A full week had bled into the academy's relentless schedule. Elias Thorne maintained his brittle façade, a meticulously crafted mask of indifference. Alistair Vance, predictably, remained ensconced within his boisterous clique, their laughter echoing through the hallowed halls, just out of Elias's reach.
Elias cultivated an air of quiet preoccupation, pouring over ancient Veridian texts in the sun-drenched library, or sketching intricate architectural plans in his private study. He feigned an absorption in intellect, a disinterest in the petty dramas of the student body. As if Alistair’s absence from his immediate orbit held no weight at all.
He sought the company of Lysander Croft, and a select few others whose quiet intellect suited his own. These friendships were a convenient bulwark, a believable reason for his detachment from Alistair’s rowdier set.
Frustration simmered beneath Elias’s composed exterior. The distance from Alistair’s circle meant a dearth of direct intelligence. He relied on Lysander, whose casual observations were like fragments of gold gleaned from a muddy riverbed. His own pride, a stubborn knot in his gut, prevented him from asking outright. The absurdity of it gnawed at him, a dull ache.
Days later, a fleeting curiosity overcame him. Lysander, slouched over a polished mahogany desk in the common room, was deeply engrossed in a strategic board game with another student, pieces clacking with quiet precision. He merely grunted when Elias subtly inquired after Alistair.
“Alistair? Oh, he’s out again.” Lysander’s voice was as flat as the game board. Elias’s breath hitched, a silent accusation forming on his tongue.
*Confound that brute.* Elias had come to understand the raw, untamed current that ran through Alistair Vance. He was a creature of impulse, of visceral reactions. A beast, unbound by the refined strictures of the Academy.
“Another clandestine rendezvous, I presume?” Elias ventured, forcing an inflection of detached amusement.
Lysander’s fingers moved, capturing a bishop with a swift flick. “No, a formal introduction this time. Young Lady Aurelia from the Lyra estate. Apparently, their families were quite eager.” He shifted, adjusting his lean frame. “Hit it off immediately. Decamped together. Not a moment wasted.”
Elias felt a cold dread trickle down his spine. “They simply… departed?”
“Quite. Lady Aurelia, not one to dither, it seems. A decisive ‘Why not?’ according to the whispers.” Lysander delivered the news with a dry, almost clinical precision.
Silence stretched between them. The clack of game pieces was unnervingly loud.
“Remarkable aplomb, truly,” Lysander finally murmured, his tone laced with a faint, derisive quality. It wasn’t admiration. Elias felt a fragile thread of relief unspool within him.
He perched on the edge of Lysander’s desk, a subtle brush of his sleeve against Lysander’s shoulder. Lysander glanced up, then leaned back, granting Elias more space. A small, unspoken gesture of understanding.
Lysander was the sole voice among their acquaintance who dared to openly critique Alistair’s cavalier social engagements. For that, Elias found him, if not entirely admirable, then at least tolerable.
“Disgustingly unburdened by convention,” Elias agreed, a faint curl of his lip.
“Isn’t he? Though I, myself, am anything but.” Lysander’s reply, delivered with a hint of self-satisfaction, drew a faint, genuine laugh from Elias.
“Surely, you’re meant to be unburdened by such things? We are students, after all. Bound by decorum.”
“Bound? Hardly. One acquires these sensibilities. Humanity, Elias, is a creature of acquired tastes.” A smirk played on Lysander’s lips, his gaze still fixed on the board. He shifted a pawn forward.
“Is that why your own romantic endeavors remain conspicuously absent?” Elias teased, a barb veiled in levity.
Lysander’s focus broke. He slowly pushed the game board away, turning to face Elias with an incredulous smile. He tapped Elias’s hand, which still rested near his shoulder.
“I shall register a formal complaint of harassment.”
“Harassment? How so?”
“If the recipient experiences discomfort, it fulfills the definition.”
“Lysander, you’re beyond absurd.”
“Perverse, perhaps.”
Elias’s slipper, dangling from his foot, slipped to the polished floor. He ignored it, nudging Lysander’s shin with his sock-clad foot. Lysander feigned a dramatic recoil, then extended a hand, offering a casual, almost elegant, gesture of defiance. His left wrist was always adorned with a simple, dark rosary. Elias nudged his leg again.
“That rosary does not suit you.”
Lysander’s expression tightened, a sudden seriousness entering his eyes. “And why ever not?”
*Why the sudden gravity?*
“It simply… clashes. With your particular brand of cynicism.”
“Clashes? How peculiar. Do I not present as a devout man of faith?”
“Hardly. It appears more an affectation. A sartorial flourish.”
“It isn’t, you know.” Lysander’s voice was quiet, almost wounded. Elias, in retrospect, should have pieced it together from Lysander’s given name. But he’d always assumed it was a classical affectation, perhaps a truncated form. Lysander, it turned out, was indeed named for Saint John. His family, surprisingly, had generations of devout Veridian Catholics. Even more shocking, Lysander himself claimed a fervent adherence to the faith, though Elias had yet to hear him recite a single prayer without fumbling for words.
---
Elias continued his calculated avoidance of Alistair. Their paths intersected in the lecture halls, in the dining commons, but Elias’s gaze would flick away the instant Alistair’s presence registered. He lacked the courage for a direct confrontation. Perhaps he feared a loss, the pathetic notion that whoever yearned more, lost more. Even as he recognized the ridiculousness of the sentiment, his lips remained sealed.
Cedric Ashworth, by contrast, frequently sought Elias’s attention, likely because Elias was the only one who didn't entirely dismiss him. But with each passing day, the fresh contusions on Cedric’s face spoke volumes. Alistair, out of Elias’s sight, continued his brutal campaign, a predator marking its territory.
Cedric, catching Elias’s troubled gaze during a lecture, instinctively turned his head, attempting to conceal the blossoming bruises near his temple.
Four more days bled into the week. One quiet morning, alone in the antechamber of the grand library, Elias buried his face in his hands. He no longer wished to witness the wretched drama unfolding before him.
The chasm between himself and Alistair had widened, from a small crack to an unbridgeable canyon of despair. Opening his eyes felt like risking an engulfment. The bruises on Cedric’s swollen features were as stark as an Imperial seal. He wanted to escape it all.
Fortune, in its capricious way, seemed to grant him a reprieve. Cedric Ashworth ceased attending classes. Professor Arcanus, their homeroom master, declared it an absence, but the hesitation in his voice, the slight dip of his chin, betrayed the truth: truancy. A shameful cheer almost erupted in Elias’s chest.
Meanwhile, Alistair Vance, deprived of his usual quarry, grew increasingly agitated. He fidgeted with his pocket watch during lectures, snapped terse remarks at his retinue, even delivered a sharp cuff to one lackey for an ill-timed jest.
A strange smugness settled over Elias. A subtle sense of superiority. He nursed the conviction that soon, once Cedric formally withdrew or simply vanished, Alistair’s capricious attention would inevitably return to him. Buoyed by this desperate hope, Elias waited.
Another few days unspooled in the same fashion.
“Alistair seems rather… subdued,” Lysander observed one afternoon, his voice barely a murmur as they left the chemistry lab. Elias’s heart gave a heavy lurch in his chest. He yearned to immediately turn his head, to scrutinize Alistair’s face, but his courage failed him. In matters of emotional vulnerability, Elias Thorne was a profound coward. He could only listen, imagining the nuances of Alistair’s dejection through Lysander’s words.
Yet, nothing shifted. The day drew to a close, classes concluded. Elias convinced himself there would be another opportunity tomorrow. Such grand emotional tides rarely turned in a single day. He continued his vigil. As he slung his satchel over his shoulder, preparing to depart, Lysander’s voice cut through the hum of the emptying classroom.
“You two haven’t reconciled with Alistair, have you?”
Elias spun around, an involuntary reflex. “No.”
“Still brooding over that incident in the refectory?”
Elias’s throat felt suddenly dry. “It seems so.”
“By the Emperor’s beard, this has lingered longer than I anticipated.” Lysander shrugged, his hands shoved into his pockets. Elias averted his gaze, mumbling a facile excuse.
“Alistair, to be frank, behaved abominably. The bullying… it’s simply beyond the pale. Unseemly, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Unseemly, what?”
“Well, Cedric is a fellow student. Of respectable, if lesser, standing. The crude manner of Alistair’s… pursuit. It’s distasteful. He ought to cease.” Elias chose his words carefully, framing his disapproval in terms of academy decorum, rather than raw emotion.
“Ah.” Lysander paused, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. “You are destined for paradise, Elias.”
The sarcasm, a poisoned dart, stung. Elias glared at Lysander, annoyed by the malicious edge in his tone. But Lysander merely offered a faint, knowing smirk. That expression, so knowing, made Elias’s face burn. He quickly turned his back, ignoring the mockery, and strode from the classroom.
He hurried down the grand corridor, intent on reaching the academy gates. A hand suddenly clamped onto his shoulder. Assuming it was Lysander, Elias spun, annoyance bubbling, and pulled his arm free. It wasn’t Lysander; it was Professor Arcanus, his severe features momentarily softened by surprise. Elias quickly composed his expression.
“My apologies, Elias. Did I startle you?”
“Oh, no, Professor. Not at all. Merely… surprised.”
“Indeed. I am truly sorry to detain you, but… might I impose on a moment of your time?”
“Sir?”
“Just a brief word. Please.”
The Professor’s usually composed face bore an unusual gravity. Elias nodded.
“Today, Alistair inquired after young Ashworth’s address,” Professor Arcanus began, his voice cautious.
“Alistair Vance?” Elias felt a cold knot tighten in his stomach.
Professor Arcanus, as their homeroom master, could not possibly be oblivious to the undercurrents of cruelty in his class. Yet, he lacked the fortitude to directly challenge a figure like Alistair Vance. Neither, however, was he so callous as to wholly ignore the victim. The fact that he approached Elias, of all students, spoke volumes.
“I am not accusing or condemning Alistair, but…”
“No, Professor, I understand. I find nothing strange in it.” Elias interjected quickly, a practiced calm settling over his features.
“Well, given your… frequent counsel to young Ashworth, I wondered if you might consider accompanying Alistair to his lodgings. Do you comprehend my meaning?”
Elias found himself speechless. His teeth clenched, an involuntary spasm.
The strange, possessive intensity Alistair harbored for Cedric now seemed to seep from the conversation, creeping towards Elias, threatening to engulf him. He balled his fists. He could not merely stand by.
“Might I… instead request Ashworth’s direct line, Professor?”
“Ah, yes, of course. Here, let me transcribe it for you. Perhaps you might ring him first.”
“Certainly. I shall speak with him. Do not concern yourself unduly, Professor.”
“Very well. I am counting on your discretion, Elias.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Outwardly, Elias maintained his serene composure. Internally, a frantic alarm blared. Professor Arcanus, looking somewhat relieved, handed Elias Cedric Ashworth’s residence number, copied from the academy rolls, before retreating down the corridor.
Elias had to prevent Alistair Vance from finding Cedric. He absolutely had to sever this peculiar, toxic obsession. The instant the Professor was out of sight, Elias extracted his pocket watch, its gleaming cover reflecting his strained face, and quickly used its integral mechanism to dial Cedric’s number. His leg jittered nervously, his hands clenching and unclenching as he waited for the connection. To his surprise, it connected almost immediately.
“H-hello?” A reedy, uncertain voice answered.
“It is Elias Thorne. This is Cedric Ashworth, yes?” Elias rushed the words, a sudden clatter erupting on the other end – something falling, striking another object, followed by a frantic rustling. After a strained pause, Cedric’s voice returned, laced with panic.
“E-Elias? Elias! W-why… How… how did you obtain my number? Did you… did you already possess it?”
“No. I learned from Professor Arcanus that Alistair Vance inquired after your home address today. So, I requested your number from him.”
Silence from the other end. A choked sound.
“I merely wished to caution you. To be exceedingly vigilant.”
“W-what of you? Are you safe? Even if you attempt to… to stop him…”
“Do not concern yourself with my welfare. Focus solely on your own. Should you require further leave from the academy, contact this number. I shall intercede with the Professor. I am, believe it or not, held in some regard.”
“...Thank you.”
“If Vance attempts to harass you or accost you at the academy, you must inform me immediately. If spoken words fail you, a simple tap on the shoulder will suffice. Remediation becomes significantly more arduous once an incident has fully transpired.”
“Alright…”
“Honestly, a transfer to another institution would be your most prudent course.” Elias slipped the suggestion in, hoping it would resonate with Cedric.
Another long pause.
“At any rate, reflect upon it. For now, either feign absence from your residence, or seek refuge at a distant locale.”
“O-okay…”
“Very well. I shall conclude the call.”
“W-wait.”
“...?”
“Thank you, Elias.” After a prolonged hesitation, Cedric’s voice, soft and trembling, reached Elias’s ear. *What in the Emperor’s name?* The sincerity made Elias profoundly uncomfortable.
“T-thank you for your constant… assistance.”
“It is nothing.”
“I simply… wished to convey it. Thank you. A-adieu.”
“Yes.”
“...Farewell.”
*Farewell? What an absurd affectation.* Elias offered no response to the clumsy valediction, severing the connection. The mere sound of Cedric’s voice, lingering in his ears, sent an unwelcome shiver down his spine, leaving him thoroughly unsettled.
What precisely transpired with Cedric Ashworth that evening remained a mystery to Elias. All he knew was that from the following day onward, Cedric returned to the academy. Within a week, the faint, downy peach fuzz characteristic of youth began to reappear on his cheeks, the remnants of bruising fading to phantom hints. Cedric also ceased his sudden approaches to Elias, his demeanor shifting dramatically, becoming more self-contained.
This abrupt transformation planted insidious seeds of suspicion within Elias’s careful mind. Yet, when the last bruise finally vanished from Cedric’s face, a faint, almost imperceptible sense of hope, however illogical, flickered within Elias.
Then, two weeks later, Alistair Vance materialized before him, unbidden.
“Elias.”
Elias’s breath caught in his throat. He kept his gaze fixed rigidly ahead, refusing to meet Alistair’s eyes. His lips felt as if they might part with a gasp, betraying the turmoil within.
*Could it be? Had Alistair Vance finally tired of Cedric Ashworth?*