Lysander often considered the strange mantle he’d acquired, a shadow of patronage draped over him. “Elias’s confidante”—the whispered title felt like an ill-fitting cassock, too grand and too constricting for his slender frame. Every mention, every knowing glance from a passing courtier, pressed down with the weight of an unfamiliar adulthood, a responsibility he hadn’t sought. Elias, under the shadow of Alaric’s displeasure, became his ward in all but name.
Weeks had blurred, marked by the cadence of his own demanding scholarship and the hushed trips across the sprawling Atelier. Mornings were for the precise calibration of pigments, the study of ancient texts within the archives. Evenings drew him, an invisible tether, to Elias’s cloistered chambers within a forgotten wing of the Grand Atelier. He’d often missed half his scheduled lectures, the meticulous details of anatomical studies slipping from his mind as worry gnawed.
A familiar dread tightened Lysander’s chest as he pushed open the heavy oak door. The room, usually vibrant with Elias’s sketches and half-finished compositions, was dimmed, the rich velvets and polished woods muted by a perpetual twilight. Elias sat hunched by the window, the city’s distant clamor a faint murmur against the thick glass. He turned at the soft creak of the door, his eyes, usually alight with an artist’s fire, now hollowed and ringed with fatigue.
“Ah, Lysander,” Elias’s voice was a rough rasp, betraying days of disuse. “Another day of this gilded cage. They say the court will not lift my censure until Lord Valerius himself petitions—a favor I can hardly expect. And the kitchen’s offerings…” He gestured vaguely towards a tray of untouched gruel on a nearby table, his lip curling with distaste. “Fit only for the lowliest street urchin. My stomach, Lysander, is not yet accustomed to the palate of shame.”
His frustration, raw and childlike in its outpouring, made Lysander wince. Elias, stripped of his usual composure and artistic bravado, seemed diminished, like a prized falcon with clipped wings. A small sigh escaped Lysander’s lips. He reached into the satchel slung across his shoulder, the subtle scent of turpentine and pulverized malachite clinging to the leather. His brow furrowed instinctively. He despised the way the rich, earthy notes mingled with the faint, sweet trace of the fig pastry he’d also brought, a clandestine treat tucked carefully away.
“What now?” Elias’s voice held a tremor of disbelief. His gaze, still clouded with self-pity, settled on the item Lysander produced.
Lysander held out a small, intricately carved wooden box. “A new set of drypoint needles. The ones you favored, from Master Renard’s workshop. He had just received a fresh shipment.” He offered the explanation quickly, too quickly. “They said your hand, while not fully mended, was improving enough for lighter work.”
“Needles?” Elias repeated the word, a fragile hope flickering in his eyes. The gloom seemed to recede, replaced by a cautious wonder.
“Do not imbue it with meaning,” Lysander insisted, his voice sharper than intended. “I merely passed Master Renard’s on my way. A practical necessity, nothing more.”
He would never admit to the hours spent sifting through Renard’s catalog, or the hushed conversation with the master about the delicate balance of steel and wood, chosen specifically for Elias’s still-recovering hand. He wouldn’t confess to the secret satisfaction of knowing he had found the *perfect* tool for the man Alaric had broken. He simply wished to appear a pragmatic companion, not a man burdened by an unexpected, dangerous empathy.
But even this thinly veiled offering seemed to be enough. Elias scratched at his jaw, his eyes darting towards Lysander, then away. A flush crept across his pallid cheeks. Lysander’s gaze, despite himself, drifted to Elias’s hands. The right one, still swathed in a light bandage, seemed to curl inwards, a slight tremor disturbing its grace. It was a subtle deformation, yet it drew Lysander’s eye, a magnet for his quiet horror. His own chest tightened with an unfamiliar ache. Why did he fixate on those imperfect lines? Why could he not look away?
“Th-thank you,” Elias stammered, his voice strangely subdued. He met Lysander’s gaze for a fleeting instant, then flinched, his head ducking as he clumsily reached for the box. Was he truly startled, or merely feigning it? As if being caught in a moment of vulnerability with Lysander was a perilous act, a secret he dared not reveal.
Watching Elias carefully unwrap the velvet lining from the needles, Lysander leaned his own weary body against the doorframe. Elias’s movements were tentative, almost fumbling. Lysander moved closer, his hand reaching out, gently steadying Elias’s trembling fingers as they struggled with the fine packaging. “Perhaps a lighter touch, for now,” Lysander murmured, guiding Elias’s hand to the most delicate of the needles.
At the very least, Lysander felt a profound obligation to acknowledge the wounds Alaric had inflicted. Elias, his lips still pressed into a thin line, chewed on his inner cheek, his head bowed slightly, a faint, inexplicable smile gracing his features. Lysander couldn't comprehend it. How could this man, whose career hung by a thread, whose spirit had been so publicly lacerated, still find cause to smile? If it were him, he would want to simply cease existing.
He couldn’t bring himself to meet Elias’s brightening gaze. What precisely was so amusing? Lysander picked up a discarded sketch from the table—a charcoal study of a lone raven—and placed it gently in Elias’s lap. Elias gripped the drypoint needle, still smiling, a fragile defiance in his posture. This man, Lysander thought, always managed to disturb his carefully constructed equilibrium.
Truthfully, the drypoint needles were not the primary reason for his journey to Elias’s quarters. The encounter earlier that morning, a lingering echo of an unwelcome conversation, had spurred him on.
---
It was the first time Lysander had entered the discarded studio space in Lord Valerius’s townhouse since Elias’s sudden withdrawal. The heavy door, usually ajar, was now bolted, requiring Lysander to coax a reluctant junior apprentice for the key. He’d only come to retrieve some forgotten tools, a few essential items Elias might need in his confinement. He knew better than anyone the stifling boredom of forced inaction. And having experienced his own spells of withdrawal after his hand injury years ago, he understood the particular necessities of an artist denied their craft. He told himself it wasn’t pity. Or affection. Such emotions were dangerous, a luxury he couldn’t afford.
Instead of returning directly to his own chambers, Lysander had made the detour to Lord Valerius’s townhouse. The grand portico still welcomed him. But Lady Isolde, Lord Valerius’s sharp-eyed daughter, did not.
She leaned against the lintel of the abandoned studio, her silks rustling with an audible disapproval. “Still orbiting the disgraced, Lysander?” Her voice was dry, honed to a cutting edge. Lysander had never held much affection for Lady Isolde. How could she, a patron of the arts, allow Elias’s talent to wither, never even send a single word of concern? His own instinctual sense of artistic morality made him judge her, a silent condemnation he hadn’t even realized he harbored. The thought clamped his jaw shut. He continued to gather Elias’s discarded sketches, stuffing them into his satchel with more force than necessary.
“I am merely retrieving items for his comfort,” Lysander replied, his voice a low murmur.
“Comfort. Right. The man truly went mad, didn’t he? Alaric’s rebuke—it shattered him.” Her eyes narrowed, assessing Lysander. “They say he grew obsessed with you, Lysander. After Alaric’s public humiliation, he railed against the Veritas, against the very order of the court.”
Lysander’s hand froze mid-air. He turned, as if possessed, to face her.
“Obsessed with… me?”
“What, are you pleased to hear it?” Isolde’s eyebrow arched, a mocking curve.
“No, I merely asked for clarification.”
“One does not ‘merely’ ask anything, Lysander. You wished to know, so you sought the answer.” Disgust laced her tone, barely audible, but Lysander pretended not to hear. Still, she stepped closer, disregarding his presence, much like Elias’s estranged patrons disregarded their fallen artist. This entire court, it seemed, possessed a talent for ignoring what they deemed inconvenient.
“They say he… renounced his patron saint medallion,” Isolde continued, her voice dipping low, conspiratorial. “The one Alaric commissioned for him. Said it was a cursed trinket, spoke of divine indifference, locked himself in his chambers for days. Our halls were finally peaceful, I suppose. He doesn’t even realize who the real fool is, does he?”
Her voice, which had been laced with a mocking derision, suddenly softened, perhaps noticing the change in Lysander’s expression.
“What is it? Your face is quite flushed.”
“It is not.”
“No? Good Heavens, Lysander. You truly… care for him? You like him?”
“I said no.” Lysander’s voice was tight, strained.
“Aghast,” Isolde gasped, covering her mouth with a delicate hand, feigning shock. “You truly are quite mad. Utterly insane.”
Why did she persist in this accusation when he had already denied it? Annoyed, Lysander yanked the satchel’s flap shut, snapping the clasp. He wanted to retaliate, to lash out. “Lord Valerius told me Elias was considered his most promising apprentice. A prodigy.” Lysander’s voice was clipped, a thinly veiled criticism.
“What are you talking about, all of a sudden?” Isolde scoffed.
A strange contradiction, he knew. Master Cassian, his own mentor, always said it—Lysander, for all his timidness, often extended a hand, regardless of his stated intentions. But now, he had an excuse, a tangible reason: the profound, visible scarring that covered Elias’s once-radiant spirit. Just as Elias had, for a time, avoided Lysander’s gaze, Lysander could not bring himself to fully meet the spectral wounds that now marked Elias’s soul.
“Lysander?” Elias’s voice was hoarse, a fragile thread woven into the quiet of the chamber. He had watched Lysander, intently, while Lysander was lost in thought.
“Yes?” Lysander asked, keeping his tone neutral. But he listened, every nerve alight.
“Then… is it permissible for me to believe in you?”
His words, soft and tentative, struck Lysander like a physical blow. His stomach twisted. A cold dread tightened around his chest. The question nearly escaped his lips, unbidden: *Why not?* But the words caught in his throat, choked by the realization of what he was about to confess. Lysander, you are a fool. He clenched his fists, swallowing the dangerous impulse. Yes, this was better. For both of them. Safer.
“Then instead,” Elias continued, his voice now a strange mixture of sorrow and a nascent joy, “I will believe in you.” There was a reverence in his tone, like a devotee receiving a sacred vow. Lysander didn’t fully grasp his meaning. And yet, he made no move to pull away. He did not flee. The suffocating weight in his chest now not only squeezed but pierced, a sharp, exquisite pain.
“I have renounced the Veritas,” Elias declared, his voice gaining a sudden strength. “Honestly, your counsel, your… presence, is more substantial to my life than any distant deity.”
“Blasphemy,” Lysander murmured, a flicker of a smile playing on his lips.
“I am not!” Elias insisted, his hands flapping in a theatrical gesture. “I was raised in devout veneration, you know!”
“Then what was that just now?” Lysander challenged, a rare lightness entering his voice.
Elias shook his head frantically, his desperation almost comical. If Lysander didn’t believe him, Elias might actually weep. Caught off guard, Lysander found himself speechless. Then, as if a sudden decision had seized him, Elias slid from his chair, dropping to one knee.
“Then I will show you,” he whispered.
“Elias, what are you doing?” Lysander asked, his heart hammering against his ribs. Elias reached out, his bandaged hand closing around Lysander’s ankle. Lysander, who had been sitting on a low stool, shifted forward precariously. His foot, clad in a worn leather boot, dangled slightly, held by Elias’s surprisingly firm grip.
Elias’s gaze lowered, fixing on a faded scar on Lysander’s inner ankle—a faint, silvery line from a broken vial in an early experiment, a mark of his own youthful clumsiness. His brow furrowed with genuine concern. And to Lysander’s disbelief, Elias’s eyes welled with moisture. Lysander recoiled in shock, instinctively trying to pull his foot free. Before he could escape, Elias lowered his head.
“Elias, stop—”
“In the name of the Veritas, the Patron, and the Sacred Light,” Elias intoned, his voice soft yet resonant, like a prayer. Cold fingertips brushed against Lysander’s skin through the thin leather of his boot. A sharp ache shot up his calf, coiling in his stomach. *What madness is this?*
He tried again to yank his foot free, but his strength abandoned him. Elias looked up, his face devoid of any trace of self-pity or disgust. Like a devoted acolyte touching a holy relic, his gaze was pure reverence.
“I offer my fealty.”
He pressed his lips to the very tip of Lysander’s boot. Elias’s fine, soft hair brushed against Lysander’s ankle, a feather-light touch. The gentle pressure of his lips lingered at the scarred skin just beneath the leather.
“Elias… please,” Lysander whispered, raising a trembling hand to cover his face. Elias’s bandaged right hand tightened around Lysander’s ankle. And in that moment, Lysander stopped resisting. Three weak fingers, fragile and still healing, held onto him. A delicate, insistent pressure tapped lightly against his skin. Elias’s lips, which had just cursed the very heavens, now traced a fervent path up his calf, along the worn leather.
Lysander did nothing to stop him. That’s when he realized. This relentless, inescapable entanglement—this waking nightmare of Veritas’s ruthless court, of Alaric’s dangerous shadow, and Elias’s desperate devotion—it was far from over. It had only just truly begun.