The mantle of ‘Lysander Kael, attendant to Lady Elara’ weighed on him, a heavy brocade collar he wore with an ill-fitting grace. Each whisper of the title, each polite inquiry into Elara’s health, pressed the realization upon him: he was an adult. The word tasted of ash and responsibility, a garment far too grand for his slender frame.
Adulthood. It felt like a meticulously embroidered cloak, beautiful but restrictive, pulled tight across his shoulders. He had spent countless vigils in the infirmary’s antechamber, wrestling with the silent, inherited obligation to a duty no one explicitly asked him to undertake.
His mornings were devoted to the archives, the careful cataloging of ancient scrolls, the illumination of faded maps. Evenings found him navigating the labyrinthine corridors towards the Thorne infirmary wing, his steps echoing the quiet erosion of his own peace. Indeed, he scarcely recalled half the intricate details of the day’s work; his mind often drifted to the shadowed suite where Elara recuperated.
With a heart heavy as river stone, he would push open the heavy oak door. Elara, often found staring listlessly at the carved ceiling, would surge forward, a fragile bird startled from its perch, as if his arrival were the only rhythm marking her isolated days.
She would then unburden herself, a torrent of complaints tumbling from her lips, as though he were the sole confessor for her misery.
“They speak of another grafting procedure. Ah, this accursed leg, it will be a ruin once more. And the infirmary’s fare, Lysander, it is an offense! My stomach, it is perfectly sound, yet they feed me this pap, fit only for a toothless hound.”
Her grievances, delivered with a genuine twist of her delicate features, stripped away any pretense of maturity. She was a child, despite the grim specter of her illness.
A quiet sigh escaped Lysander. He reached into his satchel, the soft leather already permeated by the faint, cloying scent of baked bread and savory herbs. His face tightened imperceptibly; he abhorred the mingling of scents, the disruption of order. But he had chosen this over the indignity of carrying the small parcel openly.
“What?” Elara’s voice, a mere thread of sound, drew his gaze. He could almost envision a small, dejected animal, tail drooped, in her hunched posture. A stray, unbidden thought, grotesque in its sentimentality.
He banished the image with a mental whip, then drew forth a wooden box, carefully lacquered. Her downcast eyes, dull with tedium, flickered to the offering. A fragile hope began to unfurl within their depths.
“What is this?”
“A small repast. I inquired, and was assured your surgery is yet distant, permitting a more substantial meal.”
“A repast?” A tremulous breath escaped her.
“Do not imbue it with significance. It was acquired from a vendor near the outer grounds.” He spoke with a practiced detachment, a lie he told himself as much as her. He would never confess the meticulous search, the quiet inquiries for a provisioner whose offerings were both wholesome and palatable for a delicate constitution. He wished only for the gesture to appear as simple, unburdened kindness.
Yet, even this fragile veil of indifference seemed to be enough for Elara. With her less-injured right hand, she worried at her ear, the lobe turning a furious crimson. Lysander’s gaze drifted lower, to the left hand resting on her lap. The pinky and ring fingers curled inward, a permanent, unnatural knot of flesh. His stomach clenched. Why must his eyes always seek out the evidence of her suffering? He averted his gaze, a knot tightening in his chest.
“……A-appreciation,” she stammered, her voice strangely subdued. Elara glanced up, her eyes meeting his for a fleeting instant before she flinched, as if caught in a forbidden act. She fumbled clumsily with the lid of the wooden box, a frantic pretense of urgency, as if to hide her momentary vulnerability.
Lysander watched her, a hollow weariness settling into his bones. She scooped food into her mouth, a machine-like motion, oblivious to the crumbs falling onto the pristine linen. A truly repulsive sight, he thought. Her three injured fingers remained stubbornly unbending. He couldn't discern if it was genuine difficulty or a performance for his benefit. Slowly, he leaned forward, taking the silver spoon from her grasp.
“What would you prefer?” he asked, his voice low.
Silence.
“The spiced fowl, perhaps?”
At the very least, he had a duty to acknowledge the veracity of her wounds, to believe in the reality of her pain. Her lips smeared with sauce, Elara chewed slowly, then dipped her head, offering a small, luminous smile. Lysander found himself profoundly disturbed. How could this individual, whose fingers would never again move in unison, whose leg bore the angry script of scars, find cause for such unalloyed joy? The question lodged in his mind, sharp and insistent. He couldn't bear the brightness of her face.
If it were he, he thought, he would simply wish for oblivion. He selected a piece of the succulent fowl, holding it to her lips. Elara ate with renewed vigor, her smile unwavering. This fragile, wounded creature always managed to unsettled him.
Truthfully, the repast had been prompted by an incident earlier that day, before his journey to the infirmary – a necessary errand to Elara’s private chambers.
---
This was the second time since the grafting procedures that Lysander had cause to visit Elara’s suite. He still possessed the silver guardian’s pass, a strange relic of his temporary authority. He had encountered Elara’s immediate family a scant three times within the infirmary’s hushed confines: once her father, twice her mother. Her mother, especially, would affect a gentle, solicitous air towards Lysander, as if bestowing a silent commendation for his continued stewardship of a duty she herself had forsaken.
Elara had merely rested her chin in her palm, her gaze fixed on her mother’s retreating back, a silent testament to their emotional distance. Lysander’s sole purpose had been to gather some of Elara’s forgotten possessions. Anything, he reasoned, to alleviate the interminable tedium of her recuperation. He understood, better than most, the suffocating ennui of confinement. Having experienced a similar, albeit less severe, period of recovery himself after an old fall, he knew precisely the small comforts she would crave. He told himself it was not sympathy. Not a hint of affection.
That day, instead of returning to his spartan chambers in the archivist’s wing, he had diverted his path through the main estate. His destination: Elara’s chambers. The door, heavy with carved Thorne sigils, yielded easily, a silent welcome. Yet, her older sister, Lyra, who stood framed in the archway of Elara’s sitting room, offered no such greeting.
Lyra leaned against the cool stone, her expression as dry and parched as ancient parchment. “Still hovering over Elara, Lysander?” she inquired, a brittle edge to her voice.
Lysander felt a jolt of resentment. How could she, her own blood, remain so distant from the infirmary? The sheer, primal unfairness of it sparked a quiet judgment within him. He hadn’t even realized he was doing it until the thought solidified. He clamped his jaw shut, forcing more of Elara’s scrolls and sketching charcoals into his satchel.
“Indeed.”
“She truly clings to you, doesn’t she? That foolish girl, utterly consumed.” Lyra’s words, sharp as shards of glass, caught in the quiet air. Lysander’s hand, resting on the satchel’s clasp, froze. He turned slowly, compelled by an unseen force.
“……Consumed by me?”
“What, does the thought please you?” Her lip curled with distaste.
“No. It was merely an inquiry.”
“No one merely inquires without a reason. You sought to know, and so you asked.” Lyra muttered something beneath her breath, something Lysander pretended not to hear. Still, she moved closer, her presence dismissive of his own. This entire family, he reflected, possessed a unique talent for ignoring those around them – Lyra, Elara, even the Baron himself.
“Tell me, where did you disappear to after the Baron’s Feast last season?” Lyra continued, a mocking lilt in her tone.
“I remained within the estate, attending to my duties.” He knew the entire household likely gossiped about his sudden, if temporary, reclusion. It was not a tale he wished to recount.
“It’s not as if I cared to discover. But Elara… she became quite distraught. That girl, who never once entered the Thorne chapel, suddenly prayed with fervent desperation, then ripped apart the carved rosary her father gifted her. She shrieked curses at the Architect and shut herself away for days. Our chambers, for once, knew peace. She never truly comprehends the source of her own despair. Foolish child.” Her voice, which had dripped with scorn, softened slightly, likely noticing the rigid set of Lysander’s jaw.
“What now? Your face is flushed.”
“It is not.”
“Nonsense. Do you truly harbor affection for her? Do you?”
“I deny it.”
“……By the ancient ones.” Lyra gasped, covering her mouth as if genuinely horrified. “You are truly unhinged. Truly.”
Lysander bristled. Why did she persist in her accusation when he had already denied it? Irritation flared, and he yanked his satchel’s zipper shut with a sharp click. He wanted to retaliate, to wound her in turn.
“Why did you speak of such things to me?” Lysander countered, his voice clipped. “Your father, the Baron, once referred to Elara as his second daughter. What hypocrisy.”
“What? What in the shadowed realms are you speaking of now?” Lyra’s brow furrowed, genuinely confused by his sudden shift. A profound contradiction, he thought. He knew it to be true. Old Master Kael, his own father, used to say it: “Lysander, for all your quiet resolve, you always find a way to perform an act of kindness in the end.” No matter his intentions.
But for now, he had an excuse. The mottled, uneven scars that marred Elara’s back. Just as she often avoided his gaze, he found himself unable to dwell on the sight of those marks.
---
“Lysander.” Elara’s voice, raspy from disuse, pulled him back to the present, to the warmth of the infirmary suite. He had finished feeding her, the spoon now resting on the bedside table.
“Yes, Elara.”
“Then… is it permissible for me to believe in you?” Her plea, laced with a fragile hope, crept closer. He feigned indifference, a mask of calm composure.
“What strange words are these?”
“I will not… harbor affection for you.” In that instant, a cold, sharp blade plunged into Lysander’s chest. His stomach twisted, a sudden, sickening lurch. Something constricted around his lungs, stealing the very air. He almost spoke, the words forming unbidden: *Why not?* The raw, unvarnished truth, his hidden longing, had almost escaped his carefully constructed façade. *Lysander Kael, you are a fool.* He clenched his fists beneath the table, forcing the words back down, swallowing the bitter taste of their absence. Yes, he thought. This was for the best. For both of them.
“Instead, I shall believe in you.” Elara’s voice, however, was a strange blend of sorrow and triumph, like a devotee receiving a sacred revelation. He did not comprehend her words. Yet, he did not withdraw his hand. Did not flee. The suffocating weight on his chest, no longer merely squeezing, now twisted, a sharp, stabbing ache.
“I am an atheist now, Lysander. Truly, you are more profoundly useful to my existence than any distant Architect in the sky.”
“Hush, Elara.” Her blasphemy grated on his sensibilities.
“You cast aspersions upon the divine every waking moment.”
“No, that is untrue! I was raised a devout believer, you know!” she insisted, her words tumbling out in a rush. “Then what were those sentiments you just uttered?” he challenged.
Elara waved her hand frantically, as if to ward off a terrible fate. Her tone, desperate, teetered on the brink of tears. If he did not believe her, she might actually weep. Caught off guard, Lysander found himself speechless. Then, as if a sudden resolve had seized her, Elara slid from the cushioned settee, sinking to her knees beside him.
“Then I shall show you.”
“Elara, what are you doing?” A small, slender hand, surprisingly strong, enveloped his foot. Since he had been sitting with one leg casually propped on the settee, he slid forward slightly, now perched precariously on its edge. His foot, suspended in the air, was held firm by her grasp. Elara’s gaze, solemn and focused, fell upon the old scar on the sole of his foot – a jagged, silvered line from a forgotten shard of glass that had once pierced his skin on the estate grounds. Her brow furrowed, a delicate crease of concern. To his disbelief, her eyes glistened, filling with unshed tears. Lysander recoiled in shock, attempting to pull his foot away. Before he could fully escape, Elara bowed her head.
“What are you—”
“In the name of the Silent Father, the Veiled Son, and the Whispering Spirit.” Cold fingertips brushed against his ankle, sending a shiver up his calf, a sharp, unexpected ache deep in his stomach. *What madness is this?* He strained to free his foot, but his strength seemed to abandon him. Elara looked up at him once, her eyes shining. Then, with a face devoid of a single trace of disgust, as though she approached a sacred relic,
“I greet the Lord,” she whispered. She pressed her lips to the tip of his foot. Her fine, soft hair brushed against his ankle, a light, ethereal tickle. The gentle pressure of her lips lingered at the base of his toes.
“S-stop,” he managed, the word barely a breath. He threw his arm across his face, shielding himself from her fervent gaze. Elara’s right hand, the one with the weak, injured fingers, tightened its hold around his ankle. In that moment, he ceased his struggle.
Three fragile fingers, weak and permanently bent, tapped lightly, almost caressingly, against his skin. The lips that had so recently cursed the Architect now traced a path, slow and deliberate, up his calf. He did nothing to stop her. And then, a chilling clarity descended upon him. This relentless, incurable malady – this nightmare of his life, entwined with Elara’s fragile existence – it was not yet over.