headcanon.01 | mun's take on edwin's story
        ------ LOVE. All he knewâ all that his world consisted ofâ was the soft touches of his motherâs caring hands, guiding him && watching over him. The strong voice of his father, proud as he passed on his knowledge to his son, taught the boy to harness the magic within his soul. Of healing && helping, of protection && retaliation he was taughtâ spells cast with the intent to mend a broken body mingling with spells taught to cause the deepest of pains to an adversary. While many of the villagers thought he and his parents DANGEROUSâ their magic the darkest of its kind, even if it could be used to help as much as hinderâ they were regarded as healers && helpers of the village. Even dark magic could be graced with light, if practiced by the right heart, with only pure intentions.Â
      That was before the purge.Â
        ------ FEAR. A force strong enough to paralyze a mind, erase intelligence && devotion in favor of primitive instinct. Where previously a single thought had dominated his conscious, â SAVE THEM â , another took its place-- END THE PAIN. And yet he struggled onward, outstretched fingers grasping through smoke && fire for twin withering masses of scorched flesh, desperation strengthening a weakening body. Magic brought golden coils to watering eyes, flaring in the attempt to do something-- ANYTHING.Â
      A cause doomed to be lost as flames licked at his heels, thin tendrils brushing the skin of his face as if delivering a lovers caress, possessive && UNYIELDING. Unrelenting hunger drove its attempt to devour his flesh, young meat an unexpected addition to the feast of his parents. Skin peeled back, blood sizzling as the burning monster brought it to a boil, excruciating pain echoing through the boyâs body. And succeeded the fire would have ( fingers grasping, ever reaching, the space of an infinite separating his touch from that of his motherâs ), if not for the hands that DRAGGED HIM AWAY.Â
      A  weak cry rose from a throat abused by smoke && heat, pleading with his jailer to release him, to help him, to cast him to the same fate as his parents if only so that he could be reunited with them. Yet the man that held him allowed him none of the kindnesses that his teary voice begged for, iron hold refusing to release its hold even as the boyâs mouth was covered by wiry fingers, smoldering body forced into the manâs shoulder to conceal him from the MERCILESS gaze of the knights around.
      Fear, for both his fate && that of his parents as he was forced to watch the life drain from their flesh as their bodies decayed in the flames ( wails of pain long given way to the crackling of burning wood ), the pyre roaring its victory to the starry heavens long after their death.Â
        ------ GRIEF. A bone wracking, asphyxiating thrum deep within his very soul, a constant reminder of all that he had lost ( all that he had failed to SAVE )-- that he should have DIED alongside them if he couldnât RESCUE them. Memories that refused to settle, pain that refused to be soothed-- the naked panic in his motherâs eyes at the thundering of horse hooves, at the barbaric call of beasts. The urgency in his fatherâs hands as they pushed him under their cot. The mingling TERROR && CONFUSION of him and his parents as the very men who had once sworn to protect them from danger dragged his parents from their home, out towards the fire that lit up the night. The scent of burning flesh mixed with the scent of burning wood. His inadequacy in saving his parents, even as he jumped in the fire after them, even as he strove to reach for them-- only to watch them perish in the end.
      Even as gentle fingers cut away his scorched flesh, as talent && the barest flicker of magic worked to knit together what little was left of his right side, grief was his constant companion. The kindness of the physician who had risked his own life to rescue the boy went unseen, the healing touch bestowed on his irritated flesh unwelcome to a boy who wanted nothing more than to lie beside his parents.Â
      Grief, an ever-present plague that haunted his mind && turned his skin sickly, even as Gaius smuggled him away from the men of the King. Even as the druids embraced him, welcomed the young sorcerer, who had lost all that he had ever known in one evening, into their camp, all he felt was grief.
        ------ HATRED. Fierce enough to morph a heart instructed in kindness && altruism into a quivering mass of muscle && tendon; an organ tainted by the very darkness that his kin warned him of. Passion drove his studies-- magical && natural, so that one day he would be strong enough to take from the King what had once been taken from his parents. BLACK MAGIC became a second skin, even as the druids taught him the kinder magic of their kind, && physician skills mixed with alchemy in his pursuit for power.
      Screams of agony echoing off of stone walls, piercing cries begging for mercy, a hoarse voice asphyxiating under the crushing weight of DEATH-- that was what he dreamt of. Time tore at his skin, feasted on his flesh && fueled his loathing, yet one mission remained the same over the years--Â
HE WOULD SEE UTHER PENDRAGON SUFFER FOR WHAT HE HAD DONE.
