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His office was silent, and he liked it that way.
Or at least it was mostly silent. There was always the tick-ticking of a pocket watch that kept Prime Regent Rulon Harlowe company.
The gold watch never left it’s place in Harlowe’s vest pocket. Its only companion was a metal locket the size of Harlowe’s thumb. He could’ve lost his home and gone on with a stiff upper lip and a plan to fix things.
But it would’ve broken him to lose those two precious items.
Even thinking about the items made Harlowe reach into his pocket to check that they were still there.
He shut his eyes, and pulled the locket from its hiding place. The sunlight bounced off of its face adorned with engraved swamp lilies. Harlowe pressed the small knob atop the locket. It swung open.
The miniature inside the locket had remained in perfect condition- but that was likely because it never ever left Harlowe’s person. Lady Havanila was gazing up at him with a smile on her face and sea eyes full of life. When Harlowe’s commissioned artist came to sketch an outline for the miniature, Havanila insisted on smiling.
It brought sparks of joy to Harlowe when he opened the locket.
Despite the sorrow he couldnt get rid of, joy and gratitude sparked in his heart. Joy that he could see Havanila. Gratitude for the artist who had painted her.
Havanila was always trying to work. Always trying to help. When she was no longer able to hide the fact that she was carrying their second child, Harlowe put his foot down, and insisted that she avoid doing any strenuous chore.
But Harlowe did tend to get anxious when his family was involved.
At one point, Havanila insisted on picking up a bucket. Harlowe- who had already took on a heavy load- immediately stopped what he was doing to pick it up for her.
She teased him for that during the rest of her pregnancy.
Harlowe remembered the day clearly, when he’d had the artist come in.
It was a cold day. Winter was threatening to come early.
A captivating glow had beamed across her face. She’d insisted that she’d felt their baby move several times that month, and that it was high time to choose a name.
‘I would prefer Briony for a girl’s name,’ Havanila had said.
‘Name our daughter after a poisonous plant?’ Had been Harlowe’s reply.
‘It’s only poisonous in large amounts, goose. Or maybe Elen. Like your mother.’
‘Elen’s a strong name,’ Harlowe draped an arm around Havanila’s shoulders. ‘I like Elen. My mother would approve too.’
‘And there’s only one name I want if our child is a boy.’
‘You’re the one carrying the child, that definitely earns the right to name our child whatever you want.’
‘Roland. I want to name our son Roland.’
They’d stopped in the manor hallway, right next to the window that gave the best view of the green, green swamp.
History soaked that name: Roland.
It had belonged to Harlowe’s older brother, who’d worked day and night to become the village sheriff.
He’d been the one to lay down the foundations to help Libeth. The foundations Harlowe and Havanila had used to make their village grow.
A small smile curled on Harlowe’s face, ‘I can’t say no, I’ve seen the blanket you’ve begun to sew.’
‘You wouldn’t have been able to say no to me anyways! And don’t you worry, I’m completely prepared to change the name in case we have a daughter.’
‘Perhaps you can think of it as you sit for the painting.’
‘Hogwash to that, the artist can paint me as a maypole for all I care. I’d rather be outside, waiting for the snow.’
It wasn’t uncommon for the passing staff to see Harlowe and Havanila locked in an embrace. Harlowe didn’t see a reason to hide his affection for his wife, and Havanila just didn’t care what anyone thought of her. He was happy for what he had.
The saints had taken kindly to him.
Or so he thought.
Havanila smiled all through the session with the artist. She grew happier and happier as she prepared for the coming of their son. Winter did come early, dropping a blanket of snow over everything.
But she wasn’t afraid. She’d welcomed the snow. Claimed it made her feel less-
Worried.
Libeth’s best linens coated the room that Harlowe and Havanila shared. It wouldn’t be long before their child would be born.
The midwife and her assistant had been housed in the manor. A governess had already been chosen. And a renowned nursemaid from Avenia had been asked to help care for the child after they had been born.
More snow came after Havanila slipped into labor. It piled and piled as the hours passed. Harlowe could’ve worn a groove into the hallway floor where he’d been pacing. Nothing could calm his nerves. Just when he couldn’t bear the waiting any longer, cries of excitement shook the manor.
And then he was allowed inside.
In Havanila’s arms was a large bundle of blankets and cloth. A single pattern peeked out over the top: Roland.
However, the saints’ blessings ran dry not long after Roland’s birth.
He was stolen He was taken.
Taken in the dead of night. A note had been left behind, demanding ransom. His tiny blanket had been dropped in the snow.
Riders had been sent out with portions of money to find Roland.But the nursemaid who’d taken him was nowhere to be found.
The snow piled higher.
Four people froze to death in their homes.
There was no way Roland or the nursemaid would’ve been able to survive.
Harlowe shut the locket, and blocked out the memories that had come flooding in.
All Harlowe men were good at blocking out the things they didn’t want to think about until they were ready to deal with him.
Havanila had died peacefully in her sleep the year before. Ironic, considering the wild life she’d always preferred. She’d sworn to Harlowe the previous night that she’d seen her missing son, basked in light and wearing the proud colors of Carthya, and wearing a new name.
She’d always insisted that tiny Roland had survived the winter after he’d been born and kidnapped.
Havanila was with their two sons now in the afterlife.
There were times that Harlowe caught himself thinking of how selfish it was for his sons and wife to leave him behind. To leave him in his loneliness.
But his granddaughter, Nila, was depending on him to be strong.
To raise her as he’d raised her father.
Memories of Mathis were laced with joy and sorrow. Havanila never fully recovered from losing Roland. The spark had gone from her eyes, no matter how hard she tried to hide it by riding the fastest horses or climbing the tallest trees. Her shoulders sometimes curled over.
There was nothing Mathis could do to help his mother once her shoulders curled.
Shoulder curling meant she’d begun to dream of a world where Roland was still toddling behind her with sweets covering his chubby face.
Roland would have loved Harlowe’s office in Drylliad. There were nooks and crannies to hide in. Harlowe kept several treats in his desk. Though Nila had discovered that stash during her last visit, and ate everything she saw.
A hard rapping jolted him from his stroll down memory lane.
“Oh yes, yes, sorry,” Harlowe gathered the papers strewn across his desk. “Come in! Come in!”
“Forgive me if I interrupted anything,” said Carthya’s young captain, Roden.
“Don’t worry, I’m glad for the interruption. I’ve got papers I’m sorting through, boring business.”
Roden’s hands appeared to be shaking, but Harlowe couldn’t be sure, Roden had clasped them behind his back.
“Here, take a seat, you look as if you’ve got something to say,” Harlowe gestured to the padded chair before his desk.
With the grace of a block of wood, Roden took a seat. His hands clung to the armrests as if her were going to float away, “Sir, there’s-”
“Let’s avoid talk of politics. Makes things seem dismal,” Harlowe said.
“Oh, uh, right. You’re right. Um, how has your, uh, day been?”
“Aside from sorting papers, it’s been splendid. There’s much to be thankful for. And you?”
He shifted in his seat, “Different than what I’m used to.”
“Ah, and you have every reason to feel that way. War changes people.”
“Well, yes, but that’s not quite what I meant, sir.”
Ever since Harlowe had come to the castle, he’d done his best to serve as a good example to King Jaron and his fatherless friends. He’d talked with both Roden and Tobias enough to consider them his friends. But he’d avoided serious subjects with them.
There wasn’t much room to avoid a very serious subject right then.
“Is it memories of Farthenwood?”
The noose. Harlowe shuddered as he thought about what could’ve happened.
A frown crossed Roden’s face, “That’s one of the things that I’ve thought about, yes.”
“You’re safe here, Captain, I swear it,” Harlowe said softly.
“I wake at night sometimes, and I can still feel the noise tightening around my neck.”
“Nobody should ever have to wake feeling that way.”
“There was a worse feeling, though, as I was standing there. My father was in the crowd. I was worried he’d seen the person I’d become. That he’d be ashamed of me.”
“Your father? Where-”
“If I may, there’s something I must tell you,” Roden’s interruption faded into silence.
He inhaled deeply, and began to speak, “For the first few years of my life, I was raised by a midwife. My early memories are filled with searching for herbs and gathering cobwebs. Living with the midwife didn’t mean comfort. Often she forgot me at her home when leaving for a task. I’d sleep alone without the fire.
“The other children called me all sorts of names, like Beetle and Brat. But what was I to do? The midwife couldn’t always take me with her wherever she went. For the longest time, I’d believed that my name was Beetle.
“But the midwife called me Roden. Claimed she’d found a blanket with my name on it when I came to her. And I chose that name. I was Roden. Not Beetle. Not Brat. Having a name made me different. Made me want to do more than find an early death.That’s the name I took with me when the midwife took me to the orphanage in Benton.
“I learned to fight in the orphanage. When I first arrived, I was small. An easy target. But soon the others left me alone. I learned to use a sword while practicing with an old soldier. He’d give me bits of food, sometimes enough to take home to the orphanage and share.
“Friends weren’t something I really had, save for a boy named Latamer. The other boys avoided me, and I avoided them. Latamer and I got along well. But winter came. He fell sick. I don’t think he ever managed to get better.
“When Bevin Conner came looking for two boys in Benton, I couldn’t remember being more excited. I was too old to be taken into a household. Too young and illiterate to join the royal army. But with Conner? I could’ve had a chance. And he’s selected Latamer too. Latamer, who’d been sick most of his life.”
Roden paused, and Harlowe didn’t have the heart to interrupt him. He was obviously going through something difficult, but Roden wasn’t alone. Harlowe’s thoughts wandered to his son Roland.
There were many pieces of Conner’s plan to place a false prince on the throne that Harlowe knew. Jaron had told him of it one night. But it hadn’t been everything.
“Conner picked up Tobias and Jaron- who’d taken the name Sage,” Roden continued. “I thought Conner had better plans for us. We- Latamer and I- trusted him. But that changed in an instant. Conner had Latamer killed right before us all. I’d lost my only childhood friend. I did my best to learn, and I’ll admit, didn’t enjoy the idea of Sage taking the throne. But I couldn’t face the humiliation of losing Conner’s contest. I ran.
“I did things that I wasn’t proud of, and eventually, became one of the pirates. You know the rest. Jaron came to the pirates, I became pirate king and broke his leg, we fought, I let him win. Lead 40 of Carthya’s best men against Gelyn, and later went on to lead Carthya’s armies.
“After I was captured, I thought a lot about my family. If they’d died and were waiting for me in the afterlife. But Jaron told me who my father was, he’d figured it out. And I was ashamed. Ashamed of the things that I’d done.”
Harlowe was certain that Roden’s words hadn’t meant to bring pain.
But thoughts of his two dead sons began to rack his very soul. He’d sworn to love Mathis no matter what he did not long after Roland’s disappearance. Harlowe reached forwards, and gave Roden’s shoulder a good natured pat.
He was at a loss for words.
If he dared to speak, he’d likely give in to the splinters of his heart and break down in tears.
“Would you be ashamed of your sons? If they’d done the things I’ve done?” Roden asked, his voice small and meek.
For a long moment, Harlowe was quiet, searching for what to say.
He’d learned of Roden’s crimes. Jaron had told him in secrecy- with Roden’s permission of course. He’d learned of his rise to the title of Pirate King. Learned of what he’d done to become a pirate in the first place.
It was impossible to imagine Mathis doing anything like that.
But Roden had struggled to put his past behind him, something not many people were able to do.
“The greatest challenge as a parent is learning to forgive,” he said, struggling to keep his voice from breaking. “People change, they can prove that they- that they are not their mistakes. Captain, I would never be ashamed of my sons. You’ve worked hard to prove that you are not your mistakes, and that is what matters most.”
Roden bowed his head, and he appeared to be pinching the bridge of his nose. Harlowe looked away. He didn’t want to intrude.
“I knew my mother’s name,” Roden mumbled. “The midwife who kept me told it to me.”
“May I ask what it was?” Harlowe set his hands on his desk.
“Havanila.”
Harlowe froze, his eyes glued on Roden.
“I’m your son, sir.”
He became aware of the sunlight flooding through his office windows. Aware of the birds singing on a beautiful summer day. Mathis’s watch ticked in his pocket, right next to the miniature of Havanila.
His son.
New emotions washed over him. Harlowe stood, and left his desk. Roden followed suit, but kept his hands clasped behind his back. His face had gone pale. Fear was dancing in his sea eyes.
Sea eyes.
Just like Havanila.
A wildness barely contained.
Just like Havanila.
All this time, Harlowe had been so close to the boy he’d lost. So close to his stolen son. Harlowe had watched him grow from a boy to a man. He’d survived. Roland had survived, but he wore a different name.
Names weren’t important.
The longer Harlowe studied Roden’s face, the more he saw Havanila. There was no doubt that Roden was his mother’s son. It showed in the way he moved. The way he courageously stood up for those around him, and humbly agreed to lay down his life for his country.
Havanila’s dream.
She’d seen her son wearing Carthya’s colors and wearing a different name.
She’d been right to insist that Roden was alive.
Saints.
Harlowe thought back to Farthenwood, where Roden and Jaron had stood with nooses around their necks. He’d almost lost his son a second time without realizing it.
Stray tears began to trail down his face.
He wanted to tell Roden that they’d searched for him. Combed through the swamps of Carthya and Avenia searching for him. Harlowe and Havanila had searched for him even after they’d found the frozen body of the Avenian woman.
But the words didn’t come.
“My boy,” Harlowe said, pride blooming in his chest.
He set a hand on Roden’s cheek.
Captain Roden Harlowe had risen from an orphan to one of the bravest men in the entire kingdom.
“I’m sorry-” Roden began.
“Don’t you ever apologize. I deserve your forgiveness, I’m so sorry. I should’ve looked harder. Searched through all of Carthya. We thought you had died.”
“You didn’t know, you didn’t know.”
“Your mother never gave up. Not once. She would be so proud of you.”
Roden tried to hide the crystal tears forming in his eyes with a chuckle, “I don’t know what to say. I didn’t- I didn’t think I’d be able to tell you.”
Harlowe hurled his arms around Roden, drawing him into a tight embrace. Pure joy kept his sorrows at bay. His son had come home.
He’d found his way back.
It was a moment before Harlowe felt Roden embrace him back.
Was Havanila leaping with joy in the afterlife? Was she weeping? Harlowe was certain she’d be bursting with happiness to know that she was right. She’d been right all along, and she’d certainly tell him she’d said so once he returned to her.
“I love you,” Harlowe mumbled. “Your family loves you.”
Harlowe’s shirt had grown damp with Roden’s tears, and vice versa.
He reckoned he was in shock.
Years and years had gone by where he’d thought his son had died, lost in the snow. Harlowe blamed himself for it. Thought he’d come to terms with what had happened, there was a part of him that never truly recovered.
It was a welcoming feeling.
The sensation of healing.
Realizing that he was once again holding his child.
“You will never be lost again,” Harlowe whispered.
And he meant it.