Chapter 149: Rowan’s Past
The moon hung low over the palace gardens.
Lysa had found Rowan sitting alone on the stone bench by the fountain; the same bench where they had shared their first tentative conversations. But tonight, he wasn’t watching for her. He was staring at the water, his hands clasped between his knees, his shoulders heavy. The night jasmine scent seemed distant, muted.
"Rowan?" She sat beside him, close enough to feel his warmth but not touching. "What’s wrong?"
He didn’t answer for a long moment. The fountain splashed. Somewhere an owl called.
"I was married before," he said finally. "Before the war. Before any of this."
Lysa’s heart clenched. She had known he had a past...everyone did. But he had never spoken of it. Not once. She waited.
"Her name was Helena. She was a wolf, from a small pack in the eastern foothills." His voice was flat, distant, as if he were reading someone else’s story. "We met when I was stationed near her village. She was... everything. Bright. Fierce. She laughed at my jokes even when they weren’t funny."
Lysa smiled softly. "I imagine she had a good laugh."
"The best." His throat moved. "What happened?"
"She got pregnant. We were happy; terrified, but happy. We planned for months. Built a cradle together. Picked names for days, arguing over every one." He closed his eyes. "The birth was difficult. The healers said there were complications. They tried to save her. They couldn’t."
Lysa’s throat tightened. "Rowan..."
"She died holding our daughter. I named her Iris. I held Iris while the healers took Helena away. I cried." His voice cracked on the last word.
The fountain splashed softly, filling the silence.
"Iris is thirteen now. She barely speaks to me." Rowan’s voice was raw. "Not because she’s angry. Because she doesn’t know how. I wasn’t there. After Helena died, I threw myself into my work. Patrols. Missions. Anything to keep me from feeling. From remembering."
"You were grieving."
"I was *running*. There’s a difference." He looked at Lysa, and she saw the pain he had hidden for so long. "I missed her first steps. Her first words. I was at the border when she learned to shift. A messenger brought the news. I read it while fighting off raiders."
Lysa took his hand. "You did what you had to do."
"I did what was *easy*. Being a soldier is easy. Being a father—being *present*—is hard. I chose the easy path. And Iris chose silence." He shook his head. "She doesn’t hate me. That would be easier. She just... doesn’t see me."
His other hand moved to his collar. He unfastened the top button, then the next, revealing a scar that ran from his shoulder to his chest: jagged, white, old. The skin was puckered, the wound clearly had been deep.
"I got this at the border," he said. "A northern wolf’s claws. I should have died. Sometimes I wish I had."
"Don’t say that."
"Why not? It’s true. If I had died, Iris would have been raised by people who actually loved her. People who stayed. Who didn’t choose patrols over bedtime stories."
"Instead, she was raised by a father who survived." Lysa touched the scar. Her fingers were gentle, tracing the raised edges. "Who fought to protect the kingdom. Who came back, even when it was hard. Who is here, right now, trying."
"I didn’t come back for her. I came back because I didn’t know what else to do."
"You came back." She met his eyes. "That’s what matters."
Rowan’s breath shuddered.
"Loving you means opening wounds I thought were healed." His voice was raw, barely a whisper. "Wounds I packed away years ago. Wounds I told myself didn’t hurt anymore."
"And now?"
"Now they hurt. Every day. Every time I look at you, I think about Helena. About what I lost. About what I could lose again."
Lysa leaned forward and pressed her lips to the scar on his chest.
He froze.
She kissed it gently; not passion, not desire. Tenderness. Acceptance. Her lips lingered on the damaged skin, warm and soft.
"Healing is not a straight line," she said. "My mother used to say that. She’d stitch up wounds that should have killed people, and they’d still come back weeks later with infections or relapses. She never blamed them. She just said, ’Healing is not a straight line.’ Sometimes it loops back. Sometimes it hurts worse before it gets better."
She kissed the scar again.
"You’re not broken, Rowan. You’re healing. And healing takes time."
He pulled her close, his arms wrapping around her like she was the only solid thing in a crumbling world.
"I don’t deserve you."
"Maybe not. But you have me anyway."
They sat in silence, the fountain splashing, the moon rising higher. His arms were around her. Her head was on his shoulder. She could feel his heartbeat, steady now.
"Tell me about Iris," Lysa said. "What does she like?"
Rowan was quiet for a moment, gathering himself.
"Plants," he said finally. "She likes plants. She has a collection of pressed flowers in her room. Dried and labeled in a leather book I gave her years ago. She knows the names of everything that grows in the eastern provinces. Latin names. Common names. Which ones are poisonous and which ones heal."
"That’s beautiful."
"She’s beautiful. She has Helena’s eyes. Her laugh." His voice cracked again, but softer this time. "I don’t know how to reach her. I’ve tried. Letters. Gifts. Showing up at her mother’s grave on the anniversary. She just... looks through me. Like I’m a ghost."
"Maybe she’s scared too."
"Of me?"
"Of losing you. Of letting you in and having you leave again." Lysa looked up at him. "Soldiers leave. That’s what they do. She learned that lesson young."
"She learned it from me."
"Then teach her a different lesson." Lysa pressed her palm to his chest. "Stay."
The next morning, Rowan wrote a letter to his daughter.
Not a formal letter; not the stiff, distant notes he had sent before. A real letter. About Lysa. About the garden. About the fountain where he sat at night and thought about Helena.
*I’m not the father you deserved,* he wrote. *But I want to be. If you’ll let me.*
He sealed it and sent it east.
Then he went to find Lysa.
She was in the garden, watering the flowers. The morning light caught her hair, turning it to gold. She looked up when he approached, and she smiled.
"I wrote to Iris," he said.
"That’s good."
"I told her about you."
Lysa’s eyes widened. "What did you say?"
"That you’re kind. That you’re brave. That you make me want to be better." He took her hand, feeling the warmth of her fingers. "That I hope she’ll meet you someday. When she’s ready."
"Someday?"
"Soon. If she’s willing." He squeezed her fingers. "I can’t fix the past. But I can try to build a future. With you. With her. If you’ll have us. Both of us."
Lysa rose on her toes and kissed him.
"I’ll have you. Both of you."
