The designation ‘Keeper of Lysander’s Charge’ felt like a brand, etched across my every interaction. Each syllable chafed, a stark reminder that the measured pace of my youth had abruptly ended. Adulthood, they called it. The word itself was ill-fitting, a heavy brocade cloak sewn for a much larger, more imposing frame. Weeks blurred into a singular, arduous vigil. By dawn, the meticulous deciphering of court petitions demanded my attention. By dusk, the sterile corridors of the Imperial Clinic drew me in. My studies, once a solace, became a fragmented memory. Half-attended lectures, parchment left unturned, the weight of Lysander’s welfare eclipsing all else. Heart heavy, I would cross the threshold of his private room. Lysander invariably met me with a rush of frantic energy, as though a tightly wound spring had finally been released. He would unburden himself, his voice a torrent of the day’s indignities. “They speak of another grafting. Another incision.” Lysander raked a hand through his perpetually dishevelled dark hair. “My thigh will be a butcher’s block once more. And this clinic fare… By the Divines, Kaelen, it’s a desecration! I am not some enfeebled octogenarian. My constitution is sound, yet they feed me slop even a stable dog would refuse.” His voice, laced with genuine misery, made him seem younger than his years, despite the hardened edge of his aristocratic ennui. A quiet sigh escaped me. My hand dipped into my satchel, its leather already faintly redolent with the scent of prepared food. A subtle grimace tugged at my lips. The mingling odours were an assault to my fastidious sensibilities. Yet, to carry it openly would have invited far more unwelcome notice. “What?” Lysander’s head cocked, his expression shifting. A peculiar image flickered in my mind: the droop of a hound’s tail, thick-furred and distinctly unappealing. I banished the thought, an uncomfortable shiver tracing my spine. Such base imaginings were unworthy. My hand emerged, clasping a lacquered box. Lysander’s pitiable gaze, fixed on the object, underwent a subtle transformation. Gloom gave way to an almost childish curiosity. “What is this?” “A mealbox. I inquired. You are still distant from any further procedures. You may consume it.” My words were clipped, deliberately devoid of warmth. “A mealbox?” Lysander repeated, his voice hushed. “Do not attach undue significance,” I stated, my gaze level. “It was procured from a nearby purveyor.” To caution him against significance was, in itself, a confession. My own meticulous search for a respectable establishment, one offering fare both palatable and suitable for a recovering patient, was a secret I guarded fiercely. I preferred to appear an instrument of practical, if reluctant, benevolence. Nothing more. Yet, even this scant pretense seemed sufficient for Lysander. His barely functional right hand rose to scratch clumsily at his ear, its lobe a furious scarlet. My eyes drifted, unwillingly, to his fingers. The way they curled, stiff and unnatural, held a morbid fascination. A knot tightened in my chest. “...Thank you,” he murmured, his usual boisterousness muted. When our eyes met, he flinched, his focus snapping back to the box. A theatrical gesture, perhaps? As if being caught observing me was an act of transgression. As if he wished to remain unnoticed. Lysander began to eat with a ravenous, almost mechanical zeal, scattering crumbs onto the crisp white sheets. A distasteful spectacle. His little finger, ring finger, and middle finger remained stubbornly rigid, an awkward testament to his wounds. Whether it was genuine struggle or a calculated display, I could not discern. I shifted closer, extending a hand to gently take the spoon from his grasp. “What do you wish to eat?” My voice was softer than intended. Lysander merely chewed, his eyes wide. “The spiced fowl?” At the very least, I owed him the dignity of acknowledging his suffering. With lips stained by the meal, Lysander lowered his head, a faint smile playing across his face. I could not comprehend it. This boy, whose fingers would never again move freely, whose back bore the ragged scripture of scars, whose thigh had been flayed… why did he smile? What secret mirth did he possess? It was an unfathomable mystery. Had I been in his place, I would have prayed for oblivion. I selected a piece of the succulent spiced fowl, lifting it to his mouth. He accepted it, chewing with surprising force, his smile unwavering. Lysander, with his unsettling resilience, always unsettled me. Truth be told, the mealbox was a consequence of an earlier, equally vexing encounter. --- It had been the second time since Lysander’s skin grafts. To my quiet surprise, the guardian’s pass, emblazoned with the Imperial seal, still lay in my possession. His family’s visits to the clinic were infrequent: his father once, his mother twice. His mother, in particular, had bestowed upon me a saccharine smile and effusive thanks, as though acknowledging a dutiful steward who managed the more unpleasant aspects of her familial obligations. Lysander, chin resting in his hand, had merely watched her retreating back, a strangely detached expression on his face. My purpose that day had been simple: to retrieve some of Lysander’s effects. To alleviate the tedium of confinement. Nothing more. I knew, with the chilling clarity of experience, the oppressive boredom of a clinic room. Having endured it myself, I understood the small comforts that could ease the hours. I rationalized my actions: it was not sympathy. Certainly not affection. Instead of returning to the Collegiate Quarters, I chose to return to my own family’s lesser estate for the night. On the way, I made a detour to Lysander’s manor. The heavy gates, adorned with the crest of House Thorne, swung open to admit me. Lady Serafine, however, offered no such welcome. She leaned against the archway of Lysander’s antechamber, her slender figure draped in the latest court fashion, her voice dry as aged parchment. “Still tending to Lysander, Kaelen?” My feelings towards her were, at best, ambivalent. The glaring absence of her visits to her brother’s bedside felt a moral failing. Her own kin, suffering. I hadn’t even realized the judgment forming within me until the sharp, unfamiliar pang of it made me clamp my jaw shut. I busied myself with Lysander’s belongings, stuffing them into my satchel. “Yes.” “He truly committed himself, then. The mad boy. Obsessed with you, it seems.” My hand froze, mid-fold. I turned, as if drawn by an invisible current. “Obsessed with… me?” “Are you pleased to hear it?” A cruel twist to her lips. “No. Merely curious.” “No one is ever merely curious. You sought information. You asked.” Her mutterings were barely audible, a venomous whisper, but I pretended not to hear. She moved closer, her presence an intrusion. Disregard for others was a family trait, it seemed. Serafine, Lysander, even their father. “Tell me, where did you disappear to after the Academy’s graduation rites?” “I returned to my duties.” My reply was terse. The entire capital, no doubt, had already dissected my movements. “It wasn’t as if I *wished* to discover it,” she continued, a faint sneer. “But Lysander… he threw a spectacular fit. Never once stepped inside a Temple of the Divines, yet suddenly he was prostrate, ranting, tearing apart the Divine Seal Father gave him. He screamed blasphemies, calling the Most High a mangy cur. Then he locked himself away. Our household finally knew a modicum of peace. The fool. He cannot even discern the true villain.” Her voice, which had been mocking, abruptly lowered, her eyes narrowing as she observed my face. “What is it? Your face is flushed.” “It is not.” “Nonsense. Do you truly… favour him? *Like* him?” “I told you, no.” My voice was sharper than intended. “...By the Great Serpent.” She gasped, covering her mouth with a delicate hand, feigning horror. “You are truly unhinged.” Her persistence was infuriating. I snapped shut the clasp of my satchel. A retort formed on my tongue. I wished to castigate her in turn. “Your father spoke of Lysander as his second son. Why would you speak of him this way?” “What in the nine hells are you babbling about?” --- Contradiction. It was a searing paradox. Lord Valerius, my erstwhile rival from the Collegiate Quarters, once remarked, ‘Kaelen, for all his coldness, invariably acts with a surprising tenderness.’ Regardless of my true intentions. But now, I had an excuse, a palpable justification: the brown, mottled scars that marred Lysander’s back. Just as he could not meet my gaze when speaking of them, I could not bring myself to look upon his damaged skin. “Kaelen.” His voice, hoarse with emotion, drifted closer. “Yes.” I feigned indifference, but every nerve ending was taut. “Then… may I believe in you?” My heart plummeted. My stomach churned. A constriction tightened around my chest. The words almost escaped me, unbidden: *Why not?* The sheer audacity of the thought shocked me into silence. My true, hidden self had almost broken through. *Kaelen, you fool.* I clenched my fists, forcing the words back down. Yes. This was for the best. For us both. “Then instead, I shall believe in *you*,” Lysander declared. His voice was a strange alloy of sorrow and nascent triumph, like a zealot receiving a revelation. His meaning was obscure, yet I did not withdraw my hand. I did not retreat. The suffocating pressure in my chest intensified, a sharp, stabbing ache. “I am an atheist now. Honestly, you are far more instrumental to my wretched life than any distant deity in the Empyrean.” “Silence your blasphemy.” My voice was a low growl. “You curse the Divines daily.” “No, that is not true! I was raised a devout follower, you know!” His hands gesticulated wildly, as if his life depended on my belief. He looked on the verge of tears. Startled, I found myself speechless. Then, with sudden resolve, Lysander slid from the couch, dropping to his knees. “Then I shall demonstrate.” “What are you doing?” A large hand clasped my ankle. My legs, propped casually, slid forward, leaving me precariously perched on the edge of the seat. My foot, dangling in the air, was held firm. Lysander’s gaze settled upon the old scar that marred the sole of my foot, a thin, white line from a long-forgotten shard of glass. His brow furrowed. And then, to my utter disbelief, his eyes welled with tears. I recoiled, attempting to pull my foot away. Before I could escape, Lysander lowered his head. “What are you—” “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit,” he murmured, his voice thick with a strange reverence. Cold fingertips brushed my ankle. A jolt, sharp and unwelcome, shot up my calf and deep into my gut. What madness was this? I struggled to free myself, but my strength seemed to desert me. Lysander looked up once, his face utterly devoid of revulsion. Like a fervent acolyte touching a sacred relic. “I greet the Lord.” He pressed his lips to the very tip of my foot. His fine, soft hair brushed against my ankle, a delicate tickle. The gentle pressure of his mouth lingered at the base of my toes. “S-Stop it…” I threw an arm across my face, shielding my expression. Lysander’s right hand tightened around my ankle. And in that moment… I ceased to resist. Three weak fingers, a fragile, almost broken grip, tapped lightly against my skin. The lips that had cursed the Divines with such fervor now traced a path up my calf. I did nothing to stop him. It was then I knew. This persistent, incurable malady—this nightmare of an eighteen-year-old’s burden—had only just begun its serpentine coil.

A Weighty Mantle