Chapter 23 - For Her, He Stayed
Emrys Thaloriel Amarillis was born into a world shaped by lineage, duty, and carefully drawn lines of legacy. As the firstborn son of House Amarillis, one of Evermeet’s most distinguished noble families, his future was crafted long before he could form desires of his own. He was raised with quiet formality, taught to lead without question, and expected to carry the weight of his family’s name with unwavering pride.
As a young man, he served as an emissary to distant lands, fulfilling his role with calm grace. But no court or council ever truly stirred his heart. That changed when his travels took him to the city of Karador, nestled in the middle of the Myrloch Vale on the island of Gwynneth. After a long and wearying journey, he stopped at a humble inn near the harbor, his strength worn thin. While speaking to the innkeeper, he mentioned his fatigue. His words were overheard by a woman passing by, who paused, then approached.
Her name was Isla Brightdawn. A healer from the nearby Swordfern Grove, she had come to Karador to gather supplies. With gentle warmth and no hint of hesitation, she offered him a tonic she had prepared herself and advised him to rest beneath the sun for at least a day or two. Her presence was like cool water in the summer heat, refreshing, calming, and entirely unexpected.
She was not adorned in jewels or silks. She bore no noble title. And yet, Emrys found himself captivated by her calm voice, the careful way she observed the world, and the kindness she offered without agenda. He extended his stay under the pretence of needing more time for diplomatic matters, but the truth sat plainly in his chest. He simply wanted to see her again.
They shared walks beneath the trees outside the city, traded stories over bowls of stew, and watched the wind dance across the cliffs as dusk fell. She spoke of her home with reverence, of the grove she loved, and the healing arts she practiced. In her, Emrys found the peace he had never known, and before long, he confessed what had been blooming steadily between them. He loved her, and with quiet certainty, she loved him in return.
Eventually, he wrote to his family in Evermeet, intending to bring Isla home to meet them. But the reply came not with blessings, but with bitter rejection. Isla was human, not noble, and therefore unworthy in their eyes. His uncles, especially, spoke with sharp disdain. Emrys was given a choice. He could return to Evermeet alone, to inherit everything he had been raised to protect. Or he could choose Isla and lose the life that had been promised to him.
He chose her.
Together, they returned to the grove. Emrys shed his noble name, taking a new one—Moonblade—in honour of the path he would now walk. He trained under Isla’s father, Erwan Brightdawn, and embraced a life of healing and service as a Druid of the Land. When Erwan grew older, Emrys stepped into the role of grove leader, not by birthright, but by love and merit.
But the past does not always let go so easily.
Sometime after his departure from Evermeet, Emrys fell ill. The symptoms were subtle at first. Fatigue, pain in his joints, stiffness that lingered beyond reason. Then came the signs that no healer could ignore. Beneath his skin, the curse began to take hold. A cruel and ancient magic had been cast upon him, forged by those who believed the purity of elven blood must remain untouched. It worked slowly, creeping through his body from within, turning living flesh to stone. The transformation was quiet and relentless. A punishment without mercy.
Isla tried everything. Her knowledge as a healer was vast, and her determination deeper still. Together, they discovered ways to slow the curse, to keep it at bay. But no one in the Moonshae Isles knew how to cure it. The magic was old, buried in the roots of elven history, and stubbornly resistant to unravelling.
Knowing that time would not favour her, Isla made a decision. She passed everything she knew to their daughter, Neia, determined that if she could not save Emrys, perhaps Neia one day could. She taught her how to mix tinctures and read the winds, how to call upon nature’s strength, and how to see the world through a healer’s eyes.
Neia's voice grew softer as she spoke the final words, and for a moment, the only sound in Gideon’s apartment was the gentle clinking of silverware as Sir Pounceforth finished his dinner nearby. Gideon sat quietly, his expression tender and thoughtful. There was no pity in his eyes. Only a deep, sincere sadness for a burden no one should have to carry.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “That’s... a lot.”
Neia offered a faint smile, one touched with old pain. “It is. But it’s mine. So I carry it.”
Another silence stretched between them. But it wasn’t heavy this time. It felt calm, even comforting.
Then, without quite looking at her, Gideon spoke again. “I might not be a healer,” he began, his voice careful, “but Caelan and Devon sometimes have access to records in the guild archives. And I know Morgrave's libraries are always collecting things. I could ask them to keep an eye out. For anything that sounds remotely similar. Curses like that. Forgotten magic. You never know what’s lying around in some dusty corner.”
Neia blinked, surprised.
“I’ll look too,” he added, his tone soft but resolute. “When I have time.”
She stared at him, something unfamiliar and warm settling in her chest. For a moment, she didn’t know what to say. Pride rose first, but it was gentle this time, quieter than usual, and slowly she let it go. It felt oddly brave to do so.
“Thank you,” she said at last, her voice almost a whisper.
He looked at her then, really looked. “Of course.”
And just like that, something shifted between them. Small, quiet, but real. Neia found herself seeing Gideon not only as the gentle sentinel who had stood by her side, but as someone who, without fanfare or promise, simply wanted to help carry a little of the weight she bore.
Even if only for a while.