Killian's mum was a force to be reckoned with. The daughter of a Navy Captain she grew up on the sea, surrounded by sailors and sand (and it showed in her language—the woman had no filter and it always made her boys smile gleefully and the other women of the town shake their heads). She knew what she wanted and what she deserved and would have nothing below it. The men at the marketplace all cowered in her wake and she reveled in the power.
Killian's father was a drunk and a coward and the single person Killian knew to treat his mum with anything less than respect. His mother lived with it for those boys of hers until she died, young of course because the best always do. Killian was only around 11 or 12 and to him, it was his father who sucked at her soul until she was gone.
Killian was a momma's boy. He adored his mother. She told him stories of princes and adventures late into the night, voice coming in gentle waves against his ear (as to not wake his father). She told him of giants and beanstalks and monsters and it lulled him into dreams of being a hero.
She baked, a lot, even if she wasn't particularly skilled at it. She told Killian when he helped her in the kitchen that it was because instead of practicing making biscuits she ran wild and had her own little unladylike adventures that she probably shouldn't have (because he always helped her in the kitchen, he was a shy little boy and did not have many friends. It was hard to live in the shadow of his perfect charismatic older brother but his mother's stories made him believe that perhaps someday he might lead a life of intrigue outside of his kitchen).
And the nights when his father stayed out late and drunk, when she was beginning to get sick and the light was beginning to leave her eyes (bright and hopeful and blue, the same as Killian's), she would let him curl up into his father's spot on their bed and have him tell her everything about his day, every detail, no matter how dull, and she'd listen and smile and run her fingers through his hair and whisper "my dashing boy" until she fell into a restless sleep, and he hurried back to his own bed until his father came home late and wasted, throwing things and yelling. He still feels guilty that he would always pretend to sleep through the abuse. But in the morning he'd wake up to the scent of burnt biscuits and his mother humming quiet sea shanties to herself and he knew everything was alright.
Those days when things got particularly bad, when Killian could see no good in his father, he wondered how his mum, his eloquent, hard-headed, beautiful mum, ended up with a man who treated her no better than the ground he walked upon. And he would ask her. He did not speak much to the boys in town, and his mother was his best friend. His mother, he could ask anything.
"Good men are hard to come by, my dashing boy," she'd answer him softly and smile in the way that left light crinkles around her ocean eyes, "Your father does his best for us and you must never give up on love."
He was never convinced by the answer that became less enthusiastic with each passing year.
Then there was the year he had fallen hard for the beautiful girl down the road, the daughter of the blacksmith. He was only eleven, but he'd been certain it was true love. Liam had seen him give her a flower one night while they'd played ball in the dirt that the children had claimed as their playing ground (it was a wild purple beauty that he'd gone to the outskirts of the forest to collect, remembering it whenever he thought of her. Her eyes had lit up when he'd presented it to her, and he would never forget the sweet, shy smile that played at her lips). His brother called him out on the crush and teased him the whole way home. They'd arrived to their mum softly humming, house warm and full of the smells of cooking, and when Liam had made another joke at Killian's expense, her eyes had lit up like they had not in quite a while.
"Tell me about her, darling," she'd said, pointing to a chair near the fire, ignoring Liam's snorts of amusement as Killian described her flowing hair and eyes like the sun and laughter that was a song.
She always believed he was eloquent, that his language was beyond his years, and she exercised his abilities at every chance. She was the only one who made him feel that his voice was heard.
"She sounds a dream, Killian," she had told him and her eyes had been serious as she continued, "Don't you allow your brother to tease the love out of you, my dear. There are people in this world who will try to convince you that love is weakness but you, dashing boy, know the secret."
He had never forgotten her words.
And when things started to get awful and money got tight, she'd ask him and Liam to walk with her across the shore (because she grew up on the beach, and the beach was her comfort) and as she limped slowly told them that the sea would always guide them home, that as long as the waves still lapped at the shore, the world was still turning and that things could still work out.
And no matter how awful his father got, he always had his mother, his safe haven, his wave continuously lapping at the shore. The greatest hero he knew. Until one morning he woke and there was no more humming and no scent of burnt breakfast and he was certain that the world must've stopped turning.