To shoulder Lucien’s convalescence, to bear the title of his appointed caretaker – the phrase felt like a heavy, ill-fitting cloak. Each time it echoed in the Sunstone Archives, a peculiar ache settled in Cassian’s chest. He, an adult, or so the Guilds had decreed upon his ascension to a Master Archivist’s rank. Yet, the syllables themselves felt alien, like a script he had yet to master, awkward on his tongue.
He had spent countless nights wrestling with this inherited charge. His mornings belonged to the hushed sanctity of the Archives’ restricted sections, deciphering forgotten glyphs, his evenings to the gilded, yet sterile, infirmary suite where Lucien lay. A quiet rebellion simmered within him, for his duties as an Archivist already stretched thin. Half his studies, half his personal research, lay fallow.
Heart heavy, Cassian would push through the ornate doors of Lucien’s chamber. Lucien, prone on a divan heaped with silk cushions, would stir, turning his head with an almost canine eagerness, as if waiting for his keeper. And then, as if Cassian’s presence unlocked a floodgate, Lucien would recount the day’s indignities.
“They speak of further tinctures, Cassian. More painful draughts. My wrists ache from this interminable idleness. And the food here… gods, it’s an insult to the palate. I am no invalid on my deathbed; my constitution is perfectly sound! Why must I suffer such bland gruel, food fit only for a toothless crone?”
He poured out his frustrations, his expression genuinely miserable. In that moment, the veneer of aristocratic charm, the cultivated aloofness Lucien usually wore, crumbled, leaving him appearing no different from a petulant child. Cassian sighed softly, digging into the satchel slung over his shoulder.
A faint, sweet scent, subtly clashing with the leathery aroma of parchment and ink, clung to the velvet lining. Cassian’s lip curled instinctively. He loathed the thought of his bag smelling of anything so pedestrian, so openly edible. But carrying it openly through the Archive’s refined halls would have been an even greater affront to his carefully constructed composure.
“What is it?” Lucien’s voice held a tremor of curiosity, his earlier gloom lifting slightly. Cassian imagined a tail, thick and silken, now wagging tentatively somewhere in his peripheral vision. Disgusting. Utterly, inherently disgusting, this unsolicited tenderness, this unwanted connection. He quickly banished the thought, pulling out a slim, lacquered box.
A pitiful gaze swept over the offering.
Only then did the shadow in Lucien’s eyes recede, replaced by a flicker of something else – anticipation, perhaps even delight.
“A confection. They assured me you are still far from your full recovery, but a single piece would not impede your healing.” Cassian kept his voice flat, devoid of warmth. “Do not misconstrue the gesture. I merely purchased it from a vendor near the south gate.”
The reason for his quick dismissal, his insistence that it carried no deeper significance, was precisely because he had already imbued it with meaning himself. He would never admit to seeking out the particular patisserie famed for its delicate, nutrient-rich sweets, suitable even for the most delicate constitutions. He certainly wouldn’t reveal that he had ensured the flavor was one Lucien had once idly praised in passing. He simply wished to appear as one performing a simple act of pragmatic care, nothing more.
But even that semblance seemed enough for Lucien. He scratched behind his ear, his right hand, still stiff from whatever trauma had befallen him, fumbling slightly. A glimpse of the skin there, flushed a bright crimson, drew Cassian’s eye. His gaze drifted lower, to Lucien’s fingers. They curled inward, unnaturally, a subtle deformity. A twist of discomfort tightened Cassian’s jaw. Why had those fingers caught his attention? Why couldn’t he look away? A suffocating pressure built in his chest.
“…Thank you.” Lucien’s voice, strangely subdued, barely reached him. He glanced up, met Cassian’s eyes, and then, flinching as if caught in a transgression, hurriedly fumbled with the lacquered box. Or was it merely an act? A pretense of startled modesty, as if being observed in his gratitude was a profound embarrassment?
Lucien extracted a piece of candied fruit, pressing it to his lips, consuming it with a hurried, almost mechanical motion. Cassian leaned his exhausted body against the plush back of the divan. It was a rather unrefined sight, crumbs clinging to Lucien’s chin. His pinky, ring, and middle fingers on his right hand, he noticed again, refused to fully articulate. He couldn’t tell if the impairment was genuine or a subtle performance.
Slowly, Cassian shifted closer, taking a silver pick from the box.
“Which do you favor?”
Lucien paused, mid-chew.
“The candied ginger, perhaps?”
At the very least, Cassian felt a responsibility to acknowledge the truth of Lucien’s wounds, whatever their origin. With lips still glistening with sugar, Lucien chewed, lowering his head slightly, a faint smile playing across his features. Cassian found himself utterly unable to comprehend why this creature, whose fingers might never regain their full dexterity, whose very presence was a reminder of Valerius’s brutal possessiveness, could still smile like that. He truly did not understand. He couldn’t bring himself to meet Lucien’s bright, almost glowing face. What was so amusing? If it were Cassian, he would wish only for oblivion.
Cassian selected a piece of ginger, offering it to Lucien. Lucien chewed, still smiling, with an almost defiant vigor. This bastard. He always managed to unsettle Cassian.
* * *
Truthfully, the confection had been an impulse, spurred by an encounter just before Cassian arrived at the infirmary – a necessary detour to Lucien’s private suite within the Archive’s junior scholars’ wing.
This was the second time since Lucien’s… *incident*. Surprisingly, Cassian still possessed the access key to Lucien’s chamber. He had only encountered Lucien’s kin a handful of times in Veridia. Once, his distant cousin. Twice, his mother, Lady Seraphina. She, especially, presented a façade of gentle concern, as if to reward Cassian for shouldering the responsibilities she clearly wished to delegate. Lucien had merely rested his chin on his hand, eyes fixed on his mother’s retreating, rustling silks.
Cassian’s purpose had been simple: retrieve a selection of Lucien’s preferred calligraphic tools and a few volumes of verse to alleviate the monotony of his confinement. Nothing more. He knew, better than anyone, the suffocating boredom of a cloistered existence. Having experienced it himself during his own bouts of scholarly hermitage, he understood the necessity of small comforts. He convinced himself it was merely pragmatic thinking, not sympathy. Certainly not affection.
That day, instead of returning directly to his own, more Spartan quarters, Cassian had detoured to Lucien’s suite. The chamber, usually vibrant with scattered scrolls and half-finished sketches, still welcomed him, albeit with a muted air. Lysander, however, leaning against a towering bookshelf, offered no such warmth. His eyes, cynical as ever, narrowed to slits.
“Still playing the loyal attendant, Thorne?” Lysander’s tone was dry, edged with something sharp.
To be honest, Cassian felt little fondness for Lysander’s unvarnished observations. How could he, a fellow scholar, show so little regard for Lucien’s state? His instinctive sense of propriety, that ingrained Guild morality, made him judge Lysander. He hadn’t even realized he was doing it until the thought surfaced, unbidden. The realization made him clamp his mouth shut, stuffing more of Lucien’s personal effects into a travel satchel.
“It is my assigned duty.”
“Ah, ‘duty’. A most convenient excuse. He really is quite infatuated with you, isn’t he? That mad fool.”
Cassian’s hand froze around a stack of vellum. He turned, slowly, as if a spectral hand pulled him.
“…Infatuated?”
“What, does that please you?” Lysander’s voice dripped with knowing amusement.
“No. I merely asked for clarity.”
“One never ‘merely asks’ anything, Cassian. One asks because one desires to know.” Lysander muttered under his breath, a faint, disgusted sound, but Cassian pretended not to hear. Lysander, however, ignored his pretense, stepping closer. This entire house, it seemed, possessed an uncommon talent for ignoring inconvenient truths. Lysander, Valerius, even Lucien, in his own way.
“Tell me, where did you disappear to after your examinations?”
“My post within the Archives was already secured.”
“Indeed. Though it seems our entire district must know your every movement, considering Lucien’s dramatics. The boy, who never once entered the Grand Temple of Illumination, suddenly took to praying, throwing the most dreadful tantrums. Not long after, he ripped apart the gilded medallion his family had cherished for generations, screaming blasphemies.”
“The medallion? The one blessed by the Arch-Priest?”
“The very one. He used to carry it everywhere, you know. Said it was a gift from his father. Then he called the Divine a ‘toothless viper’ or some such nonsense. After that, he locked himself in his chambers and refused to emerge. Our household, for once, enjoyed a period of blessed quiet. He truly doesn’t comprehend who the real viper is. Fool.” Lysander’s voice, which had been mocking, suddenly lowered, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes, probably in response to Cassian’s rigid expression.
“What now? Your face is flushed.”
“It is not.”
“Nonsense. Do you truly care for him, Cassian? Truly?”
“I told you, no.”
“…Gods above.” Lysander gasped, covering his mouth as if genuinely horrified. “You are truly lost. Utterly.”
Why did he persist, when Cassian had already denied it? Annoyed, Cassian yanked the satchel’s drawstrings tight, the sound sharp in the hushed room. He wanted to offer a scathing retort, a criticism of Lysander’s own callousness. “Why did you divulge this to me? Your father once told me Lucien was his second son, destined for greatness.”
“What? What in the seven hells are you blathering about now?”
A peculiar contradiction. Cassian knew it. Lysander himself, who always managed to prick Cassian’s nerves, had once remarked that Cassian, no matter his intentions, always ended up performing acts of kindness. But now, he had an excuse: the faint, almost unseen scars that marred Lucien’s back, a network of pale lines beneath the fine silk of his chemise. Just as Lucien couldn’t meet Cassian’s eyes when speaking of his injuries, Cassian found himself unable to dwell on those marks.
“Cassian.” Lucien’s hoarse voice, closer now, pulled him back to the present. The infirmary suite, the cloying scent of herbal balms.
“Yes.” Cassian feigned indifference, but he listened, every nerve strung taut.
“Then… is it permissible for me to believe in you?”
“What utter nonsense are you speaking?”
“I will not… *like* you.”
In that instant, Cassian’s heart plummeted, a leaden weight in his gut. Something tightened around his chest, suffocating him. He almost asked—unthinking, reckless—*Why not?* The words nearly spilled from his lips, and in that horrifying moment of near-confession, he realized the abyss he had almost plunged into. His true, hidden thoughts, his raw, pathetic longing, had almost escaped. *Cassian Thorne, you are a damned fool.* He clenched his fists, swallowing the unspoken question, the bitter taste of truth stinging his throat.
Yes. This was for the best. For both of them.
“Then instead, I will believe in you.” But Lucien’s next words, uttered with a strange mix of sorrow and exultation, were utterly baffling. Like a newly initiated acolyte receiving a revelation. Was there any other way to describe his demeanor? Cassian did not understand his meaning. And yet, he did not pull his hand away, did not flee. The suffocating weight on his chest no longer merely squeezed; it twisted, a sharp blade beneath his ribs.
“I am an apostate now. Honestly, you are far more instrumental to my wretched life than any ethereal Guardian of the Lore.”
“Hold your tongue, you blasphemer.” This bastard… “You curse the heavens every single day.”
“No, that’s not true! I was raised a devout follower of the Illuminated Word, you know!” Lucien frantically shook his head, like his very existence depended on Cassian’s belief. His tone – desperate, as if he might truly weep if Cassian doubted him. Caught off guard, Cassian found himself speechless.
And then, as if a sudden resolve seized him, Lucien slid from the divan, dropping to his knees on the polished floor. “Then I shall show you.”
“Lucien, what in the name of the Arcane are you doing?”
A warm, slightly trembling hand reached for Cassian’s foot. Cassian, having been sitting with his legs propped, slid forward, barely clinging to the edge of the seat, his foot left dangling, held firmly in Lucien’s grasp. Lucien’s gaze fell upon a small, faded scar on the sole of Cassian’s foot – a childhood mishap, a shard of porcelain from a broken tea set. His brow furrowed. And, to Cassian’s utter disbelief, Lucien’s eyes welled with moisture.
Cassian recoiled in shock, trying to pull his foot away, but before he could escape, Lucien bowed his head.
“What are you—”
“In the name of the Scholar-Saint, the Lore-Keeper, and the Silent Scribe.” Cold fingertips brushed against Cassian’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, his limbs refusing to obey. Lucien looked up at him once, his face utterly devoid of disgust, a look of profound reverence, as if touching a sacred relic. “I greet the Instrument of my Salvation.” He pressed his lips to the tip of Cassian’s foot. His fine, soft hair brushed against Cassian’s ankle, a faint tickle. The gentle press of his lips warmed the base of Cassian’s toes.
“S-Stop it…” Cassian threw an arm over his face, hiding the sudden, mortifying flush. Lucien’s right hand, the one with the twisted fingers, tightened around Cassian’s ankle. And in that moment, Cassian stopped resisting. Three weak, deformed fingers held him, a delicate, fragile grip tapping lightly against his skin. The lips that had cursed the Divine only moments before now traced a path up his calf.
And Cassian did nothing to stop him. That’s when he realized. This relentless, incurable disease – this gilded burden of his longing, this quiet, suffocating nightmare of his own repressed heart – still wasn’t over.