“Arthur Blackwood’s keeper”—the phrase clung to Elias Finch like a poorly tailored coat. Each whisper of it, even in his own mind, underscored his unwelcome ascent into a form of adulthood. A guardian. Two syllables, clumsy and ill-fitting, like a gentleman’s cravat on a stable boy.
Weeks blurred into a relentless pattern, each night a battle with this inherited burden. He spent his days in the solicitor’s office, meticulously copying deeds and summonses. Evenings found him navigating the hushed, gaslit corridors of St. Jude’s Infirmary.
Truthfully, his focus at work wavered. Thoughts of the infirmary, of Arthur’s peculiar solitude, often pulled his attention away from legal precedents. He would return, heart heavy, to find Arthur waiting. Young Arthur, pale and restless, would spill forth his day’s grievances as if Elias were a long-awaited confidant.
“They speak of another bone graft. Ah, it’s a damned bore. My leg, it feels as though it’s been flayed once already. And the infirmary broth! It’s an insult to a man’s palate. I am not some ancient invalid, Finch, my stomach is perfectly sound, why must I endure slop even a stray dog would disdain?”
Arthur’s frustrations, though cloaked in a gentleman’s diction, held a child’s raw, miserable sincerity. Elias sighed, reaching into his satchel.
He despised the persistent scent of prepared food clinging to the leather. It had permeated every fold. His mouth tightened instinctively.
Yet, carrying the steaming contraption openly through the streets would have been far more mortifying.
“What is it?”
A small, almost imperceptible twitch of Arthur’s brow. His eyes, before shadowed with complaint, now held a flicker of something new.
Elias quickly suppressed a fleeting, absurd image of a spaniel’s expectant gaze. The thought was repulsive. He pulled a wrapped parcel from his satchel.
A wistful look swept Arthur’s face as he recognised the shape.
Only then did the gloom in his eyes recede, replaced by a tentative curiosity.
“A supper box. They assured me your surgery remains distant, thus a proper meal would not offend the surgeons.”
“A supper box?” Arthur’s voice was softer, less demanding.
“Do not assign it meaning. I procured it from a nearby establishment.”
His instruction to Arthur not to dwell on its significance was, of course, a lie. Elias had given it meaning, a secret weight of effort.
He would never confess to having spent a considerable portion of his lunch hour, traversing muddy cobbled streets, seeking a reputable provisioner near St. Jude’s. A place known for simple, nourishing fare suitable for a recovering invalid, yet far superior to the infirmary’s gruel.
He simply wished to appear a man performing a perfunctory act of charity, nothing more. A necessary obligation.
But even that seemed to be enough for Arthur. With his barely functional right hand, he scratched behind an ear, a gesture unbefitting a gentleman. Elias glimpsed the vivid flush that had risen along his earlobe.
Elias’s gaze drifted, drawn inexplicably to Arthur’s fingers. They curled slightly inward, stiff as old parchment. Deformed.
His face tightened. Why did those particular fingers catch his eye? Why could he not look away? A crushing weight settled in his chest.
“...T-Thank you.” Arthur’s voice, uncharacteristically subdued, barely reached him.
Arthur glanced up, his eyes meeting Elias’s. He flinched, almost imperceptibly, then fumbled with hurried movements to unfasten the supper box. Or perhaps it was a pretense of startled embarrassment. As if being caught in such a moment was a trespass. As if he wished his gratitude to remain unseen.
Watching Arthur consume the food with almost mechanical urgency, Elias leaned his exhausted frame against the hard wooden sofa.
It was a clumsy sight. Food escaped the confines of his mouth, a smear of gravy appearing on his cheek.
Arthur’s little, ring, and middle fingers on his right hand did not bend properly. Elias could not discern if this awkwardness was genuine or a subtle performance.
Slowly, Elias shifted closer. He reached out, gently taking the spoon from Arthur’s grasp.
“What would you prefer?”
Arthur merely looked up, mouth still full.
“The roast, perhaps?”
At the very least, Elias felt a responsibility to acknowledge the authenticity of Arthur’s wounds. Arthur, his lips smeared, chewed slowly, a small smile playing upon them as he lowered his head.
Elias could not fathom why this young man, who would never fully regain use of three fingers, whose thigh and back bore a grotesque patchwork of scars, could smile with such disarming ease. He truly could not comprehend it.
He found he could not meet Arthur’s bright, almost luminous gaze. What could possibly be so amusing? If it were Elias, he would wish only for oblivion.
Elias chose a tender piece of duck from the box, pressing it to Arthur’s lips. Arthur chewed forcefully, his smile unwavering. The blasted man always managed to unsettle him.
Honestly, the supper box’s presence had less to do with Arthur’s immediate hunger, and everything to do with what transpired before Elias arrived at St. Jude’s—a prior detour to Blackwood Manor.
---
This was Elias’s second visit to Arthur since the last skin graft. Surprisingly, the Blackwood family had yet to revoke his guardian’s pass. He had encountered Arthur’s parents only three times within the infirmary walls. Once, Lord Blackwood had sent a note. Twice, Lady Blackwood had graced them with her presence.
Lady Blackwood, in particular, adopted a manner of delicate gratitude towards Elias. Her voice, soft as brushed velvet, always carried a distinct undertone of reward for his efforts, for his quiet assumption of duties she had so readily relinquished.
Arthur, for his part, simply rested his chin upon his hand, following his mother’s retreating, silk-clad back with a distant gaze.
Elias’s purpose that day at the manor had been singular: to gather a few of Arthur’s personal effects. A volume of poetry, perhaps. A favourite sketching pad. Anything to alleviate the suffocating boredom of an infirmary room.
That was his sole motivation. He knew intimately the tedium of confinement. Having experienced it himself years ago, he understood precisely what diversions were required. He had convinced himself it was not sympathy. Not affection. Purely practical foresight.
That day, instead of returning to his humble rooms near the university, Elias had travelled homeward via Blackwood Manor. The grand house, draped in ivy, still welcomed him with its imposing facade.
But Miss Genevieve Blackwood, Arthur’s elder sister, did not. She leaned against the doorframe of Arthur’s deserted chambers, her posture elegant but laced with disdain. Her voice was dry as aged sherry. “You are still orbiting Arthur, then, Finch?”
To be candid, Elias held little fondness for Miss Genevieve. How could she neglect her brother so completely? Not a single visit to St. Jude’s. Her own flesh and blood. An instinctive, undeniable sense of morality, buried deep beneath Elias’s usual cautious reserve, passed judgment. He hadn’t even realized he was doing it. It wasn’t intentional.
As the realisation dawned, he clamped his mouth shut. He merely continued to arrange Arthur’s books into his satchel.
“Yes, Miss Blackwood.”
“That wretched boy truly did it, didn’t he? That madman, he’s quite… obsessed with you.”
Elias’s hand froze mid-air. He turned, slowly, as if compelled by an unseen force.
“...Obsessed with me?”
“What? Does that prospect please you?” Her tone was a sneer, delicately delivered.
“No. I merely inquired.”
“One does not merely inquire about such things, Finch. One wishes to know, therefore one asks.” She muttered the last words under her breath. Elias pretended not to hear.
Ignoring him, she stepped closer, her silk skirt rustling softly. This entire family, Elias mused, possessed a singular talent for overlooking inconvenient individuals. Miss Genevieve, Arthur, even their lord father.
“Tell me, where did you vanish after you left the Academy?”
“I sought a position in law, Miss Blackwood.”
The whole of Mayfair likely knew the tale already. “Not that I particularly cared to discover. But Arthur, he raged about it. The boy, who never once darkened the door of a chapel, suddenly prayed with fervent desperation. Then, days later, he tore apart the little silver crucifix his father gave him, screaming obscenities.”
“A crucifix?” Elias’s breath caught.
“Indeed. The very one. He cherished it, you understand? Said it was his only true inheritance from our father. He called God a ‘damned brute’ and other such pleasantries. Then he locked himself away. Our house, for a brief time, was quite peaceful. He doesn’t even comprehend who the true brute is. Foolish boy.”
Her voice, which had been mocking, suddenly lowered. Perhaps it was the unbidden flush that had spread across Elias’s cheeks.
“What on earth? Your face is quite crimson, Finch.”
“It is not.”
“Oh, but it is. Surely you do not… you truly do not harbour feelings for him? My brother?” Miss Genevieve’s voice rose, edged with incredulity.
“I told you, no.”
“...Good heavens.” She gasped, covering her mouth with a slender hand, as if genuinely horrified. “You are quite mad. Utterly so.”
Why did she persist in such an outrageous accusation, despite his clear denial? Annoyed, Elias yanked his satchel’s clasp shut. He wished to rebuke her in turn.
“Why did you speak of such things, Miss Blackwood? Your father merely said Arthur required a companion.”
“What? What in creation are you rambling about now?”
A stark contradiction. That’s what it was. Elias knew it. Mr. Silas Thorne, his superior at the office, a man whose cynical observations often grated, had once remarked upon it. “Finch, for all your quiet calculations, you invariably end up performing some act of benevolence.” Regardless of intention.
But now, he had his excuse. Arthur’s mangled hand. The network of brown scars that crisscrossed Arthur’s back. Just as Arthur often avoided his gaze, Elias found himself unable to dwell upon those harsh, visceral marks.
“Elias.” Arthur’s voice, raspy, drew him from his thoughts.
“Yes?”
“Then… may I believe in you?”
His voice, hoarse with emotion, seemed to creep closer. Elias pretended not to notice. But he listened.
“What in blazes are you speaking of?”
“I shall not… I shall not love you.”
In that single instant, Elias’s heart plummeted, striking the floor with a dull, sickening thud. His stomach twisted into a knot. Something cold and tight constricted his chest.
He almost spoke. The words nearly escaped him, raw and unbidden: *Why not?*
The moment they hovered on the precipice of his lips, he recognized them. His true, hidden thoughts, his forbidden longing, had almost manifested. Elias Finch, you are a damned fool.
He clenched his fists, swallowing the searing question down. Yes. This was for the best. For both their sakes.
“Then instead, I shall believe in you.” Arthur’s pronouncement was peculiar, tangled with both sorrow and a strange, quiet triumph. Like a devotee receiving a divine revelation. Was there any other way to describe him in this moment?
Elias did not comprehend the words. And yet, he did not pull his hand away. He did not rise and flee. The suffocating weight pressing on his chest no longer just squeezed—it felt as though a jagged shard had pierced him.
“I am an atheist now, you see. Honestly, you are far more instrumental to my wretched existence than that indifferent brute in the heavens.”
“Hold your tongue, Arthur.” Elias’s voice was strained.
“You blaspheme every blessed day.”
“No, that is untrue! I was raised a devout follower, you know!” Arthur’s denial was frantic, his hands shaking as if his very life depended on Elias’s belief.
“Then what, precisely, was that just now?”
Arthur’s tone, desperate, was on the verge of tears. Elias was caught off guard, rendered speechless. If he did not believe Arthur, the young man might truly weep.
Then, as if a sudden resolve had seized him, Arthur slid from the sofa. He dropped to his knees before Elias.
“Then I shall show you.”
“Arthur, no. What in God’s name are you doing?”
Arthur’s large, scarred hand closed around Elias’s ankle. Elias had been seated with one leg propped carelessly on the sofa. The sudden tug pulled him forward, leaving him teetering on the edge of the cushion. His foot, now dangling, was held captive.
Arthur’s gaze landed upon the puckered scar on the sole of Elias’s foot. The indelible mark left by a shard of broken glass years ago. Arthur’s brow furrowed. And, to Elias’s profound disbelief—Arthur’s eyes began to well with moisture.
Elias jerked back in shock, attempting to withdraw his foot. Before he could escape, Arthur lowered his head.
“What are you—”
“In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit.”
Arthur’s cold fingertips brushed against Elias’s ankle. A sharp ache shot up Elias’s calf, deep into his stomach. What was this madman doing?
He tried to yank his foot free, but his strength abandoned him, dissolving into a strange inertia.
Arthur looked up at him once more. His face revealed not a flicker of disgust. Like a devout believer touching a sacred relic, a relic of salvation perhaps, Arthur declared:
“I greet the Lord.”
He pressed his lips to the tip of Elias’s foot. Arthur’s fine, soft hair brushed against Elias’s ankle, a light, unnerving tickle. The gentle press of his lips moved along the base of Elias’s toes.
“S-Stop it…” Elias threw an arm over his face, hiding his reaction.
Arthur’s right hand, that damaged hand, tightened around Elias’s ankle. And in that moment—
Elias ceased to resist.
Three weak fingers held him fast. A delicate, fragile grip tapped lightly against his skin. The lips that cursed God every day now traced a path upwards, along his calf.
Elias did nothing to stop him.
That’s when he realised. This relentless, incurable malady—this nightmare of his eighteenth year—still was not over.