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when apollo’s fingers dig into his skin,    his pulse jumps with a sickening excitement.     golden eyes widen with anticipation.     would his father finally strike him?    would blood splatter against his teeth as he heaved out laugh after laugh,    in victory?    the words only provoke that twisted,    morbid joy,    but it sours too quickly to an end.     this was not what he had wanted;    this was anger and concern for his well being,    not anger and hatred at his blatant disrespect.      to not trust kindness,     morta warned.    that tattoo is his repute more than your skin.        ❝          what do you know about my mind?    they’ve stuck with me longer than you ever did.         ❞       again,    his head jerks itself away from his father’s touch,    startled by attempts yet too paralysed by the locks in his mind to move his shaking hands.      so he bears his teeth;    snarls and seethes,     just like his mother.     fever worsens him,    and he grows quieter,     but kenneth callahan vareck is inconsolable.          ❝         you,         ❞      a whisper now,    like an emerging darkness his voice becomes a warning.    huddled as he was,     he watched his father with alarming clarity.          ❝         i know why you keep coming back to me.         ❞       when he shifts,    the heavy coldness that sat over his bones deepens.    kenneth appears on his knees,    hands crinkled against the floor,    looking up at apollo;    at his father,    their eyes hanging off each other like thorns to a rose.      the short width that they now sat apart offered the sort of ardent details forgotten before,   and proved their striking similarities in looks and grief.    when he spoke,    it was without the intrusion of the fates.         ❝          i am everything you hate about yourself.     every dark thing you try to forget,   every unjust thing you’ve ever done.     this pity is really for yourself.         ❞

“   do you really believe that?    ”      a godly frown dips even deeper.   eyebrows knit together,   hearing thoughts he would prefer not to hear.   despite the quick pulse,  the wide eyes,   the crazed laughter in the back of his mind,   he does not lighten his touch nor move away.   he knows what kenneth is doing,   it is not the first nor the last time cruel words will be spoken between them.   he sees through it as easily as a thin veil obscuring his view.   “      i am far beyond hating myself,   and not one to fault you for things you cannot control.    ”     that is the cycle, wasn’t it?   mortals and their will,   gods and their might.   fathers and their son.  it always came down to a scythe and a balance of power,   and a mantle that refused to be passed.    the only difference here is which one held the weapon.  he did not make a mistake,   he stands by his actions.   no matter how many times   the fight   grows behind mirroring mortal eyes,  and no matter how many times it is drained from them the same.  he stands by his word,  by his care.  time did not diminish his guilt, but it strengthened his patience.   “  that was my mistake,   i will admit it.   but you.   you are not.     ”  he reduces the fever with a touch,  but it meant nothing if kenneth’s heartbeat did not slow.  to push himself off the wall he cowered against.   he would prefer it if ken had drawn virgil and held his own gift to his throat.  what he sees instead twists him inside.    i know everything about you,  and i understand more than you think.   he doesn’t say.  it doesn’t mean much.  i’m your father.  this means even less.    “    those are your mother’s words,   i can see it in your eyes.   a lying, spiteful woman,  look what she did to my son.   ”

as if they would listen;    as if they had ever listened.     his fingers bury themselves into the now damp tufts of his hair,    curling against the pale flesh of his forehead and eyelids,   blurring his vision with spots of orange and black until they shuttered to a close.    he had always preferred physical violence to this.    a hammer to the arm would be less soul numbing than the violent torrent the fates unleashed upon his mind,    a crackle loud enough to drown out the words of the god,   his father.    it was another full minute before his vision came to,    the quiet tremble of his body adjusting to the dimly lit room and his hands,    now wrapped in another’s.     his forgotten train of thought revisits its tracks,    and as he recovers from a routine torture,    kenneth is reminded of his aversion to pity.       ❝          it is unfortunate,        ❞      he begins,      the paleness of his face unlike his father’s warm complexion.    it was this aggravating hatred of being felt small that alone jerked his hands away,    as if apollo were poison.         ❝         that you,   just like mother,     think yourself worth touching me.         ❞      kenneth thought of the isolation that would come after,    the minute he could crawl into bed and push the world away,    welcome nightmares with courtesy than the voices spearing him.     silently,    with his back to the wall,   he pulls his limp knees against his chest,     bottom lip quivering feverishly.          ❝         look at me like that again,    [  … .   ]     and i will burn this lyre off my wrist.         ❞

the warmth gone,   his stare is no longer full of light,  and his hands even less so.     “    you will not.   ”     nails dig into pale skin as he grabs kenneth’s jaw.  the look in his eyes has lost all comfort,   and has been replaced with something akin to ire.   offense,   but not on his own behalf.  “   you will not harm yourself to spite me,  do you understand?  ”     a god’s will.    a god’s words.   setting deep in the air as if carved in stone.   it was this one.   this one,   he thinks,   that will be the death of him.    stubborn and full of anger,   dangerous and full of hurt.     “    i am not your enemy,   and the moment you stop treating me like one,   you will find yourself at odds with those voices in your head.   they enjoy seeing you like this.    ”      he knows it too well,  and so his own anger grows tenfold.    empathy and pity teeter on the edge of two great chasms,   threatening to tip the balance one way or another with each word that leaves his son’s mouth.   looks just like him,   sounds just like his mother.   he pushes sweaty curls back and places his palm against flushed skin.    “   you are giving yourself a fever,  now that’s enough.   ”   no, his hands aren’t warm anymore,   they are cool and soothing and indifferent to the protests they are getting.  

was that what he thought it was?    eyes widen,    more out of disbelief than shock.      surely,    that could not be what he thought it was?    nona,    morta and decima,   because they had heard his thoughts,    came back cackling and whispering:    yes,   you heard right,   that is pity in your father’s voice.    it was as if a match had lit his skin.     a sudden heat was rolling over his cheeks.    alight with hatred,    a wild blaze formed rings around his irises.    he would not accept pity,   least of all from a god of olympus!     kenneth swivels around.    his hair,   curled with cold sweat,   lay unruly over his eyes.    his mouth began to twist,   an ugly snarl in its wake.    and his hands,   grasping at the wall,    gave him the appearance of a mad prince.       ❝          you   ——      do not pity me !           ❞     he roared,     against the backdrop of his boot slamming against the ground.        ❝       i will cut your tongue if you dare !       ❞      he had not come this far,    he thought,    or suffered this much on his own,   for anyone to look down on him.         ❝           there’s not a chance i’m going to accept your h———       ❞         unexpectedly,    his knees buckle.    for a minute he was certain somebody must have driven a blade into his skull,    for the pain that stunned him felt as close to it as he could imagine.    he fell onto his knees,    bundled against the cold wall,     vision flecked with unusual shadows.    the voices were louder now.     all he could do was blanch at the sight of his own black-veined hands.    

he would not lie nor divulge false comforts.       he is nothing but open with his opinion over his son’s circumstance.     he does not deny the pity,  not does he try to hide it.   a fiery glare so alike his own dulls the edges of the face he puts forth.    “  kenneth.  ”     the boy’s anger and frustration pained him enough,  the sun god does not raise a hand nor does he move from the statuesque pose he’s assumed.   meaningless threats,    he let them float away in the wind as untethered as his son was unhinged.    “   you mistaken me,  this is what i’m talking about.   ”     his tone shifts,   from something from distant and guarded to honest and protective.   “   do you hear them ?    weaving   lie after lie   and feeding them to you until you   ----   ”    he stops.   knees buckle.   fingers curl.  the breath is knocked from divine lungs,   but it was not his own.   he spoke too soon.    “   okay that’s enough.   you’ve made your point let him go.   ”     he tells to listening ears.  privacy.  i cannot have one conversation with my son without the three of you -----  he does not finish the thought.   snapping their cord the way one slams a door.    he kneels down,   pulling cold pale hands into his warm ones,  long fingers forming a strong grip.   “   deep breaths,  can you hear me?  look at my hands.  ”  their bright glow expels the darkness.   “  you can do it too,  just focus.   ”