A grey light, thin as gauze, filtered through the leaded panes. Elias Thorne found himself sprawled amidst a disarray of linen, a cold knot of dread tightening in his stomach. Even in the swirling haze of returning consciousness, he had evidently secured the heavy oak door. An instinct for self-preservation, however battered, remained.
His face throbbed. A dull, insistent ache resonated through his skull, mirroring the leaden weight in his chest. Each movement sent a jolt of pain through joints that felt as though they’d been rusted solid overnight. He managed to lift one trembling hand.
“Ah…” A soft gasp escaped him.
His fingers, clumsy and stiff, brushed against the unnatural swelling beneath his jaw. The skin was taut, discoloured, a canvas of purple and yellow. He lay still for a long moment, the scent of dust and stale air filling his nostrils, before pushing himself upright. His head swam.
Perched on the edge of his narrow bed, Elias stared blankly at the opposing wall, a repository of shelved tomes and forgotten arcane diagrams. A sudden, ragged sob tore from his throat, raw and searing. He clamped a hand over his mouth, as if to stifle the pathetic sound, but the whimpers clawed their way out regardless.
His voice felt scraped raw, a rasp of grief and fury.
An incandescent rage, foreign and terrifying, surged within him. He pushed himself off the bed, a dangerous tremor running through his frame. His hands, usually so deft with ancient parchments, clenched into useless fists. He wanted to shatter something, to tear down the very walls of his small, suffocating world.
He paced the confined space, each step a testament to his humiliation, until his legs gave out. Collapsing back onto the threadbare rug, he closed his eyes, but the tears still welled, hot and insistent, spilling over his cheeks.
“Damn it to perdition,” he muttered, the words thick with despair.
He wanted to cease to exist.
What he truly yearned to escape was the memory of Silas Blackwood’s sneering face, the cold, calculating cruelty in his eyes, and Alaric Croft’s silent, complicit presence. Why had they come? Why had they violated the sanctity of his solitary existence, tarnished his quiet dignity? They had trampled more than his body; they had ground his pride into the floorboards of his own sanctuary. And the thought that Alaric Croft, of all people, had witnessed it all, that he now carried the image of Elias Thorne reduced to a pathetic, whimpering shell – that was the deepest wound.
His breath hitched.
Even in this abject state, a flicker of his scholar’s intellect asserted itself. He looked around, eyes scanning the room as if an unseen examiner might appear. What did this disarray betray? What impression would it leave? The thought was absurd, yet it rooted him.
Silence descended once more, pressing down on him. Elias glanced at the grandfather clock ticking imperiously in the corner. The hands pointed just before eight. Mrs. Hemlock, his landlady, would be preparing for her morning rounds, her familiar knock soon to echo through the landing. A chill, more profound than the morning air, spread through his mind.
No one, absolutely no one, could see him like this. Not his landlady, not a tradesman, not the milkman. He scrambled to his feet, a renewed urgency in his movements. The single chair he had overturned was righted with a clumsy shove. Any displaced papers or scattered quills were swept beneath the bed, out of sight.
He settled himself, rigid, awaiting the inevitable rap upon his door. It came moments later, punctual as ever. He cleared his throat, forcing his voice into a semblance of normalcy.
“Do not enter, Mrs. Hemlock. I believe I have caught a feverish chill. A scholarly malady, I assure you. I shall regretfully forgo my duties at the Collegium today.”
“Oh, dear, Mr. Thorne? Shall I fetch the physician?” Her voice, muffled through the heavy wood, held a note of concern.
Elias swallowed a bitter taste that rose in his mouth. “No, thank you. I shall send for one later if this indisposition persists.”
“Very well. Would you care for some broth? Perhaps a restorative tincture?”
“If you would be so kind as to leave it outside the door, I would be most grateful.”
“Of course, Mr. Thorne. Rest now.”
The footsteps receded. Elias sank back onto the bed, the pretense having drained his last reserves of strength. School was out of the question. He possessed no desire to face the intellectual rigours of the Aetherium Collegium, let alone the knowing glances of his peers.
He found a small vial of arnica ointment on his bedside table. Its cool, medicinal scent offered a fleeting comfort. He uncorked it, his fingers clumsy, and smeared the viscous balm over his throbbing cheekbone, over the tender skin of his temple. Each application sent a fresh wave of pain, a stark reminder of the night’s indignity. He wished desperately for the physical pain to eclipse the deeper, more profound ache of humiliation.
The vial slipped from his grasp, clattering softly to the floorboards.
A shiver, deep and uncontrollable, racked his entire frame. The physical hurt was a mere pinprick compared to the scalding shame. It felt as though tiny, cruel fingers were pinching at the very core of his being. To conceal his tear-streaked face, to hide from the oppressive gaslight of the waking city, he burrowed deep beneath his heavy wool blankets. The thick fabric, dense and suffocating, felt like the only sanctuary left.
Sleep. He needed to sleep. He forced his eyes shut, repeating silent assurances. His parents were still away, traversing the Continent on their yearly grand tour. Silas Blackwood, for all his savagery, was too consumed by his own brittle pride to boast of such an ignoble encounter. Alaric Croft, for his part, was a man of his own secrets. It would be fine.
He buried himself deeper still.
---
It was not fine. Not at all.
Hidden beneath the oppressive layers of wool, Elias muttered broken phrases, each word a splintered shard of bitterness. To the heavens, to the indifferent spirits of London’s occult underbelly, to anyone who might hear, he yearned to scream the truth.
*Please. It was Silas Blackwood. Silas struck me. He defiled me. That brute. Silas Blackwood is a madman. Unhinged. He’s out of his mind. All because of some imagined slight, some trivial academic dispute… After all our shared lectures, the debates, the cautious respect I extended… he crushed it. Crushed it, in front of Alaric Croft no less. I’m an imbecile. I showed that pathetic, cowering side of myself to Alaric, too. And the insidious thought that some unseen eye might have witnessed it all…*
He halted the frantic cascade of his thoughts. A sickening wave of self-loathing rose within him. He longed for oblivion.
The most wretched part was what he did after his silent, solitary weeping. The first methodical act, once his mind cleared of the raw agony, was to meticulously burn the single cryptic note Alaric had pressed into his hand during that pre-dawn visit – a hastily scrawled warning, perhaps, or a plea. He then took his own personal diary, a leather-bound volume where he often sketched his research, and excised the pages detailing his interactions with Silas over the past month. He even went so far as to ensure his external lamplight, a beacon for late-night study, showed no signs of being tampered with, no tell-tale flicker to suggest an unusual visitor. The night had become a shameful secret, a gaping wound he could not allow anyone to see.
---
Three days passed. Three days of feigned illness, of Mrs. Hemlock’s solicitous inquiries through the locked door, of Elias poring over ancient Sumerian lexicons, his eyes tracing forgotten glyphs while his mind replayed the torment. His body, surprisingly, mended with a swiftness that belied his frail appearance.
Perhaps it was the way he’d instinctively shielded his more vital organs, or simply the resilience of youth, but the injuries, while painful, were not life-threatening. The most prominent discolourations were confined to his face and neck, easily concealed by a high collar and careful angling. For those three days, he remained a recluse, his mind a maelstrom of fear and self-reproach. Every discreet tap on his door, every muffled sound from the street below, sent a fresh jolt of anxiety through him. He ignored them all.
He thought he could hold out until the last vestiges of bruising faded, until the phantom aches subsided. But fate, as ever, held a cruel hand. His parents, who had extended their European tour for an unexpected fortnight, suddenly announced their imminent return. Panic, cold and sharp, seized him.
“Elias, my boy, what on earth has happened to your face?”
His mother’s gasp, a theatrical flourish, cut through the drawing-room’s genteel calm. His father, a formidable man of stern countenance and influence, narrowed his eyes.
“You told Mrs. Hemlock you were suffering from a feverish chill. This looks less like a chill and more like… a scuffle.”
Elias fumbled for a reply, his heart hammering against his ribs. “Oh, it was naught but a minor mishap, Father. A triviality.”
“Triviality? Your cheekbone looks as though you’ve encountered a runaway hansom cab, Elias.”
“No, no. I was… in the Archives. The lower stacks are notoriously unstable, you understand. A precarious pile of ancient scrolls, a forgotten tome… I lost my footing, struck my face upon a particularly unforgiving shelf.” He forced a convincing wince. “A most unscholarly clumsiness.”
His father’s stern expression softened into a look of disbelief, then, unexpectedly, amusement. He let out a short, barking laugh.
“Good heavens, Elias. Your devotion to dusty parchment knows no bounds. Be more careful, boy.”
“Indeed, Father. I shall.”
The sheer absurdity of the excuse, coupled with his parents’ ingrained perception of Elias as a somewhat eccentric but harmless scholar, seemed to defuse the situation. The less visible nature of his deeper injuries also played its part. The incident, to his immense relief, seemed to blow over.
Yet, a strange interlude occurred during dinner later that evening. His mother, her voice light and conversational, unexpectedly mentioned Silas Blackwood.
“By the by, Elias, are you still engaged in your esoteric discussions with young Blackwood? I haven’t seen him at any of the society functions of late.”
Elias froze, his fork clattering softly against his plate. The mere mention of Silas’s name sent a fresh wave of nausea through him. “Our paths diverge, Mother. His interests, mine…” He trailed off, his tone sharper than intended.
“Ah. Well, I had heard some whispers of his… erratic behaviour. Pity. And the housekeeper mentioned another gentleman calling upon you, earlier this week. A Master Croft, was it? Are you quite close to him now, dear?”
Elias’s body went rigid. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, he turned his head towards the service door leading to the kitchen, where Mrs. Hemlock was currently clearing dishes. A cold dread seeped into his bones. Did she hear it? Could she have overheard anything that night? Was it possible her aged ears, despite their reputed dullness, had caught the desperate sounds, the muffled thuds, the guttural curses?
“Elias? Are you quite well?” His mother’s voice pulled him back, her brow furrowed with concern.
He blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “Yes! Master Croft is… a valued colleague. Indeed.”
What his mother said next, Elias could not recall. The sudden, paralyzing terror had wiped all other thoughts from his mind. He did, however, remember the peculiar look she had given him when she mentioned Silas Blackwood. It was a look reserved for news of a scandal, a fall from grace.
Why?
The question, cold and unsettling, propelled him further into a spiral of fear. His fingers grew numb. No. Mrs. Hemlock could not have heard. Her rooms were at the rear of the house, isolated. Her hearing was notoriously poor. Yet, the unsettling feeling persisted, a premonition of ruin. He found himself silently pleading with the indifferent spirits of London, praying to a higher power he scarcely acknowledged.
Another three days passed, his parents gently but firmly urging his return to the Collegium. He recoiled from the prospect. But further absence would undoubtedly arouse his mother’s suspicion, forcing her to dig deeper than a ‘scholarly mishap.’ That was the last thing he wanted. So, with a manufactured smile, he prepared to present a facade of composed normalcy. There was nothing amiss.
The days leading up to his return were consumed by a torment of anxiety. What if he encountered Silas Blackwood? Or Alaric Croft? Would Silas attempt another brutal assault? Would he humiliate Elias publicly, perhaps in the very halls of the Collegium, revealing his vulnerability to every scholar and academic rival? Would he continue to trample his dignity, his very sense of self-worth, as if he were naught but dust?
The thought alone made his stomach clench with nauseating dread.
Upon his arrival at the Aetherium Collegium, the cavernous halls seemed to echo with his unspoken fears. He hung his satchel on the peg beside his usual desk in the common study, carefully arranging a stack of ancient folios to shield his face. He sat, staring blankly at the scarred oak, as the murmur of returning students gradually swelled around him. The moment he heard approaching footsteps, he buried his head in his arms, feigning a deep immersion in his texts.
If he pretended to be lost in slumber, or scholarly contemplation, perhaps no one would notice his discoloured face. At least not immediately. He had, however, failed to account for the boisterous nature of Barnaby Rudge, a younger, more physically imposing scholar whose intellect was overshadowed by his bluntness.
Rudge arrived, a gust of fresh air and pipe tobacco preceding him. He paused beside Elias’s desk, a curious smirk playing on his lips. Without a word, he slipped a broad hand beneath Elias’s chin, his fingers cold, and tilted Elias’s face upwards. Elias had no time to resist. He was forced to reveal the still-fading marks of his ordeal. Rudge raised a thick brow, his gaze unwavering as he examined Elias.
“What in the blazes happened to your physiognomy, Thorne?” he asked, his voice a low rumble.
“It is… nothing of consequence,” Elias mumbled, attempting to pull away.
“Did you trip over a particularly stubborn etymology again?” Rudge’s tone was laced with a mocking humour.
“Indeed. A rather unfortunate collision with a misplaced footstool.”
“Is that so?” Rudge clicked his tongue, shaking his head slowly before abruptly releasing Elias’s chin, sending his head nearly colliding with the desk.
“Confound it, Rudge!” Elias glared, startled. Rudge merely offered a crooked grin, his eyes distant, as if lost in some private calculation. Elias had no way of knowing what thoughts churned behind that impassive gaze.
Neither Silas Blackwood nor Alaric Croft appeared at the Collegium that day.
But during Elias’s absence, a whisper had begun to ripple through the hallowed halls.
“Did you hear? Blackwood… that fellow actually…”
No one directly questioned Elias about his injuries, but the quick, assessing glances, the lowered voices that hushed upon his approach, confirmed it. The rumour had taken root.
He realised, with a chilling sensation, that he was luckier than he’d dared to hope.
---
The whispers centred around Elias Thorne and Silas Blackwood. Neither had been present at the Collegium since the day the initial murmurs began, and Alaric Croft too, had seemingly vanished from his usual haunts, leaving no one to readily dispel the nascent whispers. With Elias’s bruised face serving as silent, if subtle, corroboration, the rumour spread with the swiftness of wildfire through the close-knit academic circles.
The prevailing narrative painted Silas Blackwood as a man unhinged, suffering from a sudden and dramatic ‘decline of nerve,’ brought on by an obsessive pursuit of arcane knowledge. He had apparently fixated upon Elias Thorne’s unique talent for deciphering forgotten languages, driven to a pitch of frenzied envy or even… intellectual infatuation.
“They say Blackwood became quite distraught over Thorne’s latest translation of the *Cantus Obscura*,” one scholar confided to another in the hushed library.
“Distraught? I heard he quite lost his composure. Over the 'Archivist Mouse,' no less!”
“The ‘Archivist Mouse’? Oh, that is rather apt, isn’t it? So quiet, so industrious, gnawing away at ancient texts…”
The common study, the lecture halls, the very corridors of the Collegium buzzed with such conjectures.
“All those fellows who once sought Blackwood’s patronage are now quite aghast, you understand. His standing is quite… compromised.”
The rumor, while humiliating in its own way – to be cast as the unwitting object of another man’s deranged obsession – had inadvertently shielded Elias. It attributed the violence not to his weakness, but to Silas’s unraveling. And in the shadowy world of Neo-Victorian occultism, a madman was often more feared than a mere brute. Elias Thorne, the quiet scholar, had become an accidental catalyst for Silas Blackwood’s public downfall. It was a strange, disquieting form of vindication.