Chapter Text
Fount had never thought of children as something that belonged to him.
They were lives to be guided, taught, protected from afar—not held. Not claimed. Not wanted.
And yet.
It began innocently.
A young cookie came often to the Spiral, always with careful steps and anxious questions. She asked about warmth, about balance, about how love changed when another life depended on it.
Fount answered as he always did—patiently, kindly, with the practiced distance of someone who knew much and desired little.
But as the questions continued, something unfamiliar took root.
What if?
He hated the thought the moment it surfaced.
Virtues were not meant to want. They were not meant to crave futures beyond their purpose.
Still, every question pulled the same image from him, uninvited.
Salt.
Salt holding something small. Salt kneeling, voice soft instead of disciplined. Salt learning how to be gentle without armor.
The thought lingered long after the young cookie left.
That night, Fount wandered his gardens alone.
Milk crowns bloomed endlessly, indifferent to his unrest. He traced their petals absently, listening to the quiet he usually cherished.
It did not comfort him.
A child.
Not a student.
Not a responsibility assigned by witches.
A child that would stay.
The idea made his souljam ache.
He imagined questions he could not answer. Needs he could not calculate. A life that would bind him not to knowledge, but to time.
And always—Salt.
The ache sharpened.
Was it selfish to want something so fragile in a world that demanded sacrifice? Was it cruel to imagine anchoring Salt further, when duty already tore him away?
Fount pressed a hand to his chest.
He knew the answer.
Yes.
The next time the young cookie visited, her questions were brighter.
Her eyes shone when she spoke of hope, of choosing love despite fear.
Fount smiled for her.
Answered carefully.
And felt something break.
After she left, he sat alone at his desk, staring at nothing.
He thought of the nights Salt had spent at the Spiral, silent but present. Of how safe it felt to exist beside him.
He wanted that safety to remain.
He wanted to share it.
He wanted.
And that was the sin.
Fount never spoke of it.
Not to Salt. Not to the virtues. Not even to himself.
He folded the desire away like a forbidden page in a book he refused to open.
But once a thought exists, it does not vanish.
It waits.
Salt noticed it the moment he arrived.
Fount was quieter than usual—not withdrawn, not distant, just… misaligned.
His movements lacked their usual certainty, his answers came half a second too late.
Salt did not ask.
Instead, he stayed.
They walked the Spiral together in silence, the way they often did after long separations. Salt removed his helmet, setting it aside as if shedding a version of himself.
Fount watched from the corner of his eye.
He hated how much he loved this moment.
Hated how his chest tightened with the knowledge that it would end.
They sat near the milk crowns, their glow soft and steady.
Salt spoke first, voice low.
“You’re thinking too loudly.”
A gentle observation. An invitation, not a demand.
Fount smiled faintly. “Am I?”
“You always do when something scares you.”
That should not have been true.
And yet.
Fount looked down at his hands.
“I’ve been helping someone,” he said at last. “A young cookie. She asks questions.”
Salt nodded. “You’re good at answers.”
“Yes,” Fount replied. “…but this time, they lingered.”
Salt turned slightly toward him, attentive.
Fount swallowed.
He did not want this to be real.
The thought had grown claws.
Every quiet moment dragged it back to him.
He imagined small footsteps echoing through the Spiral. A presence that was not fleeting. A warmth that stayed even when Salt could not.
And worse—he imagined Salt wanting it too.
The shame of that thought made his throat burn.
Salt had already given so much. His duty pulled him apart, piece by piece. How dare Fount wish to tether him further?
How dare he want something?
Salt broke the silence gently.“You don’t have to tell me.”
Fount’s breath hitched.
That was the problem.
He wanted to.
“I know,” Fount said softly. “But if I don’t say it, it won’t stop.”
Salt waited.
Fount closed his eyes.
“I keep thinking,” he began, voice barely there, “about what it would be like… if something stayed.”
Salt did not move.
“If there was someone who belonged here. Who wasn’t a visitor. Who wouldn’t leave when duty called.”
The words trembled now.
He forced himself to continue.
“I tell myself it’s foolish. That it’s wrong. That it would be cruel to even imagine it with you.”
At that, Salt finally spoke. “With me?”
Fount nodded, unable to look at him.
“It’s only a thought,” he rushed. “A what if. I don’t expect— I don’t want to burden you with—”
Salt reached out.
Not touching. Just close enough.
“You’re thinking of a child.”
Fount froze.
The word landed like truth.
“Yes,” he whispered, shame curling tight in his chest. “And I hate myself for it.”
Silence followed.
Heavy. Alive.
Salt exhaled slowly.
“You don’t hate yourself,” he said. “You’re afraid.”
Fount laughed softly, broken. “Isn’t that worse?”
Salt considered him for a long moment.
“You didn’t ask me for anything,” he said. “You asked what would happen if.”
Fount dared to look at him then.
Salt’s expression was unreadable—but not closed.
“I understand the question,” Salt continued. “Even if I don’t yet know the answer.”
Fount’s chest ached.
That was enough.
Too much, almost.
They sat together as the Spiral breathed around them, the thought now spoken, irreversible.
Salt left the Spiral at dawn.
He told himself nothing had changed.
The world still needed him. Orders were still orders. Duty still cut clean and unquestionable.
And yet—
The question followed him.
What if?
It threaded itself through his thoughts with unsettling persistence.
During marches, he found his attention slipping. During briefings, his focus wavered—not enough to be noticed, but enough to feel.
At night, when armor lay discarded and exhaustion should have claimed him, the thought returned uninvited.
Something that stayed.
Something that belonged.
He hated how easily the idea fit.
His men spoke freely around the fire. They always had.
“My daughter learned to read,” one said, pride bright in his voice.
“My boy won’t sleep unless I tell him the same story,” another laughed.
Salt listened.
He always had.
But now, the words struck differently. He pictured small hands gripping his fingers. A voice calling for him—not as a commander, not as a protector of realms, but as something softer.
Father.
The word echoed, unwanted and dangerous.
He stared into the flames until they blurred.
On patrol, they passed through a village recently rebuilt.
Children ran between the stalls, laughter sharp and bright. One stumbled. Without thinking, Salt knelt, steadying the child before they could fall.
The child looked at him with wide eyes.
“Are you a knight?” they asked.
Salt hesitated. “Yes,” he said at last.
The child smiled, satisfied, and ran off.
Salt remained there for a moment longer than necessary.
He wondered what it would be like if someone looked at him like that every day.
That night, he dreamed of the Spiral.
Of quiet.
Of Fount standing by the milk crowns, expression thoughtful, vulnerable in a way he only ever was with Salt.
And between them—
a presence.
Small. Warm. Real.
Salt woke with his heart racing.
The shame came swiftly after.
He wrote to Fount and tore the letter apart.
Wrote again. Destroyed it too.
What right did he have to indulge this thought?
His life was not his own. His absences were inevitable. His duty unforgiving.
To want a child—to want a family—was to invite loss.
But the question refused to die.
Weeks passed.
Then months.
Salt found himself protecting villages with renewed care. Teaching children to hold wooden swords properly, to stand firm, to laugh when they fell.
Each time, something twisted in his chest.
This could have been mine.
The realization scared him.
Because now, the wanting was his too.
One evening, alone beneath a starless sky, Salt admitted it aloud.
“I would try,” he said quietly.
The words hung in the air, fragile and treacherous.
He imagined Fount’s careful smile. His fear. His hope.
Salt clenched his fist.
If this path was chosen—it would change everything.
And he was no longer sure he wished to turn away.
Salt returned to the Spiral in the late afternoon. He had walked those corridors countless times, climbed every step with the mechanical certainty of duty... but this time his heart was beating differently.
He saw him before Fount noticed him. He was leaning over a table, surrounded by scrolls and jars of ink, the evening light filtering through the stained glass windows and bathing him in warm tones.
His sleeves were slightly rolled up, and a lock of light hair fell rebelliously over his focused face. Salt stopped. For an instant, the whole world was reduced to him.
He is more beautiful than ever, he thought, and the certainty was so overwhelming that it left him breathless.
It wasn't just his appearance—it was the calm he emanated, the silent dedication, the way his existence seemed to sustain that sacred place.
Salt felt something firm settle on his chest.
This time, he didn't hesitate.
Fount looked up and saw him. The smile appeared immediately, automatic and sincere. "You're back," he said, as if Salt never took too long, as if time didn't always punish them.
Salt bowed his head, respectful as always, though his eyes could not be taken away from him. "Like I promised."
There was silence.
One of those silences that fill themselves.
Fount motioned for him to sit down.
They shared tea.
They talked about small things: reports, villages, new books, an especially tedious scroll. Both carefully avoiding the center of the room.
The question floated between them.
What if
Salt watched every gesture.
How Fount held the cup with both hands. How he hummed softly when he thought. How, from time to time, he seemed to get lost in thoughts he didn't share.
He was acting weird.
Salt noticed it immediately. But he didn't press him. He never did.
"The young cookie I told you about..."
Fount mentioned after a while, almost like someone talking about the weather. "The one who came to ask questions."
Salt looked up, attentive. "Yes?"
"She's decided to have her child."
The air changed. It was subtle, but real.
Fount kept staring at his mug, as if the answer to everything was written on it.
"She was terrified," he said. "Of doing it alone. Of not being enough. That her beloved wasn't always there."
Salt swallowed. "And now?"
"Now she's afraid... but also hopeful."
Silence. More dense.
"It's not easy," Salt said at last. "Having duties. Being absent. Knowing that you won't always be able to protect them."
Fount nodded slowly.
"It's not. Sometimes I think it would be... cruel." he looked up then, meeting Salt's gaze. "Bringing someone into the world knowing you won't always be there."
Salt felt something tighten in her chest.
"And yet..." Salt murmured, "there are things worth that risk."
They held each other's gaze.
They said nothing more.
There was no need.
The night went on.
The Spiral was plunged into stillness.
Fount got up and walked to the balcony. Salt followed him. From there, the moon illuminated the milk crowns of the garden.
"I've thought a lot about this," Fount said finally, his voice lower. "More than I should."
Salt didn't answer. His very presence was a promise to listen.
"I feel... selfish," he confessed. "To think of something like that, when I know your path is dangerous. When I know that my duty requires me to be... blameless." His hands trembled slightly.
Salt took a step closer. "Fount." He took a deep breath. "I can't get it out of my head," he said, almost in a whisper. "The idea of... of something small. Someone who looks at us as home."
Silence. The longest of all. Salt spoke in a firm but soft voice. "I've seen children grow up without parents. I've seen parents never come back." He paused.
"And yet... I've never stopped thinking that if I had one... I'd do anything to come back."
Fount looked down. "I don't want to force you," he said quickly. "I don't want you to feel that—"
"You don't force me." Salt took another step, now at his side.
"You chose me to hear this. That's enough."
Fount looked at him. The moon reflected something vulnerable in his two-toned eyes.
"So..." he swallowed, "I'm going to say it right." He straightened his back, trembling, but determined.
"I want to have a baby with you, Salt."
The words fell softly. Irrevocable. The world seemed to stop. Salt felt his heart break...and rebuild at the same time.
"I've wanted it ever since you hinted at it," he admitted. "Since I returned to my duties, I couldn't stop imagining it." He reached out, carefully. "I don't promise to be there forever," he said. "But I promise to come back. I promise to love. I promise to try."
Fount let out a shaky laugh, tears welling up. "That's all I ask."
Salt took his hand. This time, without bending over.
Just like that.
Together.