The title, ‘Brother Elias, Scribe-Attendant to the Afflicted,’ chafed like coarse wool. Each pronouncement of it brought a fresh wave of heat to his cheeks, a painful awareness of his new, unwanted station. A Scribe-Attendant. The syllables felt foreign, a ceremonial cowl too heavy for his slight frame.
He had spent countless nights wrestling with this inherited charge. The Prior’s word was unyielding, a command cloaked in spiritual counsel. Brother Kael, suffering from a debilitating spiritual affliction, required a steady hand, a meticulous mind. Elias, with his reverence for sacred texts and his quiet nature, had been deemed suitable.
His days fractured. Mornings found him hunched over ancient psalters in the Scriptorium, his quill scratching across vellum, his soul yearning for the simple purity of monastic life. Evenings dragged him to the infirmary’s quiet ward.
Truthfully, he attended half his prescribed duties in a daze, his thoughts a tangled knot of scripture and unease.
With a heart heavy as lead, Elias would push open the infirmary door. Brother Kael would turn, eyes wide, as if he had been awaiting his very arrival, a forgotten prayer suddenly remembered.
And, as if Kael had been storing them for Elias alone, he would unload every tremor of his suffering, every perceived slight from the infirmary attendants.
“They speak again of further purification rites, Brother. My knees are raw from genuflecting, my spirit… it feels flayed. And the broth here, it is a penance in itself. Taste of ash and sour herbs. Am I not a child of Veritas, deserving of some sustenance, not this gruel fit only for penitents in the lowest cells?”
The torrent of frustration, delivered with a genuine, miserable twist to his young face, made him seem no different from an unchastened novice.
Elias let out a silent sigh. He reached into his satchel. Already, the faint scent of spiced lamb and fresh greens clung to the rough linen. He disliked the way it permeated the leather, staining his tools of devotion.
A flicker of distaste crossed his face. But the alternative—carrying it openly through the cloisters—would have been worse. Far worse.
“What is this?”
Kael’s voice, a mere breath. Elias almost imagined a drooping tail, thick with dark fur, in his peripheral vision. A repulsive thought, swiftly suppressed.
He pulled a small, carefully wrapped parcel from his bag. The simple cloth cover gave no hint of its contents.
A pitiful gaze swept over the offering. Only then did the gloom in Kael’s eyes shift, softening into something Elias could not quite name.
“A… a portion.” Elias’s voice felt stiff. “I inquired of the Steward. For those requiring a more… robust constitution.”
“A portion?” Kael repeated, his brow furrowed in confusion, or perhaps, dawning hope.
“Do not imbue it with significance,” Elias said, his tone sharper than intended. “It is merely… a measure to aid your recovery, as per the Prior’s implicit wishes.”
He had chosen the words carefully, a shield against his own conscience. The true reason for the special meal—he had spent precious hours in the auxiliary kitchen, meticulously overseeing its preparation, selecting ingredients known for their fortifying properties, ensuring the flavors were not only wholesome but palatable—he would never voice. He had even, on an impulse, added a sprig of fresh mint, a forbidden indulgence.
He merely wished to appear an obedient Scribe, performing a duty of human kindness, nothing more. But even that, it seemed, was enough for Brother Kael.
With his barely functional left hand, Kael scratched behind his ear, a frantic, almost desperate gesture. The ear, glimpsed for a moment, was flushed a vivid crimson. Elias’s gaze drifted lower, to the boy’s fingers. They curled slightly, stiff, bearing the faint, silvery tracks of scar tissue. Deformed. His own face twisted in a silent grimace.
Why did those fingers snag his attention? Why could he not look away? A familiar tightness constricted his chest.
“T-Thank you, Brother,” Kael murmured, his voice oddly subdued.
Kael glanced at Elias hesitantly. Their eyes met, and Kael flinched, pulling back as if struck. He fumbled with the wrapper, pretending an urgent need to open the parcel. Or perhaps he truly was startled. As if being caught meeting Elias’s gaze was a transgression. As if he did not want Elias to notice the unguarded vulnerability there.
Watching him stuff the food into his mouth, not with hunger, but with a mechanical urgency, Elias leaned his exhausted body against the hard wooden bench beside Kael’s cot.
It was a disquieting sight. Crumbs scattered across the rough woolen blanket. Kael’s pinky, ring, and middle fingers on his left hand did not bend properly. Elias could not tell if the awkwardness was genuine, or an exaggerated performance born of shame.
Slowly, Elias moved closer. He reached out and took the spoon from Kael’s hand.
“What would you prefer?” Elias asked, his voice low. “The lamb? Or the greens?”
Kael looked up, startled, his mouth full, then lowered his head slightly and smiled, a smear of sauce at the corner of his lips. Elias had no understanding of how this novice, whose fingers would never properly grasp a quill, whose spirit was etched with the scars of prolonged illness, could smile like that.
He truly had no understanding. He could not bring himself to meet the boy’s bright, luminous face. What in the name of the Blessed Mother was so amusing? If it were Elias, he would simply wish for the blessed peace of eternal slumber. He picked out a tender piece of spiced lamb and, with a precision born of years spent copying scripture, lifted it to Kael’s mouth. Kael chewed forcefully, still smiling.
This novice always made Elias deeply uncomfortable. Honestly, the reason he had brought the special meal was because of an incident earlier that day, before he had even come to the infirmary—a stop at Kael’s private cell.
---
It was the second time since Kael’s affliction had worsened that Elias had sought out his cell. Surprisingly, his attendant’s key still granted him entry. Elias had only ever encountered Kael’s immediate family twice since his assignment: once, his father, a stern Deacon from the Outer Ward, and once, his mother, a pious lay sister, both visiting only briefly. Kael’s mother, in particular, had offered Elias an unctuous, saccharine gratitude, as if to reward him for undertaking the responsibilities she had readily delegated.
Kael, from his sickbed, merely rested his chin on a balled fist, watching his mother’s retreating back with an unsettling blankness in his eyes. Elias had only come to gather a few of Kael’s personal effects. Perhaps a favored devotional text, or a small carved crucifix. Something to alleviate the oppressive boredom of the infirmary. That was all.
He knew better than anyone the soul-crushing monotony of being confined. And since he had experienced it himself, in a brief, childhood bout of fever, he knew exactly what Kael needed. He convinced himself it was not sympathy. Not affection. Only a pragmatic understanding.
That day, instead of returning directly to his Scriptorium cell, Elias had diverted to Kael’s empty quarters. The cell, though sparse, still retained Kael’s faint presence. But Acolyte Lyra, Kael’s elder sister, did not.
Leaning against the cool stone wall outside Kael’s cell, Lyra, a sharp, elegant woman with the gaze of a falcon, asked dryly: “Still ministering to Brother Kael, Scribe-Attendant? Your diligence is truly exemplary.”
To be honest, Elias harbored a quiet resentment towards Lyra. How could she never visit Kael in the infirmary, not even once? Her own kin lay suffering. That instinctual, unbidden sense of morality made him judge her. He hadn’t even realized he was doing it. It wasn’t intentional. The moment he recognized the thought, he clamped his mouth shut and shoved another of Kael’s devotional scrolls into his satchel.
“It is my assigned duty,” Elias replied, his voice flat.
“Duty, yes. He truly did it, didn’t he? Our mad little brother. So utterly fixed on you.” Lyra’s words were a low hiss, barely audible in the quiet corridor. Elias’s hand froze mid-air, hovering over a small wooden prayer box. He turned, slowly, as if possessed.
“Fixed… on me?”
“What, does that please you?” Lyra’s eyes narrowed.
“No, I merely asked for clarification.”
“Nobody ever ‘merely asks’ for clarification, Scribe-Attendant. You wished to understand, so you asked.”
A disgusting insinuation. She muttered under her breath, a cynical twist to her lips, but Elias pretended not to hear it. Still, she stepped closer, ignoring his discomfort. This entire family had a peculiar talent for ignoring inconvenient truths. Lyra, Kael, even their Deacon father.
“Brother, what happened after Kael was confined?” Lyra asked, her voice unexpectedly softer.
Elias said nothing. Surely, the entire Order knew.
“It’s not as if I sought the details. But Kael… he threw a fit. Never one for fervent devotion, you know. But suddenly, he was praying, crying out, then tearing at his prayer beads, screaming imprecations.”
“Prayer beads?” Elias whispered, remembering the smooth, polished wood Kael had always carried.
“Yes, those. He treasured them. Said they were a gift from our father. Then he cursed the Blessed Mother, called the Prior a blind fool, locked himself in his cell for days. Our house was finally peaceful for once. He doesn’t even realize who the true fool is. The wretch.” Her voice, which had been mocking, suddenly dipped lower, probably due to Elias’s unchanging, stark expression.
“What now? Your face is flushed.”
“It is not.” Elias’s cheeks burned.
“No. You truly… you care for him? You desire him?” Lyra’s voice was a cruel, probing whisper.
“I do not.” The denial felt weak, an unspoken lie.
“By the Saints…” She gasped, covering her mouth as if horrified. “You are truly lost. Truly.”
Why did she persist when he had already denied it? Annoyed, Elias yanked his satchel’s flap shut, the leather straps biting into his wrist. He wanted to lash out, to criticize her cold indifference. “Why did you speak of this to me? Your father only told me Kael was his second son.” He meant the family’s distance, not the biological fact.
A True Contradiction.
What a contradiction he was. Even Brother Silas, whose detached observations often pricked at Elias, had once remarked, ‘Elias, no matter his intentions, always ends up doing some good in the end.’
But right now, Elias felt he had an excuse. The faint, silvery scars spreading across Kael’s skin, a constant reminder of his suffering. Just as Kael often could not meet Elias’s eyes, Elias found himself unable to dwell on Kael’s physical imperfections.
“Brother Elias.” Kael’s voice, a hoarse whisper, drew closer. Elias feigned indifference, arranging his scroll case. But he listened.
“Yes, Brother Kael?”
“I… I will not revere you.” Kael’s words were a sudden, sharp blow. In that instant, Elias’s heart crashed to the stone floor. His stomach twisted. Something tightened, cold and suffocating, around his chest. He almost asked—without thinking—‘Why not?’ The moment the words nearly escaped his lips, he realized the abyss of what he was about to say. His true, hidden thoughts had almost spilled forth. Elias, you are a fool.
He clenched his fists, swallowing the question down. Yes. This was for the best. For both of them.
“Then instead, I will believe in you.” Kael’s voice was a strange mixture of sorrow and joy, like a novice receiving a profound, unexpected revelation. Elias 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 now stabbed.
“I am an atheist now, Brother. Honestly, you are far more useful to my life than that distant, silent God in the heavens.”
“Silence, Brother. You blaspheme.” Elias’s voice was tight, a thin wire stretched taut.
“No, that is not true! I was raised a devout believer, you know!” Kael insisted, frantically shaking his head. His tone was desperate, as if he might actually weep if Elias did not believe him. Caught off guard, Elias was left speechless. And then, as if he had made a profound decision, Kael suddenly slid from his cot and dropped to his knees.
“Then I will show you.”
“Brother, what is the meaning of this?” Elias exclaimed, startled. A trembling hand reached out and grasped Elias’s bare ankle. Elias had been sitting with his legs propped on the bench, his feet bare beneath the hem of his robe. He slid forward, barely perching on the edge, his foot now suspended in the air, held in Kael’s grasp.
Then, Kael’s gaze landed on the small, faded scar on the sole of Elias’s foot—the mark left years ago from stepping on a shard of broken glass during a hurried evening vigil. Kael’s brow furrowed, a profound empathy softening his features. And to Elias’s disbelief, Kael’s eyes welled with tears.
Elias jerked back in shock, trying to pull his foot away. Before he could escape, Kael lowered his head.
“Brother Kael, stop—”
“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.” Kael’s cold fingertips brushed against Elias’s ankle. A sharp ache shot up his calf, deep into his stomach. What in the name of the Blessed Mother was this novice doing? Elias tried to yank his foot free, but his strength abandoned him.
Kael looked up at him once, his tear-filled eyes gleaming. And then, with a face that showed not a single ounce of disgust—like a devout believer touching a sacred relic, a fragment of a saint’s bone—
“I greet the Lord,” Kael whispered, pressing his lips to the tip of Elias’s foot. Kael’s fine, soft hair brushed against Elias’s ankle, a light, unsettling tickle on his skin. The gentle press of Kael’s lips rubbed against the base of Elias’s toes.
“S-Stop this…” Elias threw his arm over his face, hiding his burning cheeks. Kael’s left hand tightened around his ankle. And in that moment—Elias stopped resisting. Three weak fingers, scarred and trembling, held onto him. A delicate, fragile grip tapped lightly against his skin. The lips that cursed God every day now traced a path up his calf. And Elias did nothing to stop him.
That’s when he realized. This relentless, incurable disease—this nightmare of being Elias, the Scribe-Attendant, forever bound by unseen chains—still wasn’t over.