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Keith knew he wasn’t supposed to touch his dad’s knife. It was an unspoken rule in their household, much like how he wasn’t supposed to bring other people over without giving some sort of notice, or how only his dad was allowed to answer the door.
And yet here he was, holding his father’s blade in his hands while the man slept on their beat-up couch.
It wasn’t strange to find him at home after school let out. His dad’s regular work schedule was anything but regular, working weird hours and odd jobs. He tried to see and talk with Keith at least once a day during the more hectic periods, if only for a few minutes in passing at breakfast or dinner, but on a few occasions, Keith went a day or two without seeing him at all.
No, what was strange was the smell that clung to his dad. He’d smelled it on people he and his dad passed by while they were walking around the neighborhood; people who wore practically rags to people who wore fancy tussled suits as they stumbled down the sidewalk singing horribly offkey, arms wrapped around each other’s shoulders.
Upon examining the bottles on the worn-down coffee table, Keith confirmed that the smell was what his dad had told him was alcohol. Just taking a whiff of one of the half-empty bottles proved potent enough to his nose.
His dad had told him it could do funny things to people; could make them more happy, sad, angry, sleepy. It looked like his dad fell into the latter most because he hadn’t stirred when Keith had opened the door. Even at his most tired, he usually woke up halfway to say “hi” to him and give him the chance to ask him for anything before settling back down.
Keith’s dad also never left his knife laying around haphazardly. He’d leave it sitting on the coffee table, on the wobbly kitchen table, on the scraped-up countertops, on the makeshift nightstand by his bed, or in its sheath on his belt. Otherwise, it was always on his person, right at the small of his back.
But when Keith had come home that day, he had found his father passed out on the couch, one arm hanging off with his fingertips nearly touching the hilt of the bare blade while its sheath laid on the table.
Keith had only meant to put it back in its proper place, yet when he picked it up he couldn’t help but linger over it. It was in such pristine condition that he could see his reflection in the unwrapped portion as he tilted it lightly back in forth in his hand. There wasn’t a single scratch on it. It was like it had never been used.
The thought prompted him to pore into the recesses of his mind, flitting about through memories to catch a glint of the knife, but he couldn’t ever recall his father using it. He supposed that was a good thing; when he had asked his dad why he had it, he said it was for protection. But not before his eyes took on a melancholic tinge to them. He’d thought it was odd how his dad could be smiling and ruffling his hair when his eyes looked so sad.
It wasn’t the first time he’d seen them either. He’d come across his dad once in a while just sitting and staring at the knife in silence at the kitchen table, or while he watched TV late at night, the light illuminating the man’s tired, rugged features as he bent over it slightly, one hand seemingly cradling it as he ran his fingers down its flat surface.
It almost made him look like a ghost.
He didn’t know exactly what it was about the knife that made his dad act like that, but he knew it was special in some way.
He mimicked his father’s earlier gestures, feeling the sleekness as his fingertips traced down its length and reached the wrappings around its bottom half. They went from there almost to the tip of its handle, taut with a more fabricated smoothness. Keith couldn’t recall ever seeing it without them either.
He looked at his father again, still deep in sleep, his chest rising and falling in a steady pattern. He bit his bottom lip as his gaze returned to the knife.
He knew he shouldn’t be doing this, but when was he ever going to get the chance to see what was under the wraps?
As carefully as he could, he slowly undid the binding, starting at the middle, and after a few times around he was greeted by the sight of a glowing blue mark, framed by what seemed like metal wings on both sides.
He’d never seen anything like this outside of cartoons. How was it glowing? Was there some sort of battery pack inside the hilt?
He drew the marked portion of the blade closer to his eye to examine it more closely, though that didn’t help him sort out how it glowed, or what it was supposed to be. Maybe an “s”? Or a five? Or a curvy sword?
Whatever it was, it was fucking cool.
And not just that, but…he couldn’t put it into words, but when he ran his fingers over it, tracing along the mark’s jagged edges, some sort of weight welled up in his chest. He could recognize it was important, enough for his dad to keep it wrapped up and out of sight, but not why.
Regardless of where this reverence stemmed from, Keith could feel it was warranted.
Pulling himself from his thoughts, he glanced at the digital clock that sat on the TV stand. 3:54 p.m. Almost time for Lionhearted to start.
And that’s when Keith found himself in a dilemma. He didn’t want to wake his dad up, but he also didn’t want to miss his new favorite show, even if it was only a rerun.
He decided to try and test the waters. After carefully sheathing the knife and laying it on the coffee table, Keith grabbed the remote across from it. Tapping the power button and then quickly holding down the down volume one, he looked to see if the brief bit of sound that had played had awoken his father. When the man continued to doze, Keith moved his thumb to the other volume button and tapped it once, not taking his eyes off his dad. He continued this slow process until he reached a volume that would simultaneously not wake his father and allow him to understand what was being said onscreen. He ended up being able to get it fairly high with how deep of a slumber his dad seemed to be in. All the better for him to hear the background music too.
Satisfied with his success, he gently placed the remote back down on the table and walked to the kitchen to grab himself some food. His dad usually kept their freezer stocked with frozen dinners Keith could make in the event he wouldn’t be home until late in the night, but Keith opted for a granola bar instead since he didn’t think he’d have enough time to heat one of those up. He returned to the TV with his snack and a glass of water in tow.
Keith knew some of his classmates thought Lionhearted was dumb and for babies, one girl even calling it “cliché.” He wasn’t entirely sure what that meant (and he didn’t think she did either), but with the tone she said it in, it seemed to be negative. Some kids had teased him for watching it when he mentioned he liked it.
“Of course the weird kid likes it.”
“Who else even watches that show anymore?”
“People who can’t afford streaming.”
But when that theme song came on, he couldn’t help but get pumped up and excited for it. And he got really excited when the “Day Breaks” title card flashed on the screen. It was, in his personal opinion, one of the best episodes of the entire series so far. After a season of searching for a way to stop the evil Einon after she had unknowingly helped the tyrant in his rise to power, Layth and her companions finally come up with a plan to take him down. It had been hard, and Layth had to give up the last connection she had with her mother to do it, but they did it. All while looking super cool and having cool powers.
Who cared what those kids thought, this show was amazing. Fuck ‘em.
Not that he would ever say that at school and risk getting in trouble for it. But he could still think it, and he pettily reveled in his awareness of one of the harsher curse words.
Despite seeing the episode multiple times, he still found himself wrapped up in its proceedings: the fall of the last of Einon’s elite guards, the dash through the castle before he could escape, and the grand finale, the climactic swordfight between Layth and her former ally. Keith could practically recite this entire episode by heart. And he totally was, though he was only doing Layth’s lines this time around.
It was at the beginning of this climactic scene that an idea flashed in his mind. It wasn’t very detailed either, just sort of a ‘why not?’ type of deal.
Except he quickly thought of multiple reasons why using his dad’s knife to emulate Layth’s fighting poses while she delivered cool quips and dramatic declarations, the first one being that his dad would flip. Part of the reason it was an unspoken rule Keith didn’t touch it was from years of his dad and other adults instilling in him that kids were not supposed to handle guns or wield any kind of dangerous weapon.
The second was how quiet and sad his dad could get when he held it. It sort of seemed wrong for him to have fun with something that made his dad feel that way.
But at the same time…he couldn’t explain it, really, but when he held it just a little while ago it had felt right in his hands. Kind of heavy, but right.
He decided that a little bit of fun would be okay, provided he didn’t break anything, wrapped it back up tightly like he found it, and put it back on the table. Just some posing and quoting, nothing too flashy; he wouldn’t get carried away.
The weight returned to his chest as its physical mass was once again in his hands, only this time it was mixed with excitement.
Layth and Einon bantered back and forth for a bit, and Keith was a bit proud of himself that he only flubbed one of the former’s lines.
He wouldn’t screw up the next one though, not when it was one of his favorites.
“It seems we’re at an impasse then, because I made a promise to the people of Talrega that I would put an end to your reign of terror,”
As Layth withdrew her sword from its sheath and leveled it at Einon, Keith did the same with the knife, lightly but quickly tossing its sheath onto the table before they both continued. “And I refuse to be made a liar.”
“That sword isn’t fit to be wielded by a traitor to very land it was forged to protect.”
“My mother forged this blade to protect the innocent, regardless of their origins. That purpose hasn’t changed since it was passed down to me.”
“‘Innocent.’ A subjective term you use far too broadly to include all ranges of filth—”
Layth didn’t give him a chance to finish. She swiftly closed the gap between them, and Einon only barely managed to parry her strike. Keith didn’t have any force pushing against his knife, so he had to mime it out, his arms in mock struggle with the air as he tried to obscure his vision with his bangs as he tilted his head slightly down. “If it was really all ranges of ‘filth,’” he said in sync with the heroine, though to his slight chagrin he’d been a second early in readjusting his gaze to meet with his imaginary opponent’s, “it’d include you, Einon.”
The two warriors jumped back from each other, a bit more than Keith could realistically manage given the size of the apartment and the placement of the furniture, but he managed, hopping a bit back before taking on a more combative stance in line with Layth’s. “And you are a far cry from innocent.”
At this point the blows exchanged became so rapid and the space where they were exchanged became so large that Keith really couldn’t keep up with them anymore, but he did his best to follow the flow of the fight that didn’t require a lot of pronounced movement: a slash here, a fireball there, followed up with another parry, all interspersed with the occasional dialogue tradeoff. Nothing too rowdy.
“—That’s your weakness.”
“And yours is that you’re too afraid to do what—”
“Keith!”
Keith jerked towards source of the yell.
His father had woken up, and in a flash, he had gone from laying on the couch to standing next to Keith as one hand grabbed the arm that held the knife and the other pulled it from Keith’s grasp.
“Why do you have this?!”
“I—” He tried to explain himself, that he knew he shouldn’t have it, that he shouldn’t be playing with it, “I didn’t—”
But the words kept getting lodged in his throat.
His dad never raised his voice like that. Not at him, not at anyone else either as far as Keith could remember. That didn’t mean he didn’t get mad because Keith had done a lot of stuff to upset him, like scribbling on the walls of one of a motel they’d stayed in for awhile, but his anger didn’t explode like Keith’s did when people provoked him and pushed him too far. His dad’s was more of quiet, controlled simmer. It exuded from his being, from the firmness of Keith’s name in his mouth that was reflected in his features, set in a way that showed he would not back down from where he stood on the issue at hand, but also that he wasn’t poised to lash out, physically or verbally.
Nothing like the practical stranger wearing his father’s face before him now, tight lines twisting it into something foreign as his eyes narrowed.
“I’m sorry!” he cried as tears pricked the corners of his eyes. He looked away, looked anywhere besides that intense stare, eventually settling on the floor.
The only sound in the room came from the TV as an instrumental version of the theme song played over the credits, but it was white noise to Keith’s ears. An eternity passed before his father spoke again, this time in a completely different tone.
“Son, no, I,” he cut himself off with a shuddering exhale of breath, and it seemed like he had to work a bit to get air back into his lungs because the intake had a shudder to it too. “I…”
Confused, Keith’s gaze returned to meet his father’s, though it was blocked by the man’s free hand scrubbing over his face as the other placed the knife down on the table. It was almost like magic how his expression had changed in the few seconds Keith had last seen it. Gone was the anger, washed away by a sadness akin to the one that took hold of him when he thought Keith wasn’t looking, only so much more fresh and raw. It pulled his dad’s features down, making him look older.
His dad slowly took a step toward him (Keith hadn’t even realized he had taken a few steps back), and then another, before gradually lowing himself onto one knee in front of him with a slight wobble, his eyes searching for something in Keith’s.
Keith made no move to pull away from him when his father embraced him; one arm around his back, one hand on the back of his neck. It was a strong embrace, but not one meant to keep him in place. Keith was sure he could shrug out of it if he did start the motion, but he stayed all the same. Whoever that stranger was in his father’s body before, he was gone now, and the man who had raised Keith all by himself was back.
His father pressed his face into his shoulder, and Keith felt a warm dampness start to form.
“I’m sorry.”
The apology was quiet, muffled, but Keith could still hear it. He wrapped his arms around his father, returning the man’s hug as his silent tears turned into slightly more audible sobs.
Another apology fell from his lips, shortly followed by another, though this one had an addition to it.
“God, Lia, I’m sorry.”
Lia.
His father would mention the name from time to time—a quick reference to things she enjoyed doing, like stargazing, or when Keith did things that reminded his dad of her. It usually made his dad’s lips quirk up, if not break out into a large grin, though it seemed like it would be hard not to with the fondness it tended to be uttered in.
Just like the knife, there was a reverence to it. Sometimes at night, or after he saw other kids being picked up from school and hugged by their moms, Keith would say her name to himself, or just let it sit on his tongue, feel its presence. He tried to draw from it the same feelings it seemed to evoke in his father, as if saying it would flesh them out, but he could never manage it. The only happy ones he could ever seem to grasp were all secondhand from his dad.
He supposed that was better than just the sadder ones he could find on his own. Still, he wished that, between the two of them, he was the only one to harbor such feelings. Better that it was just him than him and his dad.
Better than hearing his dad say her name in such a sorrowful tone it made his heart ache.
He tightened his grip around his father’s back and laid his head upon his shoulder, ignoring the scent of alcohol that still lingered.
They stayed like that for a while until his dad’s sobs tapered off into deep, calming breaths, though a tremble could be felt in them now and then.
“I’m sorry about that, Keith,” his dad whispered to him, chin now lightly resting on Keith’s shoulder as his hand gently ran through the hair at the nape of Keith’s neck. “I didn’t mean to scare you. Do you want to be alone for a bit?”
Keith shook his head against where it laid on his dad’s shoulder. He didn’t think there was anything that could make him want his dad to leave in general, but especially not in that moment.
“Okay,” his dad said softly, and he picked Keith up, the arm that wasn’t on Keith’s back holding his neck slipping under his upper legs before moving to sit Keith on the couch. After grabbing the remote, he sat down beside Keith, his left arm wrapping around Keith’s shoulders. “Anything you want to watch?”
“Discovery or National Geographic?” They could usually find something that they both liked on one of those channels. Clicking through the guide, his dad settled on the latter that had a documentary on the formation of the Earth playing.
They watched in relative silence, taking in everything the documentary presented to them. Even if some of it was a review for Keith (and he was sure more of it was a review for his dad), that didn’t stop it from being any less mesmerizing how all these little intricacies made up the planet they lived on.
And the thought of there being other worlds beyond their solar system that could have similar foundations, enough to support life? It was…there weren’t words to describe how amazing that all was. He hoped to fly out there someday and see it for himself.
At some point during their viewing, when the documentary they started with ended and another one came on, Keith’s dad dozed off, leaning back into the couch as his chest once again rose and fell in a steady rhythm.
As lightly as he could, Keith shrugged out of the arm that still laid upon his shoulders. If he was remembering correctly, his dad had an earlier shift tomorrow, and Keith didn’t want to disturb any more of his rest than he already had.
He made the short way over to where the knife still sat on the coffee table. Taking one last look at the glowing sigil, he rewrapped the bindings around it as best he could before he returned it to its sheath. Setting it on the table in front of his father, Keith went to go make himself a frozen dinner before doing his homework and turning in for the night himself.
He decided not to broach the topic of the knife any further.
The following afternoon Keith came home to his dad on their couch again. This time, however, he was awake, a bit hunched over as he sat, one hand clasping the other one. He’d shaved his growing stubble off too, though there was still a sense of sadness about him that offset the effect it had on his appearance.
“Hey, kiddo,” he greeted with a gentle smile. “Bought some steaks. You hungry?”
Keith supposed he should have savored the meal a bit more than he had—it wasn’t often that they could splurge on steak—but in his defense, his dad made some of the best steak around. He knew how to make it just the way Keith liked it: just slightly browned on the sides and super juicy. His dad preferred his more well-done, but that was his loss.
They ate at the coffee table so they could watch TV easier. Keith had been a bit hesitant to put on Lionhearted after what happened yesterday, but his dad had said it was fine. “It’s your favorite show, right?”
The smile hadn’t left his face, but it also didn’t reach his eyes.
“It’s all right,” Keith said as he handed the remote to his dad. “You pick.”
“Nah, this is good.”
It was a good episode, to be fair, but there was still a bit of guilt coiled in Keith’s gut. He couldn’t get as into it as he normally would.
After the show finished, Keith took both their dishes and glasses to wash off. He was about to grab his bag and start his homework when his dad called for him.
When he came back to the couch his dad was still sitting there, once again in the position Keith had found him in when he first came home; hunched over, hands clasped, shoulders taut. He motioned for Keith to come sit next to him, and Keith obliged.
“I wanted to talk to you about what happened yesterday,” his father said, not looking at him as they both faced forward on the couch. His voice was devoid of anger, but Keith still tensed, shifting his gaze from his father down to the coffee table, his hands lightly clenching his knees. He remained silent, waiting for his father to continue as the guilt from yesterday that had been lurking in his gut resurfaced.
“Son, I’m sorry for reacting the way that I did. I wasn’t all there when I woke up.” He turned his head to look at Keith. “But that doesn’t mean it was okay to scare you like that. The last thing I want to do is hurt you or see you get hurt.” His hand engulfed Keith’s as he placed it on his knee. It radiated warmth.
“I know,” Keith responded. His dad had never given him any reason to doubt his words. Even after the incident yesterday that foundation remained uncracked.
He swallowed before continuing, still not looking at his dad. “But I…I’m sorry, too. For playing with the knife. I shouldn’t have.”
“Ah, right. That was,” his dad started, taking a few seconds to gather his thoughts, “that was a bad decision. I know you didn’t mean any harm by it, and that doesn’t make the way I reacted to it okay, but Keith,” he said his name with a slight emphasis, “you shouldn’t have been playing with the knife. It isn’t a toy.” His hand didn’t tense on Keith’s, but it seemed heavier.
“I know,” Keith repeated, trying to keep the wobble in his voice to a minimum. He hated disappointing his father, as few and far as those disappointments happened. Really, why had he done it? He had thought of multiple reasons why he shouldn’t have done it, and yet he did it anyway in some stupid, spur-of-the-moment thing. “I’m sorry.”
“I know,” his father echoed. “Just promise me, going forward, that you’ll be more careful with it.”
It took a moment for those words to register in Keith’s head. His eyes widened, and his gaze returned to his dad’s, questions forming on his tongue and begging to be released. The man’s lips quirked up a bit, though his eyes reflected a familiar sadness as they shifted from Keith toward his own lap, taking his hand off Keith’s knee and removing the sheath from his belt.
“This knife…is special, Keith,” his dad said as he brought the knife to where both of them could see it, taking it out of the sheath. “There’s a lot of history behind it.”
Keith’s heart began to beat faster in his chest as his dad undid the bindings, a gracefulness to it that Keith’s handling had been lacking, revealing the blue sigil that glowed just as vibrantly as when Keith had last seen it. He swallowed again, sweat from his palms being soaked up by his pants. “What is that?” he managed to push out, not taking his gaze from the luminescent mark.
“That’s…a symbol of that history,” his father answered. When he didn’t continue right away, Keith peered at him from the corner of his eye. His brow was furrowed in thought and…nervousness?
Keith didn’t want to push him, but he was simultaneously so eager and anxious that he couldn’t help nudging his dad further by saying his name.
“Right. It’s a symbol of a history that I…don’t have the full details on,” he continued on past the slight hitch, “but it’s an important one. One that I promise you’ll know more about soon, but for now just…remember that when you’re holding it.”
He took the knife into his right hand, reached and took Keith’s left hand in his, then placed the hilt in Keith’s hand, wrapping his fingers around it and clasping Keith’s hand in both of his. It felt just as heavy as it had yesterday, even with his father holding it with him.
“Dad…are you sure it’s okay?”
His dad nodded with a small smile on his lips. Once again it didn’t reach his eyes, his demeanor solemn yet gentle as he hummed a small affirmation. “I’m sure. Your mother wanted you to have it.”
Keith felt his heart that had been beating so rapidly stop. He might have dropped the knife if his dad hadn’t kept his grip on his hand. They absorbed the shaking, gripping him slightly tighter in reassurance.
“Mom did?” he forced out in a hallowed whisper.
His dad hummed again in confirmation. “She hoped you’d never have to use it, but she wanted you to have it when the time came. It’s part of her history and yours, Keith.”
A part of her history. A history wrapped in as much mystery at as the woman herself—small pieces of a large puzzle that he still lacked countless pieces to. This knife was the biggest lead he had to half of his family, and yet…
“Dad, I don’t…I…”
His father waited patiently, giving him the time to calm himself down and sort out his thoughts and words.
“Maybe you should keep it. For a little while longer.” His dad said it was part of Keith’s and his mother’s history, but it seemed to be part of his dad’s history now too after holding onto it for so long. Keith didn’t want to take that away from him; not yet if he had a choice.
His dad was silent for a bit, processed what he said, before he responded. “Yeah. Yeah, I can do that, Keith. I’ll hold onto it until you’re ready.”
He took the knife as Keith lightly pushed it into his hands. He began to do up the bindings again but stopped. Keith looked to the man’s face to discern what the cause was.
“I didn’t mean to push this on you, Son,” his dad started, face solemn, “but I…I thought that you should know something about it since it’s yours.”
Keith nodded. He didn’t understand everything, and apparently his dad didn’t either, but he trusted the man had the best intentions. “I get it, Dad.”
“Good. I’m glad. I can teach you how to use it too, when you’re ready, though I’m not as skilled with it as she was.” His tone was wistful as he stared at the blade cradled in his hands, probably reflecting on experiences and mishaps that Keith could only guess at. His eyes trailed up his dad’s face to the scar on his brow. He was tempted to ask a question to lighten the mood before his dad spoke again.
“Just…promise me you’ll keep it wrapped up whenever it’s not just the two of us.”
Keith raised an eyebrow at that. He had no intention of showing the knife off to anyone, not after this chat they’d had. “I promise, Dad.”
“Always keep it covered.”
“Dad, I—”
“Keith.” His dad’s voice was firm as he turned to look him, the wistful tone giving way to one so serious it startled Keith. “You must never, ever let anyone see it if you can help it.”
Keith stared back at his father’s hard gaze, back straightening, giving him his full attention. “Dad, I promise.”
His father held his gaze, face unreadable, before taking a deep breath. “Good.” His head nodded slightly in approval. “Good. Your mother would be proud of you taking on this responsibility, when the time comes.” He placed the knife down on the table before embracing Keith in a hug. “And I am, too.”
And Keith could feel it—it radiated off of his dad, seeping into skin, into his being. He sunk deeper into the embrace, his position in the hug obscuring the sight of the tears that pricked at his father’s eyes.
He still had so many questions, but in that moment with his dad, he wasn’t left wanting for any of them.
He knew more than he did at the beginning of the day, and that was enough for now.