A curious ache settled in Elian’s chest whenever the steward announced his visits to the Sunstone Conservatory. A part of him, an anxious, fastidious part, winced at the implication. Such regular attendance suggested a devotion he did not outwardly claim, nor inwardly, he insisted, fully possess. His role, an unspoken adjunct to Kaelen Thorne’s confinement, felt like an ill-fitting mantle. An adult, they might call him. One responsible. But the very word felt foreign, a costume donned for an unwelcome play. Each morning, Elian would dutifully attend his lectures in the Imperial Archives, deciphering ancient scripts, his mind sharp and engaged. Each afternoon, however, a different responsibility drew him. He would navigate the labyrinthine corridors of the Thorne estate, his steps echoing on polished marble, the scent of expensive incense and stale anxiety clinging to the air. He rarely completed his studies without interruption. Thoughts of Kaelen, restless within his gilded cage, always intruded. Returning to the Conservatory, Kaelen would emerge from his chambers, a predator sensing the return of its prey. He would spill forth the day’s indignities, a torrent of frustration barely contained. “The Archons themselves couldn’t conjure a dish as insipid as what they serve here,” Kaelen declared, his voice a low growl, a flicker of genuine misery in his eyes. “They say I am in recovery, yet they torture me with this gruel. My palate is perfectly sound, Elian, not some withered husk. Why must I suffer this culinary deprivation?” His complaints, though theatrical, held a kernel of truth. The dishes prepared for those under observation in the Conservatory were notoriously bland, designed for convalescence, not pleasure. Kaelen, for all his dangerous bearing, seemed in that moment a petulant child. Elian permitted himself a small, private sigh. He reached into his satchel, a faint, sweet aroma already escaping the tightly sealed container within. A frown touched Elian’s lips. He detested the smell of food clinging to his academic implements, staining the leather. Yet, the thought of carrying the parcel openly through the estate had been even more unpalatable. Kaelen, who had been pacing, stilled. A peculiar, almost canine tilt to his head. Elian suppressed a shiver of disgust. Such comparisons were unworthy of a scholar. Elian produced the lacquered box. Kaelen’s gloom, a heavy shadow, began to dissipate, replaced by a glint of avid curiosity. “What is this?” Kaelen asked, his voice softening, betraying a fragile hope. “A confection,” Elian replied, his tone even. “I enquired. They stated your current regimen permits such a small indulgence.” “A confection?” Kaelen’s brow furrowed, a faint suspicion returning. “Interpret nothing further into it. It was acquired from a merchant in the Grand Plaza.” Elian spoke with deliberate nonchalance, his gaze unwavering. He would not admit the painstaking research, the discreet inquiries made to ascertain which establishments offered fare both delicious and safe for a convalescent, all without drawing undue attention to House Vance. He would not acknowledge the deeper meaning he himself had imbued in the simple act. Yet, Kaelen seemed to require no such confession. His good hand, the one unmarred by the lingering stiffness from his recent… accident, scratched at his ear. The lobe was a fiery red. Elian’s gaze drifted to Kaelen’s other hand, the one that sometimes trembled, the fingers not quite closing completely. A faint, almost invisible scar marred the back of it, a ghost of a wound. Kaelen’s fingers, though mostly healed, still bore the faint marks of a brutal interrogation, or a botched escape attempt, depending on which rumour one believed. It made Elian's stomach clench. Why did that minor imperfection seize his attention? Why could he not look away? A tightness pressed against his chest. “...Thank you,” Kaelen murmured, his voice uncharacteristically subdued. He glanced at Elian, then averted his eyes with a start, as if caught in a transgression. A theatrical gesture, Elian suspected. A pretense of being startled, of not wanting Elian to perceive his true reaction. Kaelen fumbled with the lid of the box, then began to eat, shoveling the delicate pastries into his mouth with an alarming speed. Elian leaned back against the plush velvet of the settee, a strange weariness settling upon him. The sight was, frankly, uncouth. Crumbs dusted Kaelen’s chin, a smear of jam adorned his cheek. But Elian merely watched. Kaelen’s left hand, the one with the slight tremor, reached for another pastry, a small, involuntary tremor running through his wrist. Elian slowly reached out, taking the pastry from Kaelen’s grasp. “Which would you prefer?” Elian asked, his voice a quiet intervention. “...” Kaelen paused, chewing, his eyes wide. “The candied ginger?” Elian knew, fundamentally, he had a scholar’s duty to believe in the truth of Kaelen’s wounds, even if Kaelen himself dramatised them. Kaelen chewed, a slight smile curving his jam-smeared lips. He lowered his head, eyes still fixed on Elian. Elian felt a profound confusion. This man, who carried visible scars of violence, who existed under constant scrutiny, who defied the very concept of peace, smiled with such unbridled, almost innocent, joy. He simply could not fathom it. What could possibly be so amusing? Were it Elian, he would wish only for oblivion. Elian selected a candied rose petal tart, the most fragrant offering, and carefully placed it to Kaelen’s lips. Kaelen bit into it, still smiling, his gaze never leaving Elian’s face. This man, Kaelen Thorne, always managed to disquiet Elian. Even now, with such a simple, shared act. Truly, the deeper reason for the confection lay in an earlier encounter. An unwelcome memory from before Elian arrived at the Conservatory. --- This was the second time Elian had ventured to the outer sections of Thorne Keep since Kaelen’s enforced convalescence began. Surprisingly, the Thornes had not yet revoked his pass for the restricted wings. He had seen Kaelen’s family only a handful of times since Kaelen’s ‘accident.’ His father, once, then his mother twice. Kaelen’s mother had adopted a remarkably solicitous air with Elian, as if bestowing upon him a benediction for shouldering the responsibilities she clearly wished to avoid. Kaelen, on those occasions, had simply rested his chin upon his hand, watching his mother’s retreating back with an unreadable expression. Elian’s purpose that day had been simple: to collect some of Kaelen’s favoured academic texts and esoteric maps. He knew the tedium of confinement well. He had, years ago, suffered his own period of forced seclusion during a plague outbreak in the capital, confined to the Vance townhome. He knew exactly what diversion Kaelen would require. He convinced himself it was merely a pragmatic act. Not sympathy. Certainly not affection. That day, instead of returning to the Imperial Dormitories, Elian opted to journey back to the Vance family townhome. On his way, he stopped at Thorne Keep. The sprawling, ancient estate, scarred by history, welcomed him. But Cassian Beaumont, lounging by a column within Kaelen’s personal antechamber, did not. Cassian watched Elian, his expression cynical, a predatory amusement in his eyes. “Still playing the loyal scholar, Vance?” Cassian’s voice was dry, laced with a familiar, cutting mockery. Elian harboured no great fondness for Cassian. He couldn’t comprehend how Cassian, a distant relative, a purported ally, could so rarely visit Kaelen, his kinsman, in such a vulnerable state. That innate, unspoken morality, the one that governed the unwritten codes of noble conduct, instinctively judged Cassian’s callousness. He hadn’t even realised he was doing it, until the thought solidified. At once, Elian clamped his mouth shut. He continued to meticulously select Kaelen’s scrolls, tucking them into his satchel with precise, deliberate movements. “I am merely retrieving items for his solace.” “He truly is quite taken with you, isn’t he? The mad dog is obsessed.” Elian’s hand froze mid-air, hovering over a brittle, age-yellowed scroll. He turned slowly, as if compelled by an unseen force. “...Obsessed with me?” “Does that news please you, Scholar Vance?” Cassian’s smirk widened, a knowing, cruel twist of his lips. “It does not. I merely sought clarification.” “No one ‘merely’ seeks anything, Vance. You desired to know. So you asked.” Cassian muttered something under his breath. Elian pretended not to hear it, but the word ‘disgusting’ was distinct enough to make his skin prickle. Cassian, undeterred, stepped closer. The Beaumonts, Elian mused, shared with the Thornes a particular talent for ignoring unwelcome presences. “Tell me, Vance, what did you truly pursue after your Imperial Academy graduation?” “My studies,” Elian replied, his voice tight. “Indeed. The entire capital is surely aware. Kaelen, however, did not take your absence well. The bastard never set foot in a temple, yet suddenly he was praying, raging, tearing at his hair. Then, not long after, he ripped apart his Lion’s Crest Medallion, the one his father gave him, and started screaming blasphemies.” “The Medallion?” Elian’s breath hitched. That symbol, a weighty bronze disc, signified the Thorne lineage’s ancestral oath to the Argentum Empire, a personal vow of loyalty to the Emperor himself. “Yes, that wretched thing. He used to carry it everywhere, swore by it. Then he called the Celestial Archons ‘fucking curs’ or some such nonsense. He locked himself in his chambers for days. The Keep was blessedly quiet for once. He doesn’t even recognise the true villain in his own life. Fool.” Cassian’s voice, which had dripped with amusement, suddenly lowered, a flicker of concern in his eyes. He must have noted Elian’s expression. “What in the Eight Hells? Your face is flushed.” “It is not.” “Impossible. Do you truly... feel something for him? You desire him?” “I do not,” Elian insisted, the lie a bitter taste on his tongue. “...By the Emperor’s sacred beard.” Cassian gasped, feigning horror, covering his mouth. “You are truly unhinged, Vance. Utterly insane.” Why did he persist, when Elian had already denied it? Annoyed, Elian yanked his satchel’s clasp shut. He wanted to lash out, to criticise Cassian in turn. “Why do you speak such things to me? Your own patriarch informed me Kaelen was his second son. Your kinsman.” “What? What manner of diversion is this, all of a sudden?” Cassian scoffed, momentarily thrown off balance. A true contradiction. He knew it too. Valerius, who often saw through Elian’s pretenses, had once remarked: “Elian Vance, no matter his lofty intentions, always finds himself enacting kindness.” Yet, at this moment, Elian possessed an excuse. The faint, almost invisible scars that crisscrossed Kaelen’s back, traces of old punishments or desperate skirmishes. Just as Kaelen could not meet Elian’s eyes, Elian could not bring himself to truly look upon those marks. They felt too private, too painful. “Elian.” Kaelen’s voice, hoarse, drew closer. “Yes?” Elian replied, pretending a detachment he did not feel. But he listened. Every fiber of his being was attuned. “I will not... *like* you.” In that single, stark instant, Elian’s heart plummeted. His stomach twisted, a sudden, cold knot of dread and something else, something he dared not name, tightened in his chest. He almost asked—without conscious thought—*Why not?* The words nearly escaped, a raw, uncontrolled whisper. Elian realised, with a sickening jolt, the true, hidden meaning of his impulse. His carefully constructed intellectual facade fractured. *Elian Vance, you are a fool, a pathetic, sentimental idiot.* He clenched his fists beneath the folds of his academic robes, swallowing the illicit question, forcing it down. Yes. This was for the best. For both of them. A detached association, nothing more. A necessary alliance of intellect and power. “Instead,” Kaelen continued, his voice strangely resonant, “I will believe in you.” His words, a paradox, were laced with both sorrow and a strange, almost fervent joy. Like a supplicant receiving a revelation. How else could one describe him? Elian did not comprehend Kaelen’s meaning, yet he did not pull his hand away, did not retreat. The suffocating weight pressing on his chest no longer merely squeezed; it now pricked, sharp and insistent. “I am an atheist now, Elian. Truly, you are more integral to my life than any Archon in the celestial vault.” “Silence,” Elian hissed, a sharp reprimand. “You blaspheme daily.” “No, that is untrue! I was raised a devout believer, you know!” Kaelen declared, frantically shaking his head, his hands raised in a gesture of desperate denial. His tone was fervent, almost tearful. If Elian did not believe him, Kaelen might well weep. Caught off guard, Elian found himself speechless. Then, as if reaching a sudden, firm decision, Kaelen slid from the settee, dropping to his knees before Elian. “Then I shall demonstrate.” “Kaelen. What in the Abyss are you doing?” A strong hand closed around Elian’s ankle. Elian, who had been sitting with his legs crossed, shifted forward precariously, barely perched on the edge of the seat. His foot, dangling, was now held firmly in Kaelen’s grasp. Kaelen’s gaze fell upon a small, faded scar on the sole of Elian’s foot, a jagged line from a childhood fall upon broken cobblestones. Kaelen’s brow furrowed. And, to Elian’s astonishment, his eyes welled with moisture. Elian jerked back in shock, attempting to withdraw his foot. Before he could escape, Kaelen lowered his head. “What are you—” “In the name of the Divine Emperor, his Celestial Archons, and the hallowed lineage of Thorne.” Cold fingertips brushed against Elian’s ankle. A sharp ache shot up his calf, deep into his stomach. What was this lunatic doing? Elian tried to yank his foot free, but his strength abandoned him. He watched, mesmerised and appalled, as Kaelen looked up at him once. Then, with a face devoid of a single ounce of disgust—like a devout acolyte touching a sacred relic—Kaelen spoke. “I offer my fealty to my Lord.” He pressed his lips to the tip of Elian’s foot. Kaelen’s fine, dark hair brushed against Elian’s ankle, a soft tickle against his skin. The gentle pressure of his lips traced a path across the base of Elian’s toes. “S-Stop this…” Elian threw an arm over his face, hiding the sudden rush of heat, the unexpected tremor that coursed through him. Kaelen’s right hand tightened around Elian’s ankle. In that moment, Elian ceased to resist. Those strong, dangerous fingers, now holding him with such peculiar reverence, tapped lightly against his skin. The lips that had cursed the Divine only moments ago now traced a path upwards, along his calf. And Elian did nothing to stop him. That was when he realised. This relentless, inexplicable disease—this unsettling, intoxicating nightmare of his existence in the Argentum Empire, inextricably bound to Kaelen Thorne—still had no end.

A Burden of Belief