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CHAPTER ONE: YOUTH ( the dragon's call)
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IT IS SAID THAT we leave this world as we enter it. Terrified beyond the sort of belief that our Gods can comprehend. Screaming and hiding our faces away from this great unknown. Sobbing for the safety of what we're leaving behind. Denying what is our right as well as our damnation.
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ENIDE PENDRAGON TURNED HER her head, body following the movement to address her footman, Kahedin, who had entered her chambers with something that Deidre couldn't see as she tried (and failed) to prevent the sharp point of her needle from scraping against the smooth expanse of the princess' bronze skin. The needle slipped. Enide visibly winced but said nothing to scold Deidre, whose face had slackened with fear.
"My most sincere apologies, my lady," she rushed to get the words out. "I am nearly finished."
Deidre had known from a young age what her place in the world was. Like she knew her name or her reflection, the way to sew a stitch in a noblewoman's dress simply came as second nature to her. She was grateful for it, too. There was nothing out there for a girl of her status, of her reputation without her trade.
Deidre Grieves was a girl of unknown parentage. There was no point in pretending there wasn't any truth to the whispers the people of Camelot exchanged. They loved to create theatrical fairy tales for how she, as a screaming baby, was taken in by a dear friend of the Queen Alayne and royal seamstress, Merida, who was seen often and definitely had not been with child in the months before Deidre's sudden arrival in the court. No one said it to her face but Deidre had just known. She wasn't so oblivious that she failed to notice their treatment of her. She and her mother looked nothing alike, and if Queen Alayne hadn't paid attention to the tiny shadow following Merida around in her younger years and seen something in her that, to this day, Deidre failed to understand, she would've had a very different upbringing.
Now, four years after Merida's untimely death, Deidre had taken her place as the royal seamstress. Merida wasn't her mother by blood, but by name and heart she had taken her in and shown her everything there was to know about clothing and how to make it beautiful. Once a girl of thirteen, now almost a woman. There was hope for her yet.
"Thank you, Deidre," murmured Enide, running a gentle hand across the glittering pink fabric of her dress as she admired her reflection in the mirror. "The stitching is exquisite. You never fail."
Deidre bowed her head. Some of the colour had returned to her face, dusting her cheeks a rosy red. "Thank you, my lady. As always, it is an honour."
Enide Pendragon had always been kind to her. Where others in the royal family (not naming any names but there was one in particular who loved to get under Deidre's skin) often looked over her, Enide treated her as an equal, a friend even. There was no difference between the two young women in Enide's eyes; just a name, a castle and opportunity.
