Aiel heard it often, whispered in the hushed corridors of Volkov Keep: “Theron’s Attendant.” The phrase clung to him, a velvet cloak too grand, too weighty for his frame. Each syllable a cruel reminder of his family’s diminished standing, of the duties he now carried, heavy as a ledger of forgotten debts. This new mantle, a peculiar stewardship, felt like ill-fitting garments on an unseasoned frame. Weeks had stretched into a blurred procession of sunrises and lamps. Mornings, Aiel toiled over dusty court histories, preserving the faded ink of ancient treaties. Evenings drew him to the sterile confines of the Volkov infirmary, a place where the air itself seemed to crackle with the suppressed pain of noble lineage. Half his scholarly pursuits remained unfinished, abandoned for the relentless pull of this new obligation. Heart leaden, he approached the private healing chambers. Theron, invariably, would be waiting, a caged hawk eager for its keeper. Theron, whose vibrant Essence had been marred by the skirmish in the Northern Marches, now chafed under the gentle tyranny of healers and broth. “Another day of this purgatory,” Theron grumbled, voice hoarse, eyes fixed on the distant, rain-streaked window. He stretched his left hand, the damaged fingers curling inward, a grotesque parody of grip. “They speak of Essence restoration, but offer only bland gruel. My stomach is not an elder’s; it demands substance, not these pallid apologies for food.” He truly sounded no different from a petulant child, despite the sharp edge of a Volkov heir’s pride. Aiel sighed, a sound barely audible above the rustle of his tunic. He delved into his satchel, retrieving a small, carefully wrapped parcel. The subtle scent of baked herbs and spiced pheasant, though faint, made his nose twitch. This would not do. Aiel disdained the lingering aroma of sustenance on his scholarly tools, but carrying it openly through the Keep would have been worse. Theron’s head tilted, a flicker of curiosity momentarily eclipsing his gloom. “What is that?” Aiel presented the parcel. “A small repast. The healers permitted it, given your progress. It is far from the final steps of your healing.” “A repast?” Theron echoed, a peculiar light entering his eyes. They had, an instant earlier, seemed so shadowed. Now, something akin to relief, even joy, sparked within them. “From a local merchant. Nothing more.” Aiel stated, voice flat. He offered no further explanation. The truth, that he had specifically sought out a vendor known for delicate, fortifying dishes suitable for one recovering from Essence trauma, remained unspoken. Such details felt too much like an admission, a confession of effort he refused to acknowledge. Theron, with his still-functional left hand, nervously scratched at his earlobe. Aiel caught a glimpse of crimson heat there. Then Theron’s gaze, weighted with something unreadable, drifted to Aiel’s own fingers—long, slender, unmarred, capable of rendering intricate scripts with precise grace. Theron’s own right hand, a knotted ruin, seemed to clench, the tendons barely responding. Aiel’s face remained impassive, but a cold coil tightened in his chest. “—Thank you.” The words were hushed, hesitant, laced with an unfamiliar vulnerability. Theron looked up, eyes meeting Aiel’s for a fleeting second before darting away. He fumbled with the parcel, tearing at the paper as if caught doing something illicit, determined not to be observed. He began to eat, shoveling the delicate meat pie into his mouth with an almost frantic energy, oblivious to the crumbs falling onto his clean tunic. Aiel watched, a knot of discomfort tightening in his stomach. Theron’s damaged fingers struggled to hold the fork, the small bones seeming to resist any proper grip. Aiel moved closer, a quiet, almost imperceptible shift, and took the fork from Theron’s awkward grasp. “Which part?” Aiel asked, his voice low. “The pheasant? The spiced herbs?” Theron simply chewed, a smear of gravy at the corner of his mouth. Aiel had, at the very least, a strange, undeniable responsibility to acknowledge Theron’s pain, his wounds. Theron lowered his head, a faint, unsettling smile playing on his lips. Aiel looked away, a prickle of unease unsettling his composure. How could this man, whose hand was a testament to broken Essence, whose body bore the faint, silvery tracks of scarification, find reason to smile so readily? If it were Aiel, he knew he would want nothing more than to retreat from the world. He selected a choice morsel and brought it to Theron’s lips. Theron ate, eyes still holding that unsettling, distant joy. Aiel found himself disquieted by this man, by his contradictions. **—** Days prior, Aiel had found himself at the ancestral wing of Volkov Keep, collecting books and scrolls for Theron. It was the second time since Theron’s return from the battlefield, the second time Aiel had ventured into the heir’s private chambers. His reason, Aiel had convinced himself, was purely practical: to retrieve items that would alleviate Theron’s boredom, to provide intellectual solace. Not sympathy, not affection. Never that. Lyra Volkov, Theron’s sister, had been there, leaning against a grand ancestral tapestry, her silhouette sharp and unyielding. “Still tending to my brother, Aiel?” Her voice, dry as parchment, cut through the quiet hum of the Keep. Aiel’s hand, which had been carefully extracting a rare botanical manuscript, froze. He turned slowly. He harbored no warm feelings toward Lyra. He found her disdain for her own blood unnerving. A simple, almost primal sense of moral propriety pricked at him. He shoved the last of Theron’s requested scrolls into his satchel, then straightened. “Indeed.” “He truly is incorrigible, isn’t he? My brother, with his… unhealthy fixation.” Lyra’s words were a casual, dismissive toss into the air. “Fixation?” Aiel repeated, the word tasting like ash. His scholarly discipline usually kept his expressions carefully neutral, but now a muscle in his jaw twitched. “Are you pleased to hear it?” Lyra’s eyebrow arched, a sliver of challenge in her gaze. “I merely inquired.” “No one ‘merely inquires’ about such things. You wished to know, so you asked.” She scoffed, a low, guttural sound. Lyra stepped closer, ignoring Aiel’s controlled stillness. This entire family, Aiel realized, possessed a peculiar talent for ignoring those they deemed beneath them, or simply inconvenient. “Aiel, where did you go after the Academy?” Lyra asked, her tone shifting, though still laced with an underlying cynicism. Aiel felt a flush rise to his cheeks. Word of his family’s reduced circumstances, of his immediate return to his dilapidated ancestral home instead of pursuing a prestigious Scribe’s post, must have spread like wildfire through the noble houses. “Theron, for his part, made quite the spectacle of your departure. He tore apart the ancestral crest Father gave him, the one he always carried. Started cursing the very Essence of the Volkov line, screaming like a mad dog confined to a kennel.” “The ancestral crest?” Aiel’s voice was barely a whisper. “Yes, that fool’s trinket. He’d always kept it so close, claimed it was the very symbol of his right to rule. Then he called our lineage ‘a decaying root,’ or some such nonsense. He locked himself in his chambers for a full turn of the moon. A blessed peace, I tell you.” Lyra’s voice had been mocking, but now it dropped, a subtle shift, perhaps noticing Aiel’s rigid posture. “Your face is quite pale, Aiel.” “It is not.” “Oh, it is. Tell me, do you truly harbor affection for him? Is that it?” Lyra’s eyes, cold and assessing, bored into him. “I told you, no.” Aiel snapped, the lie catching in his throat. He pulled the satchel’s drawstrings tight, the sudden movement sharp and definitive. “Heavens above.” Lyra gasped, covering her mouth with a delicate hand, though her eyes remained devoid of true shock. “You truly are mad, aren’t you?” Aiel bristled. Why did she insist on this when he had already denied it? He wanted to strike back, to expose her own hypocrisies. “Why did you speak of him thus? Lord Kaelen always spoke of Theron as his true son, his intended successor.” “What are you babbling about?” Lyra waved a dismissive hand. Lord Kaelen had always presented Theron as the proud Volkov scion. Yet Lyra spoke of him as little more than a cast-off, a ‘second son’ in all but name. A painful, inherent contradiction, much like Aiel’s own tangled feelings. He knew it to be true: despite his intellectual rigor, his meticulous adherence to propriety, he often found himself drawn to acts of quiet kindness, even when his mind screamed defiance. And now, Theron’s visible scars, the faint, discolored lines where the life-giving Essence had been severed and reknit, served as Aiel’s undeniable excuse. A justification for his presence, for his care. Just as Theron found it difficult to meet Aiel’s eye sometimes, Aiel found it impossible to dwell on those marks for long. “Aiel,” Theron’s voice, raspy with emotion, drew him back to the present. “Will you… will you believe in me?” Aiel pretended not to hear, but every nerve ending tingled. “I will not seek your affection.” Theron said, his voice firm, resolute. Aiel’s heart, a fragile bird, plummeted through his ribs. His stomach twisted. A cold, suffocating weight pressed against his chest. *Why not?* The unspoken question surged, a dangerous current threatening to breach his carefully constructed dam of composure. He clamped his jaw, fists clenching at his sides. No. This was for the best. For both of them. “Instead, I will believe in you,” Theron continued, his words a strange blend of sorrow and desperate joy, like a supplicant receiving a revelation. Aiel did not understand, and yet, he did not pull away. Did not flee. The suffocating weight intensified, now a sharp, stabbing pain. “The Ancestors are fools. Honestly, you are far more useful to my life than any of those ancient spirits.” “Do not blaspheme,” Aiel whispered, his voice strained. “No, that is not true! I was raised a devoted believer, you know!” Theron argued, waving his good hand frantically, as if his life depended on Aiel’s acceptance. If Aiel did not believe him, Theron might truly weep. Aiel, caught off guard, found himself speechless. Then, as if reaching a sudden decision, Theron slid from the couch onto the polished floor, dropping to his knees. “Then I will show you.” “Theron, what are you doing?” Aiel moved to rise, but a large, surprisingly strong hand grasped his ankle. Aiel had been sitting with his legs crossed, one foot resting on the couch. Now he slid forward, precariously balanced, his foot dangling, held firm by Theron’s grip. Theron’s gaze fell upon a small, almost imperceptible scar on the sole of Aiel’s foot, a faint white line from a long-forgotten childhood mishap. Theron’s brow furrowed. To Aiel’s utter disbelief, Theron’s eyes welled with moisture. Aiel gasped, trying to pull his foot away. But Theron held fast, lowering his head. “What do you—” “In the name of the Essence, the House, and the enduring Scribe,” Theron murmured, his voice thick. Cold fingertips brushed against Aiel’s ankle. A sharp ache shot up his calf, deep into his stomach. What was this madman doing? Aiel tried to yank his foot free, but a strange lethargy seized him, robbing his limbs of strength. Theron looked up, his face devoid of any trace of disgust. Like a devoted acolyte touching a sacred relic, he pressed his lips to the tip of Aiel’s foot. Theron’s fine, soft hair brushed against Aiel’s ankle, a feather-light touch. The gentle press of his lips moved upward, tracing the base of Aiel’s toes. “Stop it…” Aiel managed, throwing an arm over his face, hiding the sudden rush of heat in his cheeks. Theron’s damaged right hand tightened around Aiel’s ankle. In that moment, Aiel stopped resisting. Three weak fingers held him. A delicate, fragile grip tapped lightly against his skin. The lips that had cursed the Ancestors now traced a path up his calf. And Aiel did nothing to stop him. That’s when Aiel realized: this relentless, incurable affliction—this nightmare of tangled loyalties and forbidden feelings—still wasn’t over.

A Serpent's Unseen Scales