A peculiar yearning stirred within Elias Finch, born of idle curiosity and a gnawing envy. He found himself wondering, often, about the manner in which Lord Alistair Thorne and Silas Blackwood departed the Royal Academy’s halls after their joint lectures. From his observations, young Silas trailed Alistair by a comfortable distance, never quite abreast, yet the image clung to Elias: a fully grown man, following another, a silent, almost desperate shadow. A disquieting premonition, like the first tremor before a collapse, seized him. He considered it a Pandora’s Box, small and unassuming, holding not only despondency but a cruel, unyielding hope that surpassed it. And still, the urge to peer inside remained irresistible. “...I must be quite mad,” Elias murmured, the words barely a breath against the chilled glass of his study window. Indeed, his faculties seemed astray. Yet, the following afternoon, he found himself trailing Silas Blackwood down a gas-lit lane. He did not venture far. Proceeding with a caution born of utter mortification, Elias kept a suitable distance. He watched Silas stare fixedly at Alistair’s retreating back. Cracked flagstones, grimy brickwork, the ubiquitous soot clinging to every surface, and the distant clatter of an omnibus filled the scene. Two figures, stark against the encroaching twilight: Alistair in the lead, Silas ever behind. And Elias, a silent observer, further still. Everything about it felt utterly pathetic, a profound idiocy. Elias turned back, his stride lengthening. Later, settled in the dim quiet of his chambers, the gaslight turned low, he found a grim satisfaction in his decision. Curiosity was a dangerous mistress. Had he pressed on, what unspeakable sight might have greeted him? This path was better. Better not to know. He was not so foolish as to pry open such a vexing box for a mere flicker of longing. Silas’s quiet fixation upon Lord Alistair intensified with each passing week, and Alistair, in turn, seemed to shrink further, a perceptible dread in his bearing. Perhaps outright dislike. No, certainly it was a deep aversion. And justly so. How could Alistair feel anything but a simmering resentment towards one who had, through their shared terms, made his life a quiet torment? A perverse sense of smug satisfaction bloomed in Elias’s chest. He had not intervened in Silas’s early cruelties. Perhaps, he mused, that had been for the best. Elias laced his fingers behind his head, staring at the elaborate plasterwork of his ceiling. The intricate patterns, barely visible in the dim light, reminded him of his own fortunate existence. Born to comfort, an only child, every whim indulged. Yet, it felt hollow. “...Damn it all,” he muttered, the words catching in his throat. He had once believed himself invincible, that every desire lay within his grasp. Until he fell, quite disastrously, for Silas Blackwood. That scoundrel had unveiled the cruel truth: life rarely bent to one’s will. And Elias felt certain Silas was now learning that same bitter lesson. Ah, the world, how mercilessly it could bruise a man. At least Elias had mastered the art of concealment, stifling his affections beneath layers of polite indifference. Silas, by contrast, remained a captive to his own tempestuous feelings, blind to the intensity of his gaze upon Alistair. That sudden, abnormal surge of emotion must have been deeply unsettling for him. Elias understood precisely. He too had felt that dizzying drop into the abyss of unrequited love. But while Elias endured in silence, Silas could not. Thus, instead of seeking to win Alistair’s regard, he earned only his animosity. For Elias, this suited him perfectly. “Please, just remain so blissfully ignorant,” Elias whispered to the empty room. Or better still, for Alistair to grow weary and simply vanish. He held no hope for Silas to turn his affections toward him. If anything, this peculiar, destructive love terrified him. He wished for one thing alone: for a day to arrive when he no longer loved Silas, and for Silas to find contentment elsewhere. That was all. But, of course, the world rarely conspired to grant such gentle desires. --- A new shift arrived. Silas Blackwood, for all his boisterous exploits, elected to take a seat beside Lord Alistair during the weekly Society lecture. Of all places, he chose the chair directly before the esteemed Professor Thorne’s podium, an inconvenient spot, considering his formidable height. He completely obscured the Professor’s chalk-scrawled diagrams from Alistair’s view. Alistair’s previous seat-mate, a rather stiff young man, offered Elias and Julian a strained greeting, his face a study in embarrassment. “Good day, gentlemen.” Julian and Elias exchanged a fleeting glance, offering only a curt nod in return. “Haha…” The awkward chuckle hung in the air, unanswered. Neither offered a response. They held no interest in such trivialities. Silas settled beside Alistair without a word, maintaining a profound silence throughout the hour. Elias hoped—no, desperately wished—that this uncomfortable tableau might persist, frozen in time, for another year, another season. That someday, this moment would fade into a forgotten, indistinct dream. Another subtle alteration presented itself. Silas, who once spent his evenings in wild, notorious escapades, seemed to have curtailed his more public indulgences. Or so it appeared. Whispers Elias caught from Julian’s coterie suggested he hadn’t ceased entirely, but at least the boasting had stopped, the lingering scent of brandy and cheap perfume no longer clung to his morning coat. For Elias, it was a small mercy. He no longer had to endure the close proximity of such odours. “Blackwood, my dear fellow! No more carousing? Like this, eh?” Edgar Croft, his lean frame swaying suggestively, mimed a lewd gesture before Silas, his hands near his crotch. Silas’s face contorted into a snarl at the vulgar display. He flicked a quick, almost imperceptible glance towards Alistair, then erupted. “You oaf! I told you not to play those idiotic games in front of others!” “Why the sudden modesty, old chap?” “Mention it again, Edgar, and you’ll regret the day you were born.” “Now, Blackwood—” “I said, hold your tongue!” “…Very well, then.” The others clearly registered their disappointment. Silas, with his imposing stature and air of dissipated maturity, had once served as a perfect outlet for the burgeoning curiosities of young men flush with youthful vigour. Julian’s group, far from novices, had all fumbled through their awkward first experiences. Compared to the truly innocent, they were more easily swayed. With Silas no longer regaling them with his conquests, their attention drifted to Julian. But Julian merely bared his teeth, an expression of profound disgust marring his features. “You loathsome perverts.” “Oh, here he goes! Ashford’s on his high horse again!” “He’s nothing but a mad puritan. What a lamentable waste.” Laughter rippled through the room, loud but fleeting. Most of the gentlemen in the group had, at some point, ventured into forbidden territories, but for some inexplicable reason, Julian Ashford had not. While they teased him playfully, calling him a mere virgin, no one genuinely disrespected him. He was Julian Ashford, after all. At the same time, Julian possessed a lighthearted, almost careless demeanour about everything, which rendered his actions seemingly casual and his words easy to dismiss. People found that either charming or approachable, often remarking that he hardly matched his rather intimidating countenance. “You blithering idiot, cease that glaring. You’ll quite make me soil myself.” “Aye, that fellow’s got a frightful face.” “Do you rogues possess a death wish?” Julian scowled, and the group erupted into fresh gales of laughter, though the jest itself held little humour. Some fellows lounging at the back of the lecture hall, perhaps his intimates, or less than that, joined in with their affected laughs and idle chatter, adding to the general din. As Elias sat amongst them, he stared blankly at his lap, lost in a distant reverie. “…” If his memory served him true, he had never once felt the stirrings of arousal for a woman. He supposed that made him, by some peculiar decree of nature, inclined towards men from birth. Certainly, he had felt a tremor of excitement watching illicit illustrations depicting both men and women, but never once had his fantasies while alone drifted to a woman’s form. The former seemed a matter of the situation’s intensity; the latter felt like a simple absence of desire. He had visited a gentlemen’s club once, dragged along by Silas, but had not even made it past the entrance. He possessed no false papers. Instead, he had waited outside until Silas reappeared. Brothels? Disgusting. The very notion of frequenting such a place turned his stomach. He often wondered why any man would. Because of these peculiarities, his circle occasionally jested, calling him “Abstinent Finch,” but in truth, his abstinence felt more a matter of intrinsic inclination than forced discipline. Elias let out a barely perceptible sigh. The others, engrossed in Julian’s spirited recounting of some public scandal, failed to notice. Seizing the moment, Elias glanced at Silas, who sat in his usual silence. Silas’s gaze, unwavering, was fixed upon the back of Lord Alistair Thorne’s head, where Alistair diligently pored over his notes across the room. And, as always, Elias regretted it. Why had he looked? Why this insistent curiosity? To distract himself, he posed a rather pointless question to Julian. “Tell me, Julian, are you truly resolved to remain chaste until the day you marry?” Julian, lounging in his chair with an insolent ease, suddenly directed his gaze straight towards Elias’s lap. The intensity of it made Elias instinctively cross his legs, a flimsy shield. What the devil? “You are not my wife, good sir, so why the impertinent inquiry? What, are you offering your services?” “…” Of course. That rogue always resorted to such malicious jests. The others laughed, and Elias delivered a swift, stinging kick to Julian’s shin. Such were his days — a repeating tableau, day after day. --- Alone in his private study, Elias often found himself adrift in thought, contemplating a myriad of scenarios. Inevitably, these ruminations sometimes drifted into strange, illicit fantasies. Today, he wondered what it might have been like had he fallen for Julian Ashford instead of Silas Blackwood. It seemed, at least, a less fraught situation. Had he loved Julian, he would not have had to endure the silent torment caused by Silas’s notorious dalliances with various ladies of questionable virtue. Even so, heartbreak would still be his constant companion. Neither Silas Blackwood nor Julian Ashford, after all, would ever return his affections. But at least his heart would not ache because of Lord Alistair Thorne. That train of thought ultimately led to feelings of profound inadequacy and suppressed rage. In the end, he simply wished to complete his studies quickly and become a stranger to Silas Blackwood. --- At some indeterminate point, Elias began to unconsciously place his hands under the desk whenever he sat down, a habit that began in his second year at the Academy. The cause, always, remained the same: men. As his fingers idly toyed with the buckle of his trousers, his mind wandered. Should he? Or should he not? The faint click of metal against his nails filled the quiet room. Just as he applied pressure with his thumb to undo the clasp, a gentle knock sounded at the door. “Mr. Finch? Are you engaged in your studies?” His valet, Higgins, called out. “…Ah, no! I mean, yes! I am!” His heart nearly leapt from his chest. Clearly, this was not the day. Mortified, he buried his face in his arms. Damn it all. --- Lately, Silas Blackwood had become an unbearable irritant. Sometimes, when Alistair Thorne glanced in Elias’s direction, Silas would pointedly strike up a conversation with him. Alistair, caught between them, would flick his eyes towards Elias, his lips parting as if to speak, only to close them again. Then, as if wary of Silas’s looming presence, he would lower his head and offer a barely audible reply. “Y-yes, Blackwood…” Just like that. A small, defeated sound. Alistair, growing subtly bolder, began to seek out Elias more often, even addressing him as “Finch.” Aside from his tutors and his mother, almost no one called him by his surname alone in such a familiar manner, so the change was quite noticeable. Alistair seemed to believe he was being discreet, but his attempts at subtlety were quite transparent. The worst part was how Silas simply could not disguise his discomfort whenever Alistair dared such a familiarity. “Lord Alistair, cease disturbing Mr. Finch while he’s engaged in his work.” “Pardon?” “Desist. Do you not comprehend my words?” “Oh… uh, y-yes, of course…” When Alistair stammered and averted his gaze, Silas, with an immature display of temper, slammed his fist against the desk leg beside him. Elias pretended not to notice. Annoyingly, Alistair, bless his naive heart, seemed to believe no one truly minded his familiar address to Elias anymore. He grew bolder, casually using it as if it were the most natural thing. “Uh, Finch… I regret interrupting your concentration.” Elias stiffened, staring at him in disbelief. Was the man quite mad? Silas was sitting directly beside them. Sure enough, Silas pounded his fist upon the desk again. Damn it all to hell. “See here, Lord Alistair!” “…Eh?” The atmosphere soured instantly, thick with unspoken ire. “I told you.” Silas’s anger was palpable, simmering just beneath the surface. “I told you not to address him as ‘Finch,’ did I not?” “…W-well…” “Refer to him as Mr. Finch. That is his proper name, Mr. Elias Finch.” His gaze, sharp and almost predatory, flicked towards Elias. Elias despised that look and instinctively lowered his head, his chin almost touching his cravat. At that precise moment, Julian Ashford, seated beside him, casually draped an arm over Elias’s shoulder. His low, distinctive voice murmured close to Elias’s ear. “Silas, my dear fellow, if you persist in this manner, you will quite thoroughly ruin yourself.” “What on earth are you prattling on about, Ashford?” “I am merely stating you will come to regret it, profoundly.” Julian smirked, and Elias felt a flicker of irritation. For one reason only. “Silas Blackwood, do not be so utterly obtuse.”

A Glimpse Through the Murk