A precarious calm settled upon Julian Beaumont’s features by morning light. The bruising across his cheekbone, a vivid testament to Lord Alaric Blackwood’s wrath, had receded to a faint, purplish shadow. A superficial puffiness remained, easily attributed to an accidental knock, a clumsy misstep – anything but the brutal hand of a peer. He swallowed a sigh of relief, then, almost immediately, felt it replaced by a familiar knot of dread. Ashworth College awaited. He navigated the hallowed corridors, the very air seeming to thicken with an unspoken tension. Entering the lecture theatre, Julian felt a cold frisson trace his spine. A heavy, oppressive quiet, distinct from the usual academic reverence, hung in the gilded space. Instinctively, his gaze sought a particular figure. Then Alistair Finch appeared, slipping through the grand oak doors just as Professor Davies began his discourse on ancient Greek dialects. Late, as ever. But today, Alistair moved with a hesitant shuffle, his usually immaculate hair dishevelled, his shoulders hunched. Julian’s breath caught. Alistair’s face was a ruin. One eye, almost swollen shut, pulsed with a sickly blue-black hue. His lower lip was split, a thin, scabbed line marring its delicate curve. A visceral lurch twisted in Julian’s stomach. The cruel, fleeting thought he’d harboured yesterday, that Alaric might have suffered a reciprocal injury, now burned with the acid of profound guilt. He despised his own childish vindictiveness. Alistair’s eyes, wide and fearful, swept the room, then snagged on Julian’s. For a long, agonizing moment, they locked, a silent plea in their depths. Then, as if scalded, Alistair’s gaze snapped away. He hunched further, scuttling towards an empty seat at the far edge of the row, avoiding all further eye contact. A strange, unsettling reaction. Julian’s own eyes instinctively flickered to Alaric Blackwood. Lord Alaric sat with an almost insolent ease, a picture of aristocratic disdain, yet his gaze was fixed on Julian. It was a cold, venomous stare, sharp as a freshly honed razor, promising retribution. Julian’s throat tightened. He should have remained in the quiet sanctuary of his rooms. --- During the brief interlude between lectures, Alistair Finch remained conspicuously absent. He did not seek Julian out, did not even glance his way. He simply vanished, a shadow at Alaric’s heels, swallowed by the imposing architecture of the college. A peculiar pang, a blend of concern and a more selfish despondency, pricked at Julian. He was left to Percy Thorne’s affable, if sometimes overwhelming, company. Percy, oblivious to the storm brewing within Julian, regaled him with some amusing, if scandalous, college gossip over weak tea in the common room. Julian barely registered Percy’s words, his mind a turbulent sea. He longed, with a foolish, dangerous impulse, to seek out Alistair and Alaric, to understand the precise dimensions of the damage. But a colder, more pragmatic part of him recoiled. Ignorance, for now, felt a safer harbour. What fresh brutality might he stumble upon if he went searching? It was a curious turn of fate, this burgeoning camaraderie with Percy Thorne. From their first awkward introduction, Julian had harboured no particular affection for the boisterous young man. Indeed, Percy’s blithe disregard for social niceties, his almost vulgar exuberance, had initially grated on Julian’s reserved sensibilities. And yet, here they were, sharing confidences over lukewarm tea, Percy’s levity a strange, unexpected ballast. Julian had once dismissed Percy’s lightheartedness as superficial, a shallow defence against the gravitas of their world. Now, he found himself relying upon it. It was a necessary counterpoint to the suffocating weight of Ashworth’s unspoken rules, to the simmering tension that seemed to cling to Alaric Blackwood like an aura. If his earlier, more innocent attachment to Alaric had endured, he might never have recognized this strange, invaluable need for Percy’s presence. --- Alaric Blackwood’s absences from college became more frequent, more pronounced. He would vanish for hours, sometimes days, occasionally taking Alistair with him. Other times, a select group of young men from his influential circle would accompany them. Whispers, furtive and uneasy, began to circulate among the other students. Julian overheard a group of younger gentlemen, normally eager for Alaric’s approval, decline an invitation, their faces etched with discomfort. One afternoon, Julian chanced upon young Davies, a lanky first-year, hastily scaling a low wall to avoid a tutor. Davies, with a mixture of nervous amusement and genuine unease, confided that Lord Alaric had taken to a new, cruel sport: ordering his companions to strike Alistair Finch, one blow each, as a form of “amusement.” Julian’s stomach roiled. The image of Alistair’s bruised face flashed before his eyes. Davies, sensing Julian’s revulsion, quickly added that he’d been avoiding Alaric’s coterie lately. He was off to the billiard hall with Finchley, he explained, urging Julian not to misunderstand his candour. Then, with a quick nod, he was gone, leaving Julian to grapple with the chilling revelation. --- Later that day, Julian found himself with Percy in the college’s quietest cloister, purchasing a selection of sweetmeats from a passing vendor. The sticky, cloying sweetness spread across his tongue, a fleeting, almost artificial comfort. Beneath it, however, the bitter knot in his chest tightened, unrelenting. He steadfastly refused to let it show. “Good, isn’t it?” Percy asked, crumbs clinging to the corner of his mouth as he devoured a sugared bun. “Perhaps a little too sweet,” Julian replied, offering a morsel of his own iced ginger cake. Percy, without a moment’s hesitation, leaned in, lips parting in a grin, and took a surprisingly large bite. “Good heavens, Percy! Did you truly?” Julian exclaimed, feigning disgust. Percy merely shrugged, a faint, sugary smile on his face. “You offered.” It was a moment of fragile peace, incongruous with the turmoil that churned beneath Julian’s composed exterior. The crisp autumn air was clear, the sky an indifferent, placid blue. Where were Alaric and Alistair now? He could conjure several likely scenarios, but he did not go seeking them. Perhaps, he conceded, he was simply too afraid of what he might find. He tried, with a desperate, almost futile effort, to banish Alaric from his thoughts. But the harder he fought, the more his image asserted itself, a persistent, unwelcome spectre in the theatre of his mind. How long, he wondered, would it take to excise such an attachment? What immense effort would it demand? The prospect felt like wandering lost in an endless, barren desert – not merely sorrowful, but terrifying, suffocating. Sometimes, he retreated into the labyrinth of his intellect, seeking patterns in ancient texts, a futile attempt to make sense of the chaos. When the weight became too much, he would, occasionally, speak with Percy. And then, well, that was that. Breaking the silence, Julian asked, his voice barely a murmur, “Percy, do you believe a desert can ever truly bloom?” His own words felt absurdly sentimental, a raw, exposed nerve. He cleared his throat, feeling a flush creep up his neck. But Percy, surprisingly, did not mock him. He chewed thoughtfully for a moment, then met Julian’s gaze with an unusual gravity. “It must,” Percy said, quietly. “There’s enough desolation in the world already.” Hearing such earnest conviction from Percy Thorne, a young man Julian had once dismissed as utterly unburdened by profundity, struck him with a profound sense of futility. How much time, how many agonizing days, would it take for him to abandon this meaningless, self-destructive hope? “Indeed,” Julian murmured, the word tasting like ash. “Life is often… desolate.” Alaric Blackwood. That infuriating, destructive force. Why did he seem so intent on breaking the very loyalty he so carelessly commanded? Alaric, who now flouted every college regulation, every expectation of a young gentleman, drifted in and out of Ashworth’s gates as he pleased. And always, a pale, silent shadow at his side, was Alistair Finch. As the situation festered, a quiet, insidious resentment began to spread through the student body, a silent disquiet that deepened the oppressive atmosphere. It became abundantly clear: Alaric’s cruelties were escalating. --- Julian stopped dead in the college corridor. Alaric Blackwood was there, dragging Alistair Finch by the wrist, Alistair’s head bowed, his steps faltering. Julian felt a rush of cold air, a sharp indignation that propelled him forward. “Lord Alaric,” Julian began, his voice carefully modulated, low but firm. It was not an apology, nor an appeal to sentiment, but a calculated fabrication, a means to an end. “Your father has expressed considerable concern regarding your recent… excursions.” He knew Alaric harboured little affection for his austere parent, making the lie a safe gambit. Should it be challenged, Julian could always argue that Alaric’s current path would undoubtedly soon give his father cause for worry. “If grievances must be aired,” Julian continued, stepping squarely into Alaric’s path, “confine them to yourself. What transgression has Alistair committed to merit such… attentions?” Alaric’s eyes, glacial and sharp, narrowed into menacing slits. “Out of my path, Beaumont.” His voice was a low growl. Julian’s chest tightened, a suffocating pressure. He hated Alaric with a fierce, cold intensity. Yet Alistair, pitiful, broken Alistair, clung to Alaric’s arm, his tear-filled eyes darting to Julian, a silent, desperate plea. “Unless you fancy another lesson in deference, you would do well to remove yourself.” The threat hung in the air, a palpable force. “A-Alaric, please,” Alistair stammered, his voice thin and trembling, the sound barely audible. Only then did Alaric pause, his gaze shifting from Julian to Alistair, a moment of chilling appraisal. Then, with a dismissive turn of his head, he pulled Alistair away, heading back towards the college’s common room. Julian watched his retreating back, the small victory hollow. For the rest of the day, Alaric remained within the college walls, a brooding presence. --- The long-anticipated day of the scholarly excursion had dawned. A fleet of smart landaus and phaetons had been hired to transport the students to the British Museum, a rare opportunity to escape the confines of Ashworth for a day of edification. While a few earnest scholars grumbled about lost study hours, most students buzzed with a shared, anticipatory excitement. Provisions of cold meats and bottled ales were packed, but the journey was brief. The tutors offered a few perfunctory warnings regarding decorum, then released the eager young men. Julian viewed the day with a detached pragmatism; merely another shift in routine, no bag to pack, no bag to unpack. He entered the first landau, searching for his accustomed place. Whenever their college pursuits demanded a shared conveyance, Julian, as Alaric’s designated companion, invariably occupied the seat beside him. He hadn’t even considered where Percy Thorne might sit, having never before shared such a journey with him. At first, a familiar flicker of wariness, almost a proprietary jealousy, pricked at Julian. He worried Percy might claim the coveted spot. A pathetic thought, he now realized. Neither he nor Percy would ever truly belong in that particular place. The rear benches were already claimed by a boisterous collection of undergraduates. Young Davies, who had secured a prime spot, waved to Julian, then hesitated, a subtle gesture towards Lord Alaric’s seat. It was still empty. A fragile, obstinate pride swelled in Julian’s chest. That seat was his. His singular, stubborn claim, even after the brutal reminder of Alaric’s favouritism for Alistair. He approached with trepidation, his hand hovering over the plush velvet squab. He glanced around the carriage, then quietly murmured, “My lord… this seat…” “It is not yours, Beaumont,” Alaric interjected, his voice flat, devoid of warmth. His gaze remained fixed on the carriage entrance, an almost imperceptible signal. “Find another.” Following Alaric’s line of sight, Julian saw Alistair Finch. Alistair stood at the carriage steps, hesitant, his posture still bruised with recent trauma. Then, with a meek, almost involuntary movement, he climbed inside and, without a word, slipped into the seat beside Lord Alaric Blackwood. Julian’s heart, moments before swelling with a desperate hope, felt shredded to ribbons. “As you wish,” Julian said, forcing a tone of cool indifference, though his voice felt strangely hollow. He retreated, the weight of a sudden, profound desolation pressing down on him. His eyes scanned the carriage for an empty space, any refuge. He found one, just opposite the cluster of young men where Percy sat. Percy, already succumbed to his morning languor, was slumped against the window, head gently bouncing with the carriage’s sway. Julian slipped into the seat next to him, gently extracting a leather-bound volume from his satchel. He carefully wedged it between Percy’s head and the cold glass, a small, unsolicited comfort. Then, Julian leaned back, closing his eyes against the image of Alaric and Alistair, now firmly ensconced in *his* seat, their dark heads a blur across the aisle. The day, he knew, would be long. The journey, interminable.

A Seat Forsaken