Alistair awoke to a dull throb, a persistent pulse beneath his temple. Reaching up, he traced the contours of his jaw. The angry swelling had receded, leaving only a faint puffiness and a bruise like a smudged violet. A grim satisfaction settled within him. It was a mark that could be dismissed, perhaps, as a careless stumble. Manageable. A less noticeable shame.
He dressed with his usual meticulous care, the crisp linen and dark wool a familiar armour. Yet, beneath the composure, a restless anxiety stirred. Aethelgard Academy, a place of ancient stone and whispered ambition, would be a theatre today. His lower standing, usually a quiet burden, now felt like a spotlight on his bruised dignity.
Footsteps echoed hollowly in the vaulted corridors as Alistair entered the lecture hall. Air hung thick with an unnameable tension, heavier than the usual academic solemnity. Faces, usually quick to dismiss his presence, seemed to hold a peculiar intensity today. They watched, not him, but the space around him.
His gaze swept the room, instinctively seeking Elias Thorne. A moment before the lecturer arrived, Elias slipped in through the heavy oak doors, barely avoiding tardiness. Alistair’s breath hitched.
Elias’s face was a ruin. A lip split, dark and weeping, drew a stark line across his pale skin. One eye, almost entirely swollen shut, was a grotesque, purpling orb. It was far, far worse than Alistair’s own fading injury.
A cold wave of revulsion washed over Alistair, not for Elias, but for himself. He remembered the spiteful, childish thoughts he’d entertained, half-wishing for Elias to suffer a similar indignity. The guilt was a suffocating pressure, burning his ears.
Elias’s eyes, the good one wide with a hunted fear, darted nervously across the room. They snagged on Alistair’s, then widened further. A flicker of something akin to terror crossed his features before he wrenched his head away, shuffling quickly to his seat, avoiding any further exchange.
What did that mean? Alistair’s brows furrowed. A subtle shift in the air led his eye to Lord Cassian Ashworth, who sat a few rows back, his aristocratic profile a sharp silhouette against the gothic window. Cassian’s stare was fixed on Alistair, a venomous, possessive glint in his pale eyes.
Alistair felt a familiar tightening in his chest. He should have feigned illness. A single, profound regret.
Throughout the morning's lectures, Elias Thorne remained a phantom, his usual eager attentiveness replaced by a withdrawn, hunched posture. During the brief intervals between classes, he vanished, presumably with Lord Cassian, reappearing only when the bells chimed once more.
---
Left to his own devices at the midday repast, Alistair found himself drifting toward the less populated tables. Percival Blackwood, ever the affable presence, motioned him over with a half-eaten pasty.
Percival’s easy chatter provided a peculiar shield against the oppressive silence. He spoke of trivialities, of a particularly bothersome Latin translation, of a scandalous rumour concerning a junior prefect and a stable hand. Alistair offered sparse, noncommittal replies, his mind a turbulent sea beneath a placid surface.
“Still feeling a bit tender, old chap?” Percival offered, noting Alistair’s subdued demeanour. “That scuffle yesterday, quite a fright.”
“A minor mishap,” Alistair said, his voice flat. He pushed a pea around his plate.
“Mishap, eh?” Percival chuckled, entirely too bright. “Seemed more like a tempest. Heard young Thorne got the rough end of it too. Poor fellow. Almost as bruised as your pride, I daresay.”
Alistair flinched, a sharp, internal pain. “My pride remains quite intact, Blackwood.”
“Of course, of course,” Percival said, raising a placating hand, though a mischievous glint remained in his eyes. “Just remarking on the general unpleasantness. Still, a good distraction, eh? Away from the usual drudgery.”
Alistair offered a weak, tight smile. Percival’s levity, once an irritant, now felt like a necessary counterweight to the leaden thoughts that threatened to consume him. He found himself relying on it, a fragile tether against the escalating anxieties.
His gaze drifted to the now empty space where Cassian and Elias often convened. He wondered where they had gone. The thought of seeking them out, of witnessing further humiliation, churned his stomach. He would not. He could not.
---
Life possessed a cruel, capricious humour. Alistair had never sought the acquaintance of Percival Blackwood, considering him too frivolous, too lacking in academic gravitas. Yet, here he was, finding an unexpected solace in Percival's company, a strange anchor amidst the social maelstrom. Percival’s light-heartedness, the very quality Alistair had once disdained as shallow, now seemed to prevent him from sinking too deeply into the quagmire of his own thoughts.
Since the preceding day’s confrontation, Cassian Ashworth had begun to cultivate a deliberate distance from their once-tight-knit circle. He would occasionally vanish with Elias Thorne, sometimes taking a few others from their cohort. Alistair noticed how some boys, particularly those not directly within Cassian’s closest, more formidable sway, began to politely decline, their expressions uneasy.
One afternoon, Alistair encountered Cuthbert Pendelton near the shadowed archway leading to the older dormitories. Cuthbert, a usually boisterous youth, seemed unusually subdued. He was attempting to surreptitiously scale a low wall, apparently to avoid a particularly zealous prefect.
“Finch,” Cuthbert whispered, startled. “Saw you yesterday. Rather a kerfuffle.”
Alistair merely nodded, a noncommittal gesture.
“Ashworth’s been… unhinged,” Cuthbert continued, a nervous laugh escaping him. “Been ordering lads to give Thorne a good cuffing, one by one. Utter rot, if you ask me.”
Alistair’s face tightened into a mask of disgust. “He dares?”
Cuthbert quickly backtracked, sensing Alistair’s unspoken judgment. “I’ve been avoiding that lot, mind you. Dreadful business. Just off to the quad with Sterling, a spot of cricket. Don’t misunderstand.” With a quick, furtive glance, he clambered over the wall, disappearing from view.
Augustus Sterling, a quiet, studious boy, had once been a close associate of Cassian’s in their first year. Proximity to Cassian, however, had dwindled since their placement in separate forms.
Later, Alistair found himself with Percival by the old elm, sharing a spiced gingerbread from the tuck shop. The sweet, sharp flavour was a fleeting distraction, yet beneath it, a knot of unease tightened further in Alistair’s stomach. Still, he maintained a careful neutrality.
“Good, isn’t it?” Percival asked, crumbs clinging to his chin. He eyed Alistair’s half-eaten gingerbread greedily.
“Perhaps.” Alistair considered offering a bite, then thought better of it. “Blackwood, do you believe flowers can bloom in a barren desert?”
The question, born of Alistair’s churning despair, felt embarrassingly vulnerable the moment it left his lips. He scuffed a toe against the damp earth, anticipating Percival’s usual jest.
Percival merely munched. “They must,” he said, his voice surprisingly soft. “Life’s already a rather dreary affair, wouldn’t you say? Needs a bit of unexpected colour.”
The simplicity of Percival’s reply, devoid of irony, struck Alistair with a surprising force. It highlighted the futile desperation of his own lingering hope. How long, he wondered, would it take to excise these irrational sentiments?
“Indeed,” Alistair murmured, the word tasting like ash. “Dreary.”
Cassian Ashworth. That insufferable lordling. Why did he seem so intent on breaking the very attachments he cultivated? He moved through the academy now with an air of careless indifference, attending lectures when he pleased, and always, like a shadow, Elias Thorne followed.
The academy buzzed with a low hum of speculation, a growing resentment. Cassian’s violence, Alistair sensed, was escalating. A miasma of unease spread, palpable even in the most sequestered corners.
One afternoon, Alistair caught sight of Cassian dragging Elias by the wrist down a narrow, forgotten hallway. He stopped, a sudden resolve stiffening his spine. His gaze flickered between their faces before he spoke, his voice carefully level.
“Your uncle has concerns.” The lie was a delicate, desperate gambit. Cassian’s relationship with his distant, stern uncle was strained, rarely involving familial warmth. It was a safe falsehood, one that could always be reinterpreted as a general concern for Cassian’s reputation. An escape route, as always.
“If indignities must be suffered,” Alistair continued, his voice low, “let them be borne by one’s own folly. What has Thorne done to deserve such treatment?”
“Move.” Cassian’s eyes, cold as slate, fixed on Alistair, a silent threat. Alistair’s heart hammered against his ribs. He loathed him. And yet, Elias, pathetic and trembling, clung to Cassian’s arm, his eyes, still bruised, filled with a fearful plea.
“C-Cassian, please,” Elias stammered, his voice a ragged whisper. Cassian’s gaze shifted, piercing Elias. Alistair saw only the rigid line of Cassian’s back as he turned slightly.
“Your uncle, I merely meant—” Alistair began again, a desperate attempt to regain control.
Elias, on the verge of tears, gripped Cassian’s arm, his frail attempts to intervene heartbreaking. The scene was unbearable. Alistair closed his eyes, a shiver raking through him.
After a drawn-out moment, Cassian finally looked at Elias, then, with a curt nod, turned and led him back toward the main building. For the remainder of the day, Cassian stayed within the bounds of the academy, a restless, caged presence.
---
The day of the annual Spring Exhibition arrived, heralded by a hired charabanc waiting in the academy courtyard. Murmurs of discontent rose from a few older scholars, complaining about the disruption to their studies. But for most, it was a welcome reprieve, a chance to escape the cloistered routine of Aethelgard for a single day.
No elaborate packing was necessary; the return journey was scheduled for late afternoon. The prefects offered only perfunctory warnings before releasing the students to the vehicles.
This was not a giddy, childish outing. Alistair viewed it with a detached pragmatism: a departure without cumbersome luggage, a return similarly unburdened. He had no inkling that this seemingly ordinary day would become the crucible in which his suppressed frustrations would finally erupt. He had anticipated such a moment, certainly, but not with such sudden, brutal clarity.
Custom dictated his seating arrangement. Whenever they left the confines of the classroom, Alistair occupied the place beside Cassian Ashworth. He had been Cassian’s closest, most trusted confidant for years. He hadn't even considered Percival Blackwood’s seating, for they had never shared such a journey before.
At first, a nervous flutter gripped Alistair. He feared Percival might, through some thoughtless whim, claim the seat next to Cassian. The thought now seemed absurd, pitiful. Neither he nor Percival would occupy that particular space.
Approaching the waiting charabanc, Alistair climbed the steps. Voices, boisterous and uninhibited, spilled from the rear seats. Cuthbert Pendelton waved to him, then hesitated, his hand hovering towards Cassian’s usual spot.
“Finch! There’s a space here!” Cuthbert called out.
“Indeed.” Alistair acknowledged him with a slight nod. His internal compass, however, pulled him towards Cassian. He had always sat there. This was his territory, etched by years of silent expectation. He felt a fierce, desperate surge of ownership.
His hand hovered above the worn upholstery of the seat beside Cassian, who sat by the window, his profile stony, fixed on the charabanc’s entrance. Alistair swallowed, the urge to simply claim his spot warring with a profound sense of apprehension. He glanced around the cabin, his voice barely a whisper.
“This seat, Ashworth…”
“It is not yours,” Cassian cut him off, his voice flat, devoid of warmth. He did not turn. “Find another.” His gaze remained steadfastly fixed on the entering students.
Then Alistair saw him. Elias Thorne, a small, hunched figure, hesitated at the charabanc’s entrance, his eyes wide and uncertain. Cassian’s cold dismissal, Alistair realized, was for him, for Elias. Elias, looking lost and vulnerable, slowly made his way down the aisle towards Cassian’s side. He slid into the empty seat, pulling his thin frame into itself.
Alistair’s heart felt as if it had been shredded. He forced a mask of indifference onto his face. “Fine. As you wish.” The words were hollow, ringing with a false nonchalance.
Quickly, Alistair retreated down the aisle. He found a vacant spot opposite Percival Blackwood, who was already slumped against the window, head lolling in sleep. Percival’s ability to doze off at a moment’s notice was legendary. Alistair shook his head at the ridiculous angle of Percival’s repose, then gently tucked his own leather wallet between Percival’s head and the glass to cushion it.
He settled into the uncomfortable seat beside Percival, leaning back, his eyes catching the dark sweep of hair across the aisle. Cassian’s. He was taller than most, easily identifiable even from this distance. Alistair could not clearly discern the expressions on Cassian’s or Elias’s faces, but the sight of them, together, so close, twisted something deep inside him.