“Our family is actually from Hallin,” said Sigurd as they reached the creek and began to cut at the reeds. “But Sigmund and I have always lived in Falchovari. Our family were carpenters.”
“Der said you made the furniture in the cottage,” Makellos said, glad to be able to connect those together. “It’s all incredibly beautiful.”
“Thank you,” Sigurd said, giving Makellos a bright grin reminiscent of Sigmund’s. “My brother and I were the only little people in our family. My father never treated us any different than any of his other children. We learned a trade, we got an education, we got married.”
“You were married?” Makellos asked in surprise.
“I was,” Sigurd said, his eyes on his work so Makellos couldn’t see the pain in his face. “I had a wife and a beautiful daughter. They… they actually were in a terrible accident only a year before the Queen rounded us up, and they both passed away. They might have been executed otherwise.”
“I’m so sorry,” Makellos said softly. “You must miss them terribly.”
“Every day,” Sigurd said, then cleared his throat as his eyes started to mist. “I might have remarried one day. Sigmund, he wasn’t married, but he was engaged. His fiancé was a local farm boy, but of regular height. It was lucky for them they were not married yet, or who knows what might have happened to him.”
“Do you know where he is now?” Makellos asked.
Sigurd shook his head. “No. We’re not allowed communication from theoutside.” He said it with such loathing that Makellos actually flinched. “I’m sure he’s moved on by now. Twenty-two winters is a long time to wait for someone to return.”
“What about the others?” Makellos asked.
“Hardwic and Der were both married, but I know their families were all executed,” Sigurd said softly. “Bernhardt was always an old bachelor, more concerned with his career. He was an actor, you know. And Dagobert was only six when he was taken from his family. It’s a miracle he was sent to the mines instead of executed.”
Makellos shuddered. A six-year-old in the mines. The fact that he survived was in itself another miracle. He counted off the little men in his head. “What about Grimwald?”
“Ah, yes.” Sigurd said it in such a way that Makellos thought maybe he wouldn’t say anything more, but after a long silence, he said, “Grim’s lost the most of all of us, I’d say. He had a wife and five little children. All of them small.”
“Five children!” Makellos breathed in surprise.
“Yes. Even had a sixth one on the way when it happened. His… his whole family was wiped out, from his wife, down to the littlest babe.” Sigurd glanced up at Makellos. “Just… don’t tell him I told you, huh? It still hurts like a fresh wound.”
Makellos nodded numbly. A wife, five children, another on the way, all gone, and Grimwald had been unable to stop it. The man’s prickly demeanor and unwillingness to become close to someone suddenly made a whole lot more sense. “I can’t even imagine what he must be going through.”
“They were dark days for all of us,” Sigurd said, standing straight to stretch out his back. “But especially that.”
“I know they are only words, but I am so sorry for what you and the others went through,” Makellos said, a tear slipping down his cheek and falling off the end of his nose to plop into the creek.
Sigurd shook his head. “It means a lot. We don’t blame you, you know. Shit, you weren’t even born when this happened. It was your cunt of a mother, if you’ll pardon my language.”
Makellos laughed softly. “I have never heard anyone call her that before, but it is definitely applicable.”
They made their way home and spent much of the morning and afternoon patching the roof. Sigurd got a face full of straw at one point and sneezed so hard he nearly tipped the ladder backwards. Makellos caught him by the front of his collar and pulled him forward again so he was balanced, but the move brought their faces extremely close together. Sigurd smirked just a bit. “If you haven’t done the whole fiddle with anyone, does that mean you’ve never kissed anyone either?”
Makellos’ breath caught in his throat as he looked back into Sigurd’s roguish eyes. It was easy to tell that he and Sigmund were brothers, for they had the same mischievous glint. “I… No, I haven’t.”
“Would you like to?”
“Yes,” Makellos said softly, then quickly shook himself out of the momentary reverie. “I would, but perhaps not while on a roof?”
Sigurd laughed brightly. “Fair enough.”
They finished the roof just as the sun reached the tops of the trees. They headed back inside, and Sigurd went to wash up while Makellos started on a hearty roast for dinner. He still wanted to wrangle the vegetable garden, but at least it was plentiful, which was helpful considering how many mouths it had to feed.
Sigurd came out of the bedroom, freshly washed, his chestnut hair still damp. He was wearing a pair of breeches but nothing else. Makellos couldn’t help but stare a little curiously. Sigurd’s torso was relatively large compared to his limbs, but his spine was curved rather sharply, almost seeming to push his torso forward. “May I be terribly rude and ask if that hurts you?” he asked, gesturing to Sigurd’s back.
Sigurd chuckled. “Sometimes. But I’ve lived with it for almost fifty years. It’s just the way I am.”
Makellos smiled at that. He supposed when one did not have a choice and had known nothing else, being positive was important. “If I may pry a little further… Bernhardt said that some of you developed relationships with one another over the years. Who… How did…?” Makellos waved a hand, hoping it would articulate what he couldn’t find a tactful way to say.
Sigurd at least caught his meaning. “Ah, well. Sometimes it was just desire and willingness. But Der and Hardwic had something going for a long while.”
