He'd wished so long for this moment.
When he was a little boy still afraid of the dark, after he violently stopped being afraid of it, even after he accepted how much he hated his own father.
He'd wish, hope, pray to whatever gods he had known in his short years, that the door would open unexpectedly one moment, and his father would emerge, regretful and tearful, and would hold him in his arms and tell him that he and his brother were free again.
He'd spent countless days looking at the door until sleep claimed him (or didn't), waiting for it to open and for his father to get them out of the misery he'd put them in.
He waited, and waited, even when he hated himself for it.
Liam had stopped waiting long ago, and he never knew of his brother's secret wishes deep in the night.
Killian would stare at doors often after that. Wishing everything had been a dream, that Liam would appear to wake him up and tell him that they weren't following their king anymore, that Milah would run to his arms and hug him tightly, never to leave him again.
The doors never opened.
He'd spent so long wanting for it to happen he never wondered how he would take it when it did.
He certainly didn't expect bitterness to crawl into him and tell him that his father asking for forgiveness wasn't worth the years of waiting.
"Where does a scoundrel like you run, after he sold his sons into servitude?!"
"I'm sorry, Killian."
It was not enough.
He'd been too hurt, too broken, for a few short words to heal his centuries-old wounds.
"You could have had the father you wanted. The father you deserved. I'm so sorry."
He felt a wave of disappointment hitting him. Why did he spend so long expecting it to feel any better?
It was too late, he was too far gone.
It could never be enough.
