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(𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗢𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗶𝗻𝗮𝗹𝘀: 1x11.5)
..••°°°°••..
Merlin Ambrosius indulged his daughter's every whim. From the moment he'd picked up the cooing, bright blue-eyed baby in his mother's foraging basket to the day she'd lost everything she held dear merely at ten-and-six. Sad? He'd comforted her. Happy? Well, that was easy—for only the few moments they had, they did happy well. Broken down? He'd held her and tried not to break himself. It was his job as a parent; provide and protect.
It never felt enough. Especially when his daughter turned into a reclusive teen, pulling away even before their loved one started dropping like flies. He had sat her down and tried but she evaded him, made up excuses, slipped away to wherever and inevitably, a man or woman with a grudge against Uther Pendragon had set their sights on The Once and Future King and unknowingly gained the wrath of Emrys.
Most parents believed their child to be unique; special. Emery's case was an understatement. Much like her father, she'd been born with a gift. She'd been born with a purpose. A name and a destiny. A burden.
Once a tiny baby with lungs like a singer whose eyes were more like the sun than they were ever the sky. It sent spikes of fear through her father and grandmother's spines each time the galloping hooves echoed, drawing closer and closer while mother and son clung to one another, the overly wrapped bundle tucked close to her father's chest.
"Ma," a quiet, tentative voice called out. It caused Hunith to pause her movements, spinning around with a soft smile before seeing her granddaughter, instead of adorning a simple yellow tunic with specially embroidered flowers, Hunith had done herself and black trousers she'd been gifted at dawn for her name day, Emery had multiple cuts on her skinny arms, a harsh purple bruise under her eye, and dirt and grime layered on most of her face and clothes. While those would have been concerning, it was the blood—so much blood spattered across her face and drenched her hands. Hunith gasped, though quietly, as Merlin was asleep, tired from plowing the fields in the early morning.
"Oh, darling, what's happened?" Hunith queried, panicked, and grabbed her nearest washcloth and the young girl before beginning to scrub as much dirt and blood as she could.
"It's not mine," Emery replied simply, voice detached, and it did nothing to alleviate any of Hunith's concerns—if anything, they only increased tenfold. "Why don't I have a mother? Why did she leave me?" Emery asked instead. Before Hunith could swallow the sudden sour taste on her tongue, Emery continued, "Is it because of..." She hesitated, her face falling, eyes sunken. "Why was I born this way? A monster?"
"Don't say that," Hunith reprimanded, her voice choking up. "You're special. So very special."
Emery paused, her face scrunching up in the way Hunith knew that the girl was thinking. She did that often, thinking about anything and everything, and it was a growing concern for father and grandmother alike. That, and she was quiet. Eventually that screaming ceased when those stories and warnings floated into her ears. Now she was always so quiet, thinking. "I don't feel special," Emery settled on.
