What Once Was Mine – The Tale of the Lost Prince Leander

Even in his dreams, Emyr was running.

At first, he didn’t recognize it as a dream; after years of fleeing, the line between sleep and wakefulness had blurred. Running was all he knew—town to town, country to country, never staying long enough to plant roots. Paranoia anchored itself deep in his gut, a constant, gnawing dread that never truly loosened its grip.

But in this dream, the dread was gone.

Emyr’s dream-self drifted effortlessly through dark forests and unfamiliar towns, his steps unburdened, his heart calm. No one pursued him. There was no need for caution, no need to glance over his shoulder. Freedom embraced him like a long-lost friend, and for a brief, fragile moment, Emyr felt safe.

It was the safety that woke him.

His eyes blinked open to find his mother watching him from the driver’s seat. Her face, sharp with purpose, softened just enough to say, “Good. I was about to wake you.”

They were parked on a gentle slope beside a dark, still lake. The sky was dimming into twilight.

“What’s happening?” Emyr asked, his voice hoarse with sleep.

“We’re changing cars,” she said briskly. “Grab the bags.”

He didn’t argue. Questions only earned him cold silence or sharp lectures. He hauled their duffel bags from the backseat, standing aside as his mother released the handbrake. The car rolled forward, gathered speed, and with a hollow splash, vanished beneath the lake’s surface.

His mother didn’t explain further. She led him wordlessly into the forest, their footsteps muffled by damp earth. Silence was their shield. Emyr didn’t know who hunted them or why—only that people were after him, people who whispered of his existence in shadows. His mother warned him of dangers but never gave names, except for one: Brobbin.

Brobbin was the nightmare that haunted every cautionary tale his mother whispered before sleep.

After an hour of weaving through the trees, his mother brushed aside a curtain of ivy revealing a secluded cottage, swallowed in greenery. Inside, dust floated in thin beams of fading light. They didn’t bother lighting a candle. Instead, they curled up back to back, their sleep shallow and alert to every creak of timber and sigh of the wind.

At dawn, his mother stirred. She tossed him a cereal bar and pulled on her coat.

“I’m getting food,” she whispered. “Stay here. Don’t make a sound. Remember our signal—four knocks.”

“Yes, mum.”

Then she was gone, swallowed by the trees.

Emyr waited, time dragging like a chain around his neck. To distract himself, he brushed his hair—nineteen feet of auburn waves, meticulously untangled and rebraided. His mother insisted he keep it neat, though he barely understood why his hair mattered so much.

Suddenly, heavy footsteps echoed outside the cottage—too heavy to be his mother’s.

Panic surged through him. He grabbed the nearest weapon he could find—a dusty iron pot—and slipped into the shadows of the kitchen. The door slammed open. Emyr held his breath.

Red shoes stepped cautiously across the threshold. A blonde girl peered into the kitchen, her eyes scanning, her movements hesitant. She turned towards the disturbance Emyr had caused among the pots—and that was when he struck.

The pot collided with her arm instead of her head. She yelped, retaliating with a swift swipe, and the two clumsily wrestled for makeshift weapons. Each swing drove her backward until she flung open the back door. With a graceful roll, she escaped, and before Emyr could react, vines surged through the doorway, wrapping around his limbs and rendering him immobile.

“What are you?” he spat.

“Forest Keeper,” she replied, catching her breath. “And who are you?”

“Erid,” Emyr lied instinctively.

She tilted her head, unimpressed. “You shouldn’t lie to me.”

His blood chilled. She was a stranger, yet her words cut like she knew too much. But then she explained she was fleeing McGreavy’s men, that they were too afraid to enter the depths of the forest.

“My mum,” Emyr whispered, dread pooling in his stomach. “She went for supplies.”

Merui’s expression softened. “No one bests this forest twice. She wasn’t captured… but she’s not coming back.”

The floor tilted beneath him. He collapsed, sobbing openly, the weight of loss too much to hide.

“What do I do?” he choked.

Merui’s hand rested awkwardly on his shoulder. “I’ll take you to the king. He’ll keep you safe.”

Emyr nodded weakly. When she asked his real name, he murmured, “Emyr.”

Together, they navigated the woods until they emerged into the bustling heart of the kingdom—just in time for the festival celebrating the lost Prince Leander’s birthday. In the crowd, a red-haired girl twirled in a white dress and red shoes: Princess Rowan.

Before Emyr could marvel at the sight, a hand clamped over his mouth, yanking him into darkness.

When the blindfold was ripped off, Emyr faced a young man with ice-blue eyes and a cruel grin—McGreavy.

“You’re quite the prize,” McGreavy sneered. “Where’s Cecelia? Your dear mummy?”

Emyr spat at him, earning a punch to the face. But McGreavy’s taunts became a whirlwind of revelations: Cecelia wasn’t his mother. He’d been kidnapped.

Brobbin arrived then—the name alone froze Emyr’s blood.

Merui was dragged in, bruised but defiant. McGreavy demanded to know what Emyr’s hair could do. When no answer came, Brobbin grabbed a dagger, slashing Merui’s palm.

She screamed. Emyr, heart racing, wrapped his hair around her wound, whispering the healing chants in Welsh his mother had taught him. The hair glowed faintly. The wound sealed.

McGreavy’s eyes gleamed with greed. “His hair heals. We’ll be unstoppable.”

Emyr pleaded with Merui to fight back. She gathered her power, summoning the forest’s might— a thick tree branch burst through Brobbin’s chest.

McGreavy, gasping, laughed bitterly. “Look at his face, Merui. The same as the one you love.”

Merui’s eyes widened in realization. She turned to Emyr, her voice soft with awe. “You’re Prince Leander.”

Confusion spun in Emyr’s head, but Merui didn’t wait. She dragged him through the town back to the palace square.

Princess Rowan froze mid-dance, staring at Emyr with tearful wonder. “I know you.”

“He’s your brother,” Merui declared. “The lost prince.”

Rowan’s smile trembled as she embraced him. “You’re home.”

For the first time, Emyr stopped running. He was no longer alone. He was Leander—and he was home.

Moral of the Story

No matter how far you run, the truth of who you are will always find its way home. Trust and courage can lead you out of darkness and back to your rightful place.