Kingdom Of Men - 7. "En Prise"

(32 hours earlier)

The night swallowed Pawn as he stormed away from the ranch. The forest loomed before him like shadows, but he didn't care. The anger was boiling inside him, a tide of heat and resentment that felt too big for his body. Bishop's cold, dismissive words rang in his ears, the weight of rejection pressing against his chest until it hurt to breathe.

"Why does he hate me?" Pawn muttered, his voice trembling as he kicked at a rock in his path, sending it skittering into the underbrush. He shook his head, his fists clenching. "I didn't do anything," His words echoed back to him, swallowed almost immediately by the dense, ancient forest.

The trees seemed to close in the deeper he walked. Their twisted branches wove together, blocking the moonlight until the path before him became a blur of shadows. The air was colder here, damp and thick, and the faint rustling of unseen creatures sent shivers crawling up his spine. Still, he pushed forward, consumed by anger, his feet crunching over fallen leaves and snapping twigs.

"I hate him," he growled, though they felt hollow even as the words left his mouth. Pawn kicked a fallen branch, watching it splintered against a nearby tree. "He acts like I'm nothing."

The forest answered with silence, the kind that felt alive, buzzing, and oppressive. It seemed to mock him, amplifying his rage until it became a wildfire inside him, untamed and dangerous. He picked up a stone and hurled it into the darkness. Somewhere, something rustled, a low growl rising from the shadows. Pawn froze, his breath catching in his throat.

But the anger was louder than fear. He squared his shoulders, glaring into the abyss. "What?!" he shouted, his voice echoing. "I'm not scared!"

The forest didn't reply, but the rustling grew closer, more deliberate. The darkness seemed to pulse, the trees leaning toward him like looming figures with clawed hands. Pawn's bravado faltered. The realization crept in slowly, insidious and undeniable: he had walked too far.

The anger ebbed, replaced by something colder, sharper. He looked around, his head swiveling as the forest seemed to stretch in every direction, unfamiliar and endless. Where am I? His pulse quickened, and his feet instinctively moved, retracing steps he couldn't remember. Every sound was amplified, the snap of a twig, the distant howl of an animal, the whispering of leaves in the wind.

Panic swelled in his chest as his mind raced. Why the fuck did I keep going? I should have turned back. He stumbled over a root, catching himself against the rough bark of a tree. His hands trembled as he looked around, the forest suddenly feeling alive, as if it were watching him, waiting.

The howling grew louder, joined now by the sharp yips of smaller creatures circling closer. Pawn's eyes darted to a large tree ahead of him, its thick branches reaching skyward like a ladder into the dark. The trunk was massive, its surface knotted and rough, a challenge he could handle. He didn't hesitate.

The first branch was high, but Pawn leaped, his fingers gripping the bark as he hauled himself up. His muscles burned with the effort, but he moved with a kind of practiced precision, the echoes of childhood afternoons spent scaling the rooftops of his home.

His body trembled with exertion when he reached a sturdy branch high above the ground. He pulled himself onto the log, leaning back against the trunk as he caught his breath. The air up there was colder and crisper, and the world below felt distant momentarily.

The tree branches swayed slightly in the breeze, but Pawn felt safe. His fingers brushed over the rough bark, his breathing slowing. He thought of the ranch, Bishop's hardened gaze, and the weight of expectations and rejection that had chased him into the woods. A lump formed in his throat, and for a moment, he allowed himself to feel small, to let the hurt seep through the cracks of his anger.

His body ached, his eyelids heavy. The tree seemed to cradle him, its branches forming a cocoon around his weary form.

As exhaustion claimed him, the forest transformed again, its ominous presence softening into something almost soothing. Pawn's eyes fluttered shut, and his body sank against the tree, surrendering to sleep. Above him, the stars emerged through the canopy, faint and flickering, as though watching over him.

The forest breathed around him, alive and ancient, its mysteries folding Pawn into its depths as he drifted into dreams...

 

The roof of the house's shingles felt warm under Pawn's bare feet as he perched precariously near the edge. The wind tousled his dark hair as if urging him to go higher, to stretch further. He felt invincible up there, his small hands gripping the roof's peak like it was the summit of a mountain.

"Patrick!" King's voice boomed from below, sharp and commanding, yet tinged with something else, something Pawn couldn't quite place. Pride, perhaps?

Pawn leaned forward, peering over the edge. King stood in the yard, arms crossed, his tailored shirt rolled to his elbows, and his brow furrowed in annoyance and amusement. He looked like he belonged to a completely different world, impeccable and untouchable, but the way he tilted his head upward, eyes squinting against the light, made him seem almost ordinary.

"What do you think you're doing up there?" King barked, his tone serious but not entirely angry.

Pawn grinned, his knees skimming the edge of the roof. "I'm flying," he said, his voice carrying on the wind.

"You're about to fall," King replied, though there was no mistaking the faint curl of a smile on his lips.

"I won't fall," Pawn declared with a confidence that only a child could possess. "See?" He held his arms out, balancing like a tightrope walker.

King exhaled sharply, a sound that was somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. He took a few steps closer, standing directly below Pawn. "Get down before you break your neck."

Pawn hesitated, glancing back at the peak of the roof. He didn't want to come down, not yet. He felt free, untethered from the rules and expectations of the world below. "Why do you care?" he shot back, a hint of defiance in his tone.

King's smile faded, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Because you're my son," he said.

Pawn blinked, startled by the rare admission. King rarely expressed such things openly, and hearing it now sent a strange warmth through Pawn's chest. He shuffled closer to the edge, sitting down and letting his legs dangle over the side. "You're just mad because you can't get up here," he teased, the grin returning to his face.

King chuckled, shaking his head. "Is that what you think?" He looked up at Pawn, his expression softening. "You're lucky you're better at climbing than you are at listening," he muttered almost to himself.

Pawn tilted his head, watching King closely. Something in the way he stood there, hands on his hips, reminded Pawn of himself: stubbornness, an unyielding will.

"I'm not coming down until you say I'm brave," Pawn challenged, crossing his arms.

King raised an eyebrow, amusement flickering across his face. "Brave?" he repeated. He stepped back, folding his arms as he considered the boy above him. "You're stubborn, reckless...and entirely too bold for your own good," he said, his voice firm. But then, after a beat, he added softly, "And yes, brave. Too brave sometimes."

Pawn's grin widened, his cheeks flushing with pride. "I knew it," he said, starting to shimmy his way down the side of the roof.

King stepped forward, his hands ready to catch the boy if he slipped. But Pawn made it safely to the ground, landing with a triumphant hop. He turned to face King, his chest puffed out like he'd just conquered the world.

"You're impossible," King muttered, ruffling Pawn's hair despite himself. Though King's tone was strict when he said, "Don't climb up there again," Pawn could see the glimmer of pride in his eyes, a silent acknowledgment of the fire they both shared.

 

The world greeted Pawn with cruelty when he woke, his body slamming against the ground with a thud that knocked the breath from his lungs. Pain blossomed in his ribs, sharp and unyielding, as he rolled onto his side, groaning softly. His fingers dug into the dirt, cold and damp beneath him, as the taste of copper lingered on his tongue. For a moment, he lay still, his chest heaving as he looked around.

The night had not yet relinquished its hold. Above, the fragmented sky bled through the gaps in the canopy, stars scattered like shattered glass across a velvet expanse. Their light was faint, barely enough to illuminate the forest, which loomed around him in shades of deep blue and shadow. The air smelled of moss and decay, earthy and ancient, and the silence was so profound it pressed against him, heavy and foreboding.

He groaned again, pushing himself onto his elbows. His ribs protested a dull ache that made his breath hitch. How da'fuck did I fall? His eyes flicked upward to the branches high above. The branch he had been sitting on was now broken. The tree seemed impossibly tall now, a titan he had dared to climb. He blinked, disoriented, before lowering his gaze. That was when he saw it.

His father's horse. The black stallion.

It stood a few feet away as if sculpted from the night itself. Its coat gleamed obsidian, dark as a shadow, with faint highlights that caught the starlight. The creature's mane cascaded in untamed waves, and its eyes glimmered with an uncanny intelligence that seemed almost human. It was a majestic, haunting presence, its body motionless but tense, like a predator poised to strike or flee.

Pawn froze. For a moment, he thought he might still be dreaming. The lines between reality and whatever surreal nightmare he'd fallen into blurred beyond recognition. The horse's gaze was fixed on him, unblinking, its breath clouding the cold air in soft puffs.

"Are you here to gloat?" Pawn muttered, his voice hoarse, his throat raw from the fall. The words felt foolish when they left his lips, but he didn't care. The anger he'd carried into the forest still simmered, its embers stoked by the humiliation of his tumble. He pushed himself to his knees, clutching his ribs, and faced the creature. "What the fuck do you want?"

The horse didn't move, its ears flicking as if considering him. It felt less like an animal and more like something else entirely, an omen, a judge, a watcher. Its stillness unnerved him, and he hated how small it made him feel.

"Do you wanna help?" Pawn asked, his voice trembling, his vulnerability seeping through despite himself. He shuffled forward slightly, his body aching with every movement. "You could…you know...help me get out of here."

The horse stepped back.

Pawn froze, his face twisting in frustration. "What the fuck...are you playing with me?" He took another step, and again, the horse retreated, its hooves silent against the forest floor. Its eyes never left the boy's, challenging and unyielding, as if it were testing him.

The realization hit him like a slap, hot and stinging. "What? You think I need you?" he snapped, his voice rising, cracking with emotion. "You think I can't do this on my own?" His hands balled into fists, his nails digging into his palms. The horse's head tilted as though mocking him, and something inside Pawn snapped.

"I don't need you!" he shouted, his voice echoing through the trees, startling a few unseen birds into flight. "I'm fine!

The horse's response was immediate and violent. It reared back, its front legs kicking at the air as it released a piercing neigh that sent a chill down Pawn's spine. The sound was raw, primal, shaking the very ground beneath him. Then, with a powerful twist of its body, the horse bolted into the shadows, its hooves pounding against the earth like thunder, and it was gone.

Pawn stood there, his chest heaving, his heart pounding as the echoes of its retreat faded into the night. The anger that had fueled him wavered, replaced by a hollow ache he couldn't name. His shoulders slumped, and he pressed a hand to his chest, where his heart hammered wildly, refusing to calm.

He turned, his gaze falling to where the horse stood. The dirt was disturbed, the only evidence that it had been there at all. Why is he here? Why hasn't he left?

There was something more to it. Something Pawn couldn't explain.

The faint and distant sound of water broke through his spiraling thoughts. Pawn's ears perked, and his head tilted toward the noise. A creek, maybe a small river. The thought stirred something in him, a tiny flicker of hope.

At the very least, it was a direction.

He pulled his hood over his head, shielding himself from the cold, and started walking. Each step was careful and deliberate, his eyes scanning the forest around him as the sound of running water grew louder. The forest didn't feel as menacing now, though it still held its mysteries, its unsettling secrets.

The slope was steeper than Pawn expected, its surface slick with dew and scattered with loose rocks and damp leaves. Each cautious step sent small debris tumbling ahead of him, their whispers disappearing into the dense underbrush.

But then his foot caught on a jagged root hidden beneath the leaves. His body pitched forward, and before he could see himself, he tumbled down the incline, scraping against the ground as gravity pulled him into its merciless embrace. When he finally stopped, his palms were raw, dirt pressed into his skin, and his left knee throbbed with a sharp, insistent pain.

"Damn it," he hissed, sitting back to inspect the damage. Blood welled in a jagged line across his knee, crimson against the pale skin. Dirt clung to the wound's edges, stinging when he touched it. He clenched his teeth, more in frustration than pain.

But the sight of his scraped knee triggered something deep within him, pulling him backward through time.

 

He was eight again, small and gangly, standing at the edge of his mother's garden with tears streaming down his face. His hands clutched his knee, bleeding from where he'd fallen off his bike. The wound was shallow, but to the child, it felt catastrophic. He sobbed into his hands, the pain mingling with embarrassment and fear.

"Stop crying," a voice commanded from behind him.

Pawn looked up through watery eyes to see King standing a few feet away, his silhouette tall and imposing. His arms were crossed over his chest, his expression stern. He wasn't wearing his usual easy smile or the warmth he sometimes showed others. This was King at his most austere, his gaze sharp as he stepped closer.

"It hurts," Pawn whimpered, shrinking under King's scrutiny.

King knelt, his shadow falling over Pawn, making him feel even smaller. "Life hurts, kid," King said, his voice even but cold. "You think people are going to care if you cry? They won't. All they'll see is weakness. And weakness...it...scares people."

Pawn sniffled, his tiny hands clutching his knee tighter as if to shield himself from the weight of King's words.

"You want people to respect you? To listen when you speak?" King continued, his tone relentless. "Then you need to be strong even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts."

The tears in Pawn's eyes didn't stop, but his cries quieted, muffled by his trembling lips. King's eyes lingered on the wound for a moment before he took his thumb to his mouth, glazing it with a thick layer of spit. Then, he brought the finger to his son's wound and swiped it over the wound, covering it in a protective layer, the blood disappearing as he brushed through. Pawn's eyes followed, mesmerized by his father's magic trick and the feeling of the man's warmth as he touched his skin.

He glanced up, his cerulean gaze meeting his father's. "Daddy...?" he called.

But King sighed, almost imperceptibly, before standing and turning away. "Clean yourself up," he said over his shoulder, disappearing into the house.

Pawn stayed there for hours, his heart grappling with a feeling he knew nothing about and didn't have the words for.

Yet.

 

The memory faded as Pawn sat on the forest floor, staring at his injured knee. The sting of the scrape was nothing compared to the ache that settled in his chest. He wondered, not for the first time if King had ever realized how deeply those words had cut him. Suppose King had ever regretted them.

Shaking his head, Pawn forced himself to his feet. The forest around him was silent as if holding its breath. He pressed his fingers to his knee, hissing softly at the pain, but he refused to let it slow him down.

He had learned that much from King.
The pain was something you pushed through. Something you buried until it stopped mattering. It didn't really work out for you, did it?

The sound of water was louder now, rushing and tumbling over rocks. He limped forward, using the tree trunks to steady himself as the slope leveled out and the ground grew softer. The forest opened ahead, revealing a narrow creek cutting through the dense foliage. The water sparkled faintly in the pale light, its surface alive with motion.

Pawn stopped at the edge, the cool air brushing against his skin as he looked down at the flowing water. The sound was soothing, a rhythmic murmur of sorts. He crouched, cupping his hands to splash water onto his face, the shock of the cold waking him fully.

The forest seemed less menacing, but it still felt vast and indifferent, as if it had swallowed him whole and was deciding what to do with him. Pawn stared at the water, his reflection broken by ripples, his thoughts too scattered to form a coherent thread.

"Stop crying," King's voice echoed in his mind.

But this time, Pawn didn't cry. He sat there, watching the water flow, letting its sound drown out everything else. For the first time in hours, his body and mind were still, a fleeting peace settling over him.

The sun's warmth began to chase away the night's chill, caressing the boy's skin through the fabric of his hoodie. He reached up, tugging it down, and his raven-black hair tumbled free, catching the light in shimmering waves. The edges of his lips curved upward ever so slightly, a rare and tentative smile as he soaked in the sun's embrace.

He sat by the water's edge, his knees drawn up to his chest, fingers brushing absently over the damp earth. This place, this moment, felt untouched by time, as though it had been waiting for him alone. He closed his eyes, tilting his face upward, letting the sun's heat thaw the chill that had settled in his bones overnight. So this is why you loved this place. He was beginning to understand.

This whole place: the forest, the ranch, the plains. They weren't just King's escape.

They were his sanctuary.

As the heat grew, coaxing beads of sweat to form along his brow, Pawn shifted. He stood, a little unsteady at first, and glanced down at the river, its gentle currents calling to him. He shrugged off his hoodie, the fabric sliding from his lean frame to pool at his feet. Piece by piece, he stripped away his clothing until he stood bare under the sun, his body a living testament to the fleeting beauty of youth.

Pawn's physique indeed carried echoes of King's in his youth, yet there were undeniable differences. Where King had been all refined elegance, a sculpted beauty that seemed almost fragile beneath the weight of his charisma, Pawn bore a quiet power. His frame was lithe, his muscles finely etched under his skin kissed with the faint glow of health. His ass stood proudly out, regal and round, covered by the most flawless peach skin. His chest rose and fell with steady breaths, and his shoulders, broader than one might expect, spoke of a quiet confidence that was both physical and deeply rooted within. And there was Pawn's cock. The most flawless, most beautiful stretch of pink skin.

The forest seemed to acknowledge his presence, the sunlight breaking through to paint his skin in dappled patterns of light and shadow. There was an earthiness to him, a rawness that made him feel part of the wild, as though he suddenly belonged here more than anywhere else.

Pawn slowly stepped into the river, the cool water lapping at his ankles, then his calves, finally rising to envelop his body. He moved slowly, savoring the sensations, the smoothness of the current against his skin, and the way the water seemed to welcome him. With a soft exhale, he leaned back, letting the river cradle him as he floated. His arms spread wide, his dark hair fanned out around him, and his eyes closed against the sun's glare.

The forest faded, the sounds of rustling leaves and chirping birds giving way to the quiet echoes of his mind. Memories stirred unbidden, fragments of moments long past. His body drifted with the current, but his thoughts were anchored elsewhere.

 

The water was smooth as glass, rippling only when Pawn thrashed his arms or kicked his legs in frustration. He floated in their home's pristine pool, the evening light streaming through the windows in golden ribbons. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't master it, the art of surrender, the delicate balance of letting go.

His legs sank again, pulling him under. Gasping, he surged upright, sputtering water and swiping at his face. His fists clenched, and he struck the surface, sending angry splashes into the air. "Stupid water," he muttered, voice trembling with frustration. He tried again, flattening his back against the surface, arms spread wide, eyes squeezed shut. For a moment, he hovered, and then his legs betrayed him, dragging him downward.

"Damn it!" he yelled, slamming his fist into the water again. His chest burned with the frustration of failure, but deeper still, something else lingered, an ache that had nothing to do with the pool.

Then, suddenly, there was a hand. Warm and steady, it slid beneath his back, supporting him where the water could not. Pawn opened his eyes, startled, only to find King standing over him. He was shirtless, which meant he had gone inside the pool. He never got inside the pool. His expression, as always, was guarded by the barest flicker of something softer hiding beneath his composed exterior.

"You're fighting too hard," King said simply, his voice a low murmur.

Pawn blinked up at him, momentarily stunned. His father rarely entered the quiet spaces of his world. But here he was, his hand firm and unyielding against Pawn's back as he held him afloat.

"I wasn't fighting," Pawn replied, his tone defiant, though his voice betrayed his uncertainty.

King huffed a soft laugh, the faintest quirk of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "You were punching the water like it owed you money, kid."

Pawn flushed, his cheeks warm even in the cool water. "I just...I can't do it."

"You're trying too hard." King's hand shifted, adjusting Pawn's position with a gentleness that surprised him. "Floating isn't about forcing. It's about trusting."

"Trusting what?" Pawn asked, his voice quieter now, almost vulnerable.

"The water," King replied, his tone softening. He hovered along the surface, his arm still beneath Pawn, keeping him buoyant. "You've got to let it carry you. Stop trying to control it."

Pawn looked up at him, searching his father's face for something he wasn't sure he'd find. King rarely showed tenderness, and yet, in that moment, his hand was an anchor, steadying Pawn in more ways than one.

"Like this," King murmured, his free hand ghosting over Pawn's forehead, coaxing him to close his eyes. "Just breathe. Stop worrying about what's below."

Pawn hesitated, then obeyed, his body stiff but willing. Slowly, King's hand began to guide him, the pressure beneath his back easing until Pawn realized, with a start, that he was floating, not sinking, not flailing, just...floating.

A small, incredulous whisper escaped his lips. "I'm doing it," he said, his voice soft with wonder.

"You are," King said, though his tone carried something heavier, an edge of restraint.

Pawn opened his eyes, meeting King's gaze. "Thanks."

The word fell between them, heavy and fragile, like glass balanced on the edge of a precipice. King's eyes flickered, his mask slipping for a heartbeat before he withdrew his hand. "You've got it now," he said briskly, rowing himself off the water, his soaked body emerging from under the surface.

"Wait..." Pawn sat up, the water sloshing around him, but King turned away.

"I have a call," King said, his voice calm and distant. "Keep practicing...little Pawn," he whispered almost to himself.

And just like that, he was gone, his footsteps echoing off the tiled walls as he left Pawn alone in the water.

The silence that followed was deafening, the words "little Pawn" slowly fading. The boy leaned back in the water again, floating as King had taught him, but the stillness felt hollow, and the ache returned.

He closed his eyes and let the water carry him, pretending it was enough to fill the emptiness his father had left behind.

 

Pawn continued to float, the river embracing him like a tender hand, its cool fingers brushing over his skin and soothing the tension that had knotted in his muscles. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, Pawn felt weightless, not just in body but in spirit. He let his arms drift out beside him, his legs extending as the gentle current carried him.

But the peace shattered in an instant. A soft snap broke through the quiet symphony. A twig splitting underweight. Pawn's eyes snapped open, his body instinctively tensing as he glanced toward the riverbank.

There, emerging from the brush, was a fox. Its russet coat gleamed like fire under the morning sun, and its bright, inquisitive, and sharp eyes were fixed on the boy.

The fox padded closer, its delicate paws barely making a sound as it approached the pile of Pawn's clothes scattered on the bank. It sniffed curiously, circling them before its snout dipped toward the fabric.

A small laugh escaped Pawn's lips, his anger momentarily forgotten. "Hey, little guy," he called softly, charmed by the animal's elegance. "Those aren't yours, you know."

But the fox had other ideas.

Its sharp teeth snagged the edge of Pawn's hoodie, and with a quick jerk of its head, it began dragging the garment toward the bushes, dragging the sweatpants with it.

"Hey!" Pawn shouted, his voice cutting through the calm like a whip. He flailed in the water, causing waves to ripple outward. "Stop that!"

The fox paused, cocking its head at him with an almost playful glint in its eyes as though daring him to intervene. Then it grabbed Pawn's pants with its teeth and bounded into the underbrush, dragging the bundle of clothes.

"No! Come back!" Pawn screamed, splashing toward the bank. He scrambled out of the water, his bare feet slipping on the mossy rocks as he rushed after the animal. "Mother fucker!"

The fox was quick, its body weaving through the trees with practiced ease. Pawn gave chase, his wet skin glistening as he darted into the forest, his dick flapping about between his thighs, but it was no use. The fox vanished into the dense foliage, taking his clothes with it.

Pawn stood there, panting and dripping water onto the forest floor, his fists clenched in frustration. "Are you 'fucking' kidding me?" he yelled, his voice echoing into the void.

He trudged back to the riverbank, defeated. His eyes scanned the area, desperate for anything the fox might have left behind. His heart sank until, at last, he spotted them, his undies still lying in a crumpled heap near the water's edge.

"Well, I guess it's better than nothing," he muttered bitterly, snatching them up and pulling them over his wet body. The fabric clung uncomfortably to his skin, but it was all he had.

Taking a deep breath, Pawn glanced back at the river one last time before turning toward the path he thought would lead him back to the ranch. His steps were slow at first, his damp feet squelching against the earth, but his resolve began to build as he moved forward.

"You'll figure it out," he told himself, his voice barely above a whisper. "You always do."

And so he walked, trying to retrace his steps, the forest around him alive, testing his courage at every turn.

The clearing stretched wide before Pawn, its tall grass swaying in the breeze like the surface of a restless sea. Pawn turned in a slow circle, his eyes darting across. Nothing looked right. Or remotely familiar. Everything was foreign, alien. His chest tightened as panic nipped at the edges of his thoughts.

"Where the fuck am I?" he muttered, his voice trembling slightly. He took a step forward, then another, searching for anything that might anchor him to the path he'd lost. But the forest loomed silent and indifferent around him, its vastness swallowing his presence.

Then, a sound, soft but distinct, broke through the stillness. A low snort, followed by the crunch of leaves underfoot. Pawn spun around, his heart leaping into his throat.

There he was again.

The black stallion stood at the edge of the clearing, its sleek ebony coat glinting. Its sharp and intelligent eyes locked onto Pawn, and its body held tension as though it were poised to bolt or charge, depending on the boy's next move.

"You again," Pawn muttered, his voice flat but edged with irritation. He crossed his arms, glaring at the creature. "What do you want from me?"

The horse didn't move, its gaze unyielding. For a fleeting moment, Pawn felt something stir in his chest, a faint, inexplicable connection. It was as if the horse understood and could see through him, into his thoughts.

But then Pawn stepped forward, and the horse shifted back, its hooves scraping against the earth in protest. Its nostrils flared, and it snorted again, its head tossing defiantly.

Pawn stopped, annoyance bubbling to the surface. "You're just like him," he muttered, his voice barely audible.

The horse stamped its hoof, its body agitated, as if it understood and rejected the comparison.

And just like that, Pawn's simmering frustration that had been building all morning finally boiled over.

He grabbed a stick from the ground and hurled it toward the horse. It landed harmlessly at its feet, but the motion was enough to send a clear message.

"Fine! Snort all you want!" Pawn yelled, his voice cracking under the weight of his emotions. "You're fucking useless, anyway! Just like he was! Always there, always watching, but never..." he broke off, his breath hitching as his throat tightened. "Never what I needed."

The horse jeered, its hooves pawing at the ground, but it didn't run. It stood its ground, its dark eyes fixed on the boy with an almost accusatory look.

Pawn snatched another stick, then another, throwing them with all his strength. "This is all your fault! I needed you, and you couldn't even carry me when I...when I..."

The words choked, blocked by the sob that erupted from his chest. He fell to his knees, hands clutching at the earth as his grief finally broke free.

"What the fuck did I do wrong?" Pawn wailed. "I just...needed you," he whispered, his voice trembling, the anger bleeding into despair. Tears spilled down his cheeks, searing and relentless, as his shoulders shook with the weight of everything he'd been holding back.

The horse stood silently and still, save for its breath's gentle rise and fall. It didn't retreat or approach. It simply watched, bearing witness to the boy's unraveling. Pawn's cries filled the clearing, echoing through the forest like the lament of something broken beyond repair. His fists pounded the ground weakly, the fight draining out of him with every heaving sob. Memories surged, unbidden, and overwhelming: his father's face, his sharp words, his rare, fleeting moments of warmth, and the crushing absence that came after.

And for the first time, Pawn let himself feel it all.

 

The house was quiet, cloaked in the stillness that only came in the dead of night. Pawn stirred in his bed, his sleep interrupted by muffled voices rising and falling in the distance. He sat up, blinking the grogginess from his eyes. The voices became sharper, more pointed, cutting through the walls of his room like knives.

His parents. Again.

Curiosity and unease pushed him to his feet. He padded softly across the cold floor, his bare toes brushing against the edge of the doorframe. He hesitated momentarily, then opened the door wide enough to slip through. The hallway stretched before him, dim and shadowed, leading to the faint light spilling out from the kitchen.

As he neared it, the words became more precise, sharper, each laced with venom.

"You've missed the last three fundraisers, Omar," Mara's voice was sharp, trembling with restrained anger. "Do you know how that makes us look? My father's been drilling me, and I'm running out of excuses."

King's reply came low and rough, his tone simmering with frustration. "I don't give a fuck what your father thinks, Mara. I can't keep playing this part anymore. It's suffocating."

"Suffocating?" she snapped, her voice climbing higher. "Oh, forgive me, Your Highness, for expecting you to show up to the life you made! Suffocating? Try holding this entire family together while you check out whenever it suits you!"

Pawn froze, his body pressed against the wall just out of sight. He could see the sliver of his father's silhouette, tall and imposing even as he slumped against the kitchen counter. His mother stood opposite him, her posture rigid, arms crossed defensively.

"I'm not checking out," King shot back, his voice rising. "I'm trying to survive. I'm trying not to drown! This...this whole fucking circus...it was for you, Mara, not for me."

Mara's laugh was bitter, like broken glass. "For me? Are you seriously blaming me? I didn't force you into this. You said yes, Omar."

"I was twenty-four, for fuck sake!" he shouted, slamming his hand against the counter. The sound made Pawn flinch. "I didn't know what the hell I was saying yes to. The appearances, the schedules...this isn't a life...it's a fucking prison!"

"And what about Patrick...?" Mara's voice cracked, the edge softening for just a moment. "What about our son? Does he get a say in this? Or are you going to check out on him too?"

King's silence was deafening.

Pawn's chest tightened, his breath shallow as he waited for his father's answer.

"Patrick deserves..." King started, but his voice cut off abruptly.

"Patrick," Mara said, louder now. "He hears you, Omar. Every time you shut yourself in your office or disappear for hours, he hears it. He feels it. You think he doesn't know?"

There was a pause, heavy and unbearable. Pawn dared to peek around the corner, his eyes wide, his breath caught in his throat. His father's face was drawn tight, his hands gripping the counter's edge as if to keep himself upright.

And then, Mara's gaze shifted. Her sharp eyes darted to the hallway where Pawn stood, catching the faint glimmer of his raven hair and wide, startled cerulean eyes.

"Patrick?" she called, her voice softening, but it only made Pawn's stomach twist.

King turned sharply, his face etched with something Pawn couldn't quite place: shock, regret, and guilt tangled together. "Patrick," King said, his voice suddenly quiet but urgent.

Pawn bolted.

His feet pounded against the wooden floors as he fled back to his room, his breath hitching in his throat. Behind him, he could hear his father calling his name and hurried footsteps closing in.

 

The clearing darkened. Pawn's every step felt heavier, and the absence of his clothes made him feel vulnerable, like the forest itself was closing in, conspiring to keep him there forever.

The breeze turned icy, cutting through his wet body like daggers. His teeth chattered as he trudged on, the hope of finding his way out dwindling with every directionless step. Two hours passed, and the sky above became an inky void scattered with faint, reluctant stars. The last threads of sunlight had dissolved, leaving Pawn in near-complete darkness.

He stumbled in his step, the edges of the forest like looming shadows mocking his struggle. Then he stopped, clutching his arms to his chest for warmth, realizing the bitter truth: he was even more lost than before. The sound of his breathing felt too loud in the oppressive silence, his heartbeat a metronome ticking away his dwindling chances of survival.

And then, the stallion returned.

It appeared like an apparition, its dark coat blending with the night as if it were born from the shadows. Its eyes glinted faintly, reflecting the sparse moonlight. Pawn froze, a bitter laugh escaping his lips, dry and humorless.

"You again," he muttered, his voice rasping with exhaustion and frustration.

The horse remained still, its imposing figure watching him in stoic silence.

"What are you here for now?" Pawn sneered, sarcasm dripping from his words. "Come to gloat?" he questioned, eyes shivering.

In a swift move, Pawn puffed and yanked down his damp undies, tossing them over to the horse. The slightly soaked rag of fabric fell a few feet from the horse. But the beast didn't move. Its stillness was unnerving. Pawn shook his head, bitterly chuckling as he crouched on the ground, folding in on himself.

"Just like him," Pawn muttered, more to himself than to the horse. "You only show up when it doesn't matter. When I don't need you anymore."

His eyes burned as memories began to surface unsolicited. He leaned back, staring at the stars as his mind drifted.

 

He was fourteen again, standing outside the heavy oak door of King's study. It was a place of solitude, a fortress where King retreated, a world Pawn was never allowed to enter. But that night, curiosity had gotten the better of him. He'd knocked tentatively, his knuckles barely grazing the wood. He had never been invited in before.

Not until that night.

"Come in," King's voice called from inside, low and almost reluctant.

Pawn pushed the door open, stepping into a room filled with the smell of old books and smoke. His father was hunched over a chessboard, his elbows on the table, fingers tapping an erratic rhythm against his temple. The lines on his face seemed more profound, and his eyes focused intently on the board.

Pawn hesitated. "What are you doing?"

King looked up, startled momentarily, before gesturing for Pawn to sit across from him. His lips twitched in the faintest hint of a smile, though his eyes remained restless.

"Come here," King said.

Pawn obeyed, sliding into the chair opposite him. His eyes darted to the chessboard, the pieces arranged in a way that suggested a game in progress, though it seemed incomplete.

King's fingers moved to his mouth, biting at his nails, a habit Pawn had never seen before. It unnerved him, seeing his father so unguarded, so human.

"Are you okay?" Pawn asked cautiously.

King exhaled sharply, dropping his hand. "I'm stuck," he admitted, his voice tinged with sadness.

"Why?" the boy asked.

King gestured to the board. "I'm...missing my Bishop," he said sarcastically, though it didn't quite reach his eyes.

Pawn leaned forward, intrigued. "Can I help?"

King looked at him, really looked at him, as though seeing him for the first time. A small, genuine smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

"All I've got is this...pawn now," King said, leaning back in his chair. "And it's still two moves away from the other end of the board."

Pawn frowned, studying the pieces. "What's so special about a pawn?"

King's smile widened slightly, the weariness in his eyes lifting just a fraction. "Well...people underestimate him. It's small, slow, and expendable. But it's the only piece that can be promoted."

"Promoted into what?" Pawn asked, his voice tinged with wonder.

"Anything it wants," King replied. His gaze lingered on Pawn as though his words carried a weight far beyond the game.

Pawn's chest swelled with a strange warmth, a flicker of pride at his father's words. But the moment didn't last.

King's smile faltered, his expression growing distant again. He rose abruptly from his chair, his movements brisk and almost mechanical. "That's enough for tonight," he muttered, turning away.

Pawn blinked, confused. "But..."

"Go to bed, Patrick," King said, his voice clipped as though shutting a door on something too painful to face.

Pawn watched as his father walked to the window, his silhouette framed by the pale glare of moonlight. He stayed there, unmoving, as though lost in some distant memory.

Pawn left the study, the warmth in his chest fading and slowly replaced by a hollow ache.

"Go away!" Pawn shouted, his voice cracking.

 

The horse tossed its head, its mane flickering, but it didn't retreat.

The cold was relentless now, gnawing at Pawn's flesh as he lay sprawled on the forest floor, his tears carving icy trails down his cheeks. His body trembled violently, his breaths shallow and uneven. The sharp wind whipped through the clearing, and with each gust, he felt the life leeching out of him.

This is it. I won't make it out of here.

His eyes fluttered closed, and the darkness behind his lids welcomed him, pulling him away from the ache in his chest and the cold in his bones.

But then, a sound, a soft, deliberate crunch of hooves against the earth.

Pawn's eyes flickered open, weak and unfocused. The horse was there, stepping toward him slowly, deliberately, like a shadow peeling itself away from the night. The moonlight caught the sleek, dark sheen of its coat, and as it moved closer, it seemed almost ethereal, its presence impossibly calm.

Pawn tried to lift his head, but his strength failed him. All he could do was watch as the horse lowered gracefully, its powerful legs bending until it nestled against the ground beside him. The warmth of its body was immediate, radiating outward like a shield against the biting cold.

Pawn blinked, his vision hazy, as the horse's breath brushed against his cheek. He hesitated, his trembling hand reaching out tentatively until his fingertips skimmed against its flank. The horse's skin was warm, smooth, and alive.

The boy's voice cracked as he whispered, "Dad… are you in there?"

The horse didn't move, didn't make a sound. It stayed there, steady and unwavering, shielding him as Pawn's tears fell again, soaking into its dark, silken coat.

Along with one last memory.

 

The music in Pawn's headphones was loud, its bass pulsing through his veins, drowning out the world around him. He sprawled on his bed, staring at the ceiling, lost in thought. His fingers tapped absently to the rhythm. Everything outside his bubble of sound was distant, muffled.

Then, a loud crack, sharp and abrupt, cut through.

Even with the music blasting, it reached him. A strange, reverberating sound, unnatural and final. Pawn froze. Slowly, he pulled the headphones from his ears.

Silence.

And then, a scream.

The sound pierced the quietude, raw and guttural, ripping through the air like a blade. His mother's voice, wailing, calling his father's name. "Omar! Omar! No, no, no!"

Pawn sat up, the world around him tilting. He swung his legs off the bed, body moving instinctively as though in a dream. The house was in chaos: staff shouting, footsteps thundering down hallways, the panicked shrill of Mara's commands as she screamed for someone to call an ambulance, her voice shaking as she muttered into her phone.

"He shot himself," she whispered frantically as if saying it would make it less true.

Pawn's ears rang. His feet moved unaided, carrying him down the hallway and the stairs. The chaos of the house was muffled as if it were happening in another world. The walls around him seemed to stretch and sway, and the light flickered faintly.

The door to his father's study was ajar, a sliver of dim light spilling into the hallway. Pawn stopped in the doorway, his hand brushing against the cool wood as he pushed it open.

The room was eerily quiet, untouched by the commotion beyond its walls. The air smelled of gunpowder and iron, sharp and metallic. King's body was slumped over the desk, his head resting on a dark, spreading pool of crimson. One hand lay limply at his side while the other loosely gripped the pistol that had ended it all.

Pawn stepped inside, his movements slow, deliberate. His heartbeat was steady, almost serene. His bare feet padded softly against the wooden floor as he approached.

He crouched beside his father, tilting his head as his gaze met King's lifeless eyes. Pawn was caught off guard, surprised by what he found.

There was no fear in them, no pain. Only stillness, a quiet the boy had never seen in life.

Pawn's head tilted further, his lips parting as though to speak, but no words came. His own reflection swirled in King's eyes, distorted by the faint sheen of blood on his cheek.

And then, he smiled.

It was small at first, tentative, then grew, spreading across his face like a revelation. He understood now.

His father was finally at peace.

 

Pawn's eyes fluttered open, the soft murmur of the forest brushing against his ears. Above, the night sky spread like a velvet tapestry, glittering with impossibly bright stars. He felt different. His body was no longer trembling with cold. Instead, his skin felt warm, a radiant heat coursing through his veins as though it had been rekindled by something primal and alive.

He turned and saw the horse, its dark hide shimmering, its presence as silent and steady as the trees surrounding them. For a moment, Pawn stared, his breath seizing.

The horse was closer now, its massive frame tucked protectively beside him. Slowly, Pawn moved, his body responding without hesitation as if he had been waiting for this moment. He rolled to the side, the cool earth grounding him as he placed a tentative hand on the horse's flank.

The warmth beneath his palm was like fire.

"You..." Pawn whispered, his voice soft, reverent. His fingers traced the smooth muscle beneath the horse's coat. "You never left, did you?"

The horse shifted slightly, its head turning to look at him, its eyes gleaming with an almost human depth. It let out a low, rumbling sound, a response that vibrated through the air and into Pawn's chest. A small but genuine smile broke across the boy's face. He felt a swell of something he hadn't known before, something he could hardly name.

Trust.

Pawn rose, his legs steady, and swung onto the horse's back. His body moved instinctively, finding easy balance like he'd done it a thousand times before. The horse straightened, powerful and graceful, its head lifting to meet the moonlight.

Pawn leaned forward, his cheek brushing against the horse's neck, his arms folding around it as he whispered, "Let's go home."

And just like that, they disappeared together into the trees, one a dark shadow and the other a radiant light, their figures melting into the endless forest as though they had always belonged there.

(To be continued...)