Archive of Our Own ^beta

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She is the golden child, with the exquisite beauty of our mother and the natural-born talent and earnest work ethic of our father. My sister, Eloise, is everything I am not. We are opposites in every way. The blonde ringlets that frame her face clash with the unkempt and wavy tresses that sprout from atop my head. Her blue eyes reflect the mystery of the seas while my brown eyes are reminiscent of nothing more than a muddy puddle.

I assure you, our appearances are not the only thing that are of stark dissonance, especially considering we are twins - fraternal, I should note, though I would assume that's evident from our differing appearances.

Our father built everything we had when we were growing up; from the roof over our heads to the beds we rest in at night, they were the fruits of his labor. He was a hard worker, a quick learner, and a self-starter. My sister must have sucked up all the talented genes while we were fighting in the womb because she has this way of being immediately good at anything she tries. Sewing? She sewed an evening gown fit for a grand ball as her first project. Dancing? She's been taking ballet classes since she was in diapers. Writing? She's won multiple contests held by the University of Atara. Speaking of the University, she was awarded a full-tuition scholarship to attend, too. Do you see what I mean? She's got it all. Looks… brains… heck, she even volunteered to teach history to children in the local primary school in her free time (not that she had much of it!).

I, on the other hand, am nothing much to gawk at. No striking looks here and you'll be hard-pressed to pick at what little is contained in my head. The only thing I can really say is striking about me is my overwhelming ability to muck up everything I'm involved in. I spent much of my childhood shadowing pa while he worked, so I was lucky to pick up a bit of his craft over time - through trial and (so, so much) error.

When Eloise blossomed into a blooming teenager and I grew into a somewhat taller mess of teenage angst, we were shuffled into our tracks to prepare for our adulthood. Eloise received the royal treatment; private school in central Atara city, by way of a prestigious scholarship. For me, it was the simple life: I was sent to live with my aunt and uncle in the northern reaches of arid, rural Barnarock. Sand and sun were now my day-to-day… and not in the fun beach way.

Years were spent toiling away, assisting Aunt Kendra and Uncle Norris on their melon farm. This was a lucrative business, considering it's just about the only crop that would grow in the hot, dry climate of Barnarock. According to Aunt Kendra, she was quite devastated to find that she would be saddled with me after- never mind, what it was after is of no consequence to this story. Trust me, she was not happy to find that her blissful no-child lifestyle was now ruined by the clumsiest child in the entire family tree suddenly showing up on her doorstep with little more than the clothes on my back and a letter from my father.

Much to her (and my) surprise, after ten years of cultivating melons and utilizing what I had learned from following pa around his shed day and night, I turned out to be a helpful farmhand. Frayed fence posts and rusty hinges were no match for my hammer's might! I had fallen into a workflow, toiling in the fields during the day and fixing up what needed fixing around the village. It was a simple existence, and as much as I hate to say it, I kind of enjoyed it. I accepted that I would eventually inherit their farm and live the simple life.

Then we got the letter.

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The front door creaked open as I shoved into it with my shoulder, careful not to jostle the precarious pyramid of melons within my arms. "Gotta oil them later, squeaky hinges," I mumbled into the torrid afternoon air. My tongue darted out of my mouth, swiping over dry lips. Shuffling forward, I shot a wayward glance toward the post box; the flag was raised, the post must've run late today.

Hurrying my way through the front gate, still carrying the teetering fruit, I made my way down the dirt path that led into the village. The mail could wait until I was back and my hands were free. Dirt and dust were kicked up by each of my steps, clouding up behind me as I trotted along. It was a typical Wednesday. It was market day and I was responsible for hawking our weekly pickin's.

As I crested the hill into town, I could see that the market was already in full swing. I picked up the pace, jogging to the stall Aunt Kendra rented from the local council, and quickly setting up our humble display. An armful of plump melons propped upon a hand-built wooden box with a simple chalkboard listing their price was all that adorned our table, but the melons were more than enough advertisement to sell themselves. One of them was my biggest of the season, and I was proud of her.

"Wow, Hen, you got a couple of hefty ones this time around!" a familiar voice called, a melodic laugh following. I peered toward the voice, into the stall closest to mine. It belonged to Aunt Kendra's closest friend, Miss Rinn. She was the local poultryman, there to sell her eggs… and pester me, as was typical.

I scoffed, "Miss Rinn, you know I hate that nickname."

The chime of her chuckle rang out once more, "Aha, hush child! Henrietta is far too many syllables for us country folk, your parents gave you such a pretentious name.

My tongue shot out of my mouth in her direction, a playful gesture to match her jesting tone, "You're just upset that my pretentious melons sell better than your eggs."

In return, she gave a dismissive wave of her hand before turning to greet the approaching potential buyers. Following her queue, I focused on selling my stock.

Before long, the sun dwindled in the sky and folks started packing up their stalls. I scooped the single remaining fruit and placed it into its box; the daintiest fruit of the haul, it's no surprise it didn't sell. It would make a good dessert for us at home, though. No melon goes to waste in our household! With a wave, I said my farewells to Miss Rinn and the other locals before huffing my way back home up the same dirt path. The inviting scent of Aunt Kendra's cooking hit me before I could even make out the little house in the distance, ushering me to push my pace. I jogged the rest of the distance, shoving my way through the front gate and hurrying up the front path and into the house.

"I'm back!" I hollered down the hall toward the kitchen; Aunt Kendra and Uncle Norris's bickering voices and the clank and clatter of pots and pans echoed back at me. I discarded my dirty boots and the box by the door and carried the melon with me as I moved into the tiny kitchen, Y'all wanna guess how much I sold?"

The singular melon in my grip and the smirk on my face was a dead giveaway. Uncle Norris, an elderly man in every sense of the phrase, puckered up his face, "Not enough if you've got that one left, kid."

I rolled my eyes, tossing the melon onto the countertop near Aunt Kendra's portly form, "What's for dinner tonight?"

With a glance over her shoulder, Aunt Kendra quirked a brow, "Your favorite."

With a giddiness typically mustered up by toddlers, I clasped my hands together, "Ah, spaghetti!"

A simple nod and 'mhm' was her only response as I moved to grab plates and utensils to set the table; I made quick work of the settings and settled into my seat at one side of the small, wooden table. A table my father made, a wedding gift for the couple. A tiny table for a tiny home. I sighed, resting my cheek in my hand, my elbow crooked against the wooden grain. Suddenly, a memory flooded my mind: the upturned flag on the post box. I perked up, "Did either of you get the mail today? It came a bit late, I saw it on my way to the market."

"I haven't, honey," came the simple reply from Aunt Kendra. All I got from Uncle Norris was a grunt and a shaken head from the depths of whatever book he was reading at the time. Shoving myself and my chair back from the table, I hopped up to quickly make my way back out to retrieve the mail: a single envelope. The handwriting on the exterior was unfamiliar to me, but it was addressed in my name. Henrietta Clarabelle Wilson. I grimaced at my full name written out so bluntly; it was rare I even thought about my full name, let alone saw it in its full, awful glory. I shook the irritation from my face before heading back inside, letter in tow.

Once back inside the kitchen, I flatly stated, "There was a letter for me."

Aunt Kendra turned abruptly, her eyes widening as she shot a strange glance toward Uncle Norris. He returned the gaze with a furrowing brow and a shrug of his shoulders before returning to his text. I watched this, hesitant to comment on it, and even more hesitant to unleash the letter from the envelope, based on their reactions. I moved to hand it off to Aunt Kendra and she took it quickly, her eyes darting over the name and address listed in scrawling script. There was no sender listed. With quick and steady movements, she plucked out a knife from an adjacent drawer and slit the envelope open. The letter was tugged out and unfolded, then Aunt Kendra's mouth fell slightly agape as her eyes darted back and forth across the page.

Silence. Deafening, agonizing silence. I leaned against my chair, grasping it with a white-knuckled grip. She finally lifted her gaze to me, her expression torn between confusion and upset, and she finally broke the horrible stillness of the situation, "It's from your father."

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"A city called Portia? A workshop?” I blinked down at the hastily scribbled scrawl, confusion etched in my furrowed brow. “What does this mean? My ‘pa’s legacy’?”

Aunt Kendra moved to grasp the back of Uncle Norris’s chair with both hands. Her voice was low, calm, and comforting, “We grew up in Portia-- it’s not really something I’d call a city.” A short snort came next.

Uncle Norris had folded away his newspaper and was studying my reaction now. My eyes were still tracing the words on the piece of parchment within my hands, “What’s this about Eloise? She got this, too?” I grimaced, thinking of her in her grand apartment in Atara reading a similar letter. I continued, reading out loud now. “I am sending for you both, Eloise and Henrietta. It is my final wish that you would set aside your vast differences to assist the town to which I am indebted.” My frown deepened, “My annoying sister, too?”

A sigh slipped from Aunt Kendra’s lips, her tone taking on a stern quality, “Don’t say that about your sister, Henrietta.”

My eyes involuntarily rolled, but I quickly went back to reading the letter, my pace even faster now right up until the last line. Pa’s handwriting was at times childish and illegible, but it was clear what his intention was: I was to board a boat in the inlet city of Turgh, one of the southernmost cities in Barnarock, that would take me to the harbor in Portia. There I would be expected to work along with my golden girl sister, Eloise, to restore Pa’s workshop and help out with the city’s needs.

This wasn't the first time my Pa had written a letter to me like this. The last time, I was barely ten years old and had just returned home from school to find a parchment with the same cacography as this one. Pa for some reason thinks hard news is best written down, rather than spoken aloud; that's why he decided to tell me of Ma's passing and his intention to send me to live with Aunt Kendra this way, too.

With a huff from me, the letter was haphazardly forced back into the envelope, then discarded onto the dining table. All eyes in the room were on me, expectant for a reaction. My reaction was probably lackluster in comparison to their expectations. I merely gave a shrug of my shoulders and wiped my hands onto my trousers, “I guess I’m going to Portia, then?”

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Manicured fingers dipped into the post box hanging outside a distinguished, classic-styled townhouse off a busy street in the heart of Atara. The owner of these hands, whose appearance was befitting of a lady of the great city such as herself, tore into the letter in a particularly undignified manner. Sapphire eyes darted over cluttered phrases before rising to shoot a final look toward the symphony of cars and people that crowded the street. With a flick of her wrist, flaxen ringlets were pushed behind her ear.

Muffled by the thunderous noise of the city, a melodic voice rang out, dripping with excitement, “I’m going to Portia!”

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As if the salty scent of the sea wasn’t enough to make me ill, the boat ride to Portia was rife with bumpy waves. The boat’s lurching along had me hanging over the edge, sea-sickness taking over during the entirety of the ride. When we finally arrived at the harbor, I barely took note of how minuscule and simple the docks were, especially for a city that my father held in such high regard. I was just excited to be on land again.

My shaky legs carried me off the boat and the short, rotund man who called himself Wuwa followed me onto the pier. After securing his liner to the dock, he waddled off, beckoning me to follow, “C’mon, the city’s just up thisaway and Presley’s sure to be waitin’ on you.”

I couldn’t really see what everyone kept referring to as ‘the city’ up ahead, mainly due to the huge wall surrounding the interior, but farmland sprawled out ahead of and all around me. It was… quaint, just like the town Aunt Kendra raised me in. I trudged behind the portly man, taking in the new sights with wide eyes.

As we passed under the gates, I gazed forward toward the fountain and my eyes trailed upward to fall on the form of a young man. “Is that…?” My voice trailed off, stopping myself before the inevitably stupid question escaped me.

“It’s J. Peach, the savior who brought back the sun and ended the Age of Darkness,” the voice interjected, jolting my attention toward another young man instead. A redhead stood nearby, his hand resting at the hilt of the sword that hung at his hip. His gaze was pointed upward at the statue as he spoke, but slowly drifted back down to meet my own, “...if that’s what you were asking.”

My breath hitched in my throat the moment his eyes locked on mine, but I quickly composed myself. My hand rose to cover my mouth as I forced a cough, a subtle attempt to cover the awkward sound that had come out of me at that moment, “I-- uh, yeah.” Smooth, Henrietta… smooth.

Before I had time to fully compose myself, the redhead had shortened the gap between us. With a long-legged stride, he was in front of me after only a moment, his hand jutted out toward me, “You must be the newcomer we’ve heard word about. I’m Arlo, the leader of the Civil Corps.”

Hesitantly, I lifted a hand to give his a quick shake. His grip was firm and strong; no wonder he was the leader, so imposing! Finally mustering the good thought to speak, I squeaked out, “I’m Henrietta!” Ugh, you’re really a master of words.

His grip receded, his hand returning to the hilt of his sword. Suddenly the smirk on his face disappeared, his look now serious, “I’ve got only one rule; no funny business.”

I openly stammered in response, “I-- I’m not funny!” Then with a quickness, my palm was pressed against my forehead in a smack; my cheeks reddened with the heat of embarrassment. “I mean-- I don’t plan on it…”

I sighed, but Arlo’s smirk returned and he let loose a quiet chuckle, “You’re quite funny, actually…” His voice trailed off, a question in his voice, “I didn’t catch your name.”

“Henrietta,” came out of my mouth with confidence, at least I couldn’t mess that one up.

“Henrietta!” The exclamation of my name startled me, and visibly so. Arlo chuckled once more before continuing, “It was wonderful to make your acquaintance; if you ever get into any trouble, the Civil Corps is just up the hill there.” His head jolted in that direction, jostling his ginger locks in the process.

I merely nodded as he made his way around me and down the street, my eyes following him along. Blinking myself back into the situation at hand, I gazed around. Where had Wuwa gone? He must’ve gotten tired of watching me fumble over myself and left… I don’t blame him.

“Henrietta! Hi, there!” I was startled once more by an approaching man; he was older, wore a tidy suit, and had a strange little mustache, “It’s wonderful to see you here finally!” The giddy energy that he exuded was almost infectious.

“Uh, hi.” I was still at a loss for words after the last introduction I had struggled through.

The man quickly grabbed my hand and shook it. There’s going to be a lot of handshaking today, I can tell. “I’m Presley, the commissioner of the Portia branch of the Commerce Guild. I’m just so excited to meet you; your father told me so much about you in his letters!”

This man knew my father, even corresponded with him. Hmm, I wonder how much he actually knows, then.

Before I could even speak again, the man was ushering me back out of the city’s gates toward a plot of land a short stroll down the road. He gave me the ‘grand’ tour of my new home; it was a dilapidated and shabby little shack, but it was explained to me that I was expected to restore the little workshop and assist the town… just like Pa’s letter said. After the tour, Presley gave his leave but not before advising me to use the rest of the day to meet the townsfolk and to prepare for the test that will allow me to register as a resident builder within the town.

The afternoon was a rush of meeting and greeting new faces and learning about this new city. First, the mayor; another short and portly man named Gale. Then, a group of girls playing in the street named Molly, Polly, and Dolly… which one was which, there’s no telling. They introduced me to their parents, a quaint couple who run a local shop named Carol and Mars. The local bakery is run by a woman named Martha who, by the fact that she wouldn’t stop fretting over him, is the mother of a boy named Toby. Once my stomach started grumbling and I couldn’t ignore it any longer, I made my way to the local restaurant and met a sweet, but ditzy young woman named Sonia and the restaurant owner, who reminded me of a story-book hero, named Django. Perhaps I was close to meeting everyone in the small town at this point… hopefully.