Iris

His mother's name was Risi.
She never told him the origin, nor how her parents thought of it.
She never talked about her parents to begin with.
Her past was just a dark smudge, inky darkness that occasionally shadowed her bright, warm eyes.

You're special, Iris.

He can barely recall the first time she told him that, though it certainly wasn't the last.
He must have been a few weeks old and was being teased about how different he was compared to his siblings.
He was afraid. The sky was too vast, the forest was too dark, the sea was too deep.
He had run to her crying, tears dripping onto their cave floor, and begged. He would plead for her to tell him why he was so different.
And so she did.
She would repeat the phrase over and over; her voice always strong and unwavering.