A week bled into another, each moment steeped in the acrid tang of estrangement. Elaraeth, ever the silent sentinel of his own fragile composure, found the veneer of indifference increasingly brittle. Valerius, denied the usual clamor of his sycophants, occupied a more distant orbit within the Lumina Scholarium’s grand halls. Elaraeth, for his part, maintained a semblance of normalcy, often found in the company of Lysander and a scattering of lesser scions, their chatter a dull drone against the relentless cacophony of his thoughts.
Most vexing was the sudden dearth of direct intelligence. Previously, Valerius’s movements, his moods, even the cadence of his laughter, had reached Elaraeth through the whisper network that permeated the Scholarium's social strata. Now, a peculiar, aching void had settled. He found himself, despite his stubborn pride, gravitating towards Lysander, whose casual observations were often the only tidbits that pierced his self-imposed isolation. A tremor of indignity would always ripple through Elaraeth’s gut each time, a bitter acknowledgment of his own relentless curiosity.
Lysander, a scion of a venerable, if modest, house, possessed an unnerving calm. He often occupied himself with the intricate mechanics of a celestial chart, his fingers tracing patterns of starlight across aged vellum. “Ah, Valerius?” Lysander would utter, without lifting his gaze from the arcane diagram. “He hath departed again.”
Elaraeth’s lips would thin. A familiar, frustrated heat would prickle behind his eyes. “Departed to what new folly?” he would press, his voice a barely perceptible murmur.
“No doubt, to some lesser noble’s salon,” Lysander mused, his brow furrowed in concentration, adjusting a minute crystal lens over the chart. “Or perhaps, a dalliance with one of the more brazen acolytes from the Arcane Collegium. He favors those who flatter his… robust ego.”
A sharp, unbidden image flashed through Elaraeth’s mind: Valerius, all arrogance and sculpted indifference, surrounded by fawning faces. It was an unsettling, yet oddly familiar, vision. He despised it, yet it offered a strange comfort in its predictability.
Lysander finally lifted his gaze, a hint of amusement playing about his mouth. “Verily, it seems one of the Cassian twins, the one with the particularly sharp tongue, introduced him to a new diversion. A young woman of considerable wit, they say. Apparently, they found immediate accord. A true whirlwind. One moment, they were presented; the next, they had quite vanished from the evening’s assembly. No lingering pleasantries, no delicate feigned demurrals. A rather… animalistic efficiency, would you not agree?”
Elaraeth felt a peculiar jolt, a coldness spreading from his chest. The raw, almost primal nature of Valerius’s affections, or lack thereof, struck him anew. Lysander's words, though casual, carried a subtle edge of disdain, and for the first time in days, Elaraeth felt a strange, fragile levity bloom within him. He leaned against Lysander’s work table, his fingers idly brushing a loose sheet of parchment.
Lysander, sensing Elaraeth’s shift, adjusted his posture, offering more space. This small, unspoken gesture was a testament to their quiet, peculiar bond.
“A disgustingly swift pairing,” Elaraeth murmured, the words feeling foreign on his tongue.
“Indeed,” Lysander replied, a smirk touching his lips. “I confess, I am quite incapable of such brutish charm.”
The boastful undertone in Lysander’s voice made Elaraeth offer a faint, genuine smile. “Is that not a scholar’s true distinction? To be unburdened by such base impulsions?”
“A lesson learned through diligent study of human folly,” Lysander countered, his eyes twinkling. He did not look away from his intricate chart, still aligning the tiny crystal foci.
“And is such diligent study the cause of your perpetual bachelorhood?” Elaraeth teased, a rare spark of mischief in his own gaze.
Lysander finally stilled his hand, turning his head slowly. He regarded Elaraeth with an incredulous, wry smile. A small, intricately carved wooden amulet, depicting a soaring griffin, hung from a silver chain around Lysander’s neck, usually tucked beneath his tunic. It was a common protective charm among the northern houses, imbued with minor wards against ill-fortune.
“I find myself considering a formal complaint,” Lysander declared, tapping Elaraeth’s hand, which still rested on the table.
“For what transgression?” Elaraeth asked, feigning innocence.
“For the discomfort your jests inflict. A scholar’s peace is sacred.”
“Lysander, you are quite mad,” Elaraeth breathed, a soft laugh escaping him.
“Or perhaps, merely more discerning,” Lysander retorted, raising a brow.
Elaraeth’s foot, clad in a soft-soled academy slipper, dangled freely. He nudged Lysander’s leg with his socked foot. Lysander feigned a dramatic stumble, then offered a casual, one-fingered salute. His hand, as it rose, revealed a thin, plaited leather thong wrapped around his wrist, from which hung a single, unadorned amber bead. An ancestral ward, Elaraeth knew, said to grant clarity of thought.
“That ward does not suit you,” Elaraeth remarked, kicking his leg again, gently.
“Why ever not?” Lysander asked, his tone suddenly serious.
Elaraeth blinked. Lysander’s intensity always surprised him. “It simply… seems incongruous with your scholarly detachment.”
“Incongruous? Do I not exude an aura of profound spiritual adherence?”
“No. It merely appears as another meticulously chosen accessory.”
Lysander sighed, a faint frown marring his forehead. “It is not merely so.”
Elaraeth had learned, to his mild astonishment, that Lysander’s lineage boasted a long, unbroken line of devout mystics, their ancestral prayers woven into the very fabric of their house. Lysander himself, despite his detached demeanor, claimed a deep reverence for the ancient tenets. Yet, his grasp of sacred litany was, to Elaraeth’s ears, remarkably… creative.
Days blurred into an indistinguishable stream. Elaraeth avoided Valerius. Whenever their paths intersected in a bustling corridor or across a lecture hall, Elaraeth would permit himself a fleeting glance, then quickly averted his gaze. A ridiculous fear, he knew, a childish conviction that to engage was to concede. To acknowledge was to lose.
By contrast, Hadrian, once again Valerius’s designated victim, often sought Elaraeth out. He would hover at the periphery of Elaraeth’s conversations, offering hesitant remarks, clinging to any shred of civility. But each day, new discolorations marred Hadrian’s face – a bruise blossoming on his cheekbone, a cut upon his lip – silent, brutal declarations of Valerius’s ongoing torment, a beast marking its territory in plain sight. Elaraeth would frown, a cold knot tightening in his stomach, and Hadrian, sensing his gaze, would quickly turn his head, attempting to conceal the fresh wounds.
Another four days passed. One crisp, quiet morning, Elaraeth found himself alone in a less frequented scriptorium, burying his face in his hands. The relentless, sordid drama was an unraveling coil in his mind, and he yearned for surcease.
Between Elaraeth and Valerius, the chasm widened with each passing hour. What had begun as a mere crack had become a gulf of despair. Opening his eyes felt akin to confronting the abyss. Hadrian’s swollen face, the marks like stark seals of ownership, filled Elaraeth with a profound reluctance to face either of them. He craved only oblivion.
Then, as if by some perverse stroke of fortune, Hadrian ceased attending classes. Magister Veridian, a young, earnest scholar of Archival Lore, announced it as an ‘absence,’ but the hesitation in her voice bespoke a different truth: truancy. A wild, almost savage joy surged through Elaraeth. He quickly suppressed it, but the seed of a dark satisfaction had been planted.
Valerius, in Hadrian’s absence, grew increasingly restless. He would fidget with a charmed quill during lectures, snap terse remarks at his remaining cronies, or even lash out, a swift, brutal punch to the arm of some unfortunate supplicant who had offered a poorly phrased comment. Elaraeth watched, a strange sense of smugness unfurling within him. A peculiar, almost perverse superiority. *Soon*, he told himself, *once Hadrian is truly gone, Valerius will weary of this vacant space. He will turn his gaze back to me.* Confident in this silent decree, Elaraeth waited.
Days continued to drift by in this new, uncomfortable equilibrium.
“Valerius seems rather… subdued,” Lysander observed one afternoon, his voice a low, casual murmur. Elaraeth’s heart gave a heavy thud against his ribs. He longed to turn his head, to verify the observation with his own eyes, but a cowardly tremor held him still. When it came to Valerius, Elaraeth found himself bound by an invisible leash of fear, content only to interpret Lysander’s words, to conjure the image of a sullen Valerius in his mind’s eye.
Yet, nothing changed. The day waned, classes concluded. Elaraeth convinced himself that tomorrow held new possibilities. Such profound shifts, he reasoned, rarely occurred in a single revolution of the sundial. He waited, slinging his satchel over his shoulder. Just as he prepared to depart, Lysander spoke again, his voice carrying an unusual note.
“You quarreled with Valerius, did you not?”
Elaraeth turned, a sharp, involuntary movement. “Aye.”
“Surely, you have not sustained this estrangement since the incident in the Refectory?”
Silence stretched between them.
“Remarkable,” Lysander finally said, shrugging, his hands tucked into the voluminous sleeves of his scholar’s robe. “I had imagined such a tempest would have passed.” Elaraeth avoided his friend’s steady gaze, offering a hurried, clumsy excuse.
“Truthfully, Valerius pressed too far. The relentless torment… it offends me. Such base cruelty feels… discordant.”
“Discordant?” Lysander prompted, a faint, disbelieving arch to his brow.
“Hadrian is… a fellow scholar,” Elaraeth stammered, his words catching in his throat. “The manner in which Valerius pursues him… it is profoundly unsettling. A kind of unseemly, obsessive fixation. It should cease.”
“Indeed,” Lysander uttered, his voice dry as aged parchment.
Elaraeth felt a flush creep up his neck. Lysander’s response, though minimal, was laden with an unsettling irony. Annoyed by the unspoken mockery, Elaraeth fixed a withering glare upon his friend. Lysander merely smirked. That expression, that knowing glint in Lysander’s eyes, felt like a sudden, brutal exposure. Elaraeth’s face burned. He quickly turned his back, ignoring Lysander’s silent derision, and stalked from the scriptorium.
He hurried down the bustling corridor, intent on reaching the sanctuary of his private study. A hand suddenly clamped upon his shoulder. Assuming it was Lysander, pursuing his teasing, Elaraeth spun around, irritation bubbling, and roughly dislodged the grip. It was not Lysander. It was Magister Veridian, her young face etched with an unusual gravity. Startled, Elaraeth quickly smoothed his features into an expression of placid deference.
“My apologies, Elaraeth. Did I startle you?”
“Oh, no, Magister. I was merely… surprised.”
“I see. I regret this imposition, but… might I trouble you for a brief moment of your time?”
“Magister?”
“But a moment, I assure you.”
The young Magister’s earnest face was unusually serious. Elaraeth nodded, his heart beginning a faint, anxious flutter.
“This very morning,” Magister Veridian began, her voice cautious, “Valerius requested Hadrian’s address.”
“Valerius?” Elaraeth repeated, a sharp, cold dread coiling in his gut. He knew, with an icy certainty, that the Magister, as Hadrian’s mentor, could not be truly oblivious to the bullying. Yet, she lacked the resolve to confront Valerius directly. Nor was she entirely heartless. Her seeking Elaraeth out now proved that.
“I cast no aspersions, Elaraeth, nor do I lay blame upon Valerius, but…”
“No, Magister. I understand. Such a request is… not entirely unforeseen,” Elaraeth interjected, his voice surprisingly steady. He grasped for any semblance of control.
“Well, given your customary solicitude toward Hadrian, I wondered if you might… accompany Valerius. Do you comprehend my meaning?”
Elaraeth could not immediately reply. His jaw clenched. The very thought of Valerius’s peculiar, consuming fixation upon Hadrian began to creep toward him, flooding his senses, rooting him to the spot. He clenched his fists, knuckles white. He could not permit this. He absolutely could not.
“Might I… instead request Hadrian’s access code for his messaging slate?”
“Ah, yes, of course. Allow me. I shall transmit it to you. Do attempt to reach him first.”
“I shall. I will speak with him, Magister. Pray, do not distress yourself overmuch.”
“Excellent. I place my trust in you, Elaraeth.”
“Indeed, Magister.”
Outwardly, Elaraeth appeared the picture of calm, yet within, a silent pandemonium raged. Magister Veridian, after transmitting Hadrian’s contact details from the student register, offered an awkward half-bow and retreated down the hallway. The moment she vanished, Elaraeth snatched his personal slate from his satchel, his fingers trembling, and immediately initiated a call to Hadrian’s private channel. His leg began a nervous jittering, and he continuously clenched and unclenched his hand, awaiting a connection. To his surprise, Hadrian answered swiftly.
“H-hello?”
“Hadrian. It is Elaraeth. Am I speaking with you?”
As soon as he heard the fragile voice, Elaraeth rushed to speak. A sudden clatter erupted on the other end – something falling, striking another object, followed by a rustling sound. After a moment of pregnant silence, Hadrian’s voice returned, strained.
“E-Elaraeth? Elaraeth! W-why… How… how did you acquire my channel access? Did you… did you possess it already?”
“No. I learned from Magister Veridian that Valerius requested your domicile address today. I then requested your access code.”
“…”
“I wished merely to caution you. Be vigilant.”
“W-what of you? Are you well? Even though you attempt to intervene…”
“My welfare is not your concern. Focus upon your own. If you wish to extend your absence from the Scholarium, contact this channel. I shall manage the Magister. My standing here, unlikely as it may seem, is rather… dependable.”
“...Thank you.”
“Should Valerius attempt to harass you, or worse, at the Scholarium, inform me at once. If you cannot speak directly, a simple touch upon my shoulder will suffice. It is always more arduous to mend that which has been irreparably broken.”
“I… understand.”
“Frankly, seeking transference to another institution would prove the most judicious course.” Elaraeth allowed the suggestion to hang in the air, hoping it might resonate with Hadrian.
“…”
“At present, however, ensure you are not at home, or abscond to some distant quarter.”
“O-okay…”
“Very well. I shall conclude this communication.”
“W-wait.”
“...?”
“Thank you, Elaraeth.” After a protracted hesitation, Hadrian’s voice, soft and trembling, reached Elaraeth’s ears. A strange, uncomfortable prickle ran down his spine. Why this sudden, effusive gratitude?
“T-thank you for always aiding me…”
“It is nothing.”
“I merely… wished to express it. Thank you. I-I shall see you.”
“Aye.”
“...Farewell.”
*Farewell?* Elaraeth did not bother to respond to the unexpected valediction, severing the connection with a decisive tap. Hadrian’s voice, even his simple gratitude, had sent an unwelcome chill through Elaraeth, leaving him profoundly unsettled.
What transpired with Hadrian that night, Elaraeth knew not. He knew only that from the following day onward, Hadrian returned to the Scholarium. Within a week, the faint, youthful softness of his skin began to re-emerge, the last vestiges of the bruises fading to memory. Hadrian, too, ceased his sudden approaches, his demeanor shifting dramatically, becoming more wary, more self-contained. The abrupt alteration in his behavior planted seeds of suspicion within Elaraeth’s analytical mind. And when all the marks upon Hadrian’s face had finally vanished, Elaraeth could not help but feel a faint, unlikely stir of hope.
Then, two weeks later, as Elaraeth traversed the Hall of Oracles, Valerius appeared before him, seemingly from thin air.
“Elaraeth.”
“…”
“Elaraeth.”
“…”
Elaraeth kept his gaze fixed straight ahead, refusing to meet Valerius’s eyes. But his lips felt as though they might part in an involuntary gasp at any moment. Could it be? Had Valerius finally, irrevocably, wearied of Hadrian?