A cool, early spring morning brought with it the scent of damp earth and the distant peal of the chapel bell. Julian Beaumont sat hunched over a particularly intricate section of Hittite cuneiform, the characters blurring as his mind wrestled with the weight of Alistair Finch’s peculiar devotion. Two days had passed since the unsettling scene with Alistair’s sister, and the silence had been a fragile balm.
Then, a small note, folded precisely, appeared tucked into the spine of his *Corpus Inscriptionum Semiticarum*. A junior student, wide-eyed and anxious, had murmured an apology for the intrusion before scampering off.
*“Mr. Beaumont, might you spare a moment in the old antechamber near the archive wing before this afternoon’s fencing practice?”*
Julian’s brow furrowed. An antechamber? His mind, ever attuned to the subtle currents of Ashworth’s social hierarchy, briefly considered the possibility of some outlandish request, perhaps a desperate plea for academic assistance. But a clandestine meeting in a disused corner of the Old Library? A ridiculous thought, fleeting and instantly dismissed, suggested itself: a personal confession. No. Not in an establishment such as Ashworth, and certainly not directed at *him*. The very notion was preposterous.
The note slipped from his memory until the bell for the fourth period chimed, signalling the imminent arrival of fencing practice. His stomach tightened with a familiar unease. The thought of donning the heavy uniform, the clash of foils, the forced camaraderie – it was a prospect he generally endured with stoicism.
Donning his whites and adjusting the padded jacket, Julian made his way towards the Old Library. Curiosity pricked at him, a minor irritation rather than genuine intrigue. He assumed it would be a trivial matter, a request from some floundering student, easily dispatched. The source of the missive, however, was not a stranger, but a familiar, albeit unsettling, presence: Alistair Finch.
“Alistair?” Julian’s voice, usually modulated and precise, held an unexpected note of bewilderment. The younger boy, perched on a dusty stool, his dark hair immaculately parted, startled. His hand, which had been gnawing at a fingernail, flew to his side. Alistair offered a quick, bright smile, one Julian had come to associate with a certain calculated innocence. That smile, once a source of mild amusement, now simply frayed Julian’s nerves.
“What is it? Why here, and so suddenly?” Julian’s tone was clipped. He yearned for swift departure. The last thing he desired was to be discovered alone with Alistair in such a secluded spot. Rumours, insidious and swift, could curdle one’s standing here. Julian carefully maintained an appearance of detached benevolence towards Alistair, never more, never less, a delicate balance for self-preservation.
Oblivious to Julian’s discomfort, Alistair twisted his fingers, a nervous habit. His gaze darted about the antechamber, dusty and filled with the ghosts of forgotten scholars. A hesitant determination flickered in his eyes. He opened his mouth, as if to speak, then clamped it shut again.
Julian’s irritation simmered. Alistair’s presence, his quiet intensity, his peculiar fixation, always unsettled Julian. Each stammered movement, each bite of the lip, that might seem endearing to another, grated on Julian’s already frayed composure. He knew he was perhaps overly sensitive, stretched thin by the recent days.
“Look, I must insist. Fencing practice awaits. Can you simply state your purpose?”
His head throbbed, a dull ache behind his eyes. Julian suspected his frustration wasn't solely aimed at Alistair. It felt more like a general, formless rage, seeking any convenient outlet. His stomach had been acting up again, a nervous knot tightening with each passing hour.
Lost in these thoughts, Alistair finally seemed to gather his courage. His voice, a reedy whisper, barely carried through the quiet room.
“Mr. Beaumont… I… I wished to… to speak of…”
“Yes?” Julian responded half-heartedly, a hand rising to massage the tense muscles in his neck. The interval before class was dwindling. He felt an absurd urge to pry the words from Alistair’s lips himself.
Just then, the heavy oak door creaked open. Both Julian and Alistair turned, their gazes meeting the furious, panting face of Lord Alaric Blackwood. Alaric, however, spared Julian no more than a glance. His dark eyes, alight with a terrifying intensity, fixated solely on Alistair.
“Hmph… hmph…” Alaric’s ragged breathing filled the small room, a testament to his haste. Julian’s chest constricted. He could envision Alaric, tearing through the college grounds, searching. He involuntarily dropped his hand from his neck. Alaric’s fierce gaze flickered between Alistair and Julian, his aristocratic features contorted.
“What are you doing here with him?” The question hung, ambiguous, accusatory. Alaric’s fists clenched, then relaxed, then tightened again.
Beneath Julian’s outward calm, his very core felt pummelled. After a long, agonizing pause, Alaric’s burning eyes finally settled on Julian. The intensity of that stare, the raw fury it contained, was almost unbearable.
“What in God’s name, Alaric?”
Please, Julian pleaded silently, do not look at me so. Blame Alistair for this foolish summons. Why direct such incandescent resentment at me, your… acquaintance, your fellow student? I was merely drawn into this peculiar drama.
Yet, Alaric’s gaze remained, unyielding. Julian knew those eyes. They were not filled with passion, nor devotion, but with a terrifying cocktail of rage, jealousy, and utter madness. It was the face of a man undone by an emotion Julian could only perceive as deranged obsession—a countenance Julian found both pitiable and utterly despicable.
“What are you doing here with him!”
You are pathetic, Alaric, Julian thought, a cold fury rising within him. So utterly pathetic. He glared back, a defiance born of sheer mortification. Yet, in that moment, the pity felt like a reflection. It was not Alaric who was truly pathetic, but Julian himself, trapped and helpless.
Before Julian could fully process his thoughts, Alaric’s long strides had eaten the distance between them. The instant Julian looked into his distorted face, the world tilted.
“—!”
He had no time to understand. His body reeled, tumbling to the hard flagstones. Only then, the echo of a sharp crack, did his mind register the event.
“Impossible…”
Alaric had struck him.
Lord Alaric Blackwood had struck Julian Beaumont. Lying amidst the dust and shadows, Julian’s trembling hand reached for his stinging cheek. He couldn’t comprehend it. How could he… how could Alaric do this?
“J-Julian!” Alistair, horrified, started towards him. But Alaric, like a man possessed, shrieked, “You scoundrel! You swore to address him properly! No, do not address him at all, you dolt!”
Alistair froze, his face paling, backing away as Alaric’s furious tirade continued. “You promised! You damned well promised! Confound it!” Alistair’s eyes welled with tears, but Julian felt a profound indignation. It was he who should be weeping.
A hot, bitter wave rose within Julian, threatening to breach his carefully constructed composure. Mercifully, before he could utterly break, Alaric uttered another violent curse and seized Alistair by the arm, dragging him roughly from the antechamber. It all happened with disorienting speed.
Left alone, crumpled on the cold floor, Julian stared at the half-open door. A shaft of weak, afternoon light cut through the gap, illuminating motes of dust dancing in the air. Something inside him finally gave way. The dam holding back his carefully suppressed emotions burst, and silent, searing tears traced paths through the grime on his cheeks.
He despised everything. Alistair, who had drawn him into this wretched incident. Alaric, who had delivered the humiliating blow. Julian wished they would both simply vanish. He felt utterly miserable, reduced to a mere prop in their twisted, volatile drama.
---
Julian rose, the dull ache in his cheek a constant companion. He bypassed fencing practice, making a direct path to the Senior Tutor’s study. His swollen, reddened face made his excuse—a sudden, severe migraine—unquestionably believable. The Senior Tutor, a man known for his discretion, seemed to understand without prying, granting him an early leave.
At his lodgings, Mrs. Gable, his housekeeper, gasped softly at his appearance. “Oh, Mr. Beaumont, your poor face! What on earth…?” He mumbled an evasive answer, then retreated to his room, collapsing onto the bed. He slept, a troubled, fitful sleep, until dusk painted his windows in shades of bruised purple.
Upon waking, his face felt stiff, puffy and tender to the touch. Out of habit, he reached for his pocket watch, then remembered his discreet, modern acquisition: a newfangled telegraphic pager, a rarity among students, used only for urgent communication from his family or a select few. A series of signals blinked, indicating several incoming messages. The most recent, just an hour old, was from Mr. Percival Thorne.
He and Percy did not typically exchange such informal messages. However, Julian possessed a record of Percy’s private code due to their shared, tangential association with Lord Alaric. *Confound it*, Julian thought, *Alaric always leaves a messy wake*.
Were it any other student, Julian would have ignored the communication. But Percy Thorne was not ‘any other student’. He was an influential figure among the college’s various cliques, effectively Alaric’s second-in-command. To disregard him would be socially imprudent.
*“Beaumont, quite the disappearing act after practice, eh?”*
Julian clicked his tongue. He sent a brief, coded reply, feigning nonchalance. *“Alas, indisposed. A touch unwell.”*
He aimed for brevity, for lightness. He could not bear for anyone to discover the truth of his predicament. The thought of word spreading—that Lord Alaric Blackwood had struck him, and all because of Alistair Finch—was an unbearable humiliation.
*“Unwell? That’s not like you, Beaumont. Are you quite well?”*
Percy Thorne, displaying concern? Julian felt a strange tightening in his chest. He powered down the pager. It felt like a trap.
Hours later, a wave of profound melancholy washed over him. Even Percy’s message felt stifling, another thread in the tangled web. Other students, those he occasionally dined or studied with, had also sent brief, formal inquiries. None of it was what he truly desired.
Not one of the messages was from Lord Alaric Blackwood. Julian cursed himself for such foolishness. He must be utterly deranged. Still, he found himself clutching at a desperate rationalization: this was the fate of one consumed by a maddening, destructive devotion. He lay there, like an idiot, doing what he did best – closing his eyes, wilfully blind to the brutal reality.
“…I am not the only one.”
Perhaps Alistair and he were, in some perverse way, kindred spirits. That strange, twisted, grotesque thought lingered. A selfish, wicked, childish hope intertwined with it, igniting a brief, dangerous spark. While staring at the plaster ceiling, another message arrived. The code was unfamiliar, unregistered.
*“Julian, are you very unwell?”*
Julian frowned. Who among his peers would use such an informal address? Percy? But this was not his code. Before he could ponder further, a rapid succession of follow-up messages arrived, relentless and infuriating.
*“I am so terribly sorry. Truly sorry. It is all my fault.”*
*“I am sorry.”*
*“Please, forgive me.”*
Whether three words or four, each hammered at his composure. Julian, with a frustrated growl, flung the pager across the room, where it clattered harmlessly against a velvet curtain. How had this wretched boy obtained his private code? And how was someone who barely owned a proper set of clothes sending him messages?
Then it struck him. Ah. He had provided Alistair with his family’s general contact number once, for emergencies regarding his injury. The college registrar would have his private pager code if an urgent family message came through. He had left himself vulnerable.
He cursed his idiotic oversight, exhaling an angry, shuddering sigh. To vent his frustration, he pounded his fists against the bed for a while, until exhaustion claimed him. Just before his thoughts completely faded into sleep, one last, chilling message from Alistair’s string lingered in his mind.
*“Please, do not hate me.”*
Funny, Julian thought with a bitter twist of his lips. He had hated Alistair for months.
---
The next morning, Julian’s face was still swollen, a grotesque caricature of his usual composed self. He simply could not attend classes. No matter how diligently he pursued his studies, he was not so utterly devoted as to present himself to Ashworth in such a disfigured state.
Mrs. Gable prepared his lunch. A light consommé and thinly sliced buttered bread. As he spooned the broth, she could not resist offering a gentle admonishment, urging him to be more careful in his ‘sporting endeavours’. He swallowed the meal quickly, his throat still tight.
Setting down his spoon, Julian reached for his glass of water. Mrs. Gable entered to clear the dishes. Plate in hand, she said, “Mr. Beaumont, you have a caller.”
“A caller?” Julian’s heart gave a strange, hopeful flutter. Before he could even identify the sudden rush of emotion, his mind had already begun to construct an image of the person at the door.
Could it be… Lord Alaric? The thought felt like a wild, utterly fantastical delusion, yet it wasn’t entirely impossible. Few students from Ashworth had ever darkened the door of his modest lodgings. Among his acquaintances, only a handful even knew his address. If it *were* Alaric, then he must have come to offer some form of apology, having finally acknowledged the egregious impropriety of his actions. Alaric had never before laid a hand on Julian. Never. Yes, he must be worried, perhaps even contrite.
“Yes, please, Mrs. Gable, do show them in.”
The fantasy hardened into a desperate certainty. Even as Julian silently chastised himself for such transparent naiveté, a small, treacherous sense of satisfaction swelled within him. Despite everything, he was still significant to Alaric, in some small, inexplicable way. The thought filled him with a baffling, unsettling warmth. He quickly turned towards the front door, his pace quickening with a flicker of excitement.
But the figure stepping through the threshold was not Lord Alaric Blackwood.
“Beaumont. What’s all this, then?” A sharp-featured face greeted him with a casual, almost insolent smirk. Percy Thorne held aloft a small, discreet flask of medicinal brandy, typically reserved for ailments or quiet indulgences. As soon as Percy caught sight of Julian’s face, his usual playful expression faltered. He stopped short, his voice dropping to an uncharacteristically serious tone.
“Good heavens, man. What precisely happened to your face?”
Julian’s knees felt like they might buckle from the sheer, sudden weight of disappointment. He hadn’t even considered Percy Thorne. How did Percy even know where he lived?
“A… a fall,” Julian replied, his voice flat, devoid of inflection.
Percy frowned, twisting his lips in that familiar, almost imperceptible way he did before delivering a dry, sarcastic observation. “You truly are an absolute idiot sometimes, aren’t you?”
Julian offered no argument. He merely rubbed his throbbing cheek, a dull ache radiating from the bruised skin. Embarrassment, sharp and humiliating, surged through him at the memory of his earlier, foolish anticipation. He *was* an idiot. Alaric did not consider him important. And here Julian had been, metaphorically wagging his tail like a hopeful, idiotic dog.
“Here, take this.” Percy extended the flask. Julian accepted it, his fingers brushing against the cool glass. He knew, without looking, the potent aroma of the expensive spirit.
“It’s… rather potent for a 'medicinal' remedy,” Julian murmured.
“Is it? Scarcely paid it any mind.”
“Figures. Why would you?”
“Confound it, Beaumont, that’s rather harsh.”
“What are you even doing here, Thorne?”
“What do you imagine? Came to check on your sorry hide. Mind if I step inside properly?”
“Hey, wait!” Julian protested, but Percy Thorne, with an easy confidence, his long legs covering the distance with alarming speed, was already striding into the parlour.
“Where is your study?”
“Hey, where are you going?”
“Where else? There’s scarcely anywhere else of interest in your charming abode.”
Julian had no retort. Percy was, annoyingly, quite correct. Houses, especially those of students, were rather uniformly arranged, weren’t they? Feeling utterly awkward, Julian trailed after Percy Thorne, who seemed intent on a casual, yet thorough, inspection of his private dwelling.