My surname is Beaumont, my given name Julian, but for many within the hallowed halls of Ashworth College, I am simply Beaumont. The appellation, once suggested by Rhys Pembroke in our initial Michaelmas term, had adhered with the ease of a familiar garment. He claimed it rolled off the tongue with more authority than Julian, a name he considered too… *soft*. A handful of fellows still call me Julian, but that is a tale for another time, fraught with a different sort of tension.
Rhys Pembroke, a student of the same term, stood in stark contrast to me. His very presence radiated a power that defied mere physical description. From the proud angle of his chin to the careless grace of his stride, he was everything I was not. Academically, our positions were diametrically opposed; he reclined comfortably near the bottom of every register, his intellect perhaps too restless for such pedestrian pursuits.
Did I initially dismiss him, then? My ingrained understanding of Ashworth’s intricate social strata usually dictated such an outcome. I believed, fundamentally, that every soul occupied a rightful rung on the societal ladder, and Rhys, despite his aristocratic lineage, seemed destined for a different path than scholarly pre-eminence. Yet, a strange current prevented me from treating him as merely another indolent noble. When first our gazes met, his light brown eyes, flecked with gold, bore into mine with an undeniable, almost elemental force.
Rhys possessed a peculiar scent. Not the cloying fragrance of pomade, nor the stale aroma of aged tweed, but something more elusive—a faint, vital musk that seemed to precede him. It was a clean, almost wild scent, utterly captivating. Like a moth drawn to a guttering flame, I found myself, quite unconsciously, initiating conversation.
Often, I sought common ground between us. Superficial similarities, such as our shared popularity amongst our peers, or the comfortable affluence of our families, became my flimsy justifications.
Ashworth College, a venerable institution carved from ancient stone, straddled a peculiar societal divide. Its imposing gates overlooked both the manicured lawns of the gentry’s estates and the bustling, less refined thoroughfares of the mercantile district.
Providentially, my own family resided amidst the former. Not merely wealthy, but possessing a legacy of land and influence that positioned us amongst the most respected families in the county. Born an only child, I was swathed in every conceivable privilege, my parents’ considerable social power a gilded treasure pressed into my infant hands. It was no wonder, perhaps, that I matured with a certain calculated pragmatism beneath my quiet exterior.
For these reasons, Ashworth's student body represented a curious blend of inherited wealth and burgeoning ambition. Rhys Pembroke, undoubtedly, belonged to the former. Once this fact solidified in my mind, a peculiar surge of anticipation tightened my chest. With that convenient rationale, I approached him without hesitation, and a bond, however fragile, began to form.
Just as my acumen lay in the deciphering of ancient languages and intricate texts, Rhys’s brilliance manifested in the effortless command of his social milieu. He quickly drew the most influential and formidable young men to his orbit, and before a single term had concluded, he stood unchallenged at the apex of Pemberley’s social hierarchy. Thus, Rhys Pembroke became the undisputed leader of the Pemberley contingent.
***
The heavy oak door before me remained stubbornly shut for an interminable stretch. My stomach, a knotted fist of apprehension, began to ache with a dull throb. Only then, as my fingers unconsciously pressed against the offending tightness, did a sliver of darkness appear. Through the narrow gap, I glimpsed Rhys’s flushed skin. His hand, momentarily visible and faintly reddened, released the latch, and the door began its slow, heavy swing towards closure. Before it could fully embrace the frame, I slipped inside, a desperate, almost shameful manoeuvre.
Within the chamber, Rhys already sat upon the rumpled bed. He wore little more than his undergarments, a half-smoked cheroot dangling from his lips, gnawed upon with an absent air.
“Damn it all. My father’s harping again. Answer if he calls my instrument, tell him we were engaged in scholarly discourse.”
He clicked a silver lighter open and shut, the rhythmic snap punctuating his words. He made no move to ignite the cheroot, yet his face held the languid exhaustion of one recently emerged from a more carnal pursuit. My stomach, still raw and tight, prompted me to rub it as I neared him. Snatching the abused cheroot from his mouth, I heard a sharp edge in my own voice.
“And why should I oblige?”
“Because we are… *friends*.”
Ah, yes. Friends. The way he drew out the word always struck me as profoundly melancholic, a desolate echo that seemed to tear at the very fabric of my composure. Yet, my expression remained shamelessly, meticulously calm.
“Know that I shall collect on this favour, one way or another.”
“My gratitude, Beaumont.”
The room was thick with the heavy, sweet perfume of jasmine, cloying and foreign, intertwined with the fainter, distinctly feminine sillage of a lady’s pomade. Such nuances of scent, I realised with a pang, were knowledge gained solely through my association with Rhys.
Rumours from his earlier schooling whispered of indiscretions since his mid-teens. They spoke of a lost innocence in a forgotten stable block with a chambermaid, a story that spoke volumes of his character.
Even then, apparently, his bearing was remarkably mature. Rhys’s formidable appearance was not typical of an undergraduate. Most encountering him for the first time mistook him for a man well into his twenties. His bold, sharply defined features lent him a brooding, almost sophisticated air.
Upon entering Ashworth, he began openly frequenting private clubs and discreet gambling dens whenever boredom gnawed at him. Possessing ample funds and, inexplicably, an identity card bearing a fabricated birth year, he brandished it with insolent confidence. He pursued attractive women, his liaisons becoming a regular pastime. His striking good looks served as a potent veil for his hedonistic proclivities.
Individually, his eyes, nose, and mouth possessed no singular remarkable quality. But in their collective arrangement, they coalesced into a face of inexplicable, arresting power. His aura was so refined that few could credit him as a mere undergraduate; most presumed him at least five years older than his actual age.
My gaze drifted, scanning the room as if in search of some explanation, though I knew such a quest was futile. The heavy atmosphere, a lingering residue of his recent escapade, stirred a faint nausea in my throat.
“Where is Cassian Thorne?”
“He departed.”
“…”
“That rogue is utterly mad, no matter how I consider him. A damned joke.”
Rhys propped his chin on a hand, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest. I felt a frown etch itself upon my brow.
Cassian Thorne was, by a considerable margin, the second person I found most detestable.
Their acquaintance had only blossomed in our second year. As much as it galled me to concede, they spent so much time in each other’s company that their friendship felt inevitable. While Rhys commanded Pemberley, Cassian Thorne held a formidable reputation amongst the Kingsley students.
Still, our paths seldom intersected. The only reliable encounters occurred within the grand refectory, a space shared by both Pemberley and Kingsley students.
Once, amidst the midday bustle, a fellow nudged my shoulder. “That’s Cassian Thorne,” he whispered.
Curiosity, an unwelcome guest, prompted me to rise on my toes for a better view. Among the sea of dark-haired students, a tall, sharply angular young man stood out. I knew at once it was him.
“He possesses a rather unpleasant aspect,” I murmured, more to myself than my companion.
A lackey of Rhys’s, perched nearby, replied, “Indeed, somewhat. They say he is dreadfully self-centred.”
I allowed a smirk to play upon my lips but offered only a perfunctory nod. As much as I loathed to admit it, I comprehended his rivalry with Rhys. That only deepened my dislike, yet, inexplicably, I found my gaze unwilling to stray.
A dazzling gloom—that was my indelible first impression of Cassian Thorne.
By some obscure chance, our eyes met. It was peculiar that he detected my scrutiny, given the sheer multitude of gazes upon him in the crowded refectory. His long, hooded eyes, with their strikingly thin pupils, seemed to pierce the distance. Reflexively, I flinched, as if struck by a sudden blow.
*What are you staring at?*
He must have read my lips, for he narrowed one eye, a gesture of silent challenge. Honestly, I felt a flicker of intimidation, so I feigned indifference and averted my gaze. Then, loud enough for the fellow beside me to overhear, I pronounced:
“He possesses the serpentine grace of a predator.”
Thereafter, Cassian Thorne and I often found our eyes locking, though we invariably chose to ignore one another. Whenever our gazes crossed, he would typically lower his head first, only to inevitably look up again, catching my eye once more. Nine times out of ten, he was the first to yield, but I found myself following suit on occasion. I ceased counting after the eighteenth such instance.
***
As if by some perverse miracle, Rhys and I found ourselves assigned to the same tutorial group again for the second term. While a secret thrill stirred within me at this continued proximity, a familiar, unwelcome face materialised amongst the students. It was truly astonishing—and utterly infuriating. For the first time, I gained a proper, unhindered view of the infamous countenance: Cassian Thorne.
It was Cassian Thorne who initiated the conversation.
“Beaumont. Care for luncheon?”
Damn him.
And just as every observer had silently predicted, the two, Rhys and Cassian, formed an unlikely alliance. Rhys, a man who revelled in the effulgence of his own charismatic brilliance, found in Cassian Thorne a rival who met his exacting standards. Cassian possessed a formidable masculine presence, enjoyed considerable standing amongst his own cohort, and was widely regarded. Their friendship, perhaps, was an inevitability.
In the common room, the perpetual topic of debate often arose: should Rhys Pembroke and Cassian Thorne ever truly clash, who would emerge victorious? From my own perspective, such a confrontation would never materialise. While Rhys and I were superficial opposites, Rhys and Cassian Thorne were remarkably similar in their underlying strength and influence.
Yet, a singular, stark distinction separated them.
Cassian Thorne harboured a strange, almost puritanical streak. Despite his ears being adorned with multiple piercings to the point of looking quite savage, he sometimes adopted the air of a self-righteous moralist.
For instance, when Rhys felt the stirrings of carnal desire, he simply selected a woman who caught his eye and arranged to pass the night with her. When questioned about his nocturnal escapades, he would recount his steamy early morning adventures with casual pride. In contrast, Cassian Thorne would laugh off the usual crude remarks about desiring to fondle a woman’s décolletage. Sometimes, he would even mock them outright by seizing the chest of the portly fellow seated beside him, squeezing hard enough to elicit a genuine yelp of pain.
“My dear fellow, your mammary glands rival those of most ladies. Perhaps you should simply grope *him* instead. And truly, you appear quite ghastly. Do consider wearing a corset or some such contraption; cease parading those appalling endowments about – it offends the aesthetic.”
Even his most vulgar remarks were barbed with a caustic, refined sarcasm.
Yet, when the opportune moment presented itself, Cassian Thorne would utter something utterly baffling, like, “My virtue, such as it is, is reserved solely for the Divine Master of my future.” That, precisely, was the difference.
Rhys once offered to procure a forged identification card for Cassian – an offer he had never extended to me – but Cassian had dismissed it as a pointless endeavour, refusing outright.
Rhys’s various acquaintances found Cassian Thorne’s eccentricities endlessly diverting, but I did not. The reason remained uncomplicated: he was close to Rhys. And they perambulated the college grounds like inseparable companions. That alone sufficed to fuel my quiet, simmering resentment. It was a corrosive jealousy.
Still, I managed to present an amiable façade to Cassian Thorne. One of my ingrained aptitudes was the meticulous concealment of my true sentiments, regardless of the circumstance. Besides, his proximity to Rhys made such a performance a necessity. Yes, every facet of my carefully constructed social existence revolved, inexorably, around Rhys Pembroke.
To be candid, there were more days when self-loathing curdled in my gut for this very reason than there were days spent in pleasant contemplation of Rhys. I often felt like a complete, utter fool. Yet, despite this gnawing self-awareness, I remained immutably, painfully unchanged.
Rhys tossed a few desultory words in my direction before disappearing into the adjoining lavatory for a wash, leaving me lost in my troubled thoughts. A few minutes later, the insistent trill of his telephone broke the silence. Fresh from his ablutions, Rhys retrieved the instrument from the bed and tossed it to me. I caught it deftly, and on the other end, I recognised his father’s cultured tones.
Clearing my throat, I answered. Why did I even bother to project an air of composure?
“Yes, Beaumont speaking.”
“Beaumont? Are you with Rhys at this moment?”
“Indeed, I am.”
“Ah, I see. My worries, it seems, were quite unfounded. I feared Rhys might be out causing mischief again. You possess such a pleasant speaking voice, Beaumont.”
“My thanks, sir.”
“No, truly. How fares your term?”
“I am faring exceptionally well, thank you. And yourself, sir?”
“Likewise. You speak with such elegance. If only Rhys would acquire some of your manners. That boy is utterly devoid of civility. So, you were studying together?”
“Yes. Rhys must have quite forgotten to apprise you. He has been rather preoccupied with his upcoming examinations.”
“Then you have been engaged in study together this entire evening?”
“Yes. He has been in my company without interruption.”
“Well, that is a relief to hear. If he is with you, I may rest easy.”
“It is nothing, truly.”
“No, Beaumont, it is something of import. With you, he avoids temptation and trouble.”
“Truly, it is no trouble at all. I shall ensure he returns to his quarters safely.”
“Good man. Do look after him. Remain friends and avoid any disagreeable disputes.”
“Yes, of course, sir. Good evening.”
Lies, expertly crafted and effortlessly delivered, flowed from my tongue.
Upon terminating the call, I tossed the telephone back to Rhys, who muttered a terse “My thanks” as he continued to dress. Without another word, I turned to depart. Rhys made no attempt to detain me.
“Until later, Beaumont.” That was all he offered.
It was precisely what I expected. Such was the limited scope of our association. The vast, unbridgeable chasm between us yawned painfully wide. Perhaps that was why I quickened my pace, the ache in my throat persisting long after I exited his chambers.
I hurried out of the college, the cool night air doing little to soothe the unsettling churn within me. The grand archway of Ashworth College, a symbol of permanence and privilege, felt less like a sanctuary and more like a cage, gilded though it was. The lies, still echoing in my mind, clung to my tongue like dust.
My steps echoed sharply on the cobblestones as I navigated the winding paths towards my own, quieter quarters. The elegant façade I had presented to Rhys’s father, the easy deception, felt like a heavy cloak I could not shed. Inside, the quiet intellectual ambition that usually defined me felt tarnished, overshadowed by this strange, persistent loyalty to a boy who barely acknowledged its depth. My heart, a quiet observer of this intricate dance, throbbed with a lonely, unspoken resentment. The evening’s events settled upon me, a suffocating weight, cementing my place in the shadow of Rhys Pembroke’s brilliant, chaotic orbit.
Each lie, each carefully chosen word, drew me deeper into his world, yet simultaneously underscored the isolating distance between us. The more I served his purpose, the more invisible I became to him, a mere functionary in his grand design. This bitter truth was a constant companion, a dull ache beneath my ribs. Tonight, the ache was sharper, the weight of a name — Beaumont — feeling less like an honour and more like a burden, inextricably linked to the compelling, bewildering presence of Rhys Pembroke.