The dark haired boy couldn't sleep. The yelling downstairs was keeping him awake.
Groaning in irritation, the boy drew his heavy blanket over his head, silently cursing that his bedroom was closest to the stairs. His younger brother probably couldn't hear the argument and was likely sleeping soundly. Why didn't he ever have to deal with all of this noise?
The blanket helped to drown out the sound, but it was hot and stuffy underneath and made him feel claustrophobic. Throwing off the blanket aggressively, he got out of bed, pausing only a moment to sigh and run his fingers through his messy hair. Then he crept out of the room and headed down the stairs, ready to give his parents a piece of his mind.
"You're paranoid" his mother screamed. "He's your son, Taron! You can't do that to him."
"He's no son of mine," his father answered, "and I'm tired of treating him as such!"
The boy stopped in the hallway and listened, concerned and confused. A small part of him hoped his father was talking about Connor, but he knew deep down that wasn't the case.
"But sending him away?" His mother pleaded, and something about the desperate tone of her voice sent a chill down his back. "Don't you think you're being rash?"
The dark haired boy felt like he really needed his father's dagger. He started wringing his hands, wishing he could hold it and tend to it as he always did when his parents argued.
"It's for his own good!" his father exclaimed as the boy tiptoed back, ducking through the open door into his father's study. He closed the door behind him, but it wasn't enough to drown out his parents' heated discussion.
"You can't do that to him!" His mother wailed as the boy pulled frantically on the cabinet door. It was locked. "You can't do that to me..."
The young boy looked around the room, spotting his grandfather's suit of armour with it's sword and shield nearby. He sprinted over to it, grabbing the heavy shield and dragging it over to the cabinet.
"Something's not right with him, Aitana," his father said, his voice softening. "Sending him away might give him some discipline, and maybe he'll have a normal life."
The boy slammed the edge of the heavy shield into the glass cabinet.
The shatter was louder than he expected, and the boy recoiled as glass shards flew everywhere around his bare feet.
He heard his mother yell in surprise and his father's heavy footsteps rush down the hall.
The boy threw aside the shield and reached in through the shattered glass, wrapping his hands around the blade's hilt like it was a lifeline. He unsheathed the dagger hurriedly, allowing himself to finally breathe and try to slow his racing heart.
His father flung open the door in a panic. "Kieran?! What happened?"
The dark-haired boy didn't even turn to look. He was more fascinated by the red droplets that smeared the bone-white handle from his sliced hands, marring the blade's perfection.
And yet somehow, the red streaks made it even more appealing to look at...
Kieran's mother poked her head in and gasped, seeing the shattered glass and the blood dripping from her eldest son's hand.
His father stormed over to him, the glass on the floor crunching beneath his boots. He grabbed his son's arm angrily and tore the dagger from it. "What is the meaning of this?"
The boy just stared at the ground quietly, his tears mingling with the glass and the blood on the floor and his fists clenched in fury.
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