A chill, damp draft always found purchase in the Lumina Scholarium’s infirmary wing, even in the heart of summer. Elaraeth felt it burrow beneath his robes, a constant reminder of the sterile, unsettling quiet. ‘Kaelen’s attendant’ – the appellation clung to him like a poorly cast Glamour, thin and utterly transparent. Each time a healer or acolyte used it, the words grated, an unwanted truth he could not shed.
An attendant. The title felt alien, a garment too large for his frame. It wasn't who he was, yet here he stood.
Weeks had spun into a blurred cycle. Mornings in the Grand Archives, surrounded by the hushed reverence of ancient parchment. Evenings in this infirmary, where the air hummed with the faint, medicinal scent of crushed moonpetal and distilled arcane salts.
Truthfully, he missed more lectures than he attended. The professors, distant or preoccupied, merely noted his absence. Who was he, after all, to demand their attention?
Heart leaden, he would return to the hushed ward. Kaelen would already be watching the door, a peculiar, desperate readiness in his pale eyes, as if anticipating a promised visitation.
And, as if awaiting absolution, Kaelen would unburden himself of the day’s indignities, his voice a low, raspy litany.
“Another spell-mending. They say the etheric sutures are still fragile. Gods, my spirit feels raw. And the restorative draughts here… a foul, cloying brew. I’m not some aged mystic, my essence craves proper nourishment. Why must I swallow this vile sludge that even a grimoire-worm would refuse?”
Kaelen poured out his frustrations, a genuinely miserable expression clouding his face. He seemed no different from a distraught child, despite his years as a diligent scholar.
Elaraeth released a silent sigh, delving into the satchel slung across his shoulder.
Hated the lingering scent of cooked foodstuffs on his texts. The fragrance of roasted boar and spiced root vegetables had already permeated the leather. A subtle grimace tugged at his lips.
Still, better than carrying it uncovered, a blatant declaration of purpose.
“What is it?”
Was that a flicker of eagerness in Kaelen’s eyes, like a starved hound catching the faintest whiff of a treat?
A ridiculous thought. Shaking off the absurd image, Elaraeth carefully extracted a lacquered wooden bento box from his bag.
Kaelen’s mournful gaze swept over the offering.
Only then did the gloom in his eyes recede, replaced by a dawning, fragile hope.
“A meal box?”
“Indeed. The healers assured me your etheric flux is stable enough for solid food. Provided it is… wholesome.”
“But… a meal box?”
“Do not imbue it with undue significance. I merely acquired it from a stall near the East Gate.”
The injunction to not give it meaning… was a self-deception. He had already imbued it with profound significance.
He would never voice aloud that he had scoured the market district, seeking a vendor known for fare both nourishing for a recovering spirit and palatable enough to tempt a flagging appetite.
Didn’t wish to acknowledge the depth of his consideration.
He merely wished to appear as one offering a gesture of purely human kindness. Nothing more complex.
But even that semblance seemed enough for Kaelen. With his right hand—the one less affected by the recent spell-scarring—he nervously tugged at his earlobe.
His ear, glimpsed beneath a stray lock of hair, was a startling shade of crimson.
Elaraeth’s gaze drifted lower, to Kaelen’s fingers. They curled slightly, stiff, bearing the faint, silvery traces of recent healing magic. The sight twisted something in Elaraeth’s gut.
Why did those delicate, healing fingers seize his attention so completely?
Why could he not look away?
A crushing weight settled on his chest.
“……Th-thank you.”
Kaelen’s voice, oddly subdued, reached him. He glanced up, hesitantly, and when their eyes met, Kaelen flinched, hastily fumbling with the latch of the bento box.
Or was it a feigned startle? As if being caught looking at Elaraeth was an infraction. As if he wished his quiet observation to pass unnoticed.
Kaelen began to eat, stuffing food into his mouth with an almost frantic energy. Elaraeth leaned his exhausted frame against the plush infirmary couch.
It was a raw, ungraceful sight. Droplets of sauce clung to Kaelen’s chin. His pinky, ring, and middle fingers on his right hand still struggled to articulate fully.
Elaraeth could not discern if the awkwardness was genuine or a performance.
Slowly, Elaraeth shifted closer, reaching out to take the spoon from Kaelen’s grip.
“What would you favor?”
“……”
“Perhaps the spiced boar?”
At the very least, he held a responsibility to acknowledge the truth of Kaelen’s suffering.
With food smeared around his lips, Kaelen chewed, lowering his head slightly. A faint, knowing smile played across his features.
Elaraeth could not fathom why this scholar, whose delicate hands might never fully regain their dexterity, whose spirit bore the deep scars of powerful healing magic, could smile with such quiet contentment.
He truly could not comprehend it.
Couldn’t bring himself to look directly at Kaelen’s bright, illuminated face.
What could possibly bring such mirth?
Were it him, he might wish for oblivion.
Elaraeth carefully selected what appeared to be the tenderest cut of boar, lifting it to Kaelen’s waiting mouth. Kaelen chewed, forcefully, still smiling.
This scholar always unsettled him. Always.
Truthfully, the impetus for the meal box had stirred hours before, when Elaraeth had stopped by Kaelen’s private study suite.
---
This was the second time Elaraeth had sought Kaelen’s personal effects since the initial mending spells had been cast. Surprisingly, the curator’s pass to Kaelen’s chambers still lay in Elaraeth’s possession. During Kaelen’s entire convalescence, he had seen Kaelen’s family but thrice.
Once, his distant uncle, a minor functionary in the Imperial Bureau of Arcane Lore. Twice, his elder sister, the esteemed Scholar Lyrian.
Lyrian, especially, had been a study in detached concern, her voice a soothing balm, her gestures subtle, as if to acknowledge Elaraeth’s assumption of the duties she herself had elected to delegate.
Kaelen, on their last visit, had simply rested his chin on his hand, eyes following Lyrian’s retreating back until she vanished from the infirmary corridor.
Elaraeth had come only to retrieve some comfort items for Kaelen. A specific set of annotated texts, perhaps a favored quill. So Kaelen wouldn’t succumb to the pervasive boredom of the infirmary.
That was all.
He knew better than anyone the oppressive tedium of confinement. Having experienced it himself during a minor, unremarked bout of fever in his own acolyte days, he knew precisely what Kaelen required.
Convinced himself it wasn’t sympathy. Or affection.
That day, instead of returning to his own cramped dormitory cell, he had commuted from the Scholars’ Respite House, where he had been allowed temporary residence for his specialized translation work. On his way, he paused by Kaelen’s study suite.
The heavy oak door, marked with Kaelen’s sigil, still offered welcome.
But Lyrian did not.
Lyrian leaned against the archway of Kaelen’s study, a scroll clutched loosely in one hand. Her gaze, sharp and knowing, pierced Elaraeth. “Still hovering over Kaelen, I see.”
To be honest, Elaraeth felt a flicker of resentment towards Lyrian. How could she not visit the infirmary, not once, since her brother’s initial recovery phase? Her kin lay vulnerable.
An instinctual, unspoken sense of morality made him judge her. He hadn’t even realized the thought had formed. The moment it did, he clamped his mouth shut, stuffing Kaelen’s arcane diagrams into his satchel with renewed vigor.
“He requires certain… study materials.”
“He truly has done it, hasn’t he? The fool, he’s fixated on you.”
His hand froze around an ancient commentary. Elaraeth turned, as if compelled by an unseen force.
“……Fixated on me?”
“Does that news please you, Elaraeth?”
“No, I merely inquired.”
“No one ‘merely’ asks anything, Elaraeth. You sought an answer, and so you posed the question.”
The disdain in her voice was almost palpable. Lyrian muttered something under her breath, a low, indistinct sound, but Elaraeth pretended not to hear. Still, she stepped closer, ignoring his unspoken withdrawal. This entire noble family, it seemed, possessed an innate talent for overlooking others.
Lyrian, Kaelen, even their distant uncle.
“Tell me, where did you vanish after the Summer Solstice symposium?”
“My archival studies led me to a remote scriptorium.”
The entire Scholarium, no doubt, had already formed their own conjectures.
“It wasn’t as if I desired to know. But Kaelen… he fell into a despair. That fool, who rarely ventured beyond the main library, suddenly began haunting the sanctum of the Elder Seers, muttering supplications, then flinging their sacred talismans to the ground in a fit of pique.”
“Talismans?”
“Indeed. He used to cherish them, you know? Said they were from his father. Then he cursed the Elder Gods as ‘blind, deaf mutts’ or something equally blasphemous. Afterwards, he sealed himself in his chambers and refused to emerge. Our house, finally, knew a brief respite. He doesn’t even perceive the true cause of his distress. Such a simpleton.”
Her voice, which had been mocking, suddenly lowered, a subtle shift. Probably due to the rigid posture Elaraeth knew he held.
“What is it? Your face is flushed.”
“It is not.”
“No? Do you truly… reciprocate? You feel affection for him?”
“I told you, no.”
“……By the Great Scribes.” Lyrian gasped, covering her mouth as if genuinely horrified. “You are utterly unhinged, Elaraeth. Truly.”
Why did she persist when he had already denied it? Annoyed, Elaraeth yanked the satchel’s zipper shut. He longed to retaliate, to wound her with a truth of his own.
“Why did you speak such words to me? Your uncle spoke of Kaelen as if he were merely another entry in the Scholarium’s registry, not his kin.”
“What? What in the Elder Scribes’ name are you prattling about now?”
A Profound Contradiction.
Such a profound contradiction. He knew it too. Theron, his cynical companion, had once quipped that Elaraeth, despite his intentions, always found himself performing acts of kindness. No matter the purity of his initial motive.
But now, he had a tangible excuse. The faint, silvery scars tracing Kaelen’s hands. Just as Kaelen could not meet his eyes when speaking of his own vulnerability, Elaraeth found he could not entirely dismiss the sight of Kaelen’s healing wounds.
“Elaraeth.”
“Yes.”
“Then… may I believe in you?”
Kaelen’s hoarse voice, raw with emotion, edged closer. Elaraeth pretended indifference. But he listened.
“What arcane nonsense are you uttering now?”
“I will not… ‘like’ you.”
In that instant, Elaraeth’s heart plummeted to the cold stone floor. His stomach twisted into a knot. Something tightened, painfully, around his chest. He almost asked—without conscious thought.
*Why not?*
The words nearly escaped his lips. He realized, with a chilling clarity, the true, hidden thought he was about to betray. *Elaraeth, you are a fool.*
He clenched his fists, swallowing the question, forcing it back down. Yes.
This was for the best. For both of them.
“Then instead, I will believe in you.”
But Kaelen uttered a most peculiar declaration. His voice tangled with both sorrow and burgeoning joy. Like an acolyte receiving a divine revelation. Was there any other way to describe him in this moment?
Elaraeth did not comprehend his words. And yet, he did not pull his hand away. Did not flee. The suffocating weight pressing on his chest no longer merely squeezed – it pierced him.
“I am an apostate now. Truly, you are of greater use to my spirit than any of the Elder Gods in the distant aether.”
“Silence, you blasphemer.”
This scholar…
“You mock the divine with every breath.”
“No, that is not true! I was raised a devout follower of the Sages, you know!”
“Then what, pray tell, was that declaration just now?”
Kaelen frantically shook his hands, his head bowed. As if his very being depended on Elaraeth’s belief. His tone – desperate, on the verge of tears. If Elaraeth did not believe him, he might truly weep.
Caught off guard, Elaraeth found himself speechless. Then, as if a sudden resolve had seized him, Kaelen slid from the couch and knelt before Elaraeth.
“Then I shall show you.”
“Kaelen, what in the Scribes’ name are you doing?”
A delicate, yet firm, hand grasped Elaraeth’s foot. He had been sitting with his legs propped on the couch’s edge, so he slid forward slightly, barely clinging to the seat. His foot, dangling free, was now held within Kaelen’s grasp. Kaelen’s gaze fell upon a small, faded mark on the arch of Elaraeth’s foot—a slight discoloration from an old ink spill, stubborn against his skin.
Kaelen’s brow furrowed. And to Elaraeth’s utter disbelief—Kaelen’s eyes welled with moisture.
Elaraeth jerked back in shock, attempting to pull his foot away. Before he could escape, Kaelen lowered his head.
“What are you—”
“In the name of the Scribe, the Seer, and the Spirit of Lore.”
Kaelen’s cold fingertips brushed against Elaraeth’s ankle. A sharp ache shot up his calf, deep into his stomach. *What in the abyss is this madman doing?*
He tried to yank his foot free, but his strength abandoned him.
Kaelen looked up at him, once. And then, with a face that showed not a single ounce of revulsion—like a devout acolyte touching a sacred relic—
“I greet my guiding light.”
Kaelen pressed his lips to the tip of Elaraeth’s foot. His fine, soft hair brushed against Elaraeth’s ankle, a feather-light tickle. The gentle press of Kaelen’s lips traced a path across the base of Elaraeth’s toes.
“S-stop it….”
Elaraeth threw an arm over his face. Kaelen’s right hand tightened its grip around Elaraeth’s ankle. And in that moment—
Elaraeth stopped resisting.
Three weak, healing fingers held onto him. A delicate, fragile grip tapped lightly against his skin. The lips that had cursed the Elder Gods now traced a path up his calf.
He did nothing to stop him.
That’s when he realized. This relentless, incurable disease—this exquisite, gilded torment of his own making—still wasn’t over.