Chapter 235: What Mattered More
Emma was not alone.
Elias was at her side, bandaged but moving with his usual careless ease, watching her with a boyish grin. He reached for the grain bucket as if to help, though from this distance, it looked more like mischief than assistance. Emma swatted his hand away, her mouth moving rapidly, no doubt scolding him, but her efforts were half-hearted.
Lorraine could not hear their words from this distance, but the occasional bursts of laughter and indignant squawks of the doves carried faintly to where she sat. At one point, Elias must have said something particularly provoking, because Emma stiffened and turned away in mock outrage, her braid whipping behind her like a banner. Elias, undeterred, reached out to gently tug at her sleeve.
The sight of the two of them, young, flushed by the sunset, entangled in their small, unguarded moment, was oddly touching.
Lorraine leaned against the carved stone rail, resting her chin on her hand. The fading light cast long shadows across the garden, softening everything into painterly warmth. For a moment, watching them, she felt something loosen in her chest.
Perhaps it was nostalgia. Perhaps envy. Or perhaps it was simply the quiet joy of seeing life continue around her, untainted by the machinations of court, untouched by the weight she carried.
She let out a soft chuckle, the sound barely louder than the rustle of leaves. Elias attempted to hand Emma a dove, and the creature promptly fluttered into his face, startling him backward. Emma’s laughter rang out, bright and clear.
Lorraine stayed there for a long while, watching them as the last traces of daylight melted into evening. Lanterns began to flicker to life across the garden paths, their warm glow illuminating the falling leaves.
The world beyond might have been unnaturally still, secrets gathering in the dark like storm clouds, but here, in this little pocket of golden calm, life felt beautifully, achingly ordinary.
Until...
Her gaze shifted, almost idly at first, following the winding gravel path that cut through the rose gardens. And then she stilled.
Leroy.
He was walking through the golden light of evening with none other than Aralyn...His mother.
Aralyn’s arm was hooked gracefully through his, their steps matched in unhurried rhythm. Leroy, tall and broad-shouldered, adjusted his pace to hers with quiet patience, the kind that spoke of respect and perhaps something gentler, something long-buried.
Lorraine didn’t know why, but the first emotion that fluttered unbidden through her chest was not joy or relief. It was disappointment. A small, sharp sting that surprised even her.
Of course, she understood. Rationally, she did. This was their first true meeting since the day he was born. A mother and son, separated by decades of politics and tragedy, were finally walking side by side. Of course, they’d want to talk. To know each other. To reclaim pieces of the past.
She wanted that for him. She did.
But...
Her fingers curled slightly against the stone railing as that quiet, unreasonable ache rose within her. She was only just getting to know her husband now, after ten long years of a marriage built on distance and misunderstandings. Only recently had she learned that his love had always been hers alone, buried beneath distance and silence.
And yet... he had never taken her on a walk in the garden.
He laughed with Zara amidst the hydrangeas, carefree and easy. He strolled with his mother now, the autumn light gilding their figures in soft warmth.
But with her... the only memory she held was of that stolen moment beneath the ancient ashwood tree, when she had quietly taken refuge in his warmth one evening, heart thundering in the shadows.
Her lips curved into a small pout, entirely unbecoming of a Crown Princess, but she didn’t care.
She followed their figures with her eyes as they walked deeper into the garden’s heart, where the golden leaves fell like slow rain around them. They seemed to be speaking about something serious; Aralyn’s hand occasionally tightened around his arm, and Leroy listened with his usual quiet intensity. He didn’t speak much, but Lorraine could see it in his face: the softness around his eyes, the unguarded peace that had been so rare for him since childhood.
He looked... happy.
Her jealousy, that small, petty flame, flickered uncertainly... and then began to ease, like a tide receding.
So what if he was with his mother?
Didn’t his happiness matter more than who made him happy?
Lorraine exhaled slowly, the last light catching the edges of her hair. Her shoulders relaxed, and her pout melted away, replaced by something warmer, steadier.
A smile, true and quiet, bloomed on her lips, soft as the lantern light beginning to glow along the garden paths.
-----
Leroy hadn’t known what to say when his mother asked him to walk with her.
He’d meant to spend the evening tending to the little flower patch he’d been growing beside the hydrangeas, nothing grand, just a personal, stubborn little corner of peace he’d cultivated with his own hands as an apology to his wife.
But then she had appeared, her steps soft, her smile careful but bright, and the request had left him with no room to refuse.
So here they were, walking side by side beneath the warm gold light of late autumn, their shadows stretched long against the gravel path.
Aralyn talked lightly, almost nervously at first, about this and that, about pruning and soil, about the flowers she used to grow in her youth. A small, delicate thing bloomed in her voice when she spoke of gardens past, as though she were stepping into memories she hadn’t allowed herself to touch for years.
Leroy wasn’t particularly interested in the details of flowerbeds and pruning shears. And yet, as she spoke, he found his gaze drifting toward her; not in impatience, but in quiet, aching wonder.
The flutter of her lashes when she smiled. The faint lines carved gently around her mouth, a testament to both laughter and sorrow. The way the evening light softened the angles of her face, revealing the woman beneath her veneer. The tiredness in her eyes, yes, but also the fragile, careful light that had survived despite everything.
His mother.
He had spent years not knowing her. But here, walking beside her, he found himself simply staring, trying to piece together fragments of a bond neither of them had been allowed to build.
Without realizing it, his steps had guided them toward his flower patch. Two days ago, he’d noticed new buds there, small, stubborn things pushing through the chill of the season. He had been looking forward to seeing if they’d bloomed.
But just before they reached the turn, Aralyn slowed... and stopped. Her hand tightened gently around his arm.
"Leroy," she began, and her voice wavered.
He turned to her. She was looking down, lashes casting trembling shadows on her cheeks. She took a breath, steadying herself, and when she looked up at him, there was a quiet, fierce resolve in her eyes, tinged with shame she had long carried.
"I’m sorry," she said softly.