The title of ‘Lord Aethelred’s Shadow’ clung to Lysander, an ill-fitting mantle draped over his quiet shoulders. Every whisper of it in the gilded halls of Veridia’s High Court was a fresh incision, a reminder of the subtle, corrosive influence he wielded, a constant contradiction to his yearning for obscurity.
Adulthood, in this courtly sense, tasted like ash on his tongue. He had inherited not a legacy, but a responsibility – the invisible tether to Kaelen, forged in shared histories and recent political currents. It was a burden he wrestled with, countless nights, in the hushed confines of his archival chamber.
He passed his mornings sifting through brittle parchments, unraveling the dense weave of Veridian law. Evenings found him drawn towards Kaelen’s temporary confinement, a gilded cage within Lord Aethelred’s sprawling demesne, a punishment disguised as protection.
Truthfully, he barely absorbed the ancient decrees he transcribed. His mind, a precise clockwork, was perpetually ticking towards the dusk. With a heavy heart, he would approach Kaelen’s antechamber, the very air thick with unspoken tensions.
Kaelen would emerge, his usual vibrant demeanor muted, yet his eyes, quick to catch Lysander’s presence, would alight. Like a hound anticipating its master, Kaelen would unload the frustrations of his cloistered days.
“They speak of ‘rehabilitation,’ Lysander. Another session with the court’s ‘spiritual guide.’ Ah, this endless parade of platitudes… my spirit chafes. And these mandated 'nourishments' are like gruel served to a condemned man, dulling the senses. Am I not a Lord of Veridia, with blood and wit intact? Why must I endure this slow, deliberate smothering of my very self?”
His voice, usually a clarion call, was steeped in genuine misery, making him seem no different from a caged bird. A small sigh escaped Lysander. He reached into his satchel, careful not to wrinkle the sensitive scrolls within.
A faint aroma of spiced wine and roasted pheasant still clung to the leather. He’d made a detour to the kitchens, securing a small, illicit meal. Lysander’s face tightened instinctively. He detested carrying food, a task beneath his station.
But carrying it in his hands would have been worse. The indignity.
“What is it?” Kaelen’s gaze sharpened, a faint spark igniting behind the veil of his forced resignation. Lysander imagined a drooping, furred tail in his periphery. The thought was repulsive. He banished it.
Lysander extracted a small, finely wrought wooden box, typically used for storing rare herbs or spices. Only then did the gloom in Kaelen’s eyes shift, his elegant brow rising in inquiry.
“A small repast,” Lysander murmured, offering the box. “The kitchens were… less guarded today. They said your regimen allows for modest indulgences.”
“A repast?” Kaelen’s voice was hushed.
“Do not imbue it with meaning. It was merely convenient.”
The reason Lysander told him not to give it meaning… was precisely because he had already given it meaning himself. He would never admit to discreetly inquiring about Kaelen’s current dietary restrictions, nor to the careful selection of a dish known for its subtle flavors and nourishing properties, specifically chosen to alleviate the monotony of his enforced diet.
He simply wanted to appear as an emissary of practicality, nothing more. But even that, it seemed, was enough for Kaelen.
With a hand that trembled slightly, Kaelen scratched at his ear, a gesture unbefitting his noble bearing. Lysander caught a glimpse of his earlobe, faintly flushed. His gaze drifted to Kaelen’s hands, resting on the silken cushion of his chair.
A tremor, barely perceptible, ran through Kaelen’s ring finger, a nervous habit that had become more pronounced during his confinement. Lysander’s face twitched. Why did it have to be that particular detail that seized his attention? Why could he not look away? A familiar tightness constricted his chest.
“……Thank you, Lysander.” Kaelen’s voice was oddly subdued. He glanced up, their eyes met, and Kaelen flinched, quickly averting his gaze as he fumbled to open the box. Was he merely feigning surprise? As if being caught looking at Lysander was an indiscretion.
As if he didn’t want Lysander to notice.
Watching Kaelen begin to eat, his elegant movements now slightly hurried, Lysander leaned his weary body against a nearby divan. It was a messy sight, unbecoming of a Lord. A few crumbs escaped Kaelen’s lips.
That restless tremor in Kaelen’s ring finger persisted. Lysander had no idea if it was genuine discomfort or an unconscious display for his benefit. Slowly, Lysander moved closer, reaching for a small spoon laid beside the box.
“What might tempt you?” Lysander asked, his voice low.
“……” Kaelen paused, chewing slowly.
“Perhaps a morsel of this spiced fowl?”
At the very least, Lysander felt an inexplicable obligation to acknowledge Kaelen’s wounds, both visible and unseen. With lips now stained, Kaelen chewed, lowering his head slightly, a faint smile touching his mouth. Lysander could not fathom why this man, confined and quietly suffering, could still find reason to smile.
He truly could not comprehend it. He couldn’t bring himself to meet Kaelen’s suddenly bright, almost incandescent face. What could possibly be so amusing? If it were Lysander, he would have wished for oblivion.
He carefully selected a piece of succulent fowl and, with a delicate motion, offered it to Kaelen. Kaelen accepted it, chewing with renewed vigor, still smiling. This man, Kaelen, always made Lysander profoundly uncomfortable.
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Lysander had only gone to Kaelen’s ancestral townhome, a wing long disused, to retrieve a specific set of ledgers, their pages vital to a land dispute Aethelred was currently navigating. This was days before Kaelen’s 'confinement,' but after his initial fall from favor.
He still possessed the steward’s key, a relic of a time when their paths had been more openly entangled. Lysander had encountered Kaelen’s family only twice in the High Court – once his father, briefly, and twice his elder sister, Elara.
Elara, in particular, had been unnervingly kind to Lysander, a feigned warmth that felt like a reward for his past, unspoken assistance to Kaelen, a burden she seemed eager to offload. Kaelen, even then, had simply rested his chin in his hand, watching his sister’s retreating back with an unreadable expression.
Lysander’s true purpose for being at the townhome was merely to gather Kaelen’s more cherished volumes, perhaps a particular quill or inkwell, to ease the solitary hours he knew lay ahead. That was all. He knew better than anyone the oppressive tedium of isolation.
And since he had experienced it himself, in his own way, he knew precisely what Kaelen would require. He convinced himself it wasn’t sympathy. Or affection. That day, instead of returning to his quiet study at the court archives, Lysander had commuted from his small, ancestral dwelling, closer to the city’s heart.
On his way, he had stopped by Kaelen’s townhome. The neglected mansion, though quiet, still welcomed him. But Elara, lingering in the shadows of a grand corridor, did not.
Leaning against the cool stone wall, Elara had asked, her voice dry, “You’re still entwined with Kaelen, then?” To be honest, Lysander harbored no fondness for Elara either. How could she remain so utterly detached from her own kin, especially in Kaelen’s moment of vulnerability?
An instinctual sense of morality, one he rarely indulged, made him silently judge her. He hadn’t even realized he was doing it. It wasn’t intentional. The moment he recognized the thought, he clamped his mouth shut and continued to pack Kaelen’s chosen belongings into his satchel.
“I am.”
“He truly has fixated, hasn’t he? That reckless fool, obsessed with you.” Lysander’s hand froze. He turned, as if drawn by an invisible thread.
“……Obsessed with me?”
“What, does that please you?” Elara’s lips twisted.
“No. I merely inquired.”
“No one ‘merely inquires’ about such things. You wished to know, so you asked.” Disgusting. Elara muttered under her breath, but Lysander pretended not to hear. Still, she stepped closer, ignoring his discomfort. This entire family had a talent for overlooking others, he mused. Elara, Kaelen, even their father, the Old Lord.
“Lysander, where did you disappear to after your tutelage ended?” Elara’s question was pointed.
“I withdrew.” The whole court must know already, of his retreat into the archives, his self-imposed obscurity.
“It’s not as if I sought the details. But Kaelen… he became quite agitated. That man, who rarely gave thought to the Veridian pantheon, suddenly took to praying, then raging. Not long after, he tore apart the ancestral prayer beads his father had given him and began to scream.”
“Prayer beads?” Lysander repeated, his voice barely a whisper.
“Indeed. He used to treasure them, you know? Called them a gift from the Old Lord. Then he called the gods ‘fools,’ or something equally blasphemous. He shut himself in his chambers and refused to emerge. Our house was finally peaceful, for once. He doesn’t even realize who the true fool is. That imbecile.”
Her voice, which had been laced with mockery, suddenly dipped lower, probably due to the starkness of Lysander’s expression. “What is it? Your face is quite pale.”
“It is not.”
“No, truly. Do you truly harbor affection for him? Do you?”
“I told you, no.”
“……By the Ancestors.” Elara gasped, covering her mouth as if genuinely horrified. “You are quite mad, Lysander. Truly.”
Why did she persist when he had already denied it? Annoyed, Lysander yanked his satchel’s clasp shut. He wanted to criticize her too, to voice his own judgment. “Why did your father tell me Kaelen was his second son?”
“What? What peculiar tangent are you on now?”
A True Contradiction. Lysander knew it. Lord Aethelred, always subtly provoking, had once remarked, ‘Lysander, for all your detachment, you always find a way to offer a kindness, however unintended.’ No matter his carefully constructed intentions, his actions often betrayed him.
But right now, he had an excuse. The quiet desperation in Kaelen’s eyes, the way his spirit chafed under confinement. Just as Kaelen often struggled to meet Lysander’s gaze, Lysander found himself unable to fully contemplate the depth of Kaelen’s vulnerability, the silent wounds of his pride.
“Lysander.” Kaelen’s voice, hoarse, drew closer.
“Yes?” Lysander feigned disinterest, yet he listened, every nerve attenuated.
“I… I won’t pursue you.” In that instant, Lysander’s heart plummeted. His stomach twisted. Something tightened around his chest, suffocating. He almost asked—without thinking. *Why not?*
The moment the words nearly left his lips, he realized the dangerous precipice he stood upon. His true, hidden thoughts, his forbidden yearning, had almost escaped. *Lysander, you are a fool.* He clenched his fists, swallowing the truth down.
Yes. This was for the best. For both of them.
“Instead,” Kaelen continued, his voice laced with both sorrow and a strange, quiet triumph, “I will believe in you.” Like a novitiate receiving a sacred revelation, Kaelen’s words hung in the air. Lysander did not fully understand them. And yet, he did not pull his hand away. Did not flee.
The suffocating weight pressing on his chest no longer merely squeezed – it stabbed. “I have abandoned the court’s gods, Lysander. Honestly, you are far more essential to my existence than any ‘divine’ guidance.”
“Silence,” Lysander commanded, his voice tight. “You blaspheme every day.”
“No, I swear it! I was raised a devout believer in the Veridian pantheon!” Kaelen protested, a frantic gesture with his hands. “Then what was that just now?”
Kaelen shook his head, a desperate tremor running through him, as if his life depended on Lysander’s belief. If Lysander did not believe him, Kaelen might genuinely weep. Caught off guard, Lysander was left speechless.
Then, as if a profound decision had been made, Kaelen suddenly slid off the divan, dropping to one knee before Lysander. “Then I will show you.”
“Kaelen, what are you doing?” Lysander whispered, aghast. A large, warm hand took hold of Lysander’s foot. Lysander, having been sitting with one leg propped carelessly on the divan’s edge, slid forward, barely clinging to the seat. His foot, suspended in the air, was held firm.
Kaelen’s gaze landed on the faint, almost imperceptible scar on the sole of Lysander’s foot – a trivial mark from a childhood mishap, a broken shard of glass years ago. Kaelen’s brow furrowed. And to Lysander’s disbelief – his eyes shimmered with unshed tears.
Lysander jerked back in shock, attempting to pull his foot away. Before he could escape, Kaelen lowered his head. “What are you—”
“In the name of the Ancestors, the Crown, and the Archivist,” Kaelen murmured, his voice thick with emotion. Cold fingertips brushed against Lysander’s ankle. A sharp ache shot up his calf, deep into his stomach.
What in the name of the High Court was this madman doing? Lysander tried to yank his foot free, but his strength abandoned him. Kaelen looked up at Lysander once, his face utterly devoid of disgust. Like a devout believer touching a sacred relic, Kaelen pressed his lips to the tip of Lysander’s foot. His fine, soft hair brushed against Lysander’s ankle, a featherlight touch. The gentle press of his lips grazed the base of Lysander’s toes.
“S-Stop it….” Lysander threw an arm over his face, shielding himself. Kaelen’s right hand tightened around Lysander’s ankle. And in that moment – Lysander stopped resisting. Those vulnerable fingers held onto him, a delicate, fragile grip tapping lightly against his skin.
The lips that cursed the court’s gods every day traced a path up Lysander’s calf. And Lysander did nothing to stop him. That’s when he realized. This relentless, incurable disease – this nightmare of their interwoven fates in the High Court – still wasn’t over.