Lethe’s Custodian—the title clung to Elian Thorne like a damp shroud woven with obligation. Each time the hushed epithet reached his ears, a cold awareness settled: he was an adult. An architect of his own gilded prison. A man tethered to another’s fate. Adult. Two syllables, sharp-edged and ill-fitting, chafing against his skin. Like a borrowed ceremonial robe, grand but cumbersome. Nights melted into a nameless blur, each hour a fresh grapple with the inherited responsibility. Alchemy in the pale dawn, the delicate dance of retort and alembic. Then, as shadows lengthened, the somber journey to the Varkos Sanatorium wing. It housed Lethe, a permanent fixture against its sterile white walls. Truthfully, his own alchemical studies suffered. Concentrated draughts often simmered unattended. Rare botanicals withered in their pots. His focus splintered, pulled ever eastward. Heart heavy, Elian approached Lethe’s private chambers. A soft rustle from within. Lethe, always waiting, would appear at the threshold, a fragile blossom tilting towards the light. His eyes, quick and bright, held the expectant gleam of a creature anticipating its keeper. Lethe would then unleash the day’s torrent, every slight, every ache, every indignity of his confinement. “Another bone-grafting ritual, they say. Gods, my thigh will be a butcher’s diagram again. And the nutriment tinctures! They’re vile, Elian, truly, they’re brewing madness in my gut. I’m not some withered Elder, my digestion is perfectly sound, so why must I consume these foul, gruel-like concoctions? Even a scavenging imp wouldn’t touch them.” Expression genuinely miserable, he poured out his frustrations. His voice, usually silken, was frayed at the edges. A child’s tantrum in a man’s frame. Elian exhaled slowly. He rummaged through the satchel slung over his shoulder. Detested the lingering aroma that permeated the finely spun linen. A faint, cloying sweetness, a ghost of candied ginger and spiced berry compote. His lips thinned instinctively. Yet, the alternative – carrying the parcel openly – would have been worse. “What?” Lethe murmured, a flicker of hope in his gaze. Could almost picture a drooping, furred tail in his mind’s eye. A repulsive image, a beast craving succor. He shuddered, shaking off the thought, and produced a small, silver-filigreed box from his bag. A pitiful gaze swept over the offering. The gloom in Lethe’s eyes shifted, transforming into something else entirely. A nascent spark. “What is this?” “A… restorative confection. They assured me your next treatment is distant enough that this would pose no risk.” “A confection?” Lethe’s voice lifted, a hummingbird’s trill. “Do not imbue it with meaning. I merely procured it from a purveyor near the sanatorium grounds.” Reason for such an instruction? Elian himself had already given it meaning. Deeply. He would never confess to seeking out the particular apothecary, renowned for its delicate creations, its recipes tailored for convalescents. Nourishing yet palatable. The very thought of such an admission curdled in his stomach. He wished only to appear as a practitioner of simple human kindness. Nothing more. Nothing less. Even that bare minimum seemed sufficient for Lethe. Right hand, still somewhat clumsy from a recent alchemical burn, rubbed at his earlobe. A vibrant crimson blush spread there, betraying his sudden bashfulness. Elian’s gaze drifted to the hand itself. The way the little finger, the ring finger, and even the middle finger curled inward, faintly deformed, a perpetual half-clench. A familiar twisting sensation clenched his gut. Why did those fingers demand his attention? Why could he not look away? An oppressive weight pressed against his chest. “….Th-thank you.” Lethe’s voice, strangely subdued, scraped through the silence. Lethe glanced at him, hesitantly. Their eyes met, and he flinched, a rapid movement, then fumbled to open the box. Was the startle genuine? Or an artifice? As if being caught looking at Elian was a transgression. As if he wished to remain unnoticed. Watching him devour the confection with a ravenous hunger, a messy, undignified haste, Elian leaned back against the plush velvet chaise, exhaustion claiming him. A truly ungraceful sight. Crumbs dusted Lethe’s lips. Syrupy glaze smeared his chin. Lethe’s pinky, ring, and middle fingers still refused to straighten fully. Elian had no way of knowing if it was genuine weakness or a performative act. Slowly, he shifted, leaning closer. Reached out. Took the delicate silver spoon from Lethe’s hand. “What portion appeals to you?” “…” “The candied sun-peach?” At the very least, he held a certain responsibility to acknowledge Lethe’s wounds, real or imagined. Lips sticky with fruit preserve, Lethe chewed slowly, head tilted, a faint smile playing at his mouth. How could this bastard—whose hand would never again fully articulate, whose thigh and back bore a spiderweb of graft scars—smile like that? He truly had no answer. The raw, luminous joy on Lethe’s face was unbearable to witness. What could possibly be so amusing? If it were Elian, he would wish for oblivion. He selected a plump, glazed berry, and lifted it to Lethe’s mouth. Lethe chewed with vigor, the smile unwavering. This creature always unsettled him. Honestly, the confection, the special care… it was spurred by something that had transpired before his arrival at the sanatorium. A detour to Varkos Manor. --- It was the second time Elian had traversed the Varkos grounds since Lethe’s skin-grafting. Surprisingly, the sigil of temporary custodianship, granted by the Varkos patriarch, still allowed him passage. Lethe’s immediate kin rarely visited. He had seen his father thrice, his mother only twice. The matriarch, particularly, adopted a veneer of fragile gratitude towards Elian, as if offering silent praise for his assumption of her delegated duties. Lethe himself merely rested his chin on his hand, observing his mother’s retreating back, a strangely blank expression on his face. Elian had simply gone to gather some of Lethe’s personal effects. Something to alleviate the oppressive boredom of his confinement. Nothing more. He understood, better than anyone, the soul-crushing stagnation of a sick-room. Having endured it himself, he knew precisely what diversions were needed. He convinced himself it was not sympathy. Not a nascent, dangerous affection. That day, instead of returning directly to his private chambers at the Thorne Estate, he’d journeyed to Varkos Manor. The ancient house, grim and shadowed, still welcomed him. But Celeste, Lethe’s elder sister, did not. Leaning against the polished ebony frame of Lethe’s bedchamber, Celeste’s voice was dry, brittle. “Still hovering over Lethe, are we?” To be candid, Elian harbored no warmth for Celeste. How could she neglect her brother so utterly? Not a single visit to the sanatorium. Her own blood, broken and confined. That primal, instinctive sense of morality, ingrained deeper than any courtly artifice, judged her. He hadn’t even realized the judgment forming until it was already there. It wasn’t intentional. The sudden awareness made him clamp his mouth shut. He merely shoved more of Lethe’s neglected scrolls and trinkets into his satchel. “Indeed.” “He truly lost his mind, didn’t he? That insufferable bastard, obsessed with you.” His hand froze, mid-reach for a faded star-chart. He turned, slowly, as if drawn by an invisible thread. “…Obsessed with me?” “What, does that please you?” A sneer touched Celeste’s lips. “No. I merely sought clarification.” “No one ‘merely seeks clarification’ with Lethe. You wished to know, so you asked.” Disgusting. The word was a breathy whisper, barely audible, but it hung in the air. He pretended not to hear it. She moved closer, ignoring his discomfort. The whole Varkos lineage possessed a peculiar talent for overlooking people. Celeste, Lethe, even their father, the Baron. “Tell me, where did you vanish to after your… withdrawal from society?” “It’s irrelevant.” The entire Ashwood Dominion knew already. His family’s scandal, his own seclusion, it had become whispered legend. “Not that I desired to know. But Lethe… he became quite unhinged. That wretch, who never graced a temple, suddenly found himself genuflecting, then screaming obscenities. Not long after, he tore apart the sacred rosary Father gave him, shattered the obsidian beads, and raged.” “His rosary?” Elian’s voice was barely a breath. “Yes, that wretched thing. He once treasured it, you know? Claimed it was Father’s blessing. Then he called the Divine a ‘forsaken cur’ or some such profanity. After that, he locked himself in his chambers and refused to emerge. Our manor was finally peaceful. He doesn’t even comprehend who the true cur is. Fool.” Her voice, which had dripped with mockery, suddenly softened, perhaps sensing Elian’s shock. “What is it? Your face is flushed.” “It is not.” A lie. “Oh, it is. Tell me, do you truly… like him? You care for him?” “I told you, no.” He snapped. “…By the Silent Oath.” She gasped, hand flying to her mouth, as if genuinely horrified. “You’re utterly mad. Truly.” Why did she persist in this accusation when he had unequivocally denied it? Annoyance pricked at him. He yanked the satchel’s clasp shut, the click sharp. He wanted to sting her in return. “Why did you speak of this to me? Your father… he referred to Lethe as his ‘second’ son. A son kept cloistered.” “What? What in the Blighted Moors are you prattling about now?” Contradictions. Elian felt them, keenly. Old Thorne, his tutor in ancient texts, had once remarked: “Elian, for all your thorns, you possess an unfortunate habit of kindness.” Regardless of his intentions. But now, he had an excuse. The faint, brown-red scars spreading across Lethe’s back, revealed during one of the sanatorium’s prescribed airings. Just as Lethe couldn’t meet his gaze then, Elian could not bring himself to look at that landscape of damaged flesh. “Elian.” “Yes.” “Then… may I believe in you?” Lethe’s voice, raspy now, drew closer. Elian feigned indifference. But he listened. Every word was a delicate probe. “What nonsense is this?” “I will not… cherish you.” In that singular instant, his heart plummeted, a stone into a deep well. His stomach twisted. A vise tightened around his chest. He almost asked—the words forming before he could halt them. *Why not?* The moment the question almost escaped, a cold dread washed over him. His true, hidden thoughts, nascent and terrible, had almost broken free. *Elian, you are a fool.* He clenched his fists, swallowing the bitter reply. Yes. This was for the best. For both of them. A necessary distance. “Then instead, I shall believe in you.” Lethe’s voice carried a strange cadence, a tangled blend of sorrow and exaltation. Like a novice acolyte receiving a divine revelation. Was there any other way to interpret his demeanor? Elian understood nothing of his words. Yet, he did not withdraw his hand. Did not flee. The suffocating weight in his chest no longer merely squeezed; it pierced, a needle of ice. “I am an atheist now. Honestly, you are far more instrumental to my wretched existence than any distant deity.” “Silence that blasphemy.” This… creature. “You insult the divine at every turn.” “No, that’s quite unfair! I was raised a devoted supplicant, you know!” “Then what, precisely, was that pronouncement?” Lethe shook his hands frantically, as if his very life depended on Elian’s belief. His tone desperate, on the verge of tears. If Elian didn’t acknowledge his truth, he might actually weep. Caught off guard, Elian found himself speechless. Then, as if a sudden resolve had seized him, Lethe slid from the chaise, dropping to his knees. “Then I shall demonstrate.” “Lethe, what arcane ritual is this?” A large hand enveloped Elian’s foot. His legs had been propped on the chaise, and he slid forward, teetering precariously on the edge. His foot, suspended, was held firm in Lethe’s grasp. Lethe’s gaze fell upon the faint, pale scar etched into the sole of Elian’s foot. A relic from a shard of ancient glass, years ago. His brow furrowed. And, to Elian’s utter disbelief, Lethe’s eyes welled with moisture. Elian flinched, pulling back in shock, trying to wrest his foot free. Before he could escape, Lethe lowered his head. “What are you—?” “In the name of the Ancestors, the Archons, and the Ever-present Shadow.” Cold fingertips brushed against his ankle. A sharp ache, not of pain, but of profound discomfort, shot up his calf, deep into his stomach. *What madness is this lunatic performing?* He tried to yank his foot free, but his strength faltered, abandoning him. Lethe looked up, his eyes a liquid depth. And then, with a face devoid of even a hint of revulsion—like a fervent mystic touching a sacred relic— “I offer my devotion.” He pressed his lips to the tip of Elian’s foot. Fine, soft hair brushed against Elian’s ankle, a tickle against his skin. The gentle pressure of Lethe’s lips traced a path across the base of his toes. “S-stop….” Elian threw an arm across his face, shielding himself. Lethe’s right hand tightened around Elian’s ankle. And in that moment—Elian stopped resisting. Three weak fingers held him fast. A delicate, fragile grip, tapping lightly against his skin. The lips that cursed the Divine traced a path up his calf. Elian did nothing to halt him. That’s when the chilling realization struck. This relentless, incurable disease—this suffocating nightmare of his eighteenth year—still was not over. It had merely found a new form. A bloom of obsidian, dark and inescapable.

A Gilded Cage, A Fractured Soul