#keon threads.

❝ i know i must be the last person you expected to see tonight, but i’m afraid i have nowhere else to turn to. ❞

❝ YOU IDIOTS NEED TO STOP USING prodigal son to describe the 'golden child' archetype. it's prodigious. prodigious son. prodigal son means one who has returned home to repent after a reckless absence. it isn't that difficult a difference to understand. ❞

when did this become so easy? when did it stop feeling like committing a crime and start feeling like sacrament? he couldn't pinpoint it, not accurately, and it doesn't much matter. ❝ i missed you too. ❞ a teasing glimmer in the eye. ❝ i hope it wasn't too lonely around here without me. ❞

❝ LOOK WHAT THE CAT DRAGGED IN, ❞ SNEERS THE YOUNG MAN, golden eyes edged with mockery. he's taken up an entire study area, body sprawled across the couch and leather-shoed feet propped up on the wooden table. one long, pale hand spins a fountain pen between two fingers — an absurdly expensive pen he brought from home, the ivory-carved body engraved with the family crest on one side and midas company, ltd. on the other. ❝ i actually abhor clichés, but you aren't worth well-crafted words. ❞ another spin of the pen. ❝ what are you doing here, cretin? your face is giving me a headache. ❞

it isn’t that fahey’s words are unheard. keon’s chest rises and falls where he sits among bedsheets in the space they had cleared for him at the slat. empty space, other than a bed and a tall crate by the window that held a plate of food he hasn’t eaten. his eyes are open, but they’re tired. bruised with dark, sleepless circles, vacant as his mother’s.  keon’s body hears them, but his mind does not. he hasn’t spoken a word in the weeks he’s been recovering from korin’s failed attempt on his life – and the horrible revelation that preceded it. his mother. whatever he had done to her after kimber’s death separated her mind and her body. all this time, while keon’s grief and resentment built and he thought she abandoned him, all this time alone and trying to make things work with his father, all this time.  once he found out, it was keon who began the fight. it was korin going in for a killing blow that caused something in him to finally snap. the half-transformation, botched by his father pinning him to the floor with a hand squeezing his throat and the other in his hair, saved keon’s neck from being snapped. the scales grew around korin’s hand, protectively, exuding a new and angry glow even he couldn’t touch. the horns nearly speared his father before he could untangle his fingers.  and that was it. keon took advantage of the confusion, broke free, and stumbled to his feet – his face was half-man, half-gold. tears streamed down the side that was still a boy trying desperately to be loved. his breaths heaved, and he and korin stared at each other, as the heaviness of this new truth set upon the both of them.  “jackal,” korin hissed. but his voice didn’t match the conflicting rage and fear on his face. it was a term that meant betrayer. jackals fended only for themselves. they turned on their family and pack. they were tricksters, untrustworthy. but if he wanted to do something about his son’s impending exit, he could not. keon had twisted his leg; he could hurl fire, but he seemed to know it would only look weak. “don’t you dare walk out of that door,” he murmured, voice low and even now. “if you do, i hope you know that what happens will be your fault. ” keon waited a moment for the words to sink into his chest like dull, painful blades. he let them sit; he kept the knife in. then, face still wrung with grief, he turned and limped out of the manor. there was nowhere else to go but the dregs, no one else korin couldn’t touch, so as the sky wept a storm he banged on the door of the slat. keon plays this now, over and over in his head, as if something could have changed. as if he could have done something differently. been better – been worthy. but all he can think about is the certainty pushing past the fear in his father’s eyes as he readied himself to snap his son’s neck. his heir, sure, but his son. his only son. and now? now, what could possibly be left of the man who used to stand in keon’s body? what is there to him without korin, without his legacy, except a thing that needlessly takes up space and air?  he hears fahey loud and clear, now. i’m staying. ❝ don’t bother, ❞ he mutters. it’s the first thing he’s said since he arrived. his voice is hoarse from disuse, and from the general deterioration of his health; oversleeping, undersleeping, refusing to eat or get out of bed for more than necessity. so much more could be said. asked. ‘has my father put out anything public?’ ‘why do you care? why did you take me in?’   but he says nothing more. it would only open the floodgates again; at least with the numbness, this cold and dark fog, there is no pain. 

THE DRUSKELLE WILL COME FOR US. it was one of the first things his father told him after keon’s first, awkward transformation into his golden serpentine form. grisha hunters, korin explained. they won’t know what we are, which means they will not be prepared. but, keon. upon his son’s walking form returning to him, korin gripped him by the chin to make sure keon was looking at him. you must never let them know. no matter the cost, they never find out. if you must take your draconic form, they die. all of them. before they can leave the room. understood?  being ten at the time, keon was unable to fully grapple the concept his father drilled into his head. now, he understands why the look in korin’s eyes was so heavy and grim. they’ve chased him south of ketterdam into the open countryside, somewhere between ketterdam and belendt. the druskelle are too smart for their own good. keon is too inexperienced for his. he thought he was safe when he ducked into an old fortress and sprinted up to the second floor, lungs screaming from the exertion of running so far, but soon he finds himself once again surrounded by black-uniformed men. two down. four remaining. he can feel the fractures in his ribs with every breath, and a knife still sits lodged in the back of his left shoulder. ignoring the searing pain of it all, keon strafes right to avoid being pinned against the wall, and leans heavily on his right arm to send a gout of flames toward the man closest to him.  it’s not working. the knife slows him down. eyes lost in the haze of his own smoke, keon stumbles, and suddenly an arm has grabbed his wrist and twisted it so far behind his back he fears it may snap. a knee slams into his sternum; he doubles over, other arm already being bound to the twisted one with some sort of nonflammable cable. they die. all of them. he cannot let his mouth spout fire. they would know. if he did transform now, could he kill them all? ❝ fuck you, ❞ keon snarls to the nearest one, earning a crack across the jaw and another, harder kick to the ribs for it. he spits blood; his body weakens with every fracture, and the world narrows to a single choice. a single risk.

slowly, then all at once, everything keon kept buried for the years he’s been alive, it all bubbles up to the surface. his sister. his mother. the isolation. the question that haunts him every time he looks in the mirror: what is it about me that’s so hard to love? it’s all here. it spills over in quiet, wracking sobs that he buries in jesper’s shoulder, arms tightening and hands shaking.