âWhat is it, Mister WorthshireâŠ?â
His fatherâs voice had always been cold, or at least he remembered it as such. Finely tailored down to each singular strand of his hair. Each bone in his body aligned to emulate the most refined of elegance.
Connor remembered watching him shave, regarding him with a sense of wonderment. Nothing was out of place.
Nothing was ever out of place.
Connor remembered clearing his throat, hands taut behind his back, wrapped with a concealed garrote as they sat by the stream. Finally after a moment of palpable silence, the tailorâs apprentice opened his mouth. âDo you love me, father?â
The question must have caught his father off guard, the man wincing as his hand snapped to his cheek where the straight razor had nicked him. Connor stiffened, eyes widening for a moment as Marcus tugged a handkerchief from his suit and dabbed his cheek lightly. There was another strenuous moment of silence.
âOf course I do. Why would I not?â He mumbled, as if it were an obvious notion. Connor, however stood silent. As Marcus looked up to him, his brow would raise. âMister Worthshire you look as if you are about to cry.â
That was because he was. Stunned silence and masked shock gripped at the boy, his hands shook and he loosed the wire, it clattering to the stones of the brook. He brought his hands up, showing where the wires had cut into his fingers. He had pulled it so tight the blood poured down into his palms. âIâm so sorry father- Iâm so sorry- I was going- I was going to-â
In an instant, Marcus had stood up, regarding the garrote, and then the boy that stood before him. A knowing smile pulled at his lips, and he was about to speak before a blur of tawny fur erupted from the treeline and barreled right into Marcus. Connor could hear bones snapping, his fatherâs garbled cry, and as if he had been whipped, he sprung forth from the rocks that he had poised himself upon and drew the pistol his father had rested on the embankment. He heard his father howling, the beast shrieking and snarling as the razor blade tore deep into the flesh of the creatureâs neck even as Marcus was being mauled.
It was only when the hammer was brought down did the beast whip itâs head up and swivel that deadly gaze to Connor.
Lightning. The creature was like lightning. In an instant Connor felt the searing pain of his back and his leg, knifelike teeth tearing into the flesh of his inner thigh as the feral monstrosity aimed to tear him up the embankment and into the trees. Connor, as spry as he was, however, wedged himself between an old stump and an sharp, jagged boulder, inhibiting the worgenâs desire and angle to get at the boyâs throat. He felt the blossom of blood on his side from a snapped rib, felt the soaking of his pantsleg from fear and blood alike, and as he looked down to the beast who clamped down all the tighter, he fumbled with the pistol.
He wasnât making a noise. At least, he couldnât hear himself making a noise. It was only when the barrel finally found itself snug against the worgenâs temple did he pull the trigger. Again. Again. Again.
The beast was dead by the third, the other three were for good measure. When the revolver shot no more, it took ten lackluster clicks for Connor to come to that realization, before he wiggled himself out from under the bleeding corpse. His eyesight was bowing, his vision darkening, however as he took a few steady breaths, he began to drag himself to the bloody pile that was his father.
He saw Marcusâ chest heaving. He heard the burgled moan of agony, and as he finally reached the man, he took a shaking breath to steady the wave of sick.
His breathing halted for but a moment, and his gaze locked with the wild blue eyes that pierced through a sea of red. The wound was serious, his coat and suit already soaked both from the water and the deep, goring swaths that ripped open Marcusâ stomach.
âYou- you called me by my first nameâŠâ
Why was he focusing upon that of all things? Here he was, bleeding profusely, looking at his fatherâs mauled body and the first thing that caught his attention was the fact he was called his first name?
âNow is hardly the time for formalities,â his fatherâs voice was ragged, pained, although there was a small sense of amused antipathy for the situation at hand. âI want you to do two very important things. I would like to not waste time repeating myself.â Connorâs lip quivered, although he nodded, thinning his lips tightly to avoid grimacing in agony. Marcus regarded his son, nodding slowly.
âKill me, and then yourself.â His words were pointed, even through the pain as he looked down to his stomach. âIâll not suffer a Worthshire becoming a mindless animal.â Connor stared at him, jaw slack, before he opened his mouth.
âWhat did I just say, Mister Worthshire?â He hissed. Connor swayed onto his knees, looking about as if still stunned, although the glimmer in the water caught his eye. As he fought to stand, he loped drunkenly to where his garrote dropped into the water, fishing it out with a small whimpering hum. Wincing as it finally popped free from the rocks, he dragged himself back to where his father laid.
No words were passed between the two, the intimacy of the moment relished in silence. Each moment Connor blinked, his fatherâs face changed a different color. Each time his eyes opened, he saw his father staring him dead in the eye. His hands wrapped instinctively around his sonâs throat, squeezing tight as the boy committed to the order given to him.
Blood blossomed in Marcusâ sclera, and the grip around Connorâs own throat began to wane. It was only when his fatherâs body remained still for a minute, did the tailorâs apprentice finally loose the wire that aided him. Staring down at the bloodied body, his hands retracted.
It was only when he felt a pair of strong hands jerk him back, did Connor realize he had been screaming the entire time. His body was pulled away from his fatherâs, he felt hands clamp around the wound on his leg, and as the Gilneas tabard pushed against his face- his vision darkened.
