Two days after whispers about Lord Gareth’s disgrace had spread through the hallowed halls, his carefully bound lecture notes and annotated texts met a different fate. Not a burning trash bin, but a murky, overflowing ditch beside the North Wing, where they lay sodden and ruined, a testament to public condemnation.
It required little sagacity to discern the orchestrator. Within a few lecture periods, a triumphant smirk graced the lips of Edgar Finch, a distant cousin of Alistair's, albeit one who resided several social strata higher. Rumours swirled in the lavatories, recounting Edgar’s boastful confession of the deed, performed with a malicious glee.
“How… spirited,” Alistair murmured to himself. He observed the scene from a discreet distance, a familiar, cold satisfaction settling in his gut. The sodden pages, their ink bleeding into illegible blotches, represented more than just academic loss. They marked Lord Gareth’s irreversible fall.
Just days prior, Gareth had been a burgeoning force, only to be eclipsed, almost without his own full comprehension. His decline was a perverse relief, a shifting of the social current that momentarily diverted its crushing pressure from Alistair.
The motive was transparent. At first, Alistair had dismissed Gareth’s recent outbursts as mere youthful arrogance, but an unsettling undercurrent had grown. Even Gareth’s sycophantic coterie had begun to eye him askance. His virulent hatred for Elias Thorne, already reeling from his own scandal with Lord Cassian, transcended simple animosity. It was a violent, unhinged obsession. Alistair had witnessed one particularly volatile confrontation, solidifying his diagnosis.
Now, as the tide of opinion turned decisively against Lord Gareth, Alistair felt no compulsion to intercede. To offer explanation or express guilt would be an act of profound idiocy.
He knew the optics of defending a pariah. It might brand him as noble, even principled. Yet, within the gilded cage of Aethelgard, where a thousand social masks were donned daily, such an act would invite only one question:
“Why?”
The thought, a cold, probing finger, sent a shiver down Alistair’s spine.
He rested his forehead against the cool, polished oak of his desk, closing his eyes. A brief reprieve. For a fleeting instant, he wished that upon reopening them, the world would conform entirely to his fragile desires. Sleep beckoned, a dark, velvet curtain.
Then, a sharp rap against his temple startled him awake. He sat upright, rubbing the tender spot, to find Percival Blackwood across from him, likewise touching his own brow, a faint frown etching his sharp features.
“Confound it, Blackwood, that smarts.”
“Why slumber through the early lectures, Finch?”
“Attend to your own concerns. What was that racket?”
Percival offered a sardonic half-smile, lifting a heavy leather-bound tome, its spine a cracked testament to age. “This? Acquired it from the forgotten-and-found bin. Thought it might prove useful.”
Alistair’s lips thinned. Percival possessed an unnerving knack for peculiar acquisitions.
The impact had been slight, but Alistair’s fingers instinctively sought his dark hair, ensuring its composure. Across the aisle, Percival kicked aside a stool with practiced ease, then settled into a vacant chair before it could fully topple. He tossed his satchel onto the desk, propping his chin upon it with an air of casual disregard.
“You rouse me from my rest only to indulge in your own idleness?” Alistair grumbled, twisting in his seat. Percival’s every pronouncement seemed to ignite a contrary spark within him. He nudged Percival’s polished boot with his own, eliciting a faint smirk.
“Is it proper to assault a fellow scholar, Finch? You savage.”
Alistair scoffed at the playful sarcasm, then aimed a feigned kick at Percival’s tome. It slid towards him, but with a languid motion, Percival intercepted it mid-air, his gaze never leaving his satchel. A soundless chuckle escaped him, then he spoke, abruptly.
“I’ve had a query for you, Finch.”
“Indeed?”
“That ‘accident’ of yours… it wasn’t quite as it seemed, was it?”
Alistair’s breath hitched. Was it truly so transparent? His face, he thought, had healed adequately.
He hesitated only for a heartbeat before idly brushing a hand over his cheek, adopting a nonchalant tone. “A momentary stumble, Blackwood. Nothing more.”
“Ah.”
Still propped on his satchel, Percival emitted a soft, knowing sound.
“Was it?”
His eyes, cool and assessing, flicked to Alistair. A precise finger pointed, as if singling him out for dissection. Alistair found his intent elusive. “What is your meaning?”
“You lack candour, Finch.”
The instant Percival’s lips curved, a faint, unsettling smile, Alistair’s thoughts momentarily scattered.
What precisely was Blackwood implying?
“...Lacking candour in what regard?”
“Your tumble… it seemed more deliberate than accidental.”
.........
Percival’s pronouncements often carried a veiled complexity, but this time, a quiet menace underpinned his words.
His gaze held an unnerving stillness. Bright, almost feral irises, held dark, piercing pupils that fixed upon Alistair. It felt akin to watching the fletched tip of an arrow, anticipating its strike. And this shaft was undeniably aimed at him. Alistair’s mind emptied. Two words cycled with frantic insistence: *Impossible. He couldn’t know. Impossible. He couldn’t know.*
Then, Percival’s eyes narrowed further.
“It resembled more an impact. A rather forceful collision.”
His long, serpentine eyes curved upward. Alistair’s throat constricted. His breath caught, trapped in his chest. *Gulp*. Percival’s lips parted, yet Alistair could not even blink.
“Should such a detail reach the ears of others, it would prove… awkward, would it not?”
.........
“I shall observe discretion.”
Then, raising the hand that had held the old tome to his lips, Percival whispered the words, a faint wink accompanying them. The breath Alistair had been holding slammed against his ribs like a desperate, caged thing.
Percival offered no pause for reaction. He merely ran a casual hand through his dark, perfectly parted hair, then gestured at Alistair.
“But your coiffure, Finch. Have you adopted my style? A touch unoriginal, perhaps.”
Alistair was speechless. Percival crinkled his nose in an exaggerated display of disapproval.
“In any case, I shall now take my rest.”
He yawned, burying his face into his satchel. Staring at the back of Percival’s head, Alistair finally managed, “I have not emulated your style, nor have I altered my hair.”
“Is that so?” Percival’s muffled voice rumbled from the depths of his bag.
---
“Oh, Most High, who presides over the destinies of men.”
Percival Blackwood intoned this, his freshly acquired academic report clutched in one hand.
Fourth period. With the conclusion of Rhetoric and Logic, the term’s academic reports had been distributed. Percival unfolded his, scanned the meticulous scores, then uttered his dramatic invocation. He then threw his head back with exaggerated flourish, emitting a profound sigh.
“Ah, ruin.”
Alistair glanced at his own report, confirming his consistent ‘Distinction’ marks, then folded it neatly and slid it into the inner pocket of his coat. When his gaze returned to Percival, the other student was still sighing, a theatrical martyr.
From his posture, only the sharp line of Percival’s Adam’s apple was visible. It bobbed heavily, almost as if chiding Alistair for his scrutiny. Fixing his eyes upon the pale skin of Percival’s throat, Alistair offered, “That particular supplication is not typically invoked for such trivial matters.”
“What matter of it? A lament is a lament.”
Then, with an abruptness, he asked, “Tell me, Finch, is it ‘God’ or ‘The Divine’ in these Old World texts?”
It was then Alistair discerned a peculiar facet of Percival Blackwood’s intellect – his philosophical explorations were often unorthodox.
“Why solicit my opinion? It falls within your own scholarly purview.”
“Alistair, do not be so reticent. You possess such prodigious intellect; I presumed you knew all.”
“I do not. Nor do I adhere to any formal theology.”
Percival, who had been leaning back with utmost abandon, now snapped forward. Their eyes met, and Alistair, caught off guard, instinctively averted his gaze towards the leaded panes of the window, feigning disinterest. Yet, a sharp prickle, like a petty theft exposed, stirred in his chest.
He stared absently at the wintry gardens beyond the glass, then shifted his focus to the stiff, impeccably starched collar of Percival’s shirt. The crisp white fabric rested against his neck, but with every exaggerated movement, a flash of collarbone, sharp and pale, appeared.
“So, Finch? Care to join me at the chapel lecture this Sabbath?”
“What? No.”
“Ah, why not? Attend. On festival days and special services, they offer refreshments. Fine biscuits, warmed cider, even small, savoury tarts…”
“Hold, Blackwood. Do you frequent such gatherings solely for the comestibles?”
“Naturally.”
Alistair finally met his gaze, his eyes drawn to the quill Percival had balanced precariously on his upper lip. He would not, out of sheer pride, readily admit it, but in that moment, he had to concede: Percival Blackwood possessed a striking, almost arrogant handsomeness. A smug devil.
The quill, wedged between his aquiline nose and upper lip, distorted his voice into a slurred, disgruntled murmur.
“By your tone, one might assume I am pilfering. If they are freely given, what impropriety lies in acceptance?”
“Can one truly claim ‘faith’ if belief is predicated upon such base, selfish motivations?”
“All conviction begins thus. One does not commence with grand, immutable tenets. One observes, ‘Ah, delightful fare is offered. That purveyor must be benevolent.’ And then, by degrees, this initial appreciation for the ‘kind benefactor of refreshments’ evolves into absolute devotion. The genesis and the process are irrelevant. What truly matters is the present, unwavering belief.”
Percival Blackwood often spouted such provocations. Even Elias Thorne had found himself occasionally ensnared by his peculiar logic.
Sometimes, it was mere sophistry. But sometimes, it was a peculiar brand of pragmatism that Alistair, despite himself, found strangely compelling. This was one such instance.
Alistair ran a hand through his perpetually falling dark bangs, brushing them from his forehead. They immediately resettled. He shook his head from side to side, his fine strands swaying, before finally gathering them near his temples. The persistent tickle lessened.
He had been so preoccupied of late, neglecting even a simple trim.
With Lord Gareth and Elias Thorne effectively exiled from the forefront of the academy’s social stage, the hierarchy had shifted. The usual focal points were gone.
Six days prior, the Headmaster had summoned Alistair to his study, inquiring if he had had any word from Lord Gareth.
Alistair had answered with unblemished honesty, without hesitation.
“No, Headmaster. I have not.”
“You have yet to reconcile with Gareth, then?”
Alistair offered a small, bitter smile. A precisely calibrated expression. In truth, the urge to smile was entirely absent.
“No. Gareth… he grew quite incensed with me.”
“Gareth grew incensed with *you*?”
“Indeed.”
Rumours already permeated the academy, so the Headmaster was not entirely ignorant of the implications. He possessed a shrewd understanding of Aethelgard’s delicate social machinations.
“Very well, I comprehend,” he stated, dismissing Alistair. Then, as he settled back into his imposing chair, he muttered beneath his breath.
Judging by the snippets Alistair caught, it was predominantly complaints regarding Lord Gareth’s volatile temperament and frustration over a recent rebuke from Gareth’s formidable father, a prominent Duke.
Alistair feigned not to hear the Headmaster’s pathetic monologue, turning to depart, yet his acute senses absorbed every inflection. Thus, he grasped the atmosphere within the august office.
Later that day, while preparing for his private Latin lessons at home, Lord Gareth’s father himself, the Duke, had placed a call. He posed the identical query as the Headmaster: whether Alistair knew of Gareth’s whereabouts.
Alistair delivered the same meticulously crafted response.
“No, Your Grace. Gareth has not reached out to me of late.”
— *I see…*
“I am truly sorry I cannot be of more assistance.”
— *No, there is nothing for you to apologise for, young Finch. It is quite alright.*
Of late, the Duke’s calls had grown unnervingly frequent. Each conversation unfolded with the same, unsettling cadence.
There was an odd, almost deliberate insistence in his attempts to link Lord Gareth and Alistair. Alistair hurried to conclude the exchange.
In truth, there was no cause for apology. Yet, he offered it readily—to be liked. It was the same ingrained instinct that compelled one to call an ill-favoured infant “cute.” A social convention. A form of exquisite etiquette that upheld the very structure of their civilised society.
He harboured no illusion that adults perceived him as a manipulable pawn.
If anything, his politeness was a carefully staged pantomime, performed by a shrewd courtier.
He knew his station, always.
And by diligently cultivating this image, he ensured his place as a well-regarded, if perhaps underestimated, fixture.
Even should he, one day, commit an indiscretion so blatant as to furrow the brows of his audience, they would extend him their clemency. That was the intricate groundwork he continually laid.
Unlike some hapless fool, Alistair navigated his life with astute precision.
Perhaps, from the lofty perspective of an adult, his intricate machinations were nothing more than a narrow-minded, petty trick to evade repercussions.
But among his peers, the truth was undeniable: Alistair Finch possessed an unparalleled knack for handling unpredictable situations with calculated wisdom.
Proof lay in plain sight, if one simply observed Thomas Croft.
---
Thomas Croft, a boy whose lineage granted him little more than a seat in the lecture hall, was the most desperate to ingratiate himself with Percival Blackwood. Consequently, he extended an obsequious friendliness toward Alistair, perceiving him as already aligned with Percival. Though he had once been among Lord Gareth’s most ardent followers, Croft now made it overtly clear where his allegiances lay.