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He and father return from hunting in the evening and he’s smiling. They murmur to each other about their trip and their haul of supplies for our pantry and when Father sees me, he calls out, still smiling. Connor no longer smiles. He turns towards me and there’s a moment where I am tugged on by the memory of a similar defiance, a reflection of his mother’s eyes from the time before I had come to really know her. The fondness of the recollection is immediately snuffed by the mere weight of my son’s displeasure. He bids his grandfather good evening and excuses himself.
I watch him go and find Father staring at me, the smirk on his lips speaking more of his opinion than his words ever could. There is a coldness in me. I return to my book but he joins me anyway, smelling like the sun and wilderness and faintly of blood as he settles in the armchair next to mine. I think to myself about how Connor probably carries a scent much the same.
“Your stubbornness will be your own undoing, lad,” Father tells me. I consider the pages of my book and don’t even bother rolling my eyes.
“Fruitful outing?” I ask him.
“Bountiful enough.” He isn’t dissuaded for a moment. “Don’t delay your apology too long, Haytham.”
“As if I owed one.” I turn the pages over the sound of my father scoffing. He won’t argue the point with me. Both of us know there is nothing for it. He leaves me on my own once again.
The night clouds the study and the servants light the lamps before the dark spills over all else. I take my dinner alone. I have no desire to be in the company of either my father or my son. My tea is cold when I finally drink it and the fire has burned low. I have been silent and still and alone until midnight’s hour.
And I am still burning.
I finally stand—put away my cup and my book—and get caught at the window on my way to bed. The world is dark. Shadowed and sharp with the onset of autumn and when I touch the glass, the bitterness of the cold tries to reach into my flesh. To no avail.
Hours I’ve spent soothing my anger, snuffing what wild embers flared in frustration at my son’s disdain and disconnect. I thought myself placated by my humble efforts to quell my own resentment. I might’ve been successful if left to my own devices. My theory is that seeing Connor—his contempt, his unkind eyes, such derision—spoiled all my progress. I could not overcome it once he returned.
It is a quiet blaze. Not like the familiar surges of anger my own temper gives rise to: those combusting fuels for action that break in satisfaction or quickly die away to be called forth once again when appropriate. No, this is an itch. An invisible sting in my skin that will not be soothed.
I hear the sounds of my family awake above me and part of me wonders if I can sleep this night, knowing that my son is across the hall, quite content in what hatred he’s gained for me.
-Ʌ-
When I wake, I stay abed for a while despite the tries at the locked door and gentle reminders that my breakfast is being kept hot for me. I wonder if it would be better for me to never leave my room today or if I should stay out of the house altogether.
Indeed, I will not let myself be a prisoner to this as I won’t let it drive me to lock myself into the confines of my own space. If I stay or go, it’s of my own will and not by the whim of some brooding child and whatever poor effect he happens to have on my constitution.
I take my breakfast in the study and leave when it’s finished.
It is warmer today. I stop by the market to buy my lunch for later and take it with me to the docks. Father has the Jackdaw anchored here. Connor’s ship—his own ship, honestly, he’s a child—is not in the harbor; he tucks it away in the wilderness like a thief with his treasure. Granted, if Father weren’t in and out of port half his days, he’d probably do the same. Tomorrow he leaves; Connor and I will be left on our own again.
Barely considering my path, I board the Jackdaw. I’m greeted heartily by a few familiar faces and when I go to the captain’s quarters, no one attempts to hinder me.
The cabin is empty, which is to be expected. I eat my lunch at the table and consider my lot.
My son is nothing if not diligent: probably one of his only redeeming features. He won’t stop his training just because his newly preferred instructor is away. He’ll have no other choice but to return to me for assistance.
But a few bites into my lunch and I notice a beaded armband resting on the table’s surface. Its origins are obvious. I can feel my brow furrowing and something of a scoff is pushed out of me. Such a petty trinket…. To what end is its purpose here? Apparently naught but to vex me, as it seems.
The food in my mouth becomes bitter and unappetizing as gristle and I leave off finishing it. I depart the ship but idle about and don’t arrive home until dark. On my way to my room, I glance down the hallway and there is a brief glimpse I catch: Connor’s fingers brushing over the doorframe before he shuts the door behind him a moment later.
It’s as if his very digits are of flint by the way fire suddenly surges in me. I’m left with it, this infernal ache inside, and though it compels me to move I am bolted to this spot in the hallway, like some witless fool.
-Ʌ-
Father is already gone, departed insistently at sunrise so as to utilize every waning daylight hour of the autumn for his purposes as he sets sail to the southernmost colonies. I was awake at that hour myself but did not bother bidding him a formal farewell. He left the manor and turned to wave back at my window with a smile that I could not see in the early darkness, but was sure still came through for me.
I wish that the memory of it could provide comfort and assurance to me as it had once upon a time. I am no longer that child, placated by my father’s encouragement. I have a son of my own, who regards me with a complete parody of the affection I held for my own father when I was Connor’s age. Not even parody; the boy obviously has a limit to his respect for me.
No matter.
The daylight rouses activity within my home and I hear Connor’s door open down the hall, his footsteps quiet but still as clear to me as if he moved beside me. It is the herald for my one opportunity.
I catch up with him outside, clearing my throat to get his attention.
Connor comes to a halt and turns, looking plainly irked, which does nothing to earn my sympathies.
“Letting your training go slack, then?” I ask him. He sneers at me.
“Quite the opposite,” he says, “I was on my way to train just now.”
I can feel my brow furrowing.
“A task you shall accomplish by your own, inexperienced efforts?”
“That is my intention,” he says. His silence is there to bear my skepticism for a moment and then he continues. “Your training was fine until it became little else than abuse. Until you decide to actually train me instead of making me needlessly suffer, I am sure I can fare just fine on my own. Good day, Father.”
He turns and leaves and though I vehemently inform him that if he injures himself, it shall be his own misfortune tending to it alone, I am unheeded and he disappears into the sunlit trees with the autumn gusting behind him.
I stand, like a fool, on the front steps of the manor until one of the maids attempts to air out the down comforters and consequently throws the door open right into the back of my head.
-Ʌ-
Connor’s accusations turn over in my mind like the steady mechanisms of the clock as I sit alone in the study once more. Abuses. Really. It’s a preposterous claim. Absurd, in all honesty. I’m considerably more inclined to believe that my son has simply become worn out and petulant about putting forth good effort. What I seek is to challenge him; if he is not presented with the opportunities to improve his skill, then he’ll remain stagnant in his abilities and that simply will not do.
Too easily he grows comfortable and complacent with his lot. I see it in his every feature. It’s almost frustrating how easily he masters new abilities and overcomes obstacles. Where once he was utterly focused on completing a single objective without error, he rapidly arises to maneuvering himself about the task with such ease that this unexpected agility and grace shines through.
Yes, I can admit that I advance his training at a rather brisk rate and have been doing so exponentially to try and make it so he wouldn’t grow bored and then successively lazy. This nonsense about abuses is just uncalled for.
And he glares at me with such bitterness. As if I had anything but his best interests at heart.
I must have first seen that hostility but a few weeks ago in the encroaching eve of the forest clearing. It had glared down upon me like the burning beams of the westward sun as Connor crouched in the trees. His eyes had been dark with it, no words to give that poison a voice as his shoulders heaved to catch his breath and sweat was strung in beads across his bare chest like gems reflecting the dusk.
What a force of nature is he...what a magnificent sort of creature. Even so worn and wearied, tempered by fury, how resplendent …. Perhaps not feral in truth, but one can just sense its mark in him, in the very sinews of his muscles as he moves and breathes, in the way he speaks with the music and conviction of stormclouds against the mountains.
He has a ferocity—behind the warmth of his skin and the playful touches of freckles on his cheeks—that tears its way through at unexpected moments: when he desperately wants to succeed, when he fervently believes he is right. It is a mercilessness that shocks me through, as if the wide and burning darkness of his eyes could pour molten earth straight into my body. He has a great and terrible power. And there are days when I wonder what it will develop into as he continues to grow stronger, more mighty, more magnificent.
Perhaps it is this uncertainty that unsettles me. Not an anger at his insolence—though it would be justified—but rather a sort of apprehension about the influence that my son’s uninhibited passions might have upon me. It would certainly make sense, though is a bit startling to consider. He has never been this angry with me. Not to a point of such defiance.
It is rather disquieting. Obviously, as I have had no real rest since.
I think to myself that it might be in my best interest to approach him with an apology, if only to see if the focus of his unexpectedly potent ire can be directed somewhere a might more constructive. Lest I develop some sort of condition, god forbid. At times, I do feel like the boy will shorten my lifespan by at least a few years.
-Ʌ-
He speaks to me at the door of his room, apprehensive about letting me into his space, which, I suppose, is perfectly reasonable, particularly considering his conflict with me. Connor is practically as tall as I am now. In all likelihood, he will be taller than me one day. He is already stronger than I was at his age.
His eyes are unkind and impatient but he stands with firm posture, upright and unwavering, as he always does, no matter his struggle. Admirable. I am vexed for an inexplicable reason. If his stance revealed weakness, that would give me true cause for displeasure; truly, he is adhering to all that I have taught him. My feelings of irritation are unreasonable and I choose to overlook them and continue in the way I came.
“What is it?” he asks me. Those eyes are dark. Full of shadows and steeled where once they were soft.
“I am sorry,” I tell him plainly. It is not what he is expecting; the steel cautiously thaws. “It was never my intention to endanger or otherwise bring you harm. I apologize if that is what I have done and would ask that if circumstances somehow led to a similar situation that you would make it evident to me so that I might change my course of action.” I clear my throat and continue to watch his face. There is a strange syncopation to my pulse. “Though we have frequent disagreements and are not always of the same opinion, I have no wish to alienate you. I’ve found it...more bothersome than beneficial.”
Connor blinks slowly, as the hunter in the woods and I am some territorial beast who may or may not have already noticed his presence. He’s waiting to see if I’ll take it back. But I will not. I am a man of my word, if nothing else. Well...at least to my allies, I am.
I stand as firmly as he does. I meet his gaze unwaveringly.
And so, when it almost seamlessly transitions from apprehension into forgiveness, I am unsteady for it. Connor relaxes. He nods, a smile ever so slight at the full curve of his lips.
“I accept your apology. Thank you.”
His voice is gentle in contrast to the sting of sharpness that it has pointed at me for the past weeks. Too gentle.
I stand there a while yet, unmoving and his countenance shifts to that expression of earnest concern.
“Father?”
My breath catches in my chest. I cough a few times to help reorient myself.
“Right, well, I appreciate it. Goodnight, son.” I reach out to pat his shoulder and decide against it in an instant. I turn away; I retreat.
I lock myself in my room.
I press my back to the door and stare into the darkness, letting it hide me from the world and my household and my only child.
It cannot hide me from myself and the return of the unbearable burn inside of me.
I was wrong; my actions have brought me no peace. Perhaps I no longer have to be wary of Connor’s anger but I have been made aware of a passion more poisonous than his.
What was that urge, that impulse to reach out and take him…. To put my hand against the firmness of his jaw, to touch that smile with the caress of my thumb…. Oh, god, but as I consider it, it’s more than that. It is the desire to have those endlessly dark eyes staring as deeply into me as they ever have. And to return the gaze just as earnestly.
And what would it mean for the boy to answer these torrid and terrible visions in kind? I want him to want. Passionate, yes, I have seen him this way. And now I know that I want to see it in perpetuity. Towards me.
It is a truth that impacts me like a musket ball shattering through my sternum, accompanied by a sour stomach and a furious heartbeat. My skin is blazing. Every layer of clothing is suffocating and I open my mouth to try and breathe. I close my eyes, and Connor is there in the darkness, crouching in the trees with the aggression of his glare now unfamiliar from memory but terribly intoxicating. Sweat-spangled with heavy breaths and elegantly heaving muscles, lips parted and his eyes focused on me.
He’s looking at me. He’s watching me with his eyes, those eyes…. Like he could devour me, like he could dismantle me, from my bones to my very reality.
I find myself on the floor of my bedchamber with the darkness keeping me safe and the chill of the night doing absolutely nothing to calm the inferno that has taken residence in my flesh.
I rather think—and I tentatively begin to accept, and therefore despair over—that this affliction will not depart me for some time yet. And that I have been infected with it past the point of terminability. I lust for Connor. It is immutable.
I press my palm against my straining erection and let the guilt crash upon me only after I have satisfied myself to the thought of my hands on my own son’s body.
I will no longer have any rest from my nights.