Page 58 of Healed By the Grumpy Elf

Still, I have little choice. I owe this to Duchess Karanda for her grief.

I realize with sudden clarity that returning to Saltford Bay might not be as simple as I hope. The empress doesn't issue summons lightly, especially not after granting me the mercy of self-imposed exile. I could be looking at months or years of service before being permitted to leave again.

Unless I refuse the summons entirely.

The thought is radical, almost blasphemous for someone raised as I was. No one refuses an Imperial summons. It’s just not done.

You don’t have to go.Maeve’s words resonate in my skull. Maybe she is right.

Yet as I consider the consequences of my defiance, they seem increasingly hollow. What good is my title without Maeve? What use is my reputation in the High Court if it means giving up the one person who makes me feel truly alive?

Duchess Karanda turns and looks at me with those ice-blue eyes all elves share. Does she sense my thoughts turning toward rebellion? The air in the car feels charged with unspoken tension and old wounds.

To my surprise, she leans forward and addresses the driver. "Pull over here, please."

The sleek vehicle glides to a smooth stop beside a stretch of pine forest. Through the window, I can see the sun beginning its descent toward the horizon, painting the sky in shades of amber and rose. We're in the middle of nowhere, just outside of town, the distant sound of ocean waves barely audible from the bay.

Confusion flickers through me as the engine quiets. I tense, unsure what this unexpected stop means.

Karanda reaches into an inner pocket of her velvet dress with deliberate slowness. Her movements are precise as always, but as her hand retrieves an object, it shakes. Her fingers still tremble as she hands me a folded piece of simple white paper.

I stare at it without words, too confused to speak. The paper is clearly old, its edges worn soft from frequent handling. Creases run deep across its surface, speaking of countless foldings and unfoldings.

"From Evander," she says simply, her voice barely above a whisper.

The name hits me like a physical blow. Evander. Her son. My patient. The boy who died.

The boy I failed to save.

I hesitate before taking the letter, my own fingers trembling slightly as I accept it. The paper feels delicate, precious, a relic from a past I've spent five years trying to atone for. I unfold it with utmost care, afraid the worn creases might tear under my touch.

The sight of the childish handwriting makes my throat tighten. Large, careful letters formed with precision blur as tears sting my eyes. I begin to read, each word hitting me like a physical blow.

This must have been written during one of Evander’s last days. Before his young life slipped between my fingers.

Each line describes a child's gratitude, his love for his mother, his father. He speaks of his happiness that he was cherished every day of his life. And of me. The doctor who cared for him day and night.

I can barely read through my tears as I reach the final paragraph, where Evander thanks me for giving him the courage to face what was coming. For helping him understand that some battles cannot be won but can still be fought with dignity.

I hand the letter back to Karanda, who presses it to her chest with trembling hands.

"He was such a courageous child," I admit, my voice hoarse with emotion. "Braver than any of us."

I don’t know why she’s sharing this letter with me, but I know I’m grateful I read it. This letter is an absolution I never thought I needed, but I did. Five years of guilt and exile healed in a single moment.

Karanda's perfect court mask slips, revealing the raw grief beneath. Without the elaborate backdrop of the High Court, sitting in a parkedcar on a rural roadside, she suddenly looks like what she truly is. A mother who lost her child.

"For five years, I rehearsed what I would say to you when I’d finally see you again," she says, her voice softer than I've ever heard it. "So many words I prepared, and now I can’t find any."

I remain silent, giving her space to continue.

"Grief blinded me," she admits, smoothing the letter with careful fingers. "I needed someone to blame. Someone to focus all my pain on so I wouldn't have to face the truth. That nothing could have saved him."

She looks up, meeting my eyes directly.

"I thought watching you suffer would ease my pain. It didn't. Nothing did." Her fingers trace the outline of the letter. "Then I found this, hidden in his favorite book. He knew, Lorian. My little boy knew he was dying, and he made peace with it better than I ever did."

I find my voice, speaking the truth I've carried for years.