To be called ‘Lyraen’s Steward’—that was the new mantle draped over me. Each whisper of it, from hushed college corridors to the sympathetic glances of elder scholars, pressed down with the unwelcome weight of adulthood. I was a steward, a guardian, a keeper of another’s fragile existence.
Adulthood. A word like a stiff, ill-fitting academic gown. It chafed at the shoulders, restricting breath.
Sleepless nights blurred into an endless cycle as I wrestled with this inherited charge. Mornings were for Lumina’s ancient scripts, dusty vellum, and the cool breath of the archives. Evenings were for the Infirmary Wing, where the air hung heavy with medicated draughts and the subtle scent of pain.
Truthfully, my studies suffered. Ancient Elven dialects blurred. The intricate strokes of historical treaties eluded my photographic memory, replaced by the persistent image of a gaunt, restless face.
A heavy heart preceded me down the polished cobblestone path to the infirmary’s secluded annexe. Lyraen would burst from his room, a flicker of frantic anticipation in his eyes, much like a starved animal sensing its master’s return. He would then, without preamble, unburden himself of every minor indignity, every fresh fear that had accumulated through his day.
“They speak again of the Arcane Resection. Gods, my thigh will be flayed anew. And the gruel! It’s an insult to the palate, Elian. How can a man recover strength on such insipid slop? I’m no ancient coven hag, my stomach demands substance, not this tasteless broth even the stable cats would disdain.”
His complaints tumbled out, raw and genuine. The misery twisting his features made him seem younger, no different from a frustrated child denied a favored toy.
A quiet sigh escaped me. My satchel, a repository for scholarly texts, now carried the faint, cloying scent of roasted game and spiced pastries. Displeasure tightened my jaw.
Already, the aroma had permeated the ancient leather, clinging to the bindings of my treasured scrolls. My face instinctively twisted, a fleeting grimace.
Still, it was preferable to carrying the parcels in my hands, exposed for all to see.
“What now?” Lyraen’s voice, a thin thread of suspicion.
Could I glimpse a drooping, shaggy tail in my periphery? A grotesque, fur-laden appendage, quivering with pitiful hope?
Repugnant. Utterly, undeniably repugnant.
Quickly, I shook off the repulsive image, reaching into the satchel. My fingers closed around a waxed parchment box.
A pathetic keenness entered Lyraen’s gaze as it fell upon the offering. Only then did the gloom in his eyes shift, softening into something unfamiliar, vulnerable.
“What… is this?”
“A midday meal. I inquired. The healers confirmed your Arcane Resection is still weeks away. You are permitted to eat a proper portion.”
“A meal?” He sounded incredulous.
“Do not imbue it with meaning. I procured it from a purveyor near the college kitchens.” My voice was flat, deliberately devoid of warmth.
Forbidden was the truth: I had spent an hour consulting the college’s reclusive cook, detailing Lyraen’s specific dietary needs, poring over ancient Lumina recipes known for their restorative properties, then arranging for the discreet preparation and packaging. I had even, against all my better judgment, tasted a sample to ensure its quality.
Unspoken. Unacknowledged. I desired only to appear as an emissary of detached, practical kindness, nothing more.
Yet, even that bare minimum seemed to be enough for Lyraen. His right hand, stiff and partially withered from the residual magical blight, twitched. He scratched awkwardly at an earlobe, a habit of nervous agitation.
A glimpse of the earlobe, vivid crimson. My gaze drifted lower, to the afflicted hand. The digits, bent at unnatural angles, seemed almost fossilized in their malformation.
My face tightened. Why did those gnarled fingers command such unwanted attention? Why could I not simply avert my gaze?
A dull ache resonated in my chest, a physical manifestation of his silent suffering.
“……Thank you.” His voice, oddly subdued, barely a murmur.
Lyraen glanced at me, hesitancy writ large across his pale features. Our eyes met, and he flinched, a surprised jolt, then fumbled with frantic haste to open the box.
Or was it a feigned startle? As if being caught in a moment of unguarded observation was a transgression. As if he did not wish me to notice the nascent hope in his eyes.
Watching him devour the food with the mechanical urgency of a famished wolf, I allowed my exhausted frame to sag against the infirmary cot. It was not a graceful sight. Bits of roasted fowl, herbs, and breadcrumbs spilled onto the linen sheets.
Lyraen’s smallest fingers, ring, and middle digits of his right hand remained stubbornly unyielding. Whether genuine or a theatrical flourish, I could not discern.
Slowly, I leaned forward, taking the spoon from his clumsy grasp. “What do you wish to eat?”
“……”
“More of the quail?”
Regardless of my discomfort, I bore the responsibility of acknowledging the reality of Lyraen’s wounds. Lips smeared with food, Lyraen chewed, lowering his head slightly. A faint smile touched his mouth.
I truly did not understand. How could this individual, whose hand would never properly articulate, whose back and thigh bore the puckered scars of magical affliction, still find cause to smile like that? The thought was alien to me.
I could not bring myself to meet his bright, unwavering gaze. What mirth could he possibly find?
If it were me, I would wish only for oblivion.
Picking out the most succulent piece of quail, I raised the spoon to Lyraen’s lips. He chewed with vigorous enthusiasm, his smile unwavering. The sight, the persistent joy in the face of such suffering, always unsettled me.
Truthfully, the impetus for securing the meal had stemmed from an earlier, more unsettling encounter, prior to my arrival at the infirmary. I had stopped by Lyraen’s family manor.
---
This was the second time I had ventured to Lyraen’s ancestral estate since the onset of his magical malady. Surprisingly, my Lumina College identification, bearing my temporary 'guardian' pass, still granted me entry.
In all these weeks, I had encountered Lyraen’s family only three times within the college infirmary’s public receiving area. Once, his father. Twice, his mother. His mother, in particular, presented a veneer of solicitous gentleness towards me, as if offering a silent reward for shouldering the duties she had so readily relinquished.
Lyraen, from his cot, would simply rest his chin on his good hand, watching his mother’s retreating back with an unreadable expression. My purpose on this particular visit was merely to retrieve some of Lyraen’s personal effects. A collection of rare historical texts, perhaps some favoured sketching inks and parchment, to alleviate the crushing boredom of prolonged confinement.
That was all. I understood, better than anyone, the suffocating ennui of being trapped within four walls. Having endured my own childhood convalescences, I knew precisely what small comforts could ease the burden. I convinced myself it was not compassion. Not a nascent affection. Merely pragmatic experience.
That day, instead of returning to my austere study within Lumina’s scholar’s tower, I journeyed directly to Lyraen’s manor. The heavy, wrought-iron gates swung open, a silent welcome to the grand, yet curiously vacant, estate.
But Lady Isolde, Lyraen’s older sister, offered no such greeting. She leaned against the cold stone of Lyraen’s chamber doorway, her voice dry as aged parchment.
“Still lingering about with Lyraen, Vance?”
Honestly, my feelings towards Lady Isolde were far from cordial. How could she, his own kin, never once visit him in the infirmary? Her own family, ailing. The instinctual tenets of morality, ingrained by Lumina’s teachings, led me to judge her. I had not even realized the silent condemnation until that very moment.
It was not intentional. The instant of self-recognition caused my mouth to clamp shut. I resumed stuffing Lyraen’s requested items into my satchel.
“Yes.”
“He truly is beyond redemption, isn’t he? That madman. So obsessed with you.”
My hand froze, mid-reach for a sheaf of ancient poems. I turned, as if drawn by an invisible thread.
“……Obsessed with me?” The words felt foreign on my tongue, unexpected.
“What, does that please you?” Her gaze was sharp, probing.
“No. I merely asked for clarification.”
“People never ‘merely ask.’ You wished to know, so you asked.”
Disgusting. The word was a silent, venomous hiss from her lips. I pretended not to hear it. Yet, she stepped closer, ignoring my discomfort, her presence a cold weight in the room.
This entire bloodline possessed an uncanny talent for overlooking others. Lady Isolde, Lyraen, even their distant father.
“Tell me, where did you disappear to after the Grand Conclave last spring?”
“Indeed.” The question was a veiled accusation. My absence from the noble circuit after graduation was known across the realm, a scandal of sorts.
“It’s not as though I desired to know. But Lyraen… he lost his composure. That madman, who never once entered the Sacred Crypt, suddenly began to wail, to pray, to throw tantrums.”
“Praying?” A tremor, slight but perceptible, went through me.
“Yes, that absurd performance. He used to treasure it, you know? That ancestral pendant, gifted by our father. Called the Celestial Patrons ‘cursed dogs’ or some such profanity. Then he tore the pendant from his neck, screamed until his throat was raw. After that, he locked himself in this room and refused to emerge. Our house, finally, knew a brief respite of peace. He is too blind to see who the true villain is. Fool.”
Her voice, which had dripped with mockery, abruptly dipped, hushed with an odd caution. Likely, my expression had shifted.
“What now? Your face is flushed, Vance.”
“It is not.”
“Impossible. Do you truly… favour him? Is that it?”
“I told you, no.” My voice, though quiet, held a razor’s edge.
“……By the Ancestors.” She gasped, covering her mouth as if genuinely horrified. “You are truly unhinged. Utterly.”
Why did she persist in such pronouncements when I had so clearly denied it? Annoyed, I yanked the satchel’s zipper shut with a sharp hiss of metal. A cutting retort formed on my tongue. I wanted to castigate her too.
“Why did you reveal this to me? Your father stated Lyraen was his second son, and thus, your concern.”
“What in the blazes are you prattling about now?”
A True Contradiction.
What a contradiction I was. I knew it. Old Master Thorne, whose pronouncements always grated on my nerves, once muttered that Elian Vance, despite his intentions, always performed some small kindness in the end. A constant truth, no matter my internal arguments.
But in this particular instance, I had a justifiable excuse. The discolored, puckered scars that marred Lyraen’s back. Just as Lyraen often avoided my gaze, I found myself incapable of looking at those particular marks for too long.
“Elian.” His voice, hoarse, drew me back to the infirmary cot, pulling me from the chilling memory of Lady Isolde’s words.
“Yes.”
“Then… is it permissible to place my faith in you?” His voice, a rasping whisper, crept closer through the sterile air. I pretended not to care. Yet, I listened, every fibre of my being acutely aware.
“What in the Archon’s name are you speaking of?”
“I shall not… desire you.”
In that single, stark instant, my heart plummeted, crashing against the floor of my own perception. My stomach twisted, a sickening lurch. Something tightened, a vise around my chest.
I almost asked—a raw, unbidden question escaping before thought could reign it in. *Why not?*
The words trembled on the precipice of my lips, and with horrifying clarity, I recognized the true, hidden meaning of my almost-utterance. My own treacherous desires, secrets I buried even from myself, had nearly surfaced.
*Elian Vance, you are a damned fool.* I clenched my fists, forcing the words back down, swallowing the bitter truth. Yes. This was for the best. For both of us.
“Then instead, I shall believe in you.” Lyraen’s next words were a strange tapestry of sorrow and joy, an unsettling juxtaposition. He sounded like a supplicant receiving a sacred revelation. Was there any other way to describe him in that moment?
I did not comprehend his words. And yet, I did not withdraw my hand, resting idly on the cot beside him. I did not flee. The suffocating weight pressing on my chest no longer merely squeezed; it stabbed, a sharp, cold agony.
“I am an apostate now. Truly, you are of far greater utility to my existence than any Celestial Patron in the high firmament.”
“Hold your tongue.” The blasphemy was too much. “You defile the Ancestors’ names daily.”
“No, that is untrue! I was raised a devout believer, you know!” Lyraen frantically shook his head, then his good hand, as if his very life depended on my belief. His tone was desperate, edged with an almost tearful plea. If I did not believe him, he might genuinely weep.
Caught off guard, I was left momentarily speechless. And then, as if a sudden resolve seized him, Lyraen slid off the cot, dropping abruptly to his knees before me.
“Then I shall show you.”
“Lyraen, what madness is this?”
His larger, albeit still weakened, hand reached out, closing around my left foot. I had been sitting with my legs casually crossed, my foot propped on the cot’s edge. His grip caused me to slide forward, barely maintaining my perch. My foot, now dangling, was held captive by his grasp.
Lyraen’s gaze fell, not on my face, but on the faint, crescent scar etched into the sole of my foot. A childhood memory, a fragment of arcane-infused crystal from an excavated scroll, carelessly stepped upon. His brow furrowed. And to my utter disbelief, his eyes began to well with moisture.
I recoiled in shock, instinctively trying to pull my foot away. Before I could escape, Lyraen lowered his head.
“What are yo—”
“In the name of the Silent Scribes, the Boundless Memory, and the Unyielding Truth.” Cold fingertips brushed against my ankle. A sharp, unexpected ache shot up my calf, radiating deep into my stomach. *What in the blazes is this lunatic doing?*
I tried to yank my foot free again, but my strength, inexplicably, abandoned me.
Lyraen looked up at me once more. His face, showing not a single trace of disgust—like a devout acolyte touching a sacred relic—pressed his lips to the tip of my foot.
“I greet the Lord of my Truth.”
His fine, soft hair brushed against my ankle, a strange, ticklish sensation. The gentle press of his lips moved along the base of my toes, a lingering, reverent touch. “S-Stop it….” My arm flew up, covering my face, shielding myself from the unbearable intimacy of the moment.
Lyraen’s right hand, the one with the three weak, twisted fingers, tightened its grip on my ankle. And in that very moment—I ceased to resist. That delicate, fragile hold tapped lightly against my skin. The lips that had cursed the Celestial Patrons traced a path up my calf, a fleeting, almost worshipful gesture.
And I did nothing to stop him. It was then that the chilling realization settled. This relentless, incurable disease—this nightmare of being eighteen, shackled by expectation and an unwanted, terrifying connection—still wasn’t over. It had only just begun its slow, insidious spread.