The scent of antiseptic clung to the air, an unwelcome counterpoint to the faint aroma of stew wafting from the infirmary's serving carts. Kaelen slumped in the hard-backed chair, a smirk playing on his lips. He called it a smile, but it never quite reached his eyes, perpetually shadowed by a melancholic cast. Elian watched him, fingers tracing the worn carving on the wooden table. Such transparent attempts at amends from boys barely shedding their cradles were always hollow, devoid of any genuine understanding. They were just empty gestures, expected performances. “You dismiss it as ‘just that’?” Kaelen’s voice, a low rumble, broke the quiet. He pushed back, arching his spine away from the chair, staring up at the vaulted ceiling. “Harsh, Elian. Don’t you know the adage?” His arms crossed over his chest, Kaelen’s gaze drifted back to Elian. “A scholar is either a child or a relic.” Elian only offered a flat stare. “Seriously.” “I’m no relic, so whether I accrue years or not, we’re all merely children. What true distinction does age make?” He unfurled his arms, dismissing Elian’s skepticism with a flick of his wrist. Kaelen’s logic often defied reason, arriving uninvited at the most inopportune moments. Suddenly, the bell at the service counter chimed, a brisk, metallic note. Kaelen sprang up, snatching the vibrating pager from the table. “Mind my things.” “What things...?” Elian began, but Kaelen was already striding away, heedless. He returned moments later, a heavy wooden tray in each hand. Elian blinked, momentarily dumbfounded. Kaelen’s hands were certainly large, capable, but still— “Are those not heavy?” “Hardly. Barely feel them.” One of the trays held a steaming, iron pot, for the Archons’ sake. Yet Kaelen set them down with no more than a soft clink, without a single grunt of effort. Elian found himself staring, a faint wonder stirring. Kaelen caught his expression, a sharp click of his tongue. “Were you perhaps impressed by my decorum?” That was a significant misjudgment. “Just eat.” “How might I eat with a closed mouth? Like this?” He pressed his lips together, then brought a spoonful of stew to them, a ridiculous pantomime. Moments later, he grinned, teeth bared, before settling back into his seat. Elian picked up his own spoon, lowering it slowly into the bowl, barely disturbing the surface of the rich, dark stew. Kaelen, meanwhile, blew on his food, then set his spoon aside, opting to prod at the accompanying side dishes with his fork. Elian paused, about to take a bite, his eyes inexplicably drawn to Kaelen’s hands. “I’ve been meaning to ask… you handle your cutlery quite properly.” “Me? You think so?” Kaelen raised an eyebrow. “Yes.” Yet, a strange incongruity pulsed beneath the observation. It seemed too precise, too formal for the wild energy Kaelen exuded. Elian kept the thought to himself. Kaelen, however, squinted, as if discerning unspoken words. “Ah!” He exclaimed, a sinister smirk blooming. “So you’ve noticed.” “Noticed what?” Elian asked, genuinely bewildered. What was Kaelen talking about? “Feigning ignorance, are we? Fine, you sharp-eyed, quick-witted scholar. Very well, I’ll bring you into the fold.” Into what, precisely? Elian frowned at Kaelen’s opaque words. Kaelen twisted his lips. “Well, when we go to see Lysander, there’s something I’ll need your… assistance with.” “What the— Forget it.” Elian muttered, sensing Kaelen’s usual brand of mischief. He offered a half-hearted nod, deciding it was likely nonsense anyway. --- Kaelen finished his meal first, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his tailored trousers. He simply watched Elian, patiently. The moment Elian set down his spoon, Kaelen jerked his chin towards the infirmary’s main elevator. Then, without a timepiece in sight, he tapped his bare wrist repeatedly, a silent, insistent urge. “I’m done. Stop rushing me.” “Visiting hours, Elian. You’re dawdling.” “By the Mother’s grace. Fine.” “Up. Move.” “I’m moving, I said.” “Hurry and summon the lift.” “Damn it all…” Elian muttered under his breath, jogging to the polished brass buttons. He pressed the call button with more force than necessary. “Attaboy!” Kaelen crowed. “Go to the Void…” Elian shot Kaelen a discreet, venomous glare. This man, Elian had realized over the past months, grew alarmingly clingy once he considered someone a companion. Not that Elian had ever actively sought to understand him. As they waited, Kaelen rubbed his fingers over the edge of a large, pale adhesive patch stuck to his jaw. The thick dressing, firmly fixed to his skin moments ago, began to peel slightly. “Are you meant to remove it like that?” Elian asked. “It’s a nuisance. Makes washing a chore.” Before Elian could respond, the elevator doors hissed open. Kaelen stepped in, immediately pressing the floor button with casual confidence. As they ascended, he peered into the polished reflective panel, baring his teeth. “Hm, they’re aligned,” he muttered, nonsensically. Elian stole a glance. Kaelen leaned slightly, hands still tucked into his pockets, an air of aristocratic mischief clinging to him. He possessed an absurd height, commanding attention without effort. While Elian instinctively observed, the elevator reached their floor in mere moments. The hallway was eerily silent, the hushed atmosphere of illness and convalescence pervasive. Kaelen jerked his chin towards a heavy oak door. “That’s the one.” His lips parted slightly, his downward gaze laced with an almost arrogant anticipation. As the doors began to close behind them, they stepped out. Kaelen, however, did not immediately move towards the room. Elian stopped behind him, waiting for whatever spectacle Kaelen planned. After a silent moment, Kaelen resumed walking, his unusually long legs striding with purpose. He scratched at the adhesive edge of his jaw bandage with his ring finger, then peeled it off in one swift motion. “Ah. Gods. That stings.” The discarded patch vanished into his pocket. The flat line of his trousers now held a subtle bulge where it was tucked. Kaelen turned, his eyes fixed on Elian. His exposed jaw was a mottled canvas of bluish-purple and deep crimson bruises. Honestly, it looked rather grotesque. Yet, Kaelen grinned, an unsettling confidence radiating from him. The perpetually melancholic cast of his face made the grin seem almost sinister, as if he were always concocting something. “How do I look? Convincing?” Kaelen, ever full of charades. Everything he said, every action, seemed born of spontaneity and self-indulgence. He possessed a peculiar knack for weaving nonsense into persuasion, occasionally even trapping himself within his own delusions. “…Who knows.” Elian’s voice was flat. A memory surfaced, Kaelen’s voice from a few days prior, recounting a tale as if it belonged to another. He’d spoken of returning to the college’s private chapel for the first time in years, since his Confirmation at eleven. His sin? Neglecting the rites for seven years. He admitted he had gone because his father would ‘scold him’. The Brother Superior had told him that approaching confession with such faith was problematic. “Ah, my apologies,” Kaelen had said, intending to leave, but somehow, he’d ended up giving the final blessing instead of the befuddled Brother. “I wanted to shrivel into ash from embarrassment. Why in the Seven Hells do they have the prayer written right there?” Yet, Elian knew Kaelen would not be at vespers this week either. That was simply Kaelen’s way. “Well, my parents and some old college Regents kept asking why I wasn’t attending. Is that the only inquiry they possess? What can I do, I must be consistent.” Kaelen had snickered, and Elian had offered a faint nod, observing the others laughing along. Yes, in his own strange manner, Kaelen was consistent. And that consistency, Elian grudgingly admitted, had never once put *him* at a disadvantage. Elian raised his hand, roughly peeling off the small, neat bandage resting across the bridge of his own nose. A dark red horizontal line, thin but distinct, marred the prominent ridge of his unusually high nose. Kaelen looked at him, his faint smile growing, his eyes curling with amusement. “You know why Lysander is a witless fool?” Kaelen lowered his head slightly, bringing his face close to Elian’s, and whispered. “He has no sense. None at all. He fails to grasp that if he persists in this manner, his life spirals straight to ruin.” *Tap, tap.* Kaelen’s thin fingers drummed lightly near his pocket. “Should’ve heeded his father. They say if you listen to your elders, prosperity follows.” *And do you heed yours?* Elian swallowed the words before they could escape. In a strange way, Kaelen did seem to. *Sure, whatever.* Kaelen’s voice was full of concealed laughter. They soon arrived at the grand oak door, and instead of opening it, Kaelen simply waited. For a brief, sharp moment, Elian analyzed his own presence here. Why had he followed Kaelen all this way? Why was he complicit in these antics? The most compelling reason that surfaced was a quiet, cold desire to witness Lysander’s undoing with his own two eyes. Elian lifted his head, meeting Kaelen’s gaze. He placed a hand on Kaelen’s back. “Let’s go.” The moment he spoke, Kaelen smirked, as if that was precisely what he had been waiting for. He ran his fingers through his hair, deliberately mussing it, and hunched his back slightly as he carefully pushed the heavy door open. Kaelen stepped in first, and Elian followed him into the spacious, brightly lit infirmary room. Lysander lay on the bed, still and pale. Beside him sat a face Elian knew all too well—Regent Lysander, the boy’s father. Elian was genuinely taken aback. He hadn’t expected the Regent to be personally present. “Forgive our tardiness. I am Lord Kaelen,” Kaelen announced smoothly, lifting his chin with a shameless, effortless confidence. Though thrown off balance, Elian quickly masked his reaction, offering a small, deferential bow. “Good day, Regent.” The old man’s gaze, which had been fixed on Kaelen, now shifted to Elian. A flicker of surprise crossed his weathered features. “…You, aren’t you Elian?” “We encountered each other in the infirmary lobby. Are you here for a visit as well, Regent?” Kaelen interjected, playing dumb with an ease that felt like second nature. The way he lied so naturally, as if it were merely a polite turn of phrase, was impressive. He must have perfected this art countless times. Kaelen’s brazenness left Elian speechless, but he simply offered a tight, polite smile, playing along. What else could he do? “Yes. Just visiting.” “Ah… But, well…” Regent Lysander’s worried expression faltered. It was clear he wished to say something more, but hesitated, making his next request painfully obvious. In the end, Lysander’s father broke the awkward silence. “Thank you for coming. I am certain Lysander will be pleased. But Elian, I apologize, could you perhaps step out for a moment? There is a matter I need to discuss privately with Lord Kaelen.” “Of course, Regent.” Elian nodded, exiting the room without a moment’s hesitation. For a fleeting second, he considered leaving the door ajar to eavesdrop, but Regent Lysander’s gaze had been so intensely fixed on him that he dared not risk it. So, Elian remained outside, knowing nothing of the conversation within. With little else to occupy himself, he turned to gaze out the tall, arched window. Beyond the college’s manicured grounds, the clouds drifted lazily across a pale, winter sky. It was difficult to judge if the time that passed was too short or too long for a discussion of such gravity, of apologies and forgiveness. Eventually, the door opened, and Regent Lysander emerged. “Elian.” “Regent. Are you finished with your discussion?” Elian quickly turned, offering another small bow. The soft rasp of the Regent’s polished shoes grew closer, and only then did Elian lift his head to look at the man who had, indirectly, birthed his first experience with deep, biting bitterness. Regent Lysander had aged significantly. Only a few months had passed since Elian last saw him, yet his face had withered, lines etched deeply around his eyes, making Elian feel strangely uneasy. “Forgive my abruptness in asking you to leave. Lysander has been acting so recklessly… But you still came all this way. I truly appreciate it. He is under a strong sedative just now, so he will not be waking.” “Oh, no worries, Regent. I felt compelled to visit, of course. Though it is a shame I won’t get to speak with him.” Elian kept his tone carefully neutral. “Yes, thank you for your understanding.” Regent Lysander let out a low sigh, a sound so weary it bordered on pitiful. There was no trace of the furious, roaring authority figure who once reacted to every slight concerning his son—just a fragile, tired middle-aged man. Elian couldn’t fathom why he appeared so utterly depressed. Surely, his son merely receiving a few knocks couldn’t provoke such despair. “I had hoped that spending time with you would help Lysander mature… But lately, he has only found more trouble, associating with unsavory influences… And now this…” Regent Lysander paused, his gaze distant, troubled. “By any chance, Elian, do you know a boy named Silas?” Silas. Elian’s fingertips trembled, almost imperceptibly. He felt a familiar, sickening dread coil in his gut. This again. The old wound, barely scabbed over, torn open once more. “Silas? Yes. He was in my year, before… before he left Lumina.” Elian’s voice remained even, carefully modulated. “What kind of boy was he? Do you know anything about him?” The Regent’s voice was tinged with an almost desperate hope. “Uh, well… He was kind. Intelligent, too. But his family situation was difficult. Even so, he was always striving his best here at the College… He had a talent for languages.” “And?” The Regent pressed, leaning closer, his eyes searching Elian’s face. He wanted more. He always wanted more. “Then, one could say, he changed.” Elian’s heart hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He felt the cold touch of the past, the insidious tendrils of old connections tightening around him. He was trapped again, drawn into the very drama he yearned to escape. He saw the threads, fine as spider silk, pulling him back into the web of Lumina’s subtle cruelties, of Lysander’s relentless shadow. He would play his part. He always did. “And then?” Regent Lysander’s voice was a whisper, a plea. Elian met his gaze, his own eyes opaque, carefully guarded. “Then, he departed.” He closed his mouth, the unspoken implications hanging heavy between them. “I see.” The Regent sighed, rubbing his temples. “Thank you, Elian. That is… helpful.” He didn’t press further, though his lingering expression suggested a deeper, unarticulated disappointment. Elian offered another brief bow. His role in this particular scene, he realized, was not yet complete. The bells of Lumina College, far across the grounds, tolled a slow, somber note, marking the passage of the hour. Each chime resonated with a hollow echo in Elian’s chest. He yearned for genuine connection, yet here he was, once again caught in the web of deceit and manipulation, braced for the inevitable rejection that always followed. He was merely a prop, a piece in another’s twisted narrative. And the dread, cold and familiar, settled deep within him.

A Concoction of Bruises and Old Wounds