Aiel. My name, spoken plainly, is Aiel. Yet many now say ‘House Kael’s Aiel,’ a label I wear like a moth-eaten cloak. It was Lord Roric Volkov, during our first year within the Grand Scriptorium’s hallowed halls, who first quipped it, his voice a low rumble. He claimed it lent my name a certain gravitas. Aiel, a name already burdened by a fading legacy, became tethered to his house’s rising star. Some few still call me simply Aiel, but their story is for another time.
Lord Roric Volkov, despite our shared age, seemed hewn from a different timber entirely. His formidable height and sun-kissed skin stood in stark opposition to my own delicate frame and pale complexion. Where my days were spent hunched over ancient texts, deciphering forgotten scripts, his were marked by the clang of the training yard and the vibrant thrum of his nascent Essence. He dwelled at the apex of our generation’s martial hierarchy, a truth that bristled against my scholar’s pride.
Did I harbor disdain for him then? Custom dictated such. My family, though diminished, clung to a belief in proper stations, a hierarchy etched into the very bedrock of our Dominion. Yet, Roric Volkov defied easy categorization. His eyes, the color of a storm-tossed sea, held a disquieting intensity, a primal force that compelled attention.
He carried a peculiar scent, a clean, sharp tang beneath the heavier notes of ozone and steel that clung to those touched by martial Essence. It was subtle, almost colorless, yet it drew me in like a moth to a distant lantern. Aiel, ever the quiet observer, found himself speaking, a string of carefully chosen words that felt alien on his tongue.
Often, I sought common ground between us. Our families, for instance, both held sway within the Silverwood Dominion. Though the Volkovs commanded the very essence of power, their ancestral Seat rising like a mountain fortress, and my own House Kael merely held a minor stipend and the custodianship of ancient records. Still, the pretense of shared nobility offered a fragile bridge.
Our Academy stood betwixt the sprawling estates of the highborn and the more modest dwellings of lesser gentry. Fortunately, my ancestral manor, though modest by Volkov standards, rested firmly within the former. Aiel, an only child, had been raised with a scholar’s meticulousness and a keen awareness of social currents, a subtle cunning honed from necessity.
Once I confirmed Lord Roric also hailed from the upper strata, my carefully constructed reserve fractured. With that singular justification, I approached him, and a peculiar form of companionship began. As I excelled in the intricate dance of calligraphy and historical exegesis, Lord Roric honed his formidable Essence, swiftly dominating the training grounds. Within a single lunar cycle, he was acknowledged as the paramount young Lord within the Eastern Marches.
---
The heavy chamber door, a slab of dark oak, remained stubbornly shut for long moments. Aiel’s stomach gnawed at him, a dull ache beneath his embroidered doublet. Just as his hand instinctively reached to soothe the discomfort, it swung inward. A fleeting glimpse of Lord Roric’s flushed countenance, his hand still resting on the polished wood, then the door swung back, threatening to seal him out. Aiel slipped inside, a desperate, silent motion.
Lord Roric already sprawled upon the velvet chaise, clad only in linen breeches. A half-smoked pipe, its bowl cool, was clenched between his teeth, his gaze distant. He had not lit it, but his face held the languid weariness of someone who had recently indulged.
“Damn it all. My father, the Lord Patriarch, is a viper today. If my scrying stone rings, claim we were deep in academic pursuits.” Roric flicked a silver lighter open and closed, a mindless rhythm.
Aiel’s stomach clenched tighter. He smoothed his doublet, approaching the chaise. With a sharp tug, he relieved Roric of the pipe.
“Why should I?” Aiel’s voice, usually a careful murmur, held a surprising edge.
“Because we are companions,” Roric said, the word stretching, almost mournful. It scraped against Aiel’s ribs, a raw feeling. Yet, Aiel’s face remained a mask of polite indifference.
“I shall endeavor to repay this debt in due course.”
“My thanks.”
The air still clung heavy with the cloying sweetness of nightshade blossoms, mingled with the faint, elusive scent of unlaced woman’s Essence. Aiel had learned to discern such subtle emanations only through his peculiar association with Lord Roric.
Whispers from the Lower Collegium spoke of Roric’s early forays into such dalliances, tales of stolen moments within the forgotten nooks of the Academy grounds. They claimed he had shed his innocence at a precocious age. He carried himself with an older man’s confidence, his mature features, sharp and commanding, often mistaken for one years his senior.
Once enrolled, Roric had openly frequented the pleasure houses of the Outer Ward, his coffers seemingly limitless. He procured a forged writ, an audacious document bearing a falsified age, which he brandished with casual arrogance. He pursued favored women, turning fleeting encounters into a regular pastime. His striking presence, a blend of power and refined beauty, veiled his more hedonistic impulses.
Individually, his eyes, nose, and mouth were not extraordinary, but combined, they formed a countenance of singular impact. His presence radiated such an undeniable authority that few questioned his assumed age. He seemed a man of thirty, not one barely past his youth.
Aiel cast his gaze about the chamber, though his search was without purpose. The heavy after-scent of the escapade made his throat tight, a sour taste on his tongue.
“Where is Lord Kaelen Valerius?”
“He departed.”
“...”
“That serpent is a madman, truly. A jest.” Roric rested his chin in his hand, a mirthless chuckle escaping him. Aiel’s brow furrowed.
Lord Kaelen Valerius ranked second on Aiel’s short list of personal dislikes. Kaelen had cultivated his association with Roric in our second year, a bond Aiel reluctantly acknowledged as a true companionship. While Roric commanded the Eastern Marches, Kaelen held his own formidable reputation in the Western Holds.
Their paths rarely intersected, save for the communal Refectory, a shared space for all collegium students. Once, amidst the midday clamor, a young scion nudged Aiel’s arm, whispering, “That’s Lord Kaelen.” Aiel craned his neck, a sharp silhouette amidst the darker cloaks, tall and sharply defined. It was unmistakably him.
“He appears to possess a difficult temperament,” Aiel murmured, a delicate hand tracing the rim of his goblet.
One of Roric’s retinue, sitting nearby, nodded. “Indeed. They say he is utterly self-serving.” Aiel smirked, but only offered a half-hearted nod in reply.
Despite his distaste, Aiel found himself drawn to Kaelen, an uncomfortable fascination. A dazzling gloom – that was Aiel’s first, unsettling impression of Lord Kaelen.
By chance, their eyes met across the crowded hall. It was peculiar, Kaelen noticing Aiel amidst such a throng. His elongated eyes, pupils thin as needle-points, bore into Aiel with an unnerving intensity. Aiel flinched, a visceral recoil. ‘What are you gazing at?’ Kaelen’s lips, though unmoving, seemed to form the question. Aiel, momentarily intimidated, feigned nonchalance, turning his head. Then, loud enough for his companion to hear, he uttered:
“He resembles a serpent.”
Thereafter, their gazes often clashed, yet they never acknowledged one another. Each time, Kaelen would lower his head, then lift it again, seeking Aiel’s eyes. Most often, Kaelen averted his gaze first, but occasionally, Aiel found himself breaking contact. He ceased counting after the eighteenth such encounter.
---
As if by some peculiar twist of fate, Roric and Aiel found themselves assigned to the same cohort in their second year. Aiel, though secretly pleased by this continued proximity, discovered another familiar face. It was utterly surprising, and infuriatingly so. For the first time, Aiel saw him properly, the infamous Lord Kaelen Valerius, in the flesh.
It was Kaelen who spoke first. “Hail. Care to share a repast?”
Damn him.
And just as every observer had foreseen, the two became close. Roric, a man who relished brilliance, found Kaelen a worthy equal. Kaelen was overtly masculine, successful among his peers, and universally respected. Their companionship was an inevitability.
Within the lecture halls, the whispered question often arose: if Lord Roric and Lord Kaelen were to engage, who would prevail? Aiel, in his quiet assessment, believed a true conflict between them unlikely. While Roric and Aiel were superficial opposites, Roric and Kaelen shared a profound similitude.
Yet, a singular difference cleaved them apart.
Kaelen possessed an odd, almost austere streak. Despite the multiple rings piercing his ears, hinting at a rebellious spirit, he occasionally displayed a surprising adherence to propriety.
For instance, when Roric, seized by a passing urge, would simply select a woman and spend the night, openly recounting his steamy morning adventures, Kaelen would scoff at crude jests about physical desires. At times, he would mock them outright, grasping the arm of a portly colleague, squeezing until the man yelped. “This boar possesses a fuller chest than most maidens. Sate yourself upon him instead. And truly, your attire offends. A proper corset would do wonders for your… presentation.” Even his vulgar remarks held a sharp, sarcastic edge.
Yet, when pressed, Kaelen might declare something baffling: “My untainted Essence is reserved for the Lady of my future.” That was the chasm between them.
Roric, once, offered Kaelen a forged writ – a privilege he had never extended to Aiel – but Kaelen dismissed it as a frivolous notion, refusing outright.
Roric’s companions found Kaelen’s eccentricities amusing, but Aiel did not. The reason was simple: Kaelen was close to Roric. They moved as if brothers-in-arms. That alone was sufficient cause for Aiel’s simmering resentment, a quiet jealousy that coiled within him.
Still, Aiel managed to maintain a civil demeanor toward Kaelen. One of Aiel’s most potent abilities was the art of concealing his true sentiments, regardless of the circumstance. Besides, Kaelen was an intrinsic part of Roric’s inner circle. Yes, every thread of Aiel’s carefully woven social fabric was anchored to Lord Roric Volkov.
Truthfully, there were more days Aiel felt frustrated with himself for this perceived weakness than there were days he merely thought of Roric. Often, he felt like a complete imbecile. Yet, he remained unchanged.
While Roric tossed a few casual words over his shoulder before disappearing into the bathing chamber, Aiel sank into a reverie. Minutes later, Roric’s scrying stone, left on the chaise, began to thrum. Roric, still cloaked in steam, emerged and tossed it to Aiel. He caught it, and through the polished crystal, he heard the Lord Patriarch Volkov’s stern voice.
Aiel cleared his throat, his own voice unnaturally composed.
“Yes, Aiel speaking.”
“Aiel? Are you with my son, Roric, now?”
“Indeed, I am.”
“Ah, I see. My worries were for naught. I feared Roric might be pursuing some ignoble diversion. You possess such a refined voice, Aiel.”
“Thank you, my Lord.”
“No, truly. How fares your studies?”
“They fare well, my Lord. And your own health?”
“The same. You speak with such elegance. If only Roric possessed half your decorum. That boy lacks all grace. So, you were immersed in your texts together?”
“Yes. Roric must have forgotten to inform you. He has been deeply engrossed in preparations for the upcoming Scriptorium examinations.”
“So, you have been together this entire time?”
“Yes, my Lord. He has been at my side without interruption.”
“Well, that is a relief. If he is with you, I can rest easy.”
“It is merely my duty, my Lord.”
“No, it is more than that. With you, he avoids mischief.”
“Truly, it is nothing. I shall ensure his safe return to his quarters.”
“Good. Watch over him, Aiel. Maintain your friendship, and let no strife arise between you.”
“Yes, my Lord. A good day to you.”
Lies, woven with exquisite precision, flowed effortlessly from Aiel’s lips.
After ending the connection, Aiel returned the scrying stone to Roric, who offered a brief, unadorned “Thanks” as he dressed. Without another word, Aiel turned to depart. Roric made no move to detain him.
“Later, Aiel.” That was the extent of it.
It was to be expected, of course. This meager exchange defined the boundaries of their association. The chasm between them yawned, vast and unyielding. Perhaps that was why Aiel quickened his pace, the lingering scent of nightshade now tasting of bitter ash in his throat.