“Lord Caspian’s Keeper.” A whisper, rarely voiced aloud, yet it clung to Lysander like the faint scent of ink on his skin. Each time the unspoken title surfaced in his mind, it underscored a bitter truth: he was bound. An adult, yes, by imperial decree and chronological count, but the burden of this stewardship settled awkwardly, like a court garment cut for a larger, bolder man.
He had spent countless nights wrestling with the unspoken, inherited responsibility of guarding Caspian’s volatile spirit. His days were consumed by scrolls and diplomatic missives in the Imperial Archives, then bled into evenings spent in Caspian’s private chambers or the secluded garden alcoves where Caspian preferred to brood. He scarcely attended half his scheduled lectures from the Court Sages, his meticulous hand often stilled by the expectation of Caspian’s summons.
A familiar dread tightened Lysander’s chest as he approached the ornate, rosewood doors of Caspian’s study. And then, as if an unseen bell had rung, the doors parted, and Caspian himself appeared, a tempest barely contained. His face was a mask of petulance, eyes stormy, the finely embroidered collar of his tunic askew.
“Lysander, finally.” Caspian’s voice was a low growl. “This accursed confinement! The air here is as stale as a forgotten decree. And the ‘cordials’ they send – tasteless gruel fit only for a doddering courtier on his last breath. My stomach churns, Lysander. I am not some ailing relic, yet they insist on treating me so.”
His frustration poured out, raw and childish, making him seem far younger than his years. Lysander felt a familiar ache behind his ribs. He let out a breath and reached into the satchel slung over his shoulder.
He despised the way the sweet, cloying aroma had already permeated the fine leather. A faint wrinkle creased his brow. But carrying it unwrapped through the Imperial corridors would have invited far too much attention.
“What now?” Caspian peered at the satchel, his gloom momentarily lifting, a flicker of curiosity igniting in his eyes. A flash of a pampered hound’s expectant gaze. Lysander pushed the thought away, finding it distasteful.
He pulled out a small, lacquered box, expertly crafted, no doubt from the Imperial kitchens. A wistful, almost hungry look crossed Caspian’s features. Only then did the storm in his eyes recede, replaced by a glint of something akin to hope.
“A confection. The Kitchen Master confirmed its ingredients would not worsen your…disposition.” Lysander offered the box, his tone neutral, almost dismissive. “A new recipe, I believe. Purely by chance, I came across it.”
“A confection?” Caspian’s voice softened, a hint of genuine pleasure beneath his carefully constructed annoyance.
Lysander had chosen the pastry meticulously. It was a rare honeyed tart, subtly spiced, known to be a childhood favorite of Caspian’s, a treat rarely permitted due to its richness. He would never admit how long he had spent with the Kitchen Master, detailing Caspian’s preferred texture, the precise level of sweetness. He wanted it to seem like a simple, accidental kindness. Anything more would be dangerous.
But even that minimal gesture seemed to be enough. Caspian shifted, a flush rising on his cheeks. He rubbed his earlobe with his left hand, an uncharacteristic movement. Lysander’s gaze was drawn, inexplicably, to Caspian’s right hand, which rested on his thigh.
His fingers curled inward, a slight, almost imperceptible tremor running through them. A vestige of an old training injury, long dismissed as minor, yet Lysander knew the subtle ache it caused, especially when Caspian was stressed. His face tightened. Why did that minor imperfection always seize his attention? He struggled to look away. A suffocating pressure built in his chest.
“...Thank you,” Caspian murmured, his voice surprisingly subdued. He glanced at Lysander, then quickly averted his eyes, fumbling with the clasp of the box, as if caught in some illicit act. He didn’t want Lysander to notice his gratitude, his vulnerability.
Lysander watched him devour the tart, crumbs scattering across his tunic, a frantic hunger in his movements. Caspian’s pinky and ring fingers still bent awkwardly, a constant reminder of that old, poorly mended fracture. He leaned his weary frame against the doorframe, a weary resignation settling over him.
It was a crude, unrefined sight. Yet, he found himself moving closer, reaching out to gently wipe a crumb from Caspian’s chin. “Careful, Lord Caspian. There is no need for such haste.”
“What do you mean?” Caspian mumbled, mouth full. “The day crawls by. I must fill it somehow.”
“Slowly.” Lysander’s voice was soft, an unconscious act of care. At the very least, he had a responsibility to believe in Caspian’s unspoken wounds, in the truth behind his bluster. He chose another piece of tart, lifting it to Caspian’s lips.
Caspian chewed, his head lowered slightly, a faint, almost secret smile playing on his lips. Lysander stared at him, baffled. He had no idea how this volatile man, chafing under Imperial strictures, with the subtle pain of an old injury, could still manage to smile like that. If it were Lysander, he would have withered under the weight of it all.
He pushed the piece of tart into Caspian’s mouth. Caspian swallowed, still smiling. That smile always unsettled him. Lysander knew the true reason he had sought out the confection. It wasn’t a whim. It was because of what had transpired earlier that day, before he’d returned to the palace’s inner sanctum.
---
This was the third time Lysander had been dispatched to Caspian’s family estate, the House of Thorne, since Caspian’s last disciplinary confinement to his chambers. Surprisingly, his old retainer’s pass still granted him access. He had only ever encountered Caspian’s immediate family a handful of times since joining Caspian’s service. Once with his father, twice with his mother. His mother, especially, always offered Lysander a falsely sweet smile, a silent commendation for tending to the son she seemed only nominally concerned with.
Caspian, on those rare occasions, had merely rested his chin in his hand, watching his mother’s retreating back with an unreadable expression. Lysander’s purpose today was simple: retrieve a specific collection of navigational charts Caspian had requested, to alleviate his boredom. Nothing more.
He knew better than anyone how stifling enforced seclusion could be. And having witnessed Caspian’s previous bouts of melancholy, he knew exactly what might soothe the restless spirit. He convinced himself it wasn’t sympathy. Or affection.
Instead of returning directly to his own humble chambers, he had veered towards the Thorne estate. The grand mansion still offered its cold welcome. But Lady Seraphina, Caspian’s elder sister, did not.
She stood leaning against the archway of Caspian’s deserted study, her silver gown shimmering, her gaze dry and cutting. “Still tending to Caspian’s whims, scrivener?”
Lysander felt a prickle of irritation. Lady Seraphina never visited Caspian during his confinements, not once. Her own brother, caught in the throes of his self-inflicted struggles. A sharp, instinctual sense of moral judgment flared within him. He hadn’t realized he was doing it. The moment he did, he clamped his mouth shut, stuffing the last of the charts into his satchel.
“Yes, my Lady.”
“He truly is incorrigible, isn’t he? That reckless boy, obsessed with Elara, obsessed with… well, obsessed with having his way.” She scoffed, her voice laced with disdain.
Lysander’s hand froze. He turned, as if compelled. “Obsessed…with whom, my Lady?”
“What, are you pleased to hear it?” she asked, a smirk playing on her lips.
“No, I merely sought clarification.”
“One never ‘merely’ seeks anything, scrivener. You desired to know, so you asked.”
Disgusting. She muttered something under her breath, but Lysander pretended not to hear. Still, she stepped closer, disregarding his presence, much like the rest of her family.
“Tell me, scrivener, where did you disappear to after that last incident?”
“I merely resumed my duties.”
“A triviality, I’m sure. The entire Imperial Court must know by now. It’s not as if I *wished* to discover. But Caspian threw such a fit, you see. That boy, who never once attended High Mass willingly, suddenly began praying, then threw a tantrum. Not long after, he defaced the ancient Tome of Serenity, the one his father prized so dearly, and started screaming blasphemies.”
“The Tome of Serenity?” Lysander’s voice was barely a whisper.
“Yes, that tome. He used to treasure it, you know? Said it was a gift from his father. Called the Arch-Sages ‘gilded fools’ or something equally scandalous. Then he shut himself in his chambers for days, refusing all visitors. Our household finally found a moment’s peace. He doesn’t even realize who the true fool is. Pitiful boy.” Her voice, which had been mocking, suddenly lowered.
Probably due to the tension in Lysander’s face.
“What is it? Your face is quite pale.”
“It is nothing, my Lady.”
“Nonsense. Do you seriously harbor… tender feelings for him? You, Lysander? For *Caspian*?”
“I told you, no.” Lysander felt his cheeks flush, a betrayal of his carefully maintained composure.
“Gods above…” She gasped, covering her mouth as if genuinely horrified. “You are truly mad. Utterly insane.”
Why did she persist when he had so clearly denied it? Annoyed, Lysander yanked his satchel’s clasp shut, the snap echoing in the silence. He wanted to lash out, to point out her own glaring hypocrisy.
“Why do you speak such slander, my Lady? Your father often speaks of Caspian as his favored son.”
“Favored? What are you talking about, scrivener?”
A bitter contradiction. Lysander knew it too. Sir Kaelen, ever the blunt truth-teller, once remarked that Lysander, no matter his intentions, always ended up performing acts of profound kindness. No matter how he tried to rationalize them.
But now, he had an excuse. The faint tremor in Caspian’s fingers. Just as Caspian could not meet his eyes when truly vulnerable, Lysander could not bear to dwell on the quiet suffering he perceived in Caspian.
Back in the study, Caspian leaned forward, his voice hoarse, pulling Lysander back to the present. “Lysander.”
“Yes, Lord Caspian.”
“Then… is it truly well if I place my faith in you?”
Caspian’s whisper, tinged with desperation, seemed to draw closer. Lysander pretended indifference. But he listened.
“What exactly do you mean, Lord Caspian?”
“I will not… harbor affections for you.”
In that instant, Lysander’s heart plummeted. His stomach twisted into a knot. Something tightened around his chest, a cruel, invisible band. He almost asked—without thinking—*Why not?*
The words nearly escaped his lips, and he recognized the precipice he stood upon. His true, hidden thoughts, his deepest yearning, had almost burst forth. *Lysander, you fool, you utter fool.*
He clenched his fists, swallowing the searing truth down. Yes. This was for the best. For both of them.
“Then instead, I will place my faith in you.” But Caspian’s words twisted further, a strange blend of sorrow and a chilling, almost triumphant joy. Like a supplicant receiving an unholy revelation.
Lysander didn’t understand his meaning. And yet, he didn’t pull away. Didn’t flee. The suffocating weight on his chest no longer just squeezed—it felt like a dagger twisting.
“I have no patron deity now. Honestly, you are far more useful to my life than any distant god in the heavens.”
“Cease this foolish talk, Lord Caspian.”
This man… his blasphemies every day.
“No, Lysander, it is true! I was raised a devoted believer, you know!”
“Then what was that pronouncement just now?”
Caspian frantically shook his hands, like a drowning man grasping for a lifeline. His tone was desperate, as if he might genuinely weep if Lysander didn’t believe him. Lysander was caught off guard, left speechless.
Then, as if reaching a sudden, profound decision, Caspian slid off the cushioned divan and dropped to one knee.
“Then I will show you.”
“Lord Caspian, what are you doing?” Lysander’s voice was sharp with alarm. A large hand, surprisingly strong, wrapped around his ankle. Lysander, caught off balance, slid forward on the edge of the divan, his foot dangling just above the plush carpet.
Then, Caspian’s gaze settled on the faint, barely visible scar near Lysander’s heel—a small mark from an errant shard of glass during a childhood game. Caspian’s brow furrowed. And to Lysander’s disbelief, his eyes welled with moisture.
Lysander recoiled in shock, trying to pull his foot away. Before he could escape, Caspian lowered his head.
“What are yo—”
“In the name of devotion, of trust, of the unwavering heart…”
Cold fingertips brushed against Lysander’s ankle. A sharp ache shot up his calf, deep into his stomach. *What madness is this?*
He tried to yank his foot free, but his strength abandoned him. Caspian looked up once, his eyes glistening with unshed tears, his expression utterly devoid of disgust. Like a true believer touching a sacred relic.
“I greet my true patron.”
He pressed his lips to the tip of Lysander’s foot. His fine, soft hair brushed against Lysander’s ankle, a disturbing caress. The gentle press of his lips traced a path along the base of Lysander’s toes.
“S-Stop this…” Lysander threw his arm over his face, his breath catching in his throat. Caspian’s right hand, the one with the subtly malformed fingers, tightened around his ankle. And in that moment—
Lysander stopped resisting.
Three weak fingers held him, a delicate, fragile grip tapping lightly against his skin. The lips that cursed the heavens every day now traced a fervent path up his calf. And Lysander did nothing to stop him.
That’s when he truly understood. This relentless, incurable disease—this suffocating nightmare of being Caspian’s Keeper—still wasn’t over.