A peculiar disquiet settled upon Alistair Finch. For days, he found his thoughts returning to Mr. Ashworth and Lord Blackwood, a peculiar magnetic pull drawing them together even in separation. What transpired when the hallowed gates of Aethelgard closed for the day? It was a simple, ignoble curiosity, the sort that pricks at a man already gnawed by private envies. From observation, Ashworth rarely walked beside Blackwood. He often trailed a respectful distance, a shadow rather than a companion. Yet, the image persisted: Ashworth, a lanky youth, following Blackwood with an almost desperate loyalty. A sense of foreboding tightened Alistair’s chest, a chilling premonition of stepping too close to a forbidden truth. A tiny casket, best left undisturbed, holding not just sorrow, but a treacherous, irresistible hope. Despite this internal warning, a perverse compulsion urged him forward. He must be quite mad. Indeed, his faculties seemed to have abandoned him. Following the afternoon bell, Alistair found himself tracking Ashworth through the Academy’s ancient courtyards. He moved with practiced stealth, a silent observer in the fading light. His pursuit did not extend far. Blackwood strode ahead, his posture lordly and assured, a vibrant splash of dark wool against the grey stone. Ashworth, a few paces behind, watched Blackwood’s retreating form with an intense, unblinking gaze. Beyond the Academy’s meticulously manicured grounds, the path descended towards the village. The scene unfolded against a backdrop of less elegant stone, worn cobbled lanes, and the occasional untended gate. It was a tableau of disparate elements: two boys navigating a space where privilege barely touched, observed by a third, hidden in the shadows. An overwhelming wave of pity, sharp and unexpected, washed over Alistair. Not for Ashworth, nor for Blackwood, but for the crude spectacle of it all, and perhaps, for his own voyeurism. The moment felt cheap, an intrusion. He turned back towards the Academy’s sheltering walls. --- Later, confined to the quiet sanctuary of his chamber, its windows framing the velvet blackness of the night, Alistair reflected on his retreat. A sense of grim satisfaction settled upon him. Curiosity had pricked, but he had resisted the deeper plunge. What sordid intimacies might he have witnessed had he lingered? Better to remain ignorant. He was no fool to pry open a Pandora’s Box for a mere passing fancy. Ashworth’s devotion to Blackwood, it seemed, only deepened. Blackwood, in turn, appeared to view Ashworth with a mixture of disdain and apprehension. Yes, disdain. What other emotion could one harbour for a persistent shadow, a constant, unwanted presence? An ignoble satisfaction flickered within Alistair. He had not intervened when Blackwood had first targeted Ashworth. Perhaps that was for the best, allowing the natural, unpleasant course of things to unfold. He laced his fingers behind his head, his gaze drawn to the intricate plasterwork of the ceiling. The elegant frieze, a testament to his family’s ancient wealth, was a stark reminder of his fortunate birth. He had wanted for nothing, denied rarely. “Damn it all,” he muttered, the words tasting like ash. Once, he had believed himself invincible, capable of achieving any ambition. Then, he had allowed himself to fall under Blackwood’s spell. The younger lord had revealed the cruel reality that desire often remained unrequited. Alistair suspected Blackwood, too, was learning this bitter lesson concerning Ashworth. The world, indeed, possessed a merciless cruelty. Alistair had, through sheer force of will, learned to master his countenance, to conceal the tempest within. Blackwood, however, remained a creature of impulse, his emotions raw and exposed. He wore his fascination with Ashworth like an ill-fitting garment, unsettling to behold. Alistair understood that particular disquiet. He had felt it himself. Yet, where Alistair had cultivated restraint, Blackwood indulged his impulses, alienating the very object of his fixation. This, Alistair mused, suited him perfectly. “Please, remain so hopelessly blind,” he murmured into the stillness of his room. Or better yet, let Ashworth tire of his pursuit and vanish. Alistair did not harbour a secret hope that Blackwood might one day turn his attention to him. Such a possibility, in truth, terrified him. He yearned for a day when his own affections for Blackwood would simply wither, and Blackwood would find solace elsewhere. That was all. But the intricate dance of human hearts rarely obeyed such simple wishes. --- Another unsettling shift occurred. Blackwood, with his customary disregard for decorum, rearranged the seating in their lecture hall. He chose the desk directly in front of Ashworth’s, an imposing figure whose height now completely obstructed the view of the blackboard from Ashworth’s perspective. The previous occupant of that coveted spot, Mr. Davies, awkwardly greeted Alistair and Lord Thorne, his expression a mingling of embarrassment and discomfort. “Good day, gentlemen.” Thorne and Alistair exchanged a silent glance, offering only curt nods in return. “Ah, yes…” Davies’s forced chuckle dissipated into the strained quiet. Neither Alistair nor Thorne offered a further word. They held no interest in such trivialities. Blackwood settled into his new place without a sound, remaining taciturn throughout the lecture. Alistair, however, found himself wishing, with a fervent desperation, that this uncomfortable stasis might endure for the remainder of their academic tenure. That this present moment would someday dissolve into a vague, forgotten dream. --- Blackwood’s infamous weekend escapades, the subject of so much Academy gossip, seemed to have abruptly ceased. Or so it appeared. From the fragments of conversation Alistair overheard amongst Thorne’s set, Blackwood had not entirely abandoned his hedonistic pursuits. Still, he no longer openly boasted of his conquests during lessons, nor did the faint, cloying scent of stale wine and cheap perfume cling to him. For Alistair, this small mercy was significant. He no longer had to endure the sordid emanations of Blackwood’s debauchery from such close proximity. “My dear Blackwood, have you quite given up your… diversions?” Lord Harrington, a young man of unremarkable lineage but boorish manners, swayed suggestively, his hand gesturing crudely near his waist. Blackwood’s handsome features twisted into a sneer at the vulgar display. His gaze flickered towards Ashworth, then he snarled. “Harrington, I’ve told you! Not in front of others!” “Why the sudden modesty, old chap?” Harrington pressed, a smirk playing on his lips. “Mention that again, and you’ll regret it, I assure you.” “Oh, come now, Blackwood—” “I said, be silent!” “As you wish.” Harrington shrugged, feigning indifference. A murmur of disappointment rippled through the surrounding group. Blackwood, with his towering frame and worldly air, had once been the perfect conduit for the prurient curiosity of young men brimming with unspent energies. They had all fumbled through their own clumsy explorations, but Blackwood had been a guide, a storyteller of forbidden pleasures. With his exploits no longer recounted, their attention shifted to Lord Thorne. Thorne, however, merely bared his teeth in an expression of pure disgust. “You filthy degenerates.” “Oh, here we go! Thorne the Puritan!” “A fanatic, truly. Such a waste of potential.” Laughter, loud and fleeting, echoed through the lecture hall. Many in their cohort had ventured into unsavoury territories at least once, but Lord Thorne, for reasons unknown, had abstained entirely. While his friends often teased him for his apparent innocence, none truly disrespected him. He was Lord Thorne, after all, his formidable family name affording him a certain immunity. Moreover, Thorne possessed a remarkably lighthearted, almost casual air that belied his intimidating presence. This made his often-blunt pronouncements strangely approachable. One often heard it said he possessed a sharp wit that did not quite match his stern countenance. “Cease your tiresome mockery, you imbeciles. You’ll provoke a thrashing.” Thorne glowered, and the group erupted into another round of mirth, though the joke remained unremarkable. Several minor nobles, hovering at the periphery of Thorne’s circle, offered their own insincere chortles, adding to the general din. Alistair sat amongst them, his gaze drifting towards his own lap, lost in a private reverie. He could not recall ever experiencing an unbidden arousal towards a woman. By that measure, he supposed, his nature was simply… inverted. He had felt a certain physiological response to the more intense imagery in certain illustrations, depictions involving both sexes, yet the female form alone had never stirred a flicker of desire in his private moments. The former, he reasoned, was merely a reaction to extremity; the latter, a simple absence of inclination. Once, he had been dragged to a rather disreputable club by Blackwood, but he had not even made it past the entrance, lacking the proper identification. He had waited outside, enduring the chill, until Blackwood reappeared. Brothels? The very thought repulsed him. He found himself utterly perplexed as to their allure. Because of this singular disinclination, the others jokingly referred to him as “Alistair the Ascetic.” But in truth, his abstinence was less a choice, more a dictated reality. Alistair exhaled a soft, almost imperceptible sigh. The others, still engrossed in Thorne’s increasingly exasperated retorts, remained oblivious. Capitalizing on their distraction, Alistair allowed his gaze to stray towards Blackwood, who sat silently, his eyes fixed on the back of Ashworth’s head as the younger boy dutifully attended to his studies. And, as ever, a familiar regret pricked him. Why did he look? Why did he allow curiosity such a dangerous hold? To break the spell, he addressed Thorne with a deliberately trivial question. “Tell me, Thorne, do you genuinely intend to remain… celibate until marriage?” Thorne, who had been lounging in his chair with proprietary ease, suddenly shifted his gaze directly to Alistair’s lap. The intensity of his stare caused Alistair to instinctively cross his legs, a flush rising to his cheeks. What on earth was that about? “You are not my intended, Finch, so why the sudden concern? Are you perhaps offering your services?” Of course. Thorne, for all his honour, possessed a wickedly impish streak. The others roared with laughter, and Alistair, thoroughly mortified, delivered a swift, unceremonious kick to Thorne’s shin. And so his days at Aethelgard continued, a relentless cycle of observation and internal turmoil. --- Alone in his chamber, Alistair often found his mind wandering, contemplating intricate scenarios. Invariably, these thoughts drifted into more fantastical, even forbidden, territories. Today, he found himself musing on an alternate reality: what if his affections had settled upon Lord Thorne instead of Lord Blackwood? It seemed a far less treacherous path. If he had loved Thorne, he would have been spared the lacerating pain of Blackwood’s callous disregard for others. Yet, even then, he knew the ache would persist. Neither Blackwood nor Thorne, after all, would ever return his affections. But at least his heart would not suffer for the sake of Mr. Ashworth. This train of thought eventually spiralled into a familiar eddy of inferiority and resentment. Ultimately, he simply wished for the swift passage of his final year, for the day he could graduate and become a stranger to Lord Blackwood. --- Unconsciously, Alistair found his hands drifting under his desk whenever he sat. This habit, which had begun in his second year at prep school, was always prompted by the same stimulus: other young men. As his fingers absently traced the buckle of his trousers, his thoughts grew hazy, suspended between indulgence and restraint. The faint, metallic click of his nail against the brass buckle was the only sound in the quiet room. Just as he applied a slight pressure with his thumb, preparing to release the clasp, a sharp rap sounded at the door. “Alistair? Are you diligently at your studies?” It was his valet, Mr. Grimsby. “Ah, no! I mean, yes! Indeed, I am!” He nearly leapt out of his skin. The moment, clearly, was ill-chosen. Mortified, Alistair buried his face in his hands. Damn the timing. --- Lately, Blackwood had become an unbearable irritant. Sometimes, when Ashworth’s eyes flickered towards Alistair, Blackwood would deliberately interject, initiating a conversation with the younger boy. Ashworth, caught in the middle, would shift his gaze back to Alistair, his lips parting as if to speak, only to close them again. Then, as if keenly aware of Blackwood’s watchful presence, he would lower his head and respond in the faintest of voices. “Y-yes, my Lord…” Always the same, stifled exchange. Ashworth, however, had subtly begun to seek Alistair out more frequently. He had even started using Alistair’s given name, “Alistair.” Few outside his immediate family used such a familiar address, so the change was conspicuous. Ashworth seemed to believe he was being discreet, but his efforts were transparent. The most vexing aspect was Blackwood’s palpable discomfort whenever Ashworth dared such a familiarity. “Mr. Ashworth, cease disturbing Lord Finch’s studies.” Blackwood’s voice, though low, carried an edge. “What?” Ashworth stammered, bewildered. “I said, do not trouble him. Is that not clear?” “Oh… uh, y-yes, my Lord…” When Ashworth stammered, his gaze darting away, Blackwood childishly slammed his fist against the leg of the desk beside him. Alistair feigned obliviousness. Annoyingly, the guileless Ashworth seemed to believe that Blackwood’s objections to the familiar address had faded. He grew bolder, using “Alistair” as if it were a perfectly normal and accepted salutation. “Uh, Alistair… forgive me for interrupting your concentration.” Alistair stiffened, staring at Ashworth in disbelief. Was the boy utterly devoid of sense? Blackwood sat mere inches away. True to form, Blackwood’s fist met the desk leg once more. Damn it all. “Ashworth!” Blackwood’s voice cracked with barely suppressed rage. “...My Lord?” The air in the room instantly grew heavy, thick with unspoken tension. “I distinctly recall giving you an instruction.” Blackwood’s anger was blatant, simmering just beneath the surface. “I told you not to address him as ‘Alistair,’ did I not?” “W-well…” “His name is Lord Finch. Address him as such.” His gaze, sharp and almost predatory, swivelled to Alistair. Alistair recoiled inwardly from that look, instinctively lowering his head. At that moment, Lord Thorne, seated beside Alistair, casually draped an arm over his shoulders. His low, distinctive voice murmured near Alistair’s ear. “Blackwood, if you persist in this folly, you will truly undo yourself.” “What nonsense are you uttering now, Thorne?” Blackwood snapped, his eyes still fixed on Alistair. “I am merely stating that you will live to regret this.” Thorne smirked, and Alistair felt a flicker of irritation, though for a singular reason he could not quite articulate at that moment. “Lord Blackwood, you will find…” And Alistair knew, with a chilling certainty, that this volatile dance between them was far from over. His carefully constructed equilibrium, so hard-won, felt precarious once more.

A Flicker in the Gloom