A new moniker had found me: ‘Alaric’s Keeper.’ Each whispered instance, each knowing glance, hammered home the uncomfortable truth of my unwanted maturation. A man. The word felt foreign, ill-fitting, like borrowed robes tailored for a grander, more resolute figure than myself.
Unseen weeks bled into one another, marked by the silent battle waged within me over this inherited, unasked-for charge. My mornings were a blur of lecture halls and hushed consultations in the Institute’s ancient libraries, my evenings drawn irrevocably to the shadowed antechambers Alaric now occupied.
I attended my modules, a ghost in the hallowed halls, half-present at best. My thoughts, however, were tethered to the cloistered spaces where Alaric lingered. With a weight pressing my chest, I would approach, and Alaric would emerge, a phantom drawn by a silent summons.
Each evening, he would shed the day’s indignities, pouring out the slights, the subtle torments, the suffocating fear that clung to him within the Institute’s stone walls.
“They speak of ‘further observation,’ Thorne. Another cycle of review for my ‘temperamental disposition.’ My family’s crest… they say it’s tarnished, beyond repair. And the meals, Gods, the Institute’s kitchens now serve me gruel fit only for the lowest scullion. I’m not some ancient recluse, my appetite remains, so why must I endure this bland, tasteless fare that even the stable hands would refuse?”
The genuine anguish etched on his features, the way his voice trembled with suppressed rage, stripped away the veneer of his noble lineage, revealing a raw, suffering boy.
Letting out a quiet breath, I reached into my satchel.
I detested the faint, lingering scent of spiced meats and sweet pastries that now permeated the aged leather. A grimace touched my lips instinctively.
But a direct approach, carrying the small parcel openly, would have been far worse.
“What is it?”
Was that a hint of a supplicant’s lowered gaze? A subtle shift in his bearing, like a beaten hound seeking a reprieve? The thought was unsettling.
I quickly dismissed the repulsive image and drew forth a small, lacquered box from my bag.
His pitiful gaze swept over the offering.
Only then did the gloom in his eyes recede, replaced by a flicker of something akin to starved hope.
“A… a collation?”
“A small selection. I was informed your medical assessments permit a broader diet now. Found it at a new vendor near the South Gate.”
My insistence that he not read too much into it was born of my own private torment. I had already imbued the gesture with too much meaning.
I would never confess that I had spent the better part of an afternoon seeking out a confectioner known for discreetly preparing restorative, yet exquisite, provisions suitable for a convalescent noble. Nor that I had carefully selected items that would nourish without drawing undue attention.
I wanted to appear as nothing more than a scholar performing a minor act of incidental courtesy. Yet even that flimsy pretense seemed sufficient for Alaric.
His left hand, the one he favored, twitched, a nervous flutter near his ear, which I now noticed was flushed crimson.
My gaze drifted lower, to his fingers. They were slightly curled, a testament to days spent clenching, in either fear or suppressed fury.
My own face tightened, a knot forming in my stomach.
Why did those particular digits ensnare my attention? Why could I not simply look away?
An oppressive weight settled upon my chest.
“……Th-thank you.”
His voice, oddly hushed, barely reached me.
Alaric glanced at me with an almost fearful hesitation, and when our eyes met, he flinched, quickly fumbling with the clasp of the lacquered box.
Or perhaps he merely feigned surprise? As if being caught in a moment of vulnerability with me would bring further censure. As if he wished to remain unseen in his need.
Watching him consume the contents with the almost mechanical precision of someone long deprived, I leaned my weary frame against the cold stone of the antechamber wall.
It was a raw sight. Crumbs scattered across his velvet waistcoat. The trembling of his hands as he lifted a delicate tart to his lips.
His little finger, the ring finger, even the middle finger of his left hand, all seemed to possess an unnatural stiffness. I couldn’t discern if it was genuine injury or a practiced affectation of his despair.
Slowly, I straightened, moving closer. Gently, I took the small silver fork from his hand.
“What would you prefer next?”
“……”
“The candied figs?”
At the very least, I felt an obligation to acknowledge the reality of Alaric’s wounds—not just the social ones, but the physical tremors of his suffering. With his lips smeared from the rich pastry, Alaric lowered his head slightly and managed a faint, fragile smile.
I could not comprehend why this ruined scion, whose public standing was shattered and whose future at the Institute hung by a thread, could still offer such a smile. I truly could not.
I found I couldn’t bring myself to meet his eyes, still bright with a peculiar, fragile hope.
What solace did he find in this degradation? If it were I, I would wish for oblivion.
I carefully selected a piece of candied ginger, the sweetest and most potent of the provisions, and held it to Alaric’s lips.
Alaric chewed, a ghost of a smile still playing on his features.
This boy, Alaric, always managed to leave me profoundly unsettled.
Truthfully, the reason I had gone to such lengths to procure the collation was due to an earlier encounter, before I had made my way to this secluded wing of the Institute, when I had visited Alaric’s private study.
---
It had been the second time I’d been granted access to Alaric’s chambers since his formal admonishment by the Rector. Surprisingly, my scholar’s pass still held sway in these restricted corridors.
I had only encountered Alaric’s immediate family twice since his public censure. Once, his father, Lord Finch, a fleeting, stern presence. Once, his mother, Lady Finch, a woman of brittle grace.
His mother, in particular, had offered me saccharine compliments and feigned gratitude, as if to compensate for the duty she had so readily cast aside. Alaric had simply rested his chin in his hand, watching his mother’s retreating back with an unreadable expression.
My purpose had been simple: to collect a few of Alaric’s cherished items. Something to alleviate the oppressive boredom of his forced solitude.
That was all, I told myself. I knew better than anyone the crushing tedium of confinement. Having experienced it myself in a different form, I understood his needs precisely. I convinced myself it was not sympathy. Not a flicker of affection.
That day, instead of returning directly to my own dormitory, I had made a detour to Alaric’s study.
The elegantly appointed room, now somewhat neglected, still seemed to welcome me with its scent of old parchment and faint rosewood. But Lady Sera Vane, Silas’s cousin, did not.
Leaning against the doorframe, her posture a picture of languid disdain, Lady Sera’s voice was dry as aged vellum: “Still tending to Finch, are we, Thorne?”
To be honest, my feelings towards Lady Sera were far from amiable. How could she, a relation, have failed to visit Alaric even once in his current state? Her family, his kin, was in distress.
That primal sense of propriety made me judge her. I hadn’t even realized I was doing it. It wasn’t intentional. The moment the thought surfaced, I pressed my lips together and shoved more of Alaric’s sketches and half-finished compositions into my satchel.
“I am.”
“That fool truly has become fixated on you, hasn’t he? The impertinent wretch.”
My hand froze amidst a pile of Alaric’s charcoal sticks. I turned slowly, as if pulled by an invisible thread.
“……Fixated on me?”
“What, does that please you, Thorne?”
“No, I merely inquire.”
“No one ‘merely inquires’ anything within these walls. You sought knowledge, so you asked.”
Disgusting. She muttered something under her breath, but I pretended not to hear it. Still, she stepped closer, disregarding my presence entirely. This entire family, it seemed, possessed an innate talent for dismissing others. Lady Sera, Silas, even Alaric’s own father.
“Tell me, where did you disappear to after your summer term?”
“I returned to my estate.”
The whole damned Institute must have known the details of my brief retreat.
“It’s not as if I desired to pry. But Alaric… he quite lost his composure about it. That boy, who never once invoked the ancestral spirits with any fervor, suddenly found himself clutching at his House crest, then tearing it from his uniform, screaming obscenities at the very Pillars of Lore he once revered. He called the Institute’s tenets a ‘fucking charade’ or some such nonsense.
Then he locked himself in his room and refused to emerge. Our wing finally knew a moment of peace. He doesn’t even grasp who the true fool is. Pitiful.”
Her voice, which had been laced with mockery, suddenly softened, dipping to a low, speculative tone. Likely due to the expression she now observed on my face.
“What in the name of the Archons? Your face is quite flushed.”
“It is not.”
“Oh, it is. Tell me, Thorne, do you genuinely… feel anything for him? For Alaric?”
“I said no.”
“……By the Great Scribes.” She gasped, covering her mouth as if in genuine horror. “You are quite beyond salvation. Truly.”
Why did she persist in such accusations when I had already denied them? Annoyed, I yanked my satchel’s clasp shut, the click echoing sharply in the quiet room. I wanted to cast judgment upon her, too.
“Why did you speak of such things to me? Your own family, Lord Vane, once told me Alaric was considered an honorary scion of his House.”
“What? What peculiar nonsense are you speaking of now?”
***
A True Contradiction. What an uncomfortable truth. I knew it, too. Professor Alden, whose sharp observations often pricked my composure, once remarked: Elias Thorne, for all his carefully constructed detachment, possesses an inconvenient streak of unexpected kindness.
No matter his intentions.
But now, I had an excuse. The haunted look in Alaric’s eyes. The way his hand still trembled as he held the silver fork I had given him.
Just as Alaric couldn’t quite meet my gaze, I found myself unable to directly confront the raw, unadorned suffering I sensed emanating from him.
“Elias…”
“Yes?”
“Then… is it permissible if I simply… believe in you?”
His voice, hoarse with unspoken pleas, drew closer. I feigned indifference. Yet I listened.
“What meaning do your words hold, Alaric?”
“I won’t impose upon you.”
In that single instant, my composure shattered. My stomach twisted with a sudden, unexpected ache. Something tightened, a vise around my chest. I almost uttered the words—without thought—*Why not?*
The moment the question nearly escaped my lips, I realized the precipice I stood upon. My true, hidden thoughts, the ones I kept buried beneath layers of academic discipline and social artifice, had almost surfaced.
Elias Thorne, you are a fool.
I clenched my fists, the nails digging into my palms, and swallowed the words down. Yes. This was for the best. For both our sakes.
“Then instead, I’ll believe in you.”
But Alaric’s words, when they came, were startlingly strange. His voice was a tangled thread of both sorrow and exultation. Like a supplicant receiving a profound, unexpected revelation. Was there any other way to describe him in that moment? I didn’t comprehend his meaning. And yet, I did not pull my hand away. Did not flee.
The suffocating weight pressing on my chest no longer just squeezed—it felt as though it were being pierced.
“I hold no faith in the Archons anymore. Honestly, your presence is far more substantial to my survival than any sculpted deity in the Hall of Laurels.”
“Silence, Alaric.”
This boy…
“You blaspheme with every breath.”
“No, that’s not true! I was raised within the purest tenets of our faith, you know!”
“Then what was that declaration just now?”
Alaric frantically shook his head, a desperate gesture. As if his very existence depended on my credulity. If I didn’t believe him, he might genuinely weep.
Caught entirely off guard, I was left speechless. And then, as if a sudden resolve had hardened within him, Alaric slid from the small, upholstered bench and dropped to his knees before me.
“Then I shall show you.”
“Alaric, what in the Archons’ name are you doing?”
A large hand, surprisingly strong, enveloped my wrist. Having been seated, my arm resting on my knee, I leaned forward, barely maintaining my perch on the edge of the bench. My hand, suspended in the air, was held captive.
Then, Alaric’s gaze fell upon a faint, pale scar near my knuckles, a remnant of a minor childhood accident, long forgotten. His brow furrowed. And to my utter disbelief—his eyes glistened with unshed tears.
I recoiled in shock, attempting to pull my hand free. Before I could escape, Alaric bowed his head.
“What are you—”
“In the name of the Archons, the Scholars, and the Guiding Lore.”
His cold fingertips brushed against my wrist, sending a shiver up my arm, a sharp ache into the pit of my stomach. What insanity had possessed this boy?
I tried to yank my hand away, but my strength seemed to abandon me.
Alaric looked up at me once. And then, with a face that showed not a single ounce of revulsion—like a devout acolyte touching a sacred relic—
“I recognize the truth of you.”
He pressed his lips to the back of my hand. His fine, soft hair brushed against my skin. The gentle pressure of his mouth lingered, a feather-light touch against my knuckles.
“S-Stop it….”
I threw my free arm over my face, as if to ward off the sight.
Alaric’s grip tightened around my wrist, his fingers, still slightly stiff, holding firm.
And in that moment—I ceased my struggle.
Three weak fingers held me. A delicate, fragile grip tapped lightly against my skin. The lips that had cursed the heavens now traced a path of unexpected reverence up my wrist.
And I did nothing to stop him.
That was when I truly understood. This relentless, incurable disease—this suffocating nightmare of my early adulthood, entwined with Alaric’s own despair—still had no end in sight.