carved his dominance in the brutal theatre of academy politics and veiled aggression. He effortlessly attracted the most formidable students, gathering them under his banner. Within a single term, he had ascended to the apex of the social hierarchy, his name whispered with a mixture of fear and reverence. Alaric Beaumont had, quite simply, become the undisputed king of the Eastern Dormitories.
---
The tightly latched door remained shut, an impenetrable barrier, for what felt like an eternity. My stomach knotted, a dull ache blooming deep inside. I reached, almost unconsciously, to press a hand against the discomfort. It was then, as if on cue, the heavy oak swung inward.
Through the narrow gap, I caught a fleeting glimpse of Alaric Beaumont’s flushed skin, the collar of his linen shirt askew. His hand, crimson from some exertion, released the latch. The door began its slow, deliberate swing back into place. Desperation lent me a sudden, uncharacteristic agility. I slipped through the narrowing space, barely clearing the closing frame.
Alaric already reclined on the bed within the dimly lit chamber. He wore little more than his breeches, a thin, hand-rolled cigarette clamped between his teeth, unlit, yet gnawed with an almost animalistic absentmindedness.
“Damn it all,” he muttered, his voice hoarse. He flicked a silver lighter open and shut, the rhythmic click echoing in the confined space. “My father hounds me again. Should he call, you’ll affirm we were engaged in diligent study.” He didn't bother to ignite the cigarette, but his face carried the languid, spent look of one who had just emerged from some illicit pleasure. My stomach tightened further, a raw, exposed nerve. I rubbed it, approaching the bed. Snatching the abused cigarette from his mouth, I snapped, a rare flash of irritation, “Why should I?”
“Because we are companions.”
Companions. The way he drew out the word, stretching it thin, always struck me as profoundly melancholic, a hidden wound. It felt like a rending inside my chest. Still, my expression remained carefully neutral, a practised mask.
“Understand this, then. My debt to you will be settled, one way or another.”
“Grateful,” he murmured, without looking at me.
The room was thick with the heavy, sweet scent of midnight orchid, layered with the subtle, clean fragrance unique to certain women. It was a peculiar skill, discerning such specific perfumes, one I had only honed due to my… association with Alaric.
Rumours, originating from his former preparatory school classmates, suggested his dalliances with women began startlingly early. He had, they claimed, defiled the very sanctity of the school chapel, no less, with a willing paramour. The sheer audacity of it spoke volumes.
Even then, they said, he possessed an unnervingly mature appearance. Alaric’s rugged, defined features were far from those of a typical student. Most who encountered him mistook him for a man well into his twenties. His bold countenance lent him an air of brooding sophistication.
Upon entering Aethelgard, he openly indulged his ennui by frequenting the less reputable gentlemen’s dens in the lower city. Funds were no object. He procured a forged identification document with astonishing ease, flashing it with an almost insolent confidence. Attractive women, drawn to his raw charm, became his fleeting companions, his nightly excursions a regular pastime. His striking good looks, I observed, served as an effective cloak for his hedonistic habits.
Individually, his eyes, nose, and mouth were not, perhaps, extraordinarily remarkable. Yet, assembled, they formed an inexplicably captivating visage. His aura was so potent, so world-weary, that no one dared question his age; most assumed him to be at least five and twenty.
I cast my gaze around the room, a meaningless search for I knew not what. The heavy atmosphere, still thrumming with the aftermath of his escapade, brought a faint nausea to my throat.
“Julian Blackwood. Where is he?”
“Returned to his own chambers.”
“...”
“That fool, he is utterly deranged, no matter how I examine him. A jest.” Alaric rested his chin on a fist, a faint, sardonic laugh escaping him. My brow furrowed.
Julian Blackwood. He was the second person whose presence I found most odious.
His association with Alaric had only solidified in our second year at the academy. Though it grated on my nerves to admit it, their shared time and burgeoning camaraderie made their friendship a logical progression. When Alaric commanded the attention of the Eastern Dormitories, Julian held his own, a similar, unsettling reputation preceding him from the Western Dormitories.
Still, our paths rarely crossed. I only ever truly saw him in the grand Refectory, a sprawling hall shared by students from all quarters of Aethelgard.
Once, in the Refectory’s clamour, a casual elbow nudged my side. A hushed whisper followed, “That’s Julian Blackwood.”
Intrigued, I rose onto the balls of my feet, craning my neck for a better view. Amidst the sea of dark-haired students, a tall, sharply angular figure stood out. The recognition was immediate, a cold certainty.
“He possesses an unpleasant disposition, by the look of it.”
One of Alaric’s sycophants, ever eager to agree, chimed in, “Indeed, a touch. They say he is utterly self-absorbed.”
I permitted myself a small, contemptuous smirk, offering only a perfunctory nod. As much as I loathed the admission, I could comprehend why he was deemed a rival, a counterpart, to Alaric. This only intensified my animosity, yet for some inexplicable reason, I found my gaze unwilling to stray.
A brilliant gloom – that was my initial impression of Julian Blackwood. An unsettling paradox.
By some perverse chance, our eyes met. It was peculiar that he detected my scrutiny amidst the throng, so many pairs of eyes undoubtedly fixed upon him. His long, narrow eyes, his pupils like slivers of obsidian, made a striking impression. Reflexively, I flinched, as if struck by a thrown stone.
‘What are you staring at?’
He must have deciphered the unspoken question on my lips. He narrowed one eye, a silent challenge. Honestly, a tremor of unease ran through me. I feigned disinterest, turning my head away. Then, loud enough for the student beside me to hear, I remarked, “He has the look of a viper.”
Following that encounter, Julian and I often found our gazes colliding. Yet, an unspoken pact seemed to exist between us; we always ignored the other. Each time our eyes locked, he would, more often than not, lower his head first, only to raise it moments later, his gaze seeking mine once more. He was usually the first to avert his eyes, but occasionally, I found myself following suit. I lost count after the eighteenth such exchange.
---
As if by some orchestrated turn of fate, Alaric and I found ourselves assigned to the same class again for our second year. A secret thrill, a treacherous spark, ignited within me at this continued proximity. And then, I saw him. A familiar face, utterly infuriating in its presence. For the first time, I had a proper, undeniable look at the infamous Julian Blackwood.
It was Julian who initiated the contact. “Thorne. Would you care to join us for the evening meal?”
Confound it all.
And just as everyone, with their keen sense of academy politics, had predicted, the two of them became inseparable. Alaric, a man who revelled in his own calculated brilliance, had found his match. Julian, subtly regarded as his equal in stature and influence, met Alaric’s stringent criteria. He was masculine, held sway amongst his peers, and commanded respect. Their friendship, it seemed, was an inevitability, a cruel twist of fate.
In our classes, the speculative question often arose: should Alaric Beaumont and Julian Blackwood clash, who would emerge victorious? From my own guarded perspective, a true confrontation between them seemed improbable. While Alaric and I appeared diametrically opposed on the surface, Alaric and Julian shared a remarkable kinship of spirit and ambition.
Yet, a singular, stark difference distinguished them.
Julian possessed a strange, almost puritanical streak. Despite his ears being adorned with a collection of metal studs, a testament to a wilder past, he occasionally exhibited the behaviour of a veritable paragon of virtue.
For instance, when Alaric was seized by a fit of carnal inclination, he would simply choose a favoured paramour and spend the night in her company. Later, when pressed for details of his nocturnal escapades, he would recount his steamy early morning adventures with a brazen pride. Julian, in contrast, would dismiss the typical lewd remarks about illicit embraces with a dry laugh. Sometimes, he would even mock them outright, grabbing the corpulent student nearest him, squeezing hard enough to elicit a shriek.
“This pig,” he’d declare, his voice dripping with sarcasm, “possesses a more ample bosom than most girls. Why not indulge yourself with him instead? And truly, you appear ghastly. Do consider wearing a corset or some such garment, would you? Cease parading those… appendages. It’s quite offensive.”
Even his crudest observations were barbed with a sophisticated, almost intellectual, cynicism.
Yet, when the opportune moment presented itself, Julian would utter something utterly baffling, a statement delivered with an earnestness that jarred against his usual persona: “My purity,” he once declared, “is reserved for the celestial Lord of my destined future.” That, precisely, was the profound difference.
Alaric once, with a rare generosity, offered to procure him a forged pass for the gentlemen’s dens – an offer he had never, not once, extended to me. Julian, however, dismissed it as a “frivolous indulgence,” an unworthy pursuit, and flatly refused.
Alaric’s circle found Julian’s eccentricities endlessly amusing. I, however, did not. The reason was simple, a sharp, bitter barb. He was close to Alaric. And they moved about the academy grounds like old, familiar companions. That alone was sufficient cause for my hatred, a simmering, corrosive jealousy.
Still, I managed to maintain a civil, even outwardly friendly, demeanour with Julian. One of my few strengths lay in my ability to conceal my true sentiments, regardless of the circumstance. Besides, his proximity to Alaric was undeniable. Yes, every facet of my carefully constructed social existence revolved, in quiet desperation, around Alaric Beaumont.
To be candid, there were more days when I felt a profound, aching frustration with myself for this entanglement than there were days I spent truly contemplating Alaric. I often felt like a complete, utter fool. But even so, I remained caught in the same, inescapable pattern.
While Alaric tossed a few casual words in my direction before disappearing into the adjoining lavatory to cleanse himself, I sat lost in a labyrinth of thought. A few minutes later, the insistent trill of his telephone broke the silence. Fresh from his ablutions, Alaric retrieved the instrument from the bedside table and tossed it to me. I caught it, my fingers closing around the cold ebonite. On the other end, I heard the clipped, authoritarian tones of his father.
I cleared my throat, the dry rasp surprising even myself. Why was I even attempting to sound composed? “Yes, this is Thorne speaking.”
“Thorne? Are you with Alaric at this precise moment?”
“Indeed, I am.”
“Ah, I see. My concern was unwarranted, then. I feared Alaric might have strayed into mischief again. You possess such a pleasant voice, Thorne.”
“I am grateful for your kind observation.”
“No, truly. How fares your day?”
“I fare well, thank you. And yourself?”
“Much the same. You speak with such refined eloquence. If only Alaric possessed a fraction of your decorum. The boy lacks all proper manners. So, you were engaged in scholarly pursuits together?”
“Precisely. Alaric must have neglected to inform you. He has been quite consumed with preparation for the upcoming examinations.”
“So, you have been studying together this entire duration?”
“Yes. He has remained in my company the entire time.” My voice, I noticed, held an unnerving steadiness.
“Well, that is a considerable relief. If he is with you, I can rest easy.”
“It is nothing, truly.”
“No, it is something. If he is with you, he cannot possibly fall into disrepute.”
“Indeed, it is nothing. I will ensure his safe passage to his next appointment.”
“Good. See to him. Maintain your friendship, and avoid any discord.”
“Yes, of course. Good day to you, sir.”
Lies, expertly woven, flowed effortlessly from my lips, a chilling testament to my capacity for deception.
After ending the call, I tossed the telephone back to Alaric. He mumbled a curt, almost dismissive, “Grateful,” as he finished dressing. Without another word, I turned to leave. Alaric made no move to detain me.
“Until later,” was all he offered, his voice devoid of any real warmth.
It was to be expected. This was the precise measure of our relationship, no more, no less. The vast, aching chasm between us yawned wide, painfully clear. Perhaps that was why I quickened my pace, a frantic urgency seizing me. The cold stone corridors pressed in. On my hurried return, a peculiar ache bloomed in my throat, dry and raw, as if I had swallowed glass.
I needed to escape the lingering scent of deceit and illicit pleasure, to wash it from my skin. My chambers, cold and silent, beckoned.
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