CHAPTER ONE: BEAUTIFUL LIE

(n.) when the twilight turns blue and the moon shares its gaze.

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When there was nothing, there was the moon. When there was nothing, there was the beginning. It was a lie, my dear reader; the most beautiful of lies. It was said to be only a girl, a blessing from the noise. It came to be two: one girl and one boy; a pair of fraternal twins, and they would never waver or part away.

Their father was a mere pageboy with nothing to his name. Their mother was a world-renowned songstress sparkling joy, captivating hearts and inspiring dreams. It was a clash of different worlds: he had a family of humble riches, and she only had her silver spoon.

When they were born, their mother cried. They say she cried like never before. A young star like her wanted nothing with a child; let alone two.

And yet she loved them. She loved them like any mother should. She fed them. She sang for them. She held onto them for so long she rarely let their father carry them. Their laughter made her heart flutter and blossom; their cries made her heart sink and weep with sorrow — as though the thread connecting them was never severed.

Oftentimes their cries echoed at dawn, leaving her to lull them back to sleep. However, her enchanted lullabies weren’t always the answer. And as time moved on, the naive mother grew with doubt.

“I just don’t understand what am I supposed to do,” she thought aloud one night, “I’m barely a woman of my own.” She started to believe that perhaps she was not fit as a mother and would convince herself that if she ever left, it would be for her children’s sake; not out of selfishness. “They deserve a better mother.”

“They deserve their mother,” her husband said, “and only their mother. She’s where their lives lie. She’s their home.”

“Well, I just hope their mother is best for their sake.”

“Don’t worry,” he held her hand, “she’s already the best she can be.”

By the time their heads were big enough to headbutt each other, the twins knew not to crawl but simply the urge to jump and grab whatever their little hands reached — their movements were so frantic they often fell flat on their faces. By the time their eyes opened to the world, it was still boisterous with festivity. They say it was a special time; the year they were born.

It was a time for the whimsical, it was a time for the cynical. Behind its frost was a desert lined with gold where the water freely flowed, coating faint snow between canals and under ravines. Beyond its dunes birthing titans of stone was a land of green and a metropolis of scorching heat, where folk of ludicrous clothes spoke novelty and furthered machines as they pleased (often disdained by neighbouring lands like an elder with nothing but barks) — in short, it was a time for heaping joys and weeping hearts.

For it was on that year that the Culling War came to a close.

✥

When the twins were but a year old is where our story preludes — in a fight of custody; not for the children, but their mother.

Their family was big; they would gather once every year or so and they were quite big. Around fifteen or twenty they were, with their wives, husbands, and children to boot. They were the Ashmouns, and oh, did people love to talk about them. Peculiar, they’d be called by some, wizards, practitioners of witchcraft and the like. But they knew neither witchcraft nor wizardry, just the magic of imagination.

And then came along Madame Ghislaine — a mighty foul shrew, she was — and she did not feel entirely magical at all. She hardly ever felt a spark of emotion and she was fine very much with it, thank you.

When she arrived at the bizarre house, the parlour shook, the tiles cowered and the furniture ran. There wasn’t a single welcoming smile on the family’s face. Everything in the house seethed with hatred at her sight and rightfully so.

For the thirty-something “talent seeker” boasting an extravagant bonnet as though she were of fair nobility desired only one thing: the young mother.

“This is most scandalous! A songstress with a commoner?!” she shook her heel, eyes withering with disgust at seeing her most prized possession lost to a pack of paint buckets. “Look at her: that pale flesh, dark hair, and those sparkling green holes — the qualities of a star. She's a star! She doesn’t belong in this muck. Ha-ha! Can you believe this, Orwell?”

“Certainly not, Madame!” Her companion would respond. He was a man of few words. “Should you desire this be done immediately, your wish is my command as always.”

“Thank you for your help, dear! But that won’t be necessary.” Madame Ghislaine hoped. “You’ve really done it this time, girl! Children?! And two?! Oh, if only the committee were to see this… ugh!” She groaned, holding her grip behind her blue shawl, “Nevertheless, we can still salvage this. They’re nothing special.” All she wanted was the girl and she would do anything to get her, she thought and she plotted.

But the young mother would not move. She would not laugh nor weep. She only held her children and gave the daunting witch an ultimatum.

“Get out,” she said, “or save your prayers, woman!”

It was the only time she spoke that night, and those were the last words ever said in that meeting; and, to everyone’s surprise, Madame Ghislaine left without another word. No quarrels. No meaningless roars. Nothing. As if she had truly given up at the girl’s behest.

“All bark and no bite, it turns out,” the family laughed.

Yet the girl could not share their laughter. She could not smile at dinner or when the evening fled. She could not even bid her husband a good night. She could only think.

✥

By the wooden pendant lamp, dimly lit and hung in one of the bedroom corners, the mother sat solemnly with her children, creaking the floor beneath her feet every few seconds or so. It was three hours past midnight yet she felt not a glint of sleep flicker in her eyes, and neither did her twins. They did not cry or make a sound. They simply shared their mother’s night in her lap.

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She gazed through the window and into the stars beyond. But her mind had drifted elsewhere. She mulled over her dilemma, and for a moment, she thought maybe? What's wrong with going back? She felt lost in a void. Madame Ghislaine’s words stuck deep in the back of her mind like a nagging bee knowing exactly where to sting.

In one life, the girl would continue to be the songstress of the world; beloved by all and remembered by even more. Her songs would transcend the living and the dead to live on as a legacy for decades, possibly centuries beyond her death. One could even say she would achieve the prospect of immortality through her songs.

In another life, she would be a mother.

Are you really going to walk away after all you’ve been through?

The starry-eyed mother glanced at the twins in her embrace; the girl with her bright crystal eyes, and the boy with his warm green eyes. She remembered Madame Ghislaine’s comment. She remembered the sorrow that came with it. “But what’s wrong with not being special. They already are in my eyes.”

The night sky was still as rowdy as ever with stars, and yet the clouds hovering over in the distance seemed to inch closer at a faster pace than before. Even though dawn was on the horizon, it seemed more than likely that rain was to be the victor of the hour. A shame, the mother thought. Unless—

The mother suddenly felt a kick on her chest. She looked down to find her girl plunging her head against her body. As for the little boy fighting sleep, he looked at his sister and mother with a dull gaze and then slowly shifted back at the window.

“Oh, you want to watch the sunrise?” The mother pointed at the sky and, to her surprise, a faint smile glistened onto her son’s face.

After making sure her husband was still sound asleep, the mother slipped downstairs to the balcony, where she would walk out to the beach to get a better view of the sky.

It was tranquil. So tranquil, in fact, the waves whispered for the sand to yield under the moon’s gaze, and even the ancient plethora of cherry blossom began to glamour with beautiful pink. The stars were fleeing the sky and all that remained were the clouds and the moon.

“What do you think?” the mother nudged her twins for a response.

Her children had rarely been outside due to their still fairly young age (and her paranoia playing tricks on her) so a sight like this was nothing short of a spectacle in their eyes, even when dawn was but a faint presence hidden by the clouds.

“This is only the beginning.”

The young mother took a few steps further with excitement and then took a deep breath.

“La… La… La… La… La… La…”

It was then that glitter of gold dust blew out of her mouth and was caught by the wind. A gust of faint wind spiralled around her, it blew upwards and then—

“—Ah… Ah… Ah… Ah… Ah… Ah…” the mother sang.

“In our dream, iris miss lilies,

Turn back the clock; will you please?

Do you dream of lilies?

I’m your past, your time ahead.

Do you dream of turning the clock for me?

Eyes gazing green.”

It was a lullaby of the most ancient nature.

At the last breath of her voice, a string of magic dust flew by, smitten with gold, shaping letters and symbols.

All the wind gathered up to what seemed like a hurricane (a rather little one) enough to stir up the waves and sand, and even the garden nearby as flowers and trees wavered in various directions, holding their strength against this pocket storm. The gale shifted erratically, transmuting into what seemed like a dragon; a dragon the twins fell fascinated by — they had never seen one before. It was formed entirely of gusts of wind from within. The dragon-shaped gust then proceeded to fly off into the clouded sky with haste.

Soon enough, the clouds cowered away at a touch from the fantastical dragon. The misty sky was finally clear.

Doves marched under the violet glimmer of dawn, and a mountain ridge stood past the beach, from which the nearest to sight poured a waterfall down into the river on the land.

“Aha, do you see that?” The mother let out an audible gasp followed by a laugh. “Beautiful, isn’t it? Youna… Louay…”

Those were the twins’ names; names that she will forever cherish in her heart — the girl was Youna and the boy was Louay.

While Youna had her eyes fixated on the gold dust flowing about in the air, Louay was wholly entranced by the now colourful sky. The boy remained silent. He watched the scenery with an open mouth and sparkling eyes. What captured his attention wasn’t the dawn sky nor the stars that swiftly faded as morning shed its wings onto the world, it was the light. It soared through the sky popping like bubbles, and gathering and fading like a mirage from phantasms of the desert. Out of all the magnificent things dancing in the sky, this was the most surreal in the little boy’s eyes; a sight he could never forget — even as the child he currently was.

“Enjoying the view, aren’t we, Louay?” The mother smiled at her son. The boy remained silent with awe. “You want to know what this is?” She pointed at the faint glimmers shining in the air.

The girl breathed in the glitter, which led to a sneeze escaping her mouth. It was then that the girl’s curious eye turned to her mother’s dress, which was drenched in a mountain of that same shimmering dust on her nose and hands. The little girl giggled, feeling rather funny by the dust.

“Ah, this is nothing a week’s worth of laundry won’t fix,” the mother eyed her clothes with a laugh, “...not everything could be magically whisked away, unfortunately. Now this…” she rubbed the dust in her fingers, “This is dust— or ink-dust, whatever you call it!”

The twins eyed their mother with quiet fascination as if they understood the words she was saying — although Youna’s eyes would often divert attention toward the floating dust every second or so.

Yet the mother quickly realised she had gotten herself into quite a pinnacle. What am I doing? They’re barely a year old!

She laughed, “Well, let’s keep it till you’re a little older. Don’t want nana or your dad to worry more than they should already.”

It was then that another realisation hit her. Older? Keep? Those words echoed deep in her mind. But then she reaffirmed her thoughts and nodded, “Yes, one day, you’ll learn this. You’ll go to school, see the skies, cross the oceans, and become great Authors, and…” She paused.

As much as she shivered at the thought of this new reality being permanent, she was not scared. There was the voice in her heart.

She embraced Youna and looked at Louay, “One day, you’ll grow old and change but never forget, I… will always be your mother.”

Dounia Ashmoun held her children and cried.

This was a story for fantasia.