The phrase, ‘Julian Thorne’s appointed guardian,’ clung to Alistair like a damp, ill-fitting shroud. Each utterance, each formal intonation from the sanatorium staff, pressed down with the unwelcome weight of adulthood, a mantle he had never truly sought. He was eighteen. The number felt utterly inconsequential against the gravity of the role. He wrestled with this inherited responsibility through countless desolate evenings. His days were a precise calibration: morning lectures at Aethelgard, afternoons buried in the library’s hushed stacks, and then, as twilight bled across the misty countryside, the journey to the private sanatorium nestled beyond the academy gates. He rarely attended a full complement of classes. Guilt, a dull ache beneath his ribs, often gnawed at him. Each arrival at the sanatorium, each quiet tap on the heavy oak door of Julian’s private room, brought the predictable rush. Julian would surge from his bed, a pale, gangly figure, as if tethered to Alistair’s presence alone. And then the torrent. Julian, without preamble, would unleash the day’s indignities, his words tumbling over each other like stones down a steep incline. “They speak of another grafting, Alistair. Another slice from my thigh. Can you fathom the sheer barbarity of it? And the food here… God, the food. It’s a punishment. A vile gruel even a pauper’s hound would disdain. I am not some enfeebled octogenarian, my stomach is perfectly robust, yet they insist on this inedible slop!” His voice cracked, thick with genuine misery. His face, usually a mask of detached amusement, contorted with petulance. He resembled nothing so much as a disgruntled child. Alistair exhaled a slow, almost imperceptible sigh. He reached into his satchel, his fingers brushing against the oilskin wrapping. The aroma of spiced pastry, faintly sweet and savoury, already permeated the leather. His lip curled instinctively. Yet, carrying it exposed, openly, would have been a far greater affront to his carefully constructed composure. “What is it?” Julian’s voice, suddenly hushed, was laced with a raw, canine curiosity. A flicker of something primal in his eyes. Repugnant. Utterly, fundamentally repugnant. Alistair dismissed the thought, a shiver tracing his spine. He drew forth a small, neatly bound box. Julian’s gaze, previously clouded with gloom, sharpened. It swept over the offering, tentative, almost reverent. “A tiffin?” “A packed luncheon,” Alistair corrected, his tone clipped. “I made enquiries. Your surgery remains distant. You may consume it without detriment.” “For me?” “Do not imbue it with unwarranted significance. I acquired it from a provisioner near the facility.” His insistence on its lack of 'meaning' was, in itself, a testament to the quiet, uncomfortable truth. He had, indeed, searched. He had sought out a vendor known for their discreet, high-quality fare, suitable for delicate constitutions. Food that was both nourishing and palatable. He would never articulate that effort. Never. He preferred the illusion of a detached act of simple, human civility. But for Julian, even that sparse offering seemed a bounty. Julian’s right hand, still clumsy and partially re-bound from an earlier procedure, rose to scratch at an ear. The lobe, Alistair noted, was a vivid, embarrassed crimson. His gaze drifted lower, to those fingers. They curled inwards, stiff and unnatural. A deformation. Alistair’s expression tightened. His stomach churned. Why did those particular digits ensnare his attention? Why could he not look away? A crushing weight settled upon his chest. “...My gratitude, Alistair.” Julian’s voice, usually a lively clamour, was oddly subdued. Julian glanced up, caught Alistair’s stare, then flinched, his head ducking down as he fumbled with the clasp of the luncheon box. A theatrical gesture, perhaps? As if being observed in his gratitude were a transgression. As if he did not wish Alistair to discern the nascent emotion. He devoured the contents with a mechanical, almost violent haste, crumbs scattering across the spotless counterpane. His pinky, ring, and middle fingers on his right hand remained stubbornly stiff, useless. Was it genuine? Or a calculated performance? Alistair watched him, then leaned his own weary frame against the uncomfortable divan. It was a rather unsavoury spectacle. Slowly, Alistair shifted closer. His hand reached out, taking the fork from Julian’s clumsy grasp. “Which portion do you desire?” “...” “The mutton?” He had, at the very least, a peculiar obligation to acknowledge the validity of Julian’s wounds, real or imagined. Julian, his lips smeared with gravy, lowered his head slightly as he chewed, a faint, inexplicable smile gracing his face. Alistair could not comprehend it. How could this individual, whose three fingers would never fully articulate, whose thigh and back bore a spiderweb of vicious, reddened scars, summon such an expression of contentment? It defied all logic. He averted his gaze from Julian’s strangely luminous face. What amusement could he possibly extract from such a wretched state? If it were Alistair, he would surely desire oblivion. He selected a tender piece of braised meat and brought it to Julian’s mouth. Julian chewed with vigorous enthusiasm, his smile unwavering. Julian Thorne always managed to disturb Alistair’s carefully maintained equilibrium. His presence, his sheer, unbridled vitality even in sickness, felt like a jarring discord against the somber backdrop of Alistair’s life. The luncheon, Alistair conceded, had not been an impulse. It was a direct consequence of a detour, a visit to Thorne Hall, before he had come to the sanatorium. --- It marked the second occasion since Julian’s initial skin graft that Alistair had visited his family estate. He still possessed the guardian’s pass, a curious formality he had never fully understood. He had encountered Julian’s family but thrice at the sanatorium. Once, briefly, his distant, imperious father. Twice, his mother, Lady Thorne, a woman whose saccharine civility rankled Alistair more than outright hostility. She had offered him platitudes, a delicate smile that seemed to reward him for undertaking the burdensome duties she herself had so readily abdicated. Julian, on those occasions, merely propped his chin on his hand, observing his mother’s retreating back with a peculiar, knowing detachment. On this particular day, Alistair had merely intended to collect a few of Julian’s personal effects. A book, a favored pen, a sketchpad. Anything to alleviate the suffocating boredom of the sanatorium room. He understood the tedium implicitly. He had experienced it himself, in a different, more isolated context. He knew the precise, aching void such confinement created. He convinced himself it was merely pragmatism. Not sympathy. Certainly not affection. That day, instead of returning directly to his dormitory at Aethelgard, he had diverted his coach towards Thorne Hall. Thorne Hall, a sprawling, albeit somewhat faded, edifice, offered its usual cold welcome. Lady Aurelia Thorne, Julian’s elder sister, did not. She leaned against the dark, oak-paneled wall of Julian’s bedchamber, her silhouette sharp against the gloom. Her voice, when it came, was dry, devoid of warmth. “You still involve yourself with Julian, then?” To be frank, Alistair harboured little fondness for Lady Aurelia. Her conspicuous absence from the sanatorium, her apparent indifference to her brother’s plight, had registered a quiet, unbidden judgement within him. An instinctual, moral condemnation he had not consciously acknowledged. Recognizing the faint echo of it in his own thoughts, Alistair clamped his mouth shut. He stuffed another volume into his satchel. “Indeed.” “He truly is quite unhinged, you know. Obsessed with you, he is.” Alistair’s hand froze mid-air. He turned, slowly, as if compelled by an unseen force. “...Obsessed with me?” “Does that news please you, Mr. Finch?” Her eyes, sharp and assessing, pierced him. “No. It was merely an inquiry.” “One does not merely inquire about such matters without a hidden inclination.” Lady Aurelia’s voice dipped to a murmur, but Alistair, feigning deafness, continued his task. She, like her entire family, possessed a peculiar talent for ignoring inconvenient realities. She stepped closer, her scent – lavender and cold disdain – preceding her. “Tell me, where did you disappear to after the examinations last term?” “I remained at the academy.” The entire county, Alistair suspected, was likely privy to his every movement. “It’s not as if I sought the information,” she continued, a delicate hand tracing the intricate carving on the wall. “But Julian… he became quite agitated. Quite beside himself. That boy, who had never once set foot inside a chapel, suddenly took to fervent prayer, then to uncontrolled tantrums.” Her voice lowered further, imbued with a strange, almost horrified fascination. “Not long after, he tore apart the rosary his father had gifted him. Utterly rent it. Screaming, he was.” “A rosary?” “That trinket. He used to cherish it, you know. Spoke of it as a relic. Then he declared God a ‘forsaken cur’ or some such profanity. He locked himself within these very rooms and refused to emerge. Our household, I confess, finally knew a measure of peace. He is quite blind to his own follies, the unfortunate wretch.” Her mocking tone abruptly faltered. Her gaze fixed on Alistair’s face. “What is it? Your face is quite flushed.” “It is not.” “But it is. Do you truly… favour him, Mr. Finch? You find him appealing?” “I reiterate, I do not.” Alistair’s retort was sharper than intended. “...Heavens above.” She gasped, a hand flying to cover her mouth, as if genuinely aghast. “You are quite mad. Truly.” Why did she persist in such baseless accusations, despite his unequivocal denial? Annoyed, Alistair yanked the zipper of his satchel shut. His own frustrations, a stinging retort, rose to his lips. “Why divulge this to me? Your father himself once implied Julian was… little more than an unwelcome appendage to his lineage.” “What in blazes are you speaking of?” A True Contradiction. What an unholy contradiction his life had become. His actions often defied his carefully cultivated detachment. A tutor, Professor Davies, once remarked that despite his formidable intellect, Alistair possessed an underlying vein of quiet, unsolicited kindness. But for this instance, Alistair possessed a convenient rationale. The stark, brown scars that marbled Julian’s back. A testament to genuine suffering. Just as Julian often found himself unable to meet Alistair’s direct gaze, Alistair found it difficult to look upon that ravaged skin. “Alistair.” Julian’s voice, raspy now, drew closer. “Will you… will you allow me to believe in you?” He pretended a studied indifference. But he listened. Every fibre of his being strained to listen. “What imbecility are you spouting now?” “I shall not grow fond of you.” In that single, agonizing instant, Alistair’s heart plunged. His stomach lurched. Something cold and constricting tightened around his chest. He almost asked—the words nearly tumbling from his lips without thought. *Why not?* The terrifying implication of that unspoken question, his true, hidden desires, almost escaped him. Alistair, you are a fool. He clenched his fists, swallowing the treacherous query. Yes. This was for the best. For both of them. “Instead, I shall believe in you.” Julian’s declaration was strange, imbued with both a profound sorrow and an unsettling joy. Like a disciple receiving an unlikely revelation. Alistair could find no other suitable description for him in that moment. He did not comprehend Julian’s words. Yet, he did not withdraw his hand. Did not flee. The suffocating pressure upon his chest no longer merely squeezed; it stabbed. “I am an atheist now, Alistair. Truly, you are far more instrumental to my wretched existence than that distant deity in the firmament.” “Silence, you blasphemer.” This impertinent youth… “You rail against the heavens daily.” “No, that is untrue! I was raised a devout worshipper, I assure you!” Julian frantically shook his head, his hands fluttering. As if his very life depended upon Alistair’s belief. If Alistair did not believe him, he might genuinely weep. Caught entirely off guard, Alistair found himself speechless. Then, as if reaching a sudden, dramatic decision, Julian slid off the divan, dropping to his knees with a thud. “Then I shall demonstrate.” “Julian, what lunacy is this?” A pale, surprisingly strong hand grasped Alistair’s foot. As Alistair had been resting with his legs propped on the divan, the sudden movement nearly unseated him. He swayed, precariously balanced on the edge of the cushion, his foot now held captive, suspended in the air. Julian’s gaze fixed upon the pale, jagged scar marring the sole of Alistair’s foot, the remnant of an old injury from broken glass. Julian’s brow furrowed. And then, to Alistair’s disbelief, his eyes welled with tears. Alistair recoiled in shock, attempting to yank his foot free. Before he could fully escape, Julian lowered his head. “What are you—” “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.” Cold fingertips, feather-light, brushed against Alistair’s ankle. A sharp, uncomfortable ache shot up his calf, deep into his stomach. What depravity was this madman enacting? He tried to tug his foot away, but his strength seemed to have utterly abandoned him. Julian looked up once, his face devoid of a single trace of disgust. His expression was one of profound, almost desperate reverence. Like a devout acolyte touching a sacred relic. “I greet the Lord.” He pressed his lips to the very tip of Alistair’s foot. Julian’s fine, soft hair brushed against Alistair’s ankle, a tickling sensation. The gentle, almost caressing press of his lips moved across the base of Alistair’s toes. “S-Stop this…” Alistair flung an arm over his face, shielding his eyes from the sight, from the unbearable intimacy. Julian’s right hand, the one with the stiff, uncooperative fingers, tightened around Alistair’s ankle. And in that moment— Alistair ceased his resistance. Three weak, deformed fingers held him fast. A delicate, fragile grip tapped lightly, rhythmically against his skin. The lips that cursed God with such abandon now traced a path, slow and deliberate, up his calf. And Alistair did nothing to stop him. It was then, with a dreadful, chilling certainty, that Alistair Finch realized: This relentless, incurable malady— This nightmare of being eighteen, of carrying such a bewildering burden— It was far from over.

The Unholy Sacrament