Chapter Text
Harriet loved her mother. Truly, she did. Mary was beautiful, kind, strong, everything a man could hope for in a wife.
So why did picturing her mother's life as her future feel so gross?
Harriet, the eldest child of Henry Bolingbrook, was an unusual kid. Her mom called her imaginative. Her dad called her an imbecile. She could pick up a broadsword by the age of three. And by six, she had chopped off half her hair with it.
“Look!” She had cried. “I look like John!” The little girl couldn't put words to why resembling her little brother made her so happy. Henry, however, was not at a loss for words.
“What have you done?” He cried. “Don't you care about the family image?”
“Henry, please calm down,” Mary begged. “She's little! It was an accident.” It had not been an accident. But Henry accepted this excuse, so that was the story they went with. Mary started watching her child more carefully after this.
She had always been close with her daughter. Henry wasn't around much, so she did most of the parenting thing. She wasn't blind. She saw the genuine light in Harriet's eyes with the shortened hair. And, she saw the instant flash of fear when her father didn't share the sentiment.
“Whatever my child is, they're mine,” Mary thought to herself. “I'll do what it takes to make my baby feel safe and happy.”
The next day, Mary brought a comb and simple blue ribbon into Harriet’s room. She combed and braided the remains of the child's hair with swift and gentle fingers.
“Look, Harri,” she said. “Now, from the front, it looks like your hair is really short.”
“I love it!” The child cried, clapping. “Will Dad be angry?”
“Not if I have anything to say about it.” Mary smiled. “Here, braid my hair too so he can't say anything about it.” Harriet squealed with delight and happily obliged. Or, tried to anyway. Her little fingers couldn't quite make the braid. Mary laughed and braided her own hair.
“Don't worry, Harri, I'll teach you how to do your own hair someday.” She looked at her child affectionately.
“I love you, Momma,” Harriet said. “Can you call me Harry more often?”
“Of course, love,” Mary replied.
~
Harry looked at themself in the mirror once again. There was no denying they resembled their father more than their mother, especially with the hair braided back. But why did that make Harry so happy? They didn't particularly like their father.
“Harry,” they whispered to themself. “Harry of Monmouth, eldest child of Henry Bolingbrook.” Harry paused.
“Harry, the eldest… son?”