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When they tell Samol, he laughs hard enough to shake the trees.
"Oh, boys," he says, holding Maelgwyn in his arms. "What have you gotten yourselves into now?"
Maelgwyn, blinking up at them all, small and curious and assured, tugs on Samol's beard. Above them, the leaves are rustling. Samol smiles wider than he has in a long time.
Samot doesn't recognize the feeling in his chest until after Samol has departed for the evening, leaving Samot and Samothes and their son alone in their home. It's a new kind of pride, more protective and jealous than he's used to.
Samot knows about pride. No one builds a tower without knowing it. He's proud of many things: he's proud of what he knows and what he teaches; he's proud that recognized his mistakes before they killed the people he now loves; he's proud that Samothes is his.
This, though, this thing that Samot feels when he looks at Maelgwyn: this is something new.
There is nothing in the world that Samot loves more than a thing yet undiscovered.
-
Maelgwyn ages in fits and starts--or perhaps that's just how time moves, choppy and jagged. At first it's unsettling: Samot and Samothes have lived together in their home for a long time, and there's been balance and equilibrium to it. A child upsets that, like the prow of a ship through a calm sea.
It's an uneven time. Samot still feels hollowed out from the news of Samol's sickness. But he's suddenly busy, in a house full of noise. And anytime that Samol is visiting, and catches him frowning, he says the same thing: "Smile, boy. Otherwise, what are we all here for?"
It feels like whenever they've gotten a grip on how to handle Maelgwyn, the next day he's grown a foot, or decided that he knows how to speak in full sentences. Samot appreciates it, after a fashion--he's certainly never bored.
Samothes, as a rule, likes his life to be more ordered, but he also adores Maelgwyn beyond measure. He works day and night to craft him a sword, an ornate and shining thing, and he gives it to him as soon as he can hold it without dropping it.
"Are you sure that's a good idea?" Samot asks him. Worry is another feeling he's not quite used to, tight and cloying in his chest.
Maelgwyn holds the sword steady and with intent, small as he is.
Samothes raises an eyebrow at Samot. "He seems sure of it." And he isn't wrong.
Their house is different in a way that Samot can't quite quantify, beyond the addition of Maelgwyn. It's warmer, like the fire Samothes builds every night has taken up root in the floor beneath their feet, like the walls are coming alive with it. Perhaps this is how homes are meant to work. Samot isn't really sure. This is the only one he's ever had.
Sometimes he almost forgets about what's happening to their father. He doesn't let Samothes catch him frowning, not when he can help it. The wine cellar below their house is cool and private, and if Samot occasionally goes down there to let himself cry in peace, the bottles have nothing to say about it.
Maelgwyn finds him there, once, the day after he wakes up looking five years old, after spending several years looking about three. He sits down beside Samot and takes his face in his hands.
"Don't be sad," he says. "Whatever it is, I know we can fix it."
Samot can't help it. He laughs. But absurd as it is, a part of him does believe Maelgwyn, his son, confidence alive.
Samothes finds them like that, sitting on the floor of the cellar and laughing, tears still drying on Samot's cheek. He doesn't ask. Instead, he picks Maelgwyn up, settling him on his shoulders, and then he reaches down to pull Samot to his feet. Samot takes his hand, and brings a bottle of wine back up the stairs with them. The knowledge of their father's sickness still hurts, an ever-present ache. But Samot learns to think of Malegwyn, who makes his sorrows feel fleeting.
Samol is always telling him that there's goodness to be found in everything, if you look hard enough. Samot is finally beginning to see what he means.
-
When Maelgwyn is tall enough to reach Samot's knees, Severia arrives. She comes unannounced from the forest, dressed for traveling and dripping wet, a pack slung across her shoulders.
She sweeps a hand through her hair, water cascading down behind her. She must have come directly from the sea. Severia has a way of travelling that Samot can't quite fathom; but then again, the ocean doesn't often agree with him.
Sitting with his legs stretched out along the grass, Maelgwyn and a picnic basket beside him, Samot looks up. He shades his eyes from the sun.
"Severia," he says. "What a surprise. And you've brought the entire ocean with you! I appreciate it; we've been hoping to build a pond, and you're giving us a head start."
Severia, ignoring him, kneels down before Maelgwyn. He tilts his head at her, and after a moment of consideration, smiles. "Hello," he says. "You're very pretty." He can't read quite yet, but has proven to be excellent at speech, to Samot's delight and Samothes' occasional annoyance, particularly early in the morning.
"Hello," Severia says, perplexed. She looks to Samot. "Samol did say he was charming."
"Did our father send you, then?" Samot asks, partially for the pleasure of seeing Severia's eye twitch when he calls Samol his father.
"No," says a gravelly voice from beyond the trees. "I insisted that she come with me." Samantine's steps are as heavy as ever. The ground shakes with them, drawing Samothes out of the house. Maelgwyn perks up, staring openly at Samantine.
"We have visitors," Samothes says, turning to Samot and raising an eyebrow. Samot, sprawled languid in the grass, shrugs at him. "It's been a long time since I've seen you, Severia."
"Yes," she says. "You've Samot to thank for that."
Samothes frowns at the exact same moment that Samot smiles; Samot appreciates Severia's bluntness much more than Samothes does. It's a shame, really, that she hates him so.
Maelgwyn, blustering his way through the tension, runs to Samantine's feet. "How did you get so big?" he asks, looking up at them with wide eyes. "Did you eat a lot of rocks?"
Severia, in the middle of tying back her hair, levels Samot with a look. "Please tell me you haven't been letting him eat rocks."
Samantine laughs, a sound like mountains shifting, and crouches down to Maelgwyn's level. "You'll be big someday too, little one," they say. "And you'll be strong enough to protect the ones you love."
Maelgwyn looks almost offended. "I can protect them just fine now! I have a sword. Do you want to see?"
"I find the shield more useful, myself," they say, "but yes, I would love to see it."
Maelgwyn runs inside to find his sword, leaving quiet in his wake.
Severia sighs, gustily, and drops her pack on the ground behind her. "He seems to be turning out all right," she tells Samothes.
"High praise," Samothes says, his mouth curling up into a smile. "I'm glad he has the chance to meet both of you. Why don't you stay awhile?"
-
Samol arrives with the wind rustling through the forest. Everyone is eating together relatively peaceably by then. He grins at them all, his guitar strapped comfortably across his back. "Now," he says, "isn't this a sight. Been a while since so much of my family has been in one place. No one thought to invite Tristero?"
Maelgwyn jumps up and runs to him, and Samol kneels down to great him. "Look at you," he says. "You're sure not a sapling anymore."
"Will you tell me another story?" Maelgwyn asks.
"Always, kid," Samol says. "World'd have to be a lot smaller for me to run out of stories. I heard a new one about those bird friends of Severia's the other day, and I had to come all this way to tell you."
Severia, cross-legged on the ground, looks up. "Should I be concerned?"
Samol goes to her side and ruffles her still-wet hair, making her laugh. "Not at all, sister. You remember Pinion? She's gone and fallen in love with another dwarf."
Severia shakes her head. "Of course she has." She pats the ground beside her leg, nodding to Maelgwyn. "Come on, let's hear what Samol has to say."
In the end, they make a night of it, in the slow and accidental way that gatherings sometimes happen. Samol pulls the guitar from across his back and starts playing, a quick tune that has Maelgwyn completely enthralled, and Severia gets up and extends a hand to Samantine.
Samantine is a surprisingly agile dancer, their hand resting lightly on Severia's waist. Samol slows down the music to something resembling a waltz, and Severia picks up the lead, spinning Samantine around carefully.
Samot, settled against Samothes' side, watches them. A few feet away, Maelgwyn is examining Samol's fingers on the guitar strings closely. Samot wonders how long it will be before he demands that Samothes make him a guitar to practice on.
"Now, how long has that been going on?" he asks, nodding his head to Samantine and Severia.
"They're just dancing."
Samot gives Samothes a look.
"Honestly, I have no idea." He squeezes his arm around Samot's shoulders. "Stranger things have happened, don't you think?"
"I suppose you're not wrong." Samot stands, brushing the dirt from his legs. "Now, aren't you going to dance with me?"
"You only had to ask," Samothes says, amused.
They've only been dancing a few minutes when Samot feels someone tugging at his sleeve. He glances down to find Maelgwyn looking back at him.
"Samol wouldn't dance with you?" he asks.
"He says he's too old," Maelgwyn says, put out. Samothes lets go of Samot's shoulders to scoop Maelgwyn up in his arms, settling him on his shoulders. "Thank you," Maelgwyn says, dignified, wrapping his arms around Samothes' neck.
Samot smiles. There's that pride again. He takes Samothes' hand in his own, and moves the other to his waist. "Now, where were we?"
-
A few weeks later, Samothes cooks them a meal in their cottage, with an oven and a stove that he built himself. Samot sits on the stone counter beside him and watches, the way he usually does. He has no interest in cooking himself, but he's fascinated to see Samothes do it. There's an artistry to it that's beautiful in a way beyond that of the other things Samothes creates, the machines and the metals and the weapons. Cooking is more volatile, alive. And sometimes it burns.
And Samothes isn't, honestly, that good at it. He often overcooks things, or adds too many spices, and he is absolutely hopeless at baking. Samot likes that too.
Maelgwyn is sitting cross-legged on top of the table, elbows balanced on his knees. Samothes had once tried to tell him that tables were not for sitting on; Maelgwyn had demanded to know why, and Samot had, to Samothes' chagrin, taken his side. So now Maelgwyn sits wherever he pleases. Samothes will slant Samot a look, sometimes, but say nothing, in the interests of keeping the peace.
Compromises, too, are new and interesting.
"What are you making?" Maelgwyn asks.
"It's a surprise," Samothes tells him, stirring pepper into the pot.
"That means he hasn't decided yet," Samot says from behind his hand, winking at Maelgwyn. Samothes nudges him with his hip.
"It's a work in progress. "
Maelgwyn hops from the table and walks over to the counter. He tries to peer into the pan, though he's at least two feet too short.
Samot leans down and picks him up, settling Maelgwyn beside him on the counter.
"Dad, you should use more salt," he says, pointing at the collection of potatoes and greens that Samothes is working on.
Samothes raises an eyebrow. "You can tell that just by looking at it, can you?"
"Of course." Maelgwyn has strong opinions on everything, and it's impossible to convince him that he's wrong. Just like his fathers, Samot finds himself thinking often, fondly.
"I don't think you're going to win this argument," says Samot. He hands Samothes the salt.
Samothers laughs, and shakes his head. "You're right. There's not winning against you two, is there."
"It's my dinner too," Maelgwyn points out. Samot ruffles his hair, and hops off the counter to go set the table.
-
Maelgwyn is learning to braid hair. To Samot's delight, he wants to learn how to do everything. Samothes is teaching him how to use his sword, and Samot, long ago, taught him to read. Now he's focusing on a section of Samot's hair with the kind of attention he dedicates to all things.
"Where exactly did you learn this?" Samot asks. "I can't say I remember teaching you."
"Aunt Severia taught me," Maelgwyn says. "Stay still, I'm trying to concentrate."
Samot laughs, both at Maelgwyn's tone and at the image of Severia, sitting just like he is now, letting Maelgwyn braid her hair, explaining the steps to him patiently.
When Maelgwyn has finished and run off to his room, leaving Samot with a complicated fishtail braid running down his back, Samothes, who was reading quietly by the fire, brandishes a brush at him.
"You can leave it in," Samot says, amused.
"If I do, then I'll be the one you complain to in the morning when it's curled. Last time you made me heat an iron for you," Samothes says, settling down behind Samot.
"Curls don't suit me."
"They suit you just fine." Samothes tugs the ribbon out of Samot's hair, letting it cascade down his back.
"Well, you would know," Samot says, smugly, as Samothes starts running the brush through his hair.
"I'm not sure when he's ever going to find a use for this skill," Samothes says.
Samot shrugs. "With any luck, he won't have much use for swordfighting, either."
"You don't really believe that."
"That we'd be so lucky?" Samot tilts his head back. "No." He presses his hands to the floorboards, feeling the grain of the wood against his fingers and palms. He's often struck by materiality: the finality it gives things, a solidity he was never used to as a boy. Sometimes he forgets. Sometimes he still wakes up, gasping, clutching at whatever he can reach: the blanket, his hair, Samothes' arm, strong around his waist. Reassuring himself that he's real, and solid, and here.
It's nice to feel grounded, by the heat of the fire and the roughness of the wood and Samothes brushing his hair.
Samothes finishes with the brush, and pulls Samot to lean back against his chest. His hand running through Samot's hair feels like a coal still warm from the fire. Samot leans into it.
"It's funny," he says. He feels warm, and contemplative. "We're both builders, of a kind. Creators. Of machines and fortresses and knowledge. And here we've gone and made the best thing by accident. No wonder Samol laughed at us."
"Sometimes I wonder if anything is really an accident," says Samothes. "You know, I used to think--Nothing can't be so horrible. It created you."
"It created me," Samot agrees. "And now it's killing our father."
"Yes," Samothes says, voice heavy. "And in doing that, it brought us our son."
Samot takes hold of Samothes' hand where it lies against his hair, bringing it down to rest against his chest. "That's not true. We created him. Don't give Nothing credit for our own achievements."
Samothes chuckles. "Proud of him, are you? Well, I am too. I only meant--if father weren't sick--"
"Then Maelgwyn would never have been born. I know. It's an odd thought. But contradictions don't imply fate. It would be a cruel fate to do that. Cruel and cold."
"You don't believe that there are cruel and cold things in this world, my dear?"
Samot, with Samothes' hand against his heart, their son sleeping in his bedroom, a fire roaring in the hearth, says, "I do. But these days, I choose to believe that there is also warmth, and kindness."
Samothes' lips against his forehead are warm and smiling.