As the blade slashes across Connor’s throat, the eyes he never stops staring into aren’t filled with shock.
That, he could understand.
They’re not filled with anger either; grief’s burned that away, leaving them dully scarred.
There’s no resignation; his son’s a fighter born and bred after all and knows it’s not over until –
Hatred? No. He wishes there was. It’s akin to love, right?
That’s not there either.
No relief. No acceptance. No fear. No pain; his hand’s mercifully fast. No curiosity about what’s to come.
The father will kill the son.
‘Told you so’, say Connor’s triumphant eyes.
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