✧ Chapter Sixteen ✧
Two Moons
from Have You Someone to Protect?
By ©Amer
The wind moved gently through the cemetery, rustling the tall grass and whispering through the gaps between gravestones.
The sun, half-sinking into the horizon, bathed the scene in warm amber light—
though the stillness remained cool.
Silas stood near a headstone weathered with time but cared for—
clean,
adorned with fresh marigolds.
Thorne Amer.
He said the name inwardly, like a vow.
The soil beneath the marker seemed to hum with memories.
Ones he wasn't sure he had the right to visit.
He hadn't brought flowers.
Only himself.
"I guess you wouldn't have wanted me here,"
Silas said aloud, voice low, rough with something unspoken.
"Or maybe you would, just to punch me."
The smile that briefly touched his lips didn't quite reach his eyes.
"I came back.
Took me long enough."
He stared at the name as if the ground might answer him.
"I don't know what you'd say if you saw me now.
Maybe you'd call me a fool.
Or maybe...
you'd be proud that I kept her safe,
even from afar."
His hands remained in his coat pockets,
as though keeping them there would steady him—
keep the past from pouring through his fingertips.
Unseen, a few paces behind him,
Lhady stood by the trees.
She hadn't planned to follow.
She hadn't planned to see this.
But the moment she saw Silas slip past the edge of the flower garden that morning,
something in her chest refused to let go.
She had brought a fresh bouquet for her guardian—
nothing more,
nothing dramatic.
Just a quiet visit.
But seeing him here made everything inside her shift.
Silas knelt slowly beside Thorne Amer's grave.
His voice dropped to a hush.
"…You never knew me,"
he murmured to the stone, voice low and dry.
"But I knew you.
And I knew I wasn't worthy to stand where you did."
Lhady froze behind the tree trunk,
breath held tight.
"I failed her,"
he went on.
"When I was supposed to protect her.
And you—"
he breathed,
"you died doing it."
His voice cracked.
"I should've told her everything.
But I thought I was doing what was right."
He swallowed.
"I was wrong."
He bowed his head low.
"If you can hear me…
let her forgive me.
Let her be alright."
Then, after a moment—
his voice steadier, but no less pained—
"I'm sorry I left like that.
I thought staying away was the right thing.
I thought... hurting her less meant staying gone."
His voice cracked then, just slightly.
"But she still carries it."
The wind brushed past
as though in answer.
He tilted his head back,
closing his eyes.
"I don't expect your forgiveness.
I just wanted to say it out loud.
To someone who mattered."
A long silence followed—
so still
it was almost sacred.
Then, he murmured softly:
"Let Lhady forgive me."
The plea wasn't desperate, nor loud.
Just honest.
Lhady's eyes burned.
She turned away before the weight in her chest could break her open.
She walked back through the field slowly,
clutching her shawl close,
until the noise of the village reached her ears again.
⁂
The scent of worn paper and late-spring rain lingered in the bookshop for days.
Silas came often—
never loud,
never asking for more than a minute in her space.
He never made excuses.
Just left behind bookmarks with pressed herbs tucked inside,
or books Lhady might've read once when she was younger.
He always chose the hours when he knew she would be left alone—
when Caelum stepped out for errands—
as if to guard her without saying so.
She didn't tell him to leave.
She also didn't tell him to stay.
But she watched him too.
Sometimes through the reflection in the glass.
Sometimes with her head down
as she rearranged the same shelf twice.
Silas never brought up the masquerade.
He never spoke of the grave, either.
But something had softened in him after that day.
And something inside her was still slowly unraveling.
On the next day,
the world kept moving—
but something had changed.
The weight of what she'd seen lingered in her chest, unspoken.
She didn't tell Caelum she'd gone to the cemetery.
She didn't mention Silas's presence there either.
But it stayed with her.
In the way she touched the spines of old books.
In the way she found herself listening for footsteps
even before the bell above the door rang.
And Silas, true to that quiet rhythm,
never came when Caelum was home.
Only when the errands stretched long,
and she was left alone.
As if keeping a silent promise
she had no words for.
The days passed.
Caelum had been around less,
more often gone before dawn
and returning past nightfall.
She never asked why.
She only noticed the quiet he carried now—
the way his thoughts lingered elsewhere.
He still came home.
Still made sure she'd eaten.
Still brushed her coat from her shoulders and said,
"Rest, Lhady."
But he watched her differently.
As if he knew.
Because even when she smiled,
Caelum's eyes didn't.
She was forcing it.
And he saw straight through.
⁂
The tailor's birthday came,
and with it, a small gathering outside her little studio—
neighbors, shopkeepers, clients.
Lhady had promised to stop by with a ribbon book.
And Caelum, who'd always claimed he didn't need a new coat,
had agreed to walk her there without being asked
because he noticed when she needed someone beside her.
The tailor's birthday drew a cozy crowd along the cobbled street,
the late afternoon sun spilling gold across the eaves.
Paper lanterns swayed gently above,
casting soft shadows over the laughter
and gentle music from the porch.
A cake sat waiting on the table—
small, sweet, slightly lopsided—
and the tailor beamed,
surrounded by old clients and neighbors
offering gifts wrapped in cloth or tucked in baskets.
Lhady arrived quietly,
a ribbon book nestled under her arm.
Caelum walked beside her,
as he'd promised.
His coat was unfastened at the collar,
hair tousled slightly by the breeze.
She expected him to keep to the edges.
But he paused
when a group of children darted past,
chasing paper streamers.
One small girl stumbled.
Her lantern clattered beside her.
Before she could so much as blink,
Caelum had bent down and offered it back,
his steady hand brushing the dust from her dress.
"Still whole,"
he said softly, inspecting the frame.
And handed it back.
The girl's eyes widened—not in fear,
but fascination.
"You talk like a knight in the old books," she declared.
A faint smile tugged at the corner of Caelum's lips.
"Then I hope they're good ones."
She giggled and ran off.
And other children began drifting near him—
tugging at his sleeves,
showing off ribbon rings
or paper birds.
He didn't shoo them.
He crouched among them,
patient and quiet,
speaking only when spoken to,
but never unkind.
Even in silence,
he held them gently in his orbit.
Lhady's gaze shifted—
and caught on Silas.
He was by the table,
chatting easily with an elderly man,
the two laughing over some misremembered harvest fair story.
He handed the man a carved brooch,
wrapped in tissue,
with a sheepish grin.
"Not as fine as the tailor's work," he said,
"but I figured you'd appreciate the shape—look, it's meant to be a goose."
The man chuckled.
"A goose? This looks like my wife when she's scolding the neighbor."
"Well, I did say it was custom."
Even in a crowd,
Silas made people feel seen.
He called out names,
waved at familiar faces,
tousled a boy's hair with a wink.
His gift for the tailor was simple but thoughtful:
a new pair of embroidery scissors carved with ivy vines.
She hugged them to her chest with a loud,
"Oh, you always know!"
Silas turned
just in time to see Lhady,
and lifted his hand in a small, unobtrusive wave.
No pressure.
No weight.
Just acknowledgment.
She didn't wave back.
But her expression softened.
"You've got two moons watching you today,"
came a voice at her side.
Lhady turned.
It was the tailor,
cheeks pink from laughter,
a glass of lemonade in one hand.
"Two moons?" Lhady echoed.
"One bright and cheerful,"
the tailor said, nodding toward Silas,
"makes the whole night feel like a festival."
She tilted her head toward Caelum.
"And the other… quiet.
But pulling the tide just the same."
Lhady blinked.
The tailor smiled and sipped her drink.
"You've got something rare, darling."
"I—don't think I follow," Lhady said carefully.
The tailor glanced sideways at her.
One brow raised.
"Oh, I think you do.
You just don't want to name it yet."
Before Lhady could answer,
a cheer went up—someone called for cake.
The children scattered toward the porch.
Caelum stood slowly, watching them go.
Then glanced Lhady's way.
Silas, too, turned his head,
catching her gaze across the crowd.
Two moons.
And she, somewhere between them.
The tailor leaned in with a playful nudge.
"You don't have to choose today.
Just don't close your eyes
to the light you've been given."
With that,
she vanished into the gathering,
lemon glass raised like a toast to the sun.
Lhady stayed still,
ribbon book clutched in her arms,
heart echoing with more than just celebration.