BIRTHPLACE: Saratoga Springs, New York State.
OCCUPATION: Florist & Musician.
FACECLAIM: Melissa Barrera.Â
Emera Love was and still is unexpected, in all senses of the word. From the moment her mother had to admit to her very mortal father that she was pregnant, that sheâd cheated, with some random musician who up and left and was never to be seen again, Emera hadnât ever known a day of calm. Granted, it was mostly her doing, but itâs a detail she often forgets to mention.
When she was born, Emeraâs mother left her with her husband so she could go off and search for the musician that had charmed and stolen her heart, still completely oblivious to his godly nature and the fact that he was never coming back. Needless to say, Emeraâs father broke off the relationship after that. A divorce was what their family needed to rebuild itself, he said, after her mother had broken it and Emeraâs mortal father took in the daughter that was not his and raised her as his own. He wasnât the type of mortal to hold any ill will against a child, no matter the circumstances of her birth and Emera was given the best of most things growing up. Her human father had hit a stride with a growing, successful landscaping business and used a good sum of the money he made to spoil his little girl rotten.
It didnât change Emera that much though. Not at heart. And probably not at mind either. There was no shiny trinket or doll or anything any girl would wish for that could hold Emeraâs attention for long. From the moment she could walk she was always running around, bouncing from one thing to the next with boundless energy. The only thing that ever seemed to slow her down and set her in one particular place for more than five minutes was the garden in the back of her large house that she was lucky enough to call home. That, and the times her father brought her to work when the babysitter couldnât make it. Emera grew fascinated with horticulture, the different colors of plants and blooming flowers and the smell of dirt right after it rained. And then Emeraâs father met someone, and all of a sudden her love of the bright colors of the earth went up against something even stronger.
Emeraâs step-mother was wonderful. And she was wonderful most of all for bringing music into the life of the daughter of Apollo. A childrenâs music teacher who was worried about trying to connect to the child of the man she loved, she did the one thing she knew would work. She taught Emera piano. And when piano wasnât enough to satisfy the girlâs overflowing energy she taught her guitar. When that wasnât enough it was the violin, the flute, the harp, until the Flores household never knew a moment of quiet as long as Emera was awake.
It was a good few years. The best years Emera could have asked for. She had two loving parents. She liked her school and had a few good friends, even though she often had trouble paying attention in her classes. Sometimes when she was out in the garden, dryads and naiads would appear and sheâd have a playmate for the afternoon. And then something started happening. Strange men who didnât exactly act like men showed up at her door, looking for her. Her father turned them away every time without fail, but without fail they always returned and began to show up more frequently, becoming more insistent, becoming more scary and violent. Â
Emera doesnât exactly remember the details of the attack that was eventually laid against her childhood home by the monsters who had come knocking. Her parents hadnât been home, and the dyrads and naiads she had befriended had stowed her safely away in their domain- her real father, the one who had made her part god had been keeping an eye on her all this time, charming some of the creatures of the woods surrounding her home to play babysitter while he was busy, off dealing with other godly business.
After that it was a whirlwind of change that had Emeraâs head spinning as if sheâd drank too much fizzy soda. The destruction laid to her home was listed as a freak accident caused by a sudden wind storm, forcing the girl and her parents to pack their bags and move elsewhere while repairs were being completed. By the time they reached their new townhouse the next city over, there was someone there already waiting for their arrival. A representative on behalf of Camp Half Blood.
Emera didnât even step foot into her new bedroom before she was whisked off to some place sheâd never thought real, being told she was something sheâd only ever read in storybooks. Sheâd always believed in her tree and river friends, never once delegated them to the realm of the imaginary, but theyâd never mentioned a word to her about where sheâd actually come from and so she had no reason to believe she was anything but a little girl who loved the sunshine just as much as she loved music. Her father though, her mortal one, was quick to believe what he was told on the front steps of that New York townhouse. The math added up right. It explained so much. Heâd always wondered why it seemed like the only thing that could ever get Emera to sit down for more than ten minutes at a time was getting to make noise on an instrument, why she was able to pick any of them up like sheâd known them all along. Why rainy days always made her more upset than it was normal for a child to be. Why his ex-wife had all of a sudden up and left them for a song.
It took Emera a while to get used to being who she was, though she adored Camp Half Blood and treated every new lesson, every new training exercise with boundless positivity and enthusiasm. It was built into her blood, though none of the half siblings she shared her cabin with ever seemed to quite reach her level. For a long time, Emera often had the thought that she didnât really belong, but it was cool to be grouped into the kids with powers and so she went along with it anyway. Â
She was good at archery. Just good. At least compared to the others she shared a cabin with. And she was just good at combat too. Which was fine with her. But where Emera really shined was with medicines. With healing. With the plants sheâd grown up studying and admiring. It was really only then she actually started considering herself one of the cool kids with powers, though sheâd already been at Camp for two years by then.
Emera could often be found in the giant open fields beyond the cabins, leaning close to the flowers and whispering a song to them, imbuing them with the power hidden away in her voice. Sometimes theyâd whisper back to her, singing a song about things that were yet to happen, or theyâd blow in the breeze, showing her the map of the future in the lines underneath their petals.
Her favorite place in Camp ended up being, with no surprise to anyone, the medical tent where she could help those who had been injured during a training practice. And also those with some broken leg bones couldnât exactly go anywhere while she was chattering away. Â If she wasnât there she was flitting from cabin to cabin. She didnât much pay attention to the drama between peopleâs godly parents and wasnât very interested in learning about it in the first place. She was determined to make friends with each soul she met, or at least have a good conversation to pass the time.
She also tried to talk to her father, Apollo, though it was a rarity that he ever answered back. She would sit in her field of plants and flowers, at least once a day and talk to the empty air. It didnât really bother her that it was often a one sided conversation or that her fellow cabinmates found it weird, or pointless. She kept on with the habit even after she was too old to stay within the comforts of Camp.
When the Battle of Manhattan came to pass, Emera wasnât entirely caught off guard. There was something wrong in the air. The plants had told her as much. But often times when she read the future it came tumbling out of her mouth in the nonsensical, puzzling sort of way that you couldnât be sure it wasnât just classic âMera being good old âMera. She wasnât a fighter though. She never had been, deep down. She carried her bow with her but she kept to the sidelines, a healer, a protector to the younger kids too small and new to join the fight. She never regretted having done that.
As soon as the battle was done, a clear winner emerging, for the first time in Emeraâs life things seemed to slow down. Not her, but the world around her seemed to be spinning slower. The rest of her Camp days passed without consequence and at the end of her last year her father, the mortal one who had raised her, who had been there for her all her life, was surprised to see not a little girl but a person who had blossomed when he saw her again.
Emera chose to follow in his footsteps. After all, heâd been the person that made her who she was, though she never was as much of a business mogul as he was. After a little bit of searching, of finally being forced to settle down and make some roots (that was probably the most difficult thing sheâd ever done) she found a small corner shop in New Greece to call her own, to fill with plants and flowers and other things that make her happy. She still reads the flora and whispers to them, asking for news she can give to the people who stop by. Though nowadays she uses the information for mischief rather than anything else, her words always wrapped up in a puzzling manner of speech. If you interrupt her on a slow day you might find her blabbing to the empty air, hoping that her godly parent Apollo might be listening. And when that isnât enough to sap her boundless energy, she plays music. Wherever, whenever. In the mornings on the balcony of her apartment. On the street corner in front of her shop. In cafes and bars and to anyone who would like to listen and perhaps let the healing power of her voice sooth something thatâs broken in their souls.
