Elian’s mind, a meticulously constructed cartographic instrument, constantly mapped Lysander’s sprawling estate, particularly the pathways leading to Finnian’s rooms. The term “caretaker,” whispered by Lysander’s retinue, clung to him like the perpetual damp of Veridian. It was a mantle he hadn’t sought, heavy and ill-fitting, like borrowed formal wear. He often found himself retracing the complex routes through the city’s archives during the day, only to navigate the equally intricate corridors of the manor by evening. He attended barely half his commissions, his quill hovering over parchment, visions of Veridian’s under-city replaced by the muted light of Finnian’s recovery chamber.
Returning to the hushed wing, Elian would find Finnian waiting, usually propped against an array of silk pillows, a faint pallor still clinging to his features. Finnian would launch into a litany of complaints – the bland medicinal broths, the enforced idleness, Kaelan’s suffocating concern.
“They say another blood-cleansing ritual,” Finnian would sigh, a petulant twist to his lips. “My veins will be scraped raw again. And the tonics… I swear they taste like rust and forgotten dust. I’m not an invalid, Elian, my constitution is perfectly sound, why must I ingest these concoctions fit only for ghouls?” His youthful face, so prone to swift changes, would crumple into a genuinely miserable mask, reminding Elian of a child denied a street-vendor’s sweet.
A quiet sigh escaped Elian. His satchel, usually smelling of parchment and ink, now carried the faint aroma of roasted herbs. The scent, though carefully contained, still permeated the leather, a minor vexation that crinkled his nose. Still, he preferred this to the awkwardness of carrying the package openly.
“What is it?” Finnian’s voice held a hopeful tremor.
From his satchel, Elian produced a small, oiled paper box.
A pitiful gaze swept over the package. Only then did the gloom in Finnian’s eyes recede, replaced by a flicker of curiosity.
“It’s a supper.” Elian’s voice was flat, devoid of inflection. “They permitted a variation tonight. I acquired it from a stall near the Lower Spire.”
“A supper?”
“Nothing significant. Just a simple vendor.”
He kept his gaze steady, not meeting Finnian’s eyes. The truth – that he had meticulously researched, mapping out the safest, most nourishing purveyors known to cater to delicate constitutions, rationalizing it as a ‘logistical challenge’ – remained unspoken. He simply wanted it to appear as a detached, practical act.
Finnian’s ear, a delicate curve he often worried at, flushed a deep rose. His left hand, still trembling slightly from the recent ordeal, made an aborted gesture as if to scratch it.
Elian’s cartographer’s eye, always seeking detail, was drawn to those fingers. The way they curled, ever so slightly, a persistent tremor betraying a vulnerability Finnian tried to conceal. A faint, almost imperceptible knot tightened in Elian’s chest. He found himself unable to look away, a familiar, unwelcome current of something akin to revulsion and protectiveness warring within him.
“……Thank you.” Finnian’s voice was uncharacteristically subdued. He glanced at Elian, then quickly averted his gaze, fumbling with the ties of the box, as if caught in a private moment. He seemed to want Elian not to notice.
Watching Finnian carefully spoon the food into his mouth, Elian leaned back against the plush settee, feigning exhaustion. It was a messy sight – crumbs threatened to escape, a fleck of gravy stained the corner of Finnian’s lip. Finnian’s left pinky and ring finger didn’t quite articulate correctly, a subtle stiffness from the ordeal. Elian couldn’t tell if it was true weakness or an unconscious act.
Slowly, Elian moved closer, gently taking the spoon. “Which piece do you prefer?”
“……”
“The roasted root?”
At the very least, Elian felt a strange obligation to acknowledge the reality of Finnian’s recovery, his wounds, even if he couldn’t articulate why. Finnian, his lips glistening, chewed slowly, a faint smile playing on them as he lowered his head. Elian could not comprehend why this young man, whose grip was still uncertain, whose delicate frame bore the recent marks of illness, could still smile like that. He truly couldn’t fathom it.
Elian found he couldn’t meet Finnian’s bright, luminous face. What was so amusing? If it were Elian, he’d likely retreat into silent despair. He selected a tender piece of spiced meat, bringing it to Finnian’s lips. Finnian chewed with quiet contentment, still smiling. This youth, Elian thought, always managed to disrupt his carefully ordered internal landscape.
---
The impetus for the supper had been earlier that day, before Elian came to Finnian’s sickroom.
This was the second time since the most recent, more invasive arcane treatment Finnian had undergone. Elian still carried Lysander’s temporary pass, granting him access to the Thorne estate as a ‘designated support aide.’ He had only encountered the full Thorne household thrice in this particular ward. Once, the Patriarch’s grim-faced emissary; twice, Lysander himself, always poised and articulate. Lysander, especially, adopted a demeanor of polite gratitude, as if Elian were merely fulfilling a delegation of duty rather than providing genuine care. Finnian, during these visits, would often rest his chin on his hand, simply watching his cousin’s retreating back with an unreadable expression.
Elian’s purpose today had been solely to retrieve some of Finnian’s personal belongings. Trinkets, books, small comforts to alleviate the tedium of convalescence. He understood, better than anyone, the suffocating monotony of being confined. Having experienced his own periods of forced quietude, he knew precisely what Finnian required. He convinced himself it was merely pragmatic insight, not sympathy. Not affection.
That day, instead of returning to his spartan atelier near the canals, Elian had elected to return home, his own small flat in the scribes’ quarter. On his way, he’d made a detour to a lesser-used entrance of the Thorne Estate, specifically Kaelan’s private apartments, where Finnian had often spent his leisure hours prior to his illness.
The private chambers, though opulent, were silent, cold. A household retainer, a stern-faced woman named Maera, stood by the doorway to Finnian’s former alcove, her arms crossed.
“Still tending to young Finnian, Master Vance?” she asked, her voice dry as aged parchment.
Elian wasn’t fond of Maera. Her perpetual disapproval, her veiled judgment of Kaelan’s volatile possessiveness, always grated. How could she not visit Finnian, not even once, in his illness? The instinctual sense of humanity in Elian rebelled against her cold detachment. He hadn’t even realized he was judging her. The moment the thought surfaced, he clamped his mouth shut, stuffing more of Finnian’s cherished sketchbooks into his satchel.
“Yes,” Elian replied, his voice carefully neutral.
“That boy… he’s truly become quite entangled with you, hasn’t he? Master Kaelan is quite… consumed by it.” Maera muttered, barely audible, but Elian’s sharp hearing caught the words.
His hand froze amidst a pile of discarded drafts. He turned, slowly, as if pulled by an invisible thread. “……Entangled?”
“What, are you pleased to hear it?” Her lips thinned.
“No. I merely sought clarification.”
“Nobody merely seeks anything, Master Vance. You wished to know, so you inquired.”
Her disdain was palpable. She stepped closer, ignoring Elian’s discomfort, as was the custom for those who felt superior. This entire household, Elian thought, possessed a particular talent for ignoring others, Kaelan included. Even Finnian, sometimes.
“Tell me, where did you disappear to after that incident in the archives?” Maera continued, shifting the subject abruptly. “The whole of Veridian felt your absence.”
Elian paused. “I resumed my commissions.”
“It wasn’t my place to inquire, but Master Kaelan… he quite lost himself. The boy, Finnian, he became frantic. He never once set foot in a church, nor offered a prayer to the city’s old spirits, but suddenly he was invoking forgotten names, tearing at the ceremonial collar Kaelan had given him, screaming.”
“Ceremonial collar?” Elian felt a cold knot form in his stomach.
“The one Master Kaelan had specially commissioned. Said it was a protective ward. Finnian… he called the Lord Regent a ‘bloody tyrant’ and the old spirits ‘useless echoes.’ Then he retreated into himself, refused to speak, our house finally had a moment of quiet. He doesn’t even recognize who truly cares for him. Foolish boy.” Her voice, initially mocking, dropped, likely at the sight of Elian’s expression.
“What is it? Your face is quite pale.”
“It’s nothing.” Elian murmured, feeling a strange chill.
“No, I daresay. Do you truly… like him? You like Finnian?”
“I said nothing of the sort.” Elian’s voice was sharper than he intended.
“……By the Grand Architect.” Maera gasped, pressing a hand to her mouth, as if genuinely horrified. “You are truly quite mad, Master Vance. Utterly.”
Why did she persist in this, when he had plainly denied it? Annoyed, Elian yanked the satchel’s flap shut. He wanted to retort, to criticize her own callousness. “Why do you tell me this? Lysander merely stated Finnian was under his protection.”
A True Contradiction.
What a stark contradiction. He knew it well. Lysander himself, whose pronouncements often grated on Elian’s analytical mind, once remarked that Elian, despite his detached demeanor, invariably performed acts of quiet kindness. Regardless of his stated intentions.
But now, Elian had an excuse. The faint, brown discolouration on Finnian’s wrist, the way his movements were still tentative. Just as Finnian avoided Elian’s gaze at times, Elian found himself unable to dwell on those marks.
---
“Elian.” Finnian’s voice, raspy from disuse, was closer than Elian expected.
“Yes.”
“Then… is it permissible for me to rely on you?”
His hoarse whisper drew near. Elian pretended not to notice. But he listened.
“What exactly are you implying?” Elian kept his gaze fixed on the rain-streaked window.
“I won’t… demand your affection.”
In that instant, Elian’s carefully constructed composure fractured. A hollow ache bloomed in his stomach. Something cold coiled around his chest. He almost asked – without thinking – *Why not?*
The words, his true, hidden thoughts, nearly escaped. *Elian Vance, you are a fool.* He clenched his fists, swallowing the question, pushing it deep into the quiet chambers of his mind.
Yes. This was for the best. For both of them.
“Then instead, I will simply… believe in you.”
But Finnian’s words were strange, tangled with both a quiet sorrow and a burgeoning hope. Like a lost soul finding a compass point in the dense fog of Veridian. Was there any other way to describe him in this moment? Elian didn’t fully comprehend Finnian’s meaning. And yet, he didn’t pull his hand away. Didn’t retreat. The suffocating weight pressing on his chest no longer merely squeezed – it felt like a sharp, sudden stab.
“I don’t follow the Lord Regent’s decrees anymore. Honestly, your steady hand is far more concrete to my life than any distant authority.”
“Silence, Finnian.” Elian managed, his voice tight. This boy…
“You blaspheme every day.”
“No, that’s not true! I was raised to revere the city’s ancient pacts!” Finnian shook his head frantically, as if his very recovery depended on Elian’s belief. His tone – desperate, as if he might genuinely weep if challenged.
Caught off guard, Elian was speechless. And then, as if a sudden resolve had seized him, Finnian slid off the settee, dropping to one knee beside Elian’s armchair.
A thin hand reached out, lightly gripping Elian’s ankle. Elian had been sitting with his legs crossed, one foot resting casually on the edge of the settee. Now, it hung suspended, held by Finnian’s surprisingly firm grip. Finnian’s gaze landed on a small, faint scar near the sole of Elian’s foot – a barely visible line from a childhood misstep, an imperfection Elian rarely considered. Finnian’s brow furrowed. And to Elian’s utter disbelief – his eyes welled with moisture.
Elian jerked back in shock, attempting to pull his foot away. Before he could escape, Finnian lowered his head.
“What are you—”
“By the steadfast hand, the clear sight, and the guiding truth.”
Cold fingertips brushed against Elian’s ankle. A sharp ache, both unwelcome and strangely compelling, shot up his calf, deep into his stomach. What was this boy doing? Elian tried to yank his foot free, but his strength seemed to abandon him.
Finnian looked up at him once, his face utterly devoid of disgust. Then, with an expression of profound, almost religious veneration—
Like a devout petitioner touching a sacred relic—
“I acknowledge my guide.”
He pressed his lips to the tip of Elian’s foot. Finnian’s fine, soft hair brushed against Elian’s ankle, a surprising tickle on his skin. The gentle pressure of his lips traced a path across the base of Elian’s toes.
“S-Stop it….” Elian threw an arm over his face, hiding his reaction.
Finnian’s right hand tightened around Elian’s ankle. And in that moment—
Elian stopped resisting.
Three still-weak fingers held him, a delicate, fragile grip tapping lightly against his skin. The lips that had cursed Kaelan and the Lord Regent, now traced a path up Elian’s calf.
And Elian did nothing to stop him.
That was when Elian realized.
This persistent, unwelcome devotion—
This nightmare of inherited responsibility—
Still wasn’t over.