Prologue: What a Kind and Adulterated Word

Authors Note: Hey there! First story published on here... Please tell me what you think and if you notice any mistakes inform me! I hope whoever reads this enjoys it, but if you didn't please write a review and tell me why. Thank you and Enjoy!:)

Small, delicate hands grasped the dainty pink flower of the branch, carefully maneuvering it into a different position. A young boy, perhaps six or seven, was perched in the bow of an apple tree, minuscule in comparison, and attended to each blossom with tender care. He held in his hand a small brush-like utensil with a spongy top that was covered in a golden powder, and he rubbed the spongy end onto the flower.

"Yeffa, do not crush the Pollinator into the flower like that; you may break off the carpel or stamens," An older looking man, very short and wiry with dark features similar to the young boy, had perched next to him in the swaying bow of the tree. The boy nodded, and took a more gentle approach to his task, sweeping the powdery end of the brush across the flower in a swooping motion. The older man smiled, and patted the boy on the back. "Very good Yeffa," he praised, and swung down from the branch the two had been sitting on. Using his well muscled arms and legs, the elderly man shimmied down the trunk and clambered up another nearby.

While the man made his way up another tree to assist a young girl, the boy began to make a noise similar to a trumpet player buzzing his lips. There was no pattern, tune, or synchronization, but soon others from all around began to make similar buzzing, hurring, and humming sounds. The boy stopped for a moment to smile and listen, and then continued to buzz as he moved from flower to flower, making soft sweeping motions and dusting each flower with the golden pollen, feeling decidedly at peace for the moment.

Huru stood, gazing out over the swaying orchard, mesmerized by the way the apple trees seemed to be waltzing with each other in the breeze like graceful ballroom dancers. She leaned out of her fourth story window, and peered curiously down at the trees right below her. People were scaling these trees, making quick work of one tree as a group, and then moving on to the next with an effortless fluidity. In the midst of this well organized function, she couldn't help noticing a dark haired boy who seemed much younger than the rest of his comrades.

The two made eye contact, and the boy grinned at her and waved, flicking bits of golden pollen into his hair with the pollinator he held in his hand. The girl giggled at his antics, and waved back, a rare smile engaging her features. The boy turned about to see if anyone was watching, and blew her a kiss, resembling some impish fairy causing a disturbance. The little girl made an act of reaching out the window, catching it, and sticking it right on her cheek. The boy was then yelled at by an older worker nearby, and he shrugged apologetically and went back to work.

The grasses that rippled across the grounds had recently been cut, and dried blades had been whipped up from the ground by the mellow breeze and blown up towards the young girl's bedchamber window. Bits of debris flew straight into her hair and mouth, and the wind mangled her carefully assembled hair. The young girl stepped away from the sill and gagged, an attempt at relieving the grass from her mouth. She gave a pout of obvious disgust, and wrinkled her brow in an unattractive manner.

In a matter of minutes after her incident with the wind, the girl could hear footsteps ascending the stairs from below. She dashed to the window and sealed it shut with great effort, as the lock had been rusted by misuse. She then sat in the chair opposite her mirror on the vanity, and acted as if she were preening and inspecting her hair with care. In reality, the girl was tearing the leaves from her hair and shoving them into a drawer of the dresser.

During her act of removing the problematic leaves, she paused for a moment to take in her appearance. Her soft brown hair fluttered around her shoulders in a mess, still short from when her sister had decided to cut it for her. She smirked at the thought, running her hands through her disheveled hair that was still choppy in length. She turned her head to inspect her ears, which had been recently pierced and were an unsettling red. Infected again. She thought idly, seeming more amused than concerned.

Her eyes strayed to the ugly port-wine birthmark on her face; the one that sat square in the middle of her forehead and limped down her left cheek to her jawline. She stroked the pale pink mark, a familiar feeling settling in her stomach. She closed her eyes, mouthed a silent prayer, and then reopened them.

Her face had not changed, despite her daily prayers to the Gods for their mercy and forgiveness. She could have been a beautiful child, like her twin sister, but somewhere in the genetic battle between the two Huru had found herself with the shorter stick, and an ugly birthmark to boot.

The door swung open, revealing a woman who wore an elegant black and yellow dress, one that swelled around her ankles when she stood still and flowed behind her when she walked. Her face was young and beautiful, and her hair fell in a straight silver ripple down her back. She had adorned her right hand with a multitude of rings, each bearing a different crest, and a simple silver necklace was draped across her chest.

"Huru," she called. The woman's voice had a quaint and wispy quality to it that often lost the ends of her sentences, as if she could not speak above a frail whisper.

"Yes Ma'man?" Huru shifted in her chair opposite the vanity to watch her mother with curiosity, as she did not receive frequent visits from anyone besides her twin. The tall woman ducked in through the doorway and procured a chair from across the room to sit next to Huru.

"It is your seventh year tomorrow, is it not?" The woman had leaned forward and placed a fragile hand on Huru's shoulder, turning her slightly to face herself better. Huru gave a shiver at the touch of her mother's fingers, which were like twigs sewn to the ends of her petite hands.

"Yes, Ma'man. I believe so," Huru looked into her mother's youthful face, and took in her eyes. She noticed, not for the first time, that they were identical to hers. It was the only thing the two shared in appearance; those warm honey colored eyes gathered like liquid gold in a basin. She wished once again that her mother had shared more of her beauty with her, but ceased her thoughts to hear what her mother had to say.

"My dear little Huru, the time has come... I have come to inform you your classes begin tomorrow, your true classes, and they will be, for obvious reasons, absent of your sister. You each have been assigned to your respective teacher who will guide you and, hopefully, help you make it through your Passing Ceremony."

Passing Ceremony. What a kind and adulterated word for the small, ugly girl, Huru, shuddered at the phrase and knew the consequences of slacking off in her studies, but felt a sudden wave of emotion come over her.

"But Ma'man, can we still play sometimes?"

"Sweet Huru…. Your heart is too kind for this place. I pray the Gods knew what they were doing sending you here..." and the woman absconded from the room at these words, as if fleeing from the reality they presented to her.

Huru rushed to the window, fumbling to unfasten the rusted lock and seek her relief. The lock gave a pop! and she gave a relieved sigh and pushed on the pane to open the window completely. To her shock, the working folk from earlier were gone, and the sweet breeze from the south had diminished as well, like smoke through her trembling fingers.

Huru could feel herself reeling from the sudden shock of what had happened, and slipped to the ground with her back to the wall. She struggled to control her breathing; and only managed for a short time before she gave way to the first sob. Each sob after the initial breakthrough steadily worsened, until the poor child could no longer breath from the pain of it.

In the room across the hall, a beautiful little girl the same age as Huru had been partaking in the misery as well, choking on her tears. Soon, however, this girl stood up and brushed off the dress she was wearing. Her lower lip trembled, and her fists were clenched. Her eyes darted about frantically, and she lunged for the first breakable item her eyes met; the mirror at the back of her room. With a roar of rage she smashed one of her shoes over the glass, sending glass everywhere.

The splintered mirror skittered across the floor, glittering devilishly like small diamonds tossed to the ground in haste. The girl threw the shoe across the room with a low growl, and turned facing the mirror at her own vanity. She locked eyes with herself, and with a coarse fury she sprinted across the room and hit wildly at the fragile piece of work.

Long, silver hair was soon stained with blood as the girl curled up in the glass and blood trickled from her damaged hands. She had once again resumed her soft sobs, and tears left streaks in the blood that had been smudged on her face in her struggle.

Suddenly, she sniffled and pulled herself to her feet, kicking the glass with her unshod feet and fleeing from her room down the corridor.

Huru ignored the blood on her sister's hands when she stalked into the room, face marred by blood and tears. For an instant, Huru childishly believed her sister had miraculously acquired a similar birthmark, and that she would no longer be the only ugly child in the family. This belief was soon diminished when the silver-haired girl wiped at her face with a sniffle and left a streak of pale skin beneath.

The silver-haired twin knelt by Huru by the windowsill and took her hand, staring into her eyes. Twin pools of soft honey-colored substance stared back, emulating the same fear and despair that resided inside of each of them. Huru began to speak,but was cut off by her impetuous sister.

"Huru," she stated without a tremor in her voice, "It will be okay. I will think of something for both of us, I promise."

The silver-haired twin made to leave, but quickly turned to pull a large piece of shattered glass from her dress pocket. On the shattered bit of mirror was a small hand print made with blood, a hand print that was, presumably, hers. She softly pressed it into her sibling's hand, and sprinted away, slamming the door behind her.

The dark haired boy noticed the kind girl in the window now kept her window shut and blinds drawn. As the days turned into months, then years, he quit searching for her at the sill. Eventually, all she became was a faded memory in the back of his childhood, and he became the same in hers.

Little did they know, their paths would eventually cross once again, though under very different circumstances.