Epimethius made another lap around the small house. Prometheus was starting to wonder whether he’d designed the equilibrium feature correctly. The boy should be starting to—
The boy fell over.
Well, that was a relief. There had only been two possibilities and one of them included the entire spices dying off after a horrifying millennia-long string of mundane nighttime accidents.
Epimethius lay on the floor panting, eyes wide, probably wondering why the world was still moving.
“Don’t worry, young one.” Prometheus said. “it will stop soon.”
Sure enough. After a few more moments of wonder at the experience of dizziness, the child hopped up and ran around the room again making Prometheus wonder about the short term memory feature instead.
He turned his attention back to his work. It was on the table around which the boy was running circles. A fundamental problem of—
A tiny body thumped into his legs and he looked down to find Epimethius reaching up toward him.
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“Not now, Epimethius. I’m busy.” Prometheus tried to shoo the toddler back to his play, but the child continued to reach, clearly wanting to be picked up.
Prometheus sighed. It was demanding, having a son. He demanded near constant attention and barely left room for anything else in Prometheus’ life. Even now, after two years, he always either needed to be fed, cleaned, or coddled to sleep.
He grudgingly bent down and lifted the little boy into his arms.
He had just turned his attention back to his task at hand, when he felt a tiny pair of arms around his neck and heard the child’s voice say, “Dada.”
It was a new word in the world, one that was created by necessity of fitting the limited number of sounds in an underdeveloped mouth to the depth of meaning required by a profoundly expansive soul. Though it had never before been spoken, Prometheus knew instinctively that it meant both “father” and “I love you” simultaneously.
As yet another first in his immortal life, one of many since the creation of Epimethius, he felt tears of joy in his eyes.
“Yes,” he choked out to the boy. “I am your dada and you are my son.”
He hugged the boy close and finally, two years after the start of his experiment, he felt the last vestiges of self interest melt out of his heart. This boy was not here to varietize his life. His son was life itself. Prometheus would do anything, be anyone, go anywhere, to keep the child safe and give him the best life. It was no longer a question of “if” it was merely a question of “how”.
“My son.” He whispered again and wept.