Kaelen’s keeper – that was the title etched onto Elian’s days now. Each time the thought surfaced, a cold wave of awareness washed over him, affirming his transition into adulthood. The very word, ‘adult,’ felt ill-fitting, like a tunic several sizes too large, its luxurious fabric chafing against his skin.
Endless nights stretched, each one a wrestling match with the inherited mantle of this unwanted responsibility.
Morning found Elian among the dusty archives, quill in hand, meticulously cataloging ancient decrees. Evening led him through the hushed corridors to the palace infirmary, a place of hushed whispers and medicinal scents.
Truthfully, he missed more than half his lessons in Imperial Lore. His mind remained fractured, constantly pulled towards the infirmary’s pale walls.
With a leaden heart, he would push open the ornate door to Kaelen’s chamber. Just as he entered, Kaelen would surge forward, a sudden flurry of motion, like a hunting hawk sensing its master’s return.
Then, as if Elian had been the sole object of his anticipation, Kaelen would unburden himself of every grievance that had accumulated throughout the day.
“Another bone grafting, they say. Pitiful, isn’t it? Another slice through my thigh. And the infirmary broth… By the Ancestors, it’s beyond vile. My stomach is perfectly sound, Elian, I’m no ancient courtier wasting away. Why must I swallow this slop fit only for stable dogs?”
His frustrations poured out, accompanied by a genuinely miserable expression. In those moments, Kaelen seemed no different from a petulant child, despite his years.
A small sigh escaped Elian’s lips. He reached into his satchel, rummaging.
Loathed the way his satchel always began to smell of food. The faint aroma of cooked spices already clung to the rich leather. Elian’s nose wrinkled instinctively.
Still, carrying the provisions openly would have been far worse, drawing unwanted attention from the court’s ever-watchful eyes.
“What is that?” Kaelen asked, his voice a low rumble.
Elian imagined a thick, furred tail, slinking low to the ground. Disgusting. Absolutely wretched. He shook off the intrusive thought, pulling a lacquered bento box from his bag. Kaelen’s gaze, previously dull with self-pity, sharpened, sweeping over the offering.
A flicker of something else replaced the gloom in Kaelen’s eyes.
“What have you brought?”
“Provisions. I inquired; they said your next procedure is not imminent, so you may eat this.”
“Provisions?” Kaelen echoed, his voice laced with surprise.
“Read nothing into it. I merely acquired it from a nearby vendor.”
He had spoken the words to dismiss any deeper meaning. Yet, the truth was, Elian had already imbued the act with meaning himself. He would never admit aloud that he had specifically sought out an establishment near the infirmary, one known for preparing sustenance both safe for delicate constitutions and, crucially, palatable.
He refused to dwell on it. He merely wished to appear as one offering a simple act of human kindness. Nothing more.
Even that veiled gesture seemed to be enough for Kaelen. His barely functional right hand scratched at his ear, a frantic, almost animalistic motion. The ear, glimpsed through his tousled dark hair, was a vivid crimson.
Elian’s gaze drifted lower, to Kaelen’s fingers. They curled inward, a subtle deformation that caught his eye. A twist of discomfort tightened Elian’s gut.
Why did those fingers, those twisted digits, always command his attention? Why could he not simply look away? A suffocating tightness settled in his chest.
“……T-Thank you,” Kaelen murmured, his voice oddly subdued.
Kaelen glanced up, hesitant, and their eyes met. He flinched visibly, then fumbled, scrambling to open the bento box. Perhaps it was an act, a feigned startle. As if being caught looking at Elian was a transgression. As if he wished his observation to remain unnoticed.
Watching Kaelen shovel food into his mouth, a mechanical, almost ravenous action, Elian leaned his weary body against the padded divan.
It was a distasteful sight. Food scattered at the corners of Kaelen’s lips, crumbs clinging to his chin.
Kaelen’s little finger, ring finger, and middle finger remained stiff, refusing to bend properly. Elian had no way of knowing if the stiffness was genuine or a performance.
Slowly, Elian shifted closer. He reached out, gently taking the spoon from Kaelen’s hand.
“What do you prefer?”
Kaelen paused, chewing.
“The spiced meat?”
At the very least, Elian felt a profound, inescapable responsibility to acknowledge Kaelen’s wounds, to believe in their reality. With his lips smeared, Kaelen lowered his head slightly, a small smile playing on his face even as he chewed.
Elian could not comprehend why this person, who would likely never use three of his fingers properly again, whose thigh and back bore raw, shredding scars, could smile. He genuinely could not understand it. He averted his gaze from the unsettling brightness of Kaelen’s face. What, by the Serpent’s scales, could possibly be amusing? If it were Elian, he would wish only for oblivion.
He picked out what appeared to be the choicest morsel of spiced meat, carefully lifting it to Kaelen’s mouth. Kaelen chewed forcefully, the smile unwavering.
This individual, Kaelen, always made Elian deeply uncomfortable.
Truthfully, the reason Elian had acquired the provisions stemmed from an earlier encounter, before his arrival at the infirmary – a visit to Kaelen’s family estate.
---
It marked the second time Elian had stepped within the House of Thorne since Kaelen’s most recent skin grafting. The guardian’s sigil, affixed to his tunic, still granted him passage.
He had encountered Kaelen’s family only three times in the infirmary. Once, the Viceroy Thorne himself. Twice, Kaelen’s mother, the Lady Thorne. Kaelen’s mother, in particular, adopted a facade of gentle kindness towards Elian, as if offering a silent reward for shouldering the burdens she had so willingly delegated.
Kaelen merely rested his chin on his hand, eyes fixed on his mother’s retreating back, a strangely detached expression on his face.
Elian had come only to retrieve a few personal items for Kaelen. A specific set of ink sticks, a worn reading slate. Simple comforts to alleviate the monotonous hours within the infirmary walls. That was all. He knew, better than anyone, the crushing boredom of confinement. Having endured it himself, he understood precisely what Kaelen required. He convinced himself it was not sympathy. Nor was it affection.
That day, instead of returning to the scribes’ annex within the palace, Elian had commuted directly from his own quarters beyond the inner court. On his way, he had stopped at the House of Thorne.
The grand estate, a sprawling complex of polished stone and shimmering courtyards, welcomed him. But Lyra, Kaelen’s sister, did not. Leaning against a polished obsidian column outside Kaelen’s sealed chambers, Lyra’s voice was as dry as parchment.
“Still hovering over Kaelen, are you?”
To be frank, Elian held little warmth for Lyra either. How could she neglect to visit her own brother, not once? Their family member was wounded, confined. An instinctive sense of morality, honed by years among the court’s rigid protocols, made Elian judge her. He hadn’t even realized he was doing so until the thought fully formed. It wasn’t intentional. The moment he recognized it, he clamped his mouth shut, stuffing more of Kaelen’s chosen belongings into his satchel.
“Yes,” Elian responded, his voice curt.
“He truly did it, didn’t he? That mad fool, obsessed with you.”
Elian’s hand froze inside the bag. He turned slowly, as if pulled by an invisible thread.
“……Obsessed with me?”
“What, does that please you?” Lyra sneered, a glint in her eyes.
“No, I merely asked for clarification.”
“No one ever ‘merely’ asks anything. You wished to know, so you asked.”
Her tone was sickening. Lyra muttered something beneath her breath, but Elian pretended not to hear. Still, she stepped closer, ignoring his discomfort. This entire family possessed a singular talent for ignoring inconvenient truths, for disregarding individuals they deemed beneath their notice. Lyra, Kaelen, even the Viceroy Thorne himself.
“Tell me, where did you vanish to after the Grand Scrutiny?”
Elian knew the entire inner court, probably the whole of Lyra, knew by now. He merely nodded.
“It’s not as if I cared to find out. But Kaelen… he truly lost his composure over it. That fool, who never once set foot in a temple, suddenly began praying, then threw a violent tantrum. Not long after, he tore apart the Sacred Script-charm his father gave him, screaming obscenities.”
“The Script-charm?” Elian’s breath hitched.
“Yes, that wretched trinket. He used to guard it with his life, you know. Claimed it was a token from the Viceroy. Then he cursed the Stars, called the Empress a ‘false light’ or something equally blasphemous. After that, he locked himself in his chambers and refused to emerge. Our house finally had a moment of peace. He doesn’t even realize who the true monster is. Brainless fool.”
Lyra’s voice, which had dripped with mockery, suddenly dipped lower, a note of caution entering it. Likely a reaction to Elian’s own expression.
“What ails you? Your face is flushed.”
“It is not.”
“Preposterous. Do you truly harbor affections for him? You like him?”
“I said no.”
“……By the Great Serpent.” Lyra gasped, covering her mouth as if genuinely horrified. “You are truly unhinged. Truly.”
Why did she persist in her accusations when he had already denied it? Annoyed, Elian yanked his satchel’s clasp shut. He wanted to lash out, to criticize her in return.
“Why did you tell me such things? Viceroy Thorne himself informed me Kaelen was merely a distant ward.”
“What? What nonsense are you speaking now?”
A profound contradiction. Elian knew it, too. Ren, that perpetually irritating senior scribe, once remarked that Elian, despite his protests, always ended up performing acts of kindness. Regardless of his true intentions. But now, Elian had an excuse. The mottled, brown scars spreading across Kaelen’s back. Just as Kaelen often struggled to meet Elian’s gaze, Elian found himself unable to look at Kaelen’s ravaged back.
“Elian.” Kaelen’s hoarse voice, closer now, broke the silence.
“Yes.”
“Then… is it permissible if I place my faith in you?”
His voice was a raw whisper, creeping closer still. Elian feigned indifference. Yet, he listened.
“What strange words are these?”
“I will not seek your favour.”
In that single instant, Elian’s heart plummeted, striking the cold stone floor of his being. His stomach churned. A constriction tightened around his chest, squeezing the air from his lungs. He almost asked – without thought – *Why not?*
The words nearly escaped his lips, a desperate, unguarded query. The moment the question hovered, unvoiced, he realized the hidden truth he was about to reveal. His true, buried thoughts had almost betrayed him. *Elian, you fool.* He clenched his fists, forcing the words back down, swallowing them whole.
Yes. This was for the best. For both of them.
“Then instead, I will place my faith in you.” But Kaelen’s next words were stranger still. His voice was a tangled thread of both sorrow and exultation, like a supplicant receiving a revelation from the Celestial Weave itself. Was there any other way to describe his demeanor in that moment? Elian did not understand Kaelen’s words. And yet, he did not pull his hand away. He did not flee. The suffocating weight pressing on his chest no longer merely squeezed; it twisted, a sharp blade of unease.
“I am an apostate now. Truthfully, you are far more instrumental to my existence than any of the Silent Stars.”
“Hold your blasphemies.” Elian snapped, a tremor in his own voice. This individual… “You curse the heavens every single day.”
“No, that is untrue! I was raised a devout believer, you know!” Kaelen protested frantically, shaking his hands as if his life depended on Elian’s belief. His tone was desperate, on the verge of tears. If Elian did not believe him, he might truly weep.
Caught off guard, Elian was left speechless. Then, as if a sudden resolve had seized him, Kaelen slid off the divan, dropping to his knees with a soft thud.
“Then I shall show you.”
“What are you – hey, what madness is this?” Elian stammered, pulling back.
A large hand grabbed his foot. Elian had been sitting with his legs propped up. The sudden pull caused him to slide forward, barely maintaining his perch on the edge of the divan. His foot dangled in the air, held fast by Kaelen’s grip.
Then, Kaelen’s gaze fell upon the faded scar on the sole of Elian’s foot. The mark, a thin white line, a relic from a childhood stumble upon broken glass. Kaelen’s brow furrowed. To Elian’s disbelief, Kaelen’s eyes began to well with water.
Elian recoiled in shock, attempting to yank his foot away. Before he could escape, Kaelen lowered his head.
“What are you—”
“In the name of the Empress, the Serpent, and the Silent Stars.”
Cold fingertips brushed against Elian’s ankle. A sharp ache shot up his calf, deep into his stomach. What was this madman doing? Elian tried to wrench his foot free, but his strength abandoned him, dissolving into a strange inertia.
Kaelen looked up at Elian once, his face utterly devoid of disgust. Then, like a devout follower touching a hallowed relic, he spoke.
“I greet the Lord.”
Kaelen pressed his lips to the tip of Elian’s foot. His fine, soft hair brushed against Elian’s ankle, a light, unsettling tickle on his skin. The gentle pressure of Kaelen’s lips lingered, tracing a path across the base of Elian’s toes.
“S-Stop it….” Elian whispered, throwing an arm over his face.
Kaelen’s right hand tightened its grip on Elian’s ankle. And in that moment, a strange numbness settled over Elian. He stopped resisting.
Three weak fingers, still unyielding, held onto him. A delicate, fragile grip tapped lightly against his skin. The lips that cursed the Stars every day now traced a path upward, along his calf. Elian did nothing to stop him.
That’s when the chilling realization struck him. This relentless, incurable disease – this waking nightmare of being Kaelen’s keeper – it was far from over. It had only just begun to coil around him, tighter and tighter.