A cool compress, scented faintly with civet and crushed nightshade, had worked its quiet magic. Lysander woke to a cheek less swollen, the angry scarlet now a bruised plum, the puffiness softened to a gentle undulation. A mark, yes, but one easily dismissed with a casual shrug, a murmured excuse of a stumble. Manageable. He traced the fading discolouration with a hesitant finger, a faint tremor in his hand.
Yet, a lighter heart felt a burden when he entered the Grand Atelier’s common hall. The air, usually alive with the scratch of charcoal and the hum of conversation, hung thick and still. A suffocating quiet. Heads turned, hushed voices died. Lysander felt a prickle of unease, a cold sensation crawling up his spine.
Instinctively, his gaze sought Emilian. The young apprentice, usually so vibrant in his movements, moved with a hesitant grace, his shoulders hunched. Lysander’s breath caught. He forgot, for a moment, to draw another. Emilian’s face, a canvas of misery, bore the stark evidence of new violence. A lip split, weeping a faint trace of crimson. An eye, swollen almost shut, a grotesque parody of Lysander’s own fleeting injury. Guilt, sharp and sudden, clawed at Lysander’s gut. His own foolish, petty hope for Valerius to suffer had been a monstrous whisper. Now, shame burned.
Emilian’s eyes, darting nervously, found Lysander. A flicker of recognition, then a terrible grimace. He froze, a statue carved from fear, before his head snapped away. He scuttled to his assigned bench, avoiding Lysander entirely. A strange, sharp twist in Lysander’s chest.
His gaze drifted, pulled by an unseen current. Lord Valerius, lounging by a half-finished fresco of Veritas herself, met his eyes. A glacial stare, cold and precise as a winter blade. Lysander shivered, a visceral tremor. A silent, damning accusation. Damn it. He should have feigned illness, stayed within the sanctuary of his chambers.
From that moment, Emilian, once eager for Lysander’s scholarly counsel, became a ghost. During breaks, he vanished, always in Valerius’s shadow. At the midday repast, the two would disappear to some private alcove, leaving Lysander to his own thoughts, his untouched trencher of roasted quail.
A part of Lysander yearned to seek them out, to demand answers, to offer solace. But a colder, more logical fear held him captive. He hated to admit his cowardice. What might he see? What fresh horror might unfold? He could not bear it.
Gareth, however, appeared, unbidden, at Lysander’s side. He consumed his midday meal with an almost alarming gusto, a blithe obliviousness that, in its own way, was a bizarre comfort. “See? I told you the air here was thick enough to chew. Almost choked on my own nerves.”
“You seemed quite unperturbed, sharing candied fruits yesterday,” Lysander murmured, pushing a piece of bread around his plate.
“Give me some credit, Lysander. I swallowed my apprehension like a seasoned patron.” Gareth winked, a glint of amusement in his eyes. “Besides, those sugared apricots were meant to be devoured.”
Lysander delivered a light kick to Gareth’s shin under the table, a familiar, exasperated gesture. Gareth chuckled, rubbing his jaw. A strange, almost sheepish expression crossed his face. Lysander dismissed it. A trick of the flickering lamplight, perhaps.
---
Life possessed a cruel wit. When first Gareth arrived at the Atelier, all boisterous laughter and casual irreverence, Lysander had deemed him a nuisance, an unwelcome disruption to his careful solitude. He had disliked Gareth, found his irreverence coarse, his lack of introspection shallow. And yet, here they sat, sharing confidences amidst the gilded cages of Veritas’s court. Gareth, of all people, had become an unexpected anchor.
His lightheartedness, his flippant remarks, possessed a peculiar power. They prevented Lysander from sinking too deeply into the suffocating weight of his own thoughts. In the past, Lysander would have scorned such an antidote, preferring the solemnity of his own despair. Now, he relied on it. Had Valerius and he remained… whatever they once were, Lysander might never have realized the strange, vital comfort Gareth offered.
Valerius’s cruelties, once directed solely at Lysander, began to spread like a creeping miasma. He began to distance himself from the usual courtly gatherings, dragging Emilian with him into hushed corners, private chambers. Sometimes, others followed. More often, they refused, shaking their heads, their faces etched with a grim unease. Lysander saw the young Master Theron, usually an eager follower, scaling a garden wall, claiming he was avoiding an overly zealous tutor. He paused, catching Lysander’s eye, and confided in a low voice that Valerius had taken to ordering others to strike Emilian, one forced blow at a time. Lysander’s stomach clenched. A wave of nausea. Theron, sensing Lysander’s horror, quickly added that he’d been avoiding the group, making excuses to meet Caelen in a less public den. He left Lysander with a plea for understanding, then slipped away.
Caelen, once close to Valerius in their early days at the Grand Atelier, had since found new allegiances, their paths diverging with their changing social circles.
Lysander and Gareth sought refuge in the quiet courtyard. They found a vendor selling chilled saffron cakes, their sweetness a fleeting balm. Cold, cloying richness spread across Lysander’s tongue, momentarily soothing the bitter knot of unease in his chest. He held his expression carefully, determined to show no vulnerability.
“Is that palatable?” Gareth asked, munching on his own vivid green marzipan treat, eyeing Lysander’s cake with open hunger.
“Care to sample?” Lysander offered, a half-tease, bringing the confection, still moist from his own tongue, close to Gareth’s mouth. Gareth grinned, a flash of white teeth, and took a large, decisive bite.
“By the Saints! You actually consumed it?” Lysander exclaimed, startled.
“You presented it,” Gareth replied, his mouth full.
“Disgusting… And why such a monstrous mouthful?”
“A single taste, no more.” Gareth shrugged, unrepentant. It was a strange, peaceful moment amidst his turmoil. The crisp autumn air, usually a source of invigoration, felt serene, oblivious.
Where were Valerius and Emilian now? Lysander could envision several dark corners, hushed rooms, but he did not go looking. Perhaps he truly feared what he might discover.
He tried his best to banish Valerius from his thoughts. But the harder he tried, the more vast Valerius’s shadow seemed to loom, occupying every chamber of his mind. How long, he wondered, would it take to cease loving someone like him? How much effort would it demand? He did not know. It felt like an endless, scorching desert. Not merely sorrowful, but terrifying, insufferable.
Sometimes, Lysander retreated, stepping back, like an artist squinting at a complex fresco, trying to discern its hidden contours. When the pressure became too great, he spoke, occasionally, with Gareth. And, well, that was that.
Suddenly, an impulse seized him. “Gareth,” he said.
“Aye?”
“...Do you believe flowers might one day bloom in a barren desert?”
The question, raw and emotional, embarrassed him the moment it left his lips. He scratched his temple, avoiding Gareth’s gaze. Gareth, however, did not mock him.
“They must,” Gareth said, his voice surprisingly soft. “Life’s grim enough as it is.”
Hearing such words from Gareth—a man Lysander had never thought capable of such sentiment—made the futility of his own desperate hope sting all the more. How much more time must pass for him to relinquish these meaningless affections?
“...Aye. Life’s grim.” Valerius. That useless, cruel noble. Why must he so consistently attempt to crush the loyal, wagging creature Lysander became in his presence? Valerius, who now treated the Atelier halls as his private domain, coming and going as he pleased. And always, Emilian, a silent, trembling shadow at his side.
As Valerius’s unchecked power grew, the Atelier buzzed with a mix of fear and intrigue. The whispers confirmed it: Valerius’s violence escalated. And so did the undercurrent of resentment toward him, subtly spreading amongst the apprentices and even some lesser tutors. None of it felt good.
Lysander watched Valerius dragging Emilian by the wrist down the grand marble corridor. He stopped, frozen. His gaze flickered between their faces before he finally spoke, a desperate gambit. “Lord Valerius, your father, a most esteemed patron, often expresses his concern for your… wellbeing.”
It was a lie. Not an apology, not flattery, simply a fabrication. That was the extent of Lysander’s pride, his last vestige of self-preservation. Valerius, estranged from his father, would likely not discern the falsehood. And even if he did, Lysander could always argue that, at this rate, his father would indeed soon have ample cause for worry. Always an escape route. “If blows must be struck, My Lord, let them fall solely upon you. What fault lies with Emilian?”
“Begone,” Valerius snarled, his eyes locking onto Lysander. A crushing weight settled on Lysander’s chest. He loathed him. And yet, pitiful Emilian, on the verge of tears, stood glued to Valerius’s side, his wide, fearful eyes pleading with Lysander.
“Unless you yearn for another lesson, like the last, move aside.”
“J-Junwoo, please,” Emilian stammered, his voice trembling as he tugged at Valerius’s sleeve. Only then did Valerius stop. His gaze, still hard as granite, fixed solely on Emilian. All Lysander could see was the back of Valerius’s head as he turned away.
“L-like I said, your father—” Lysander tried again, a desperate, fading hope.
Emilian, tears finally spilling, clung to Valerius, attempting to pull him away. The scene was unbearable. Lysander closed his eyes, unable to watch the pitiful tableau.
After a long moment, Valerius looked at Emilian, then turned. He walked back into the common hall, Emilian trailing, head bowed. For the rest of the day, Valerius remained within the Atelier’s confines, as he had weeks before.
---
The long-anticipated day of the Grand Tour arrived. A fleet of well-appointed carriages and coaches awaited them in the cobbled courtyard, ready to transport the apprentices to a famed fresco cycle in a nearby ducal palace. A few grumbled, bemoaning the interruption to their studies, but most expressed relief at the chance to escape the Atelier’s rigid schedule, even for a single day.
No need for elaborate preparations; they would return by evening. The tutors gave only a few half-hearted admonitions before dismissing them. No giddy excitement, no sleepless nights like a child. Lysander saw it as just another day – depart without his heavy sketch bag, return without it. He had no idea this day would bring his suppressed frustrations to a bitter head. He had anticipated an eventual reckoning, but not one so sudden, so public.
Lysander had always, by unspoken tradition, found his place beside Valerius when they left the Atelier’s halls. He had been, in their own way, Valerius’s closest confidant. He had not even considered where Gareth would sit, never having embarked on such a journey with him.
At first, a tremor of apprehension. Would Gareth somehow usurp his place, find the seat closest to Valerius? The thought, in retrospect, was pathetic. Neither Lysander nor Gareth would occupy that particular spot.
He entered the courtyard, its ancient stones worn smooth by centuries of traffic. Carriages stood waiting. Lysander located Valerius’s coach, its dark velvet plush and inviting. He approached, his heart a nervous drum against his ribs. The seat beside Valerius remained empty. A fragile sigh of relief escaped him. A sliver of determination. It was his spot. His pride, that stubborn, foolish thing, compelled him to claim it, even after Valerius’s violent hand, even because of Emilian.
Lysander’s hand hovered above the cushioned seat. He glanced around the courtyard, then spoke, his voice quiet, almost a whisper. “My Lord… this seat…”
Before he could finish, Valerius cut him off, his gaze fixed on the courtyard entrance. “Occupied. Find another conveyance, scholar.” Following Valerius’s line of sight, Lysander saw Emilian, head bowed, timidly making his way toward their carriage. Lysander’s fists clenched. He swallowed his words, the bitter taste of defeat filling his mouth.
“...As you wish, My Lord.” He tried to sound indifferent, though his heart felt as if it had been shredded by a blunt blade.
He quickly retreated from the carriage and scanned the other conveyances. Near a cluster of apprentices, he spotted Gareth’s group, an empty seat directly in front of Gareth. Relief washed over him. He rushed over, collapsing into the seat, speaking without waiting for a response. “Gareth, share this carriage.”
No answer. He glanced over. Gareth was already asleep, head lolling against the window, bouncing gently with every rumble of the cobbled street. He always seemed to doze in the mornings. Lysander shook his head at Gareth’s ridiculous posture, then gently nudged Gareth’s head, slipping his small sketchbook between the glass and Gareth’s ear as a makeshift cushion. He leaned back against the uncomfortable velvet.
Across the aisle, Lysander caught a glimpse of dark, rich velvet. Valerius’s coach. The silhouette of a tall figure within. Though he couldn’t see clearly, he knew it was Valerius. He closed his eyes, the bitterness a raw wound in his throat. He tried his best to not think about Valerius. But the harder he tried, the more vast Valerius’s shadow seemed to loom, occupying every chamber of his mind. How long would it take to cease loving someone like him? How much effort would it demand? He did not know. It felt like an endless, scorching desert, not merely sorrowful, but terrifying, insufferable.