𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐄 𝐀𝐋𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐔𝐒. | SHISUI U.

🎞️

ZERO — NYOMI THE UNBLESSED WAS ONCE NYOMI THE UNWELL.

AT FIRST SHE WAS TITLED WAS NYOMI THE UNWELL. Unlike her twin counterpart, she was a few pounds too light. Cillian wailed loud enough the whole of the city of Gunnhild had woken at the exact time of 3 in the morning. She didn't sputter a single word until the age of six.

Every night her feet, calves and thighs were to be massaged due to alleged pains she'd receive. She still didn't cry, her wet eyes did all the speaking. Eventually those pains faded away in due time when she was seven.

Gaining the ability to verbally communicate, she spent her times genuflected and whispering holy prayers to her gods. Every morning and night. Clutching her holy relic attached to a thread preciously to her heart, hoping that a higher power would smile upon her and let this contraption work.

She twisted the wind up-key of the ballet pink jewellery box that latched open. A sweet lullaby echoed through the expansive walls of her childhood room as the little figure of a woman in blue cradling an infant baby spun up. The eight year old Nyomi clapped her hands in delight and squealed. It took her six months to make the box from scratch. Abruptly, the lullaby halted and all was audible was the gentle whirring of the lady in blue.

Nyomi let out a noise in confusion, tilting the box to examine any scratches. She flipped open the lid to examine the batteries, the wires, the chips. Nothing was wrong.

The noise was starting to get annoying. Her amber eyes burned holes into the figure.

It was really annoying.

She wound down the wind-up key but it just didn't stop. To concentrate, the little girl pressed her lips together and squinted her eyes criticising and analysing any potential faults.

It never stopped making that sound.

Nyomi disliked the knotted cramp developing in the space between her ribcage, the sudden drop in temperature, the insurmountable notion of feeling so small and helpless hanging upon her like strings to a puppet manipulated by the puppeteer.

The young girl had been reprimanded by her mother for causing a scene. The broken, discarded wires and mechanical junk that scattered on the multi-coloured rug and marble floors was a scene that infuriated the eyes of Magdalena Althaus. Father had done his part of the scolding but then resolved it by sitting her down in his laboratory and helped her unlearn her mistakes she had made during her making of the jewellery box from the music to the motion.

From that day, her faith strengthened. One would think it would weaken or even cause the string attached to the religion to be snapped entirely; on that evening, she knelt and thanked the gods for blessing her with such a wonderful father.

By twelve, they spoke their mother tongue fluently, similarly to what of a young aristocratic teenager but not quite like their mother, father, aunts and uncles. What greatly improved linguistic abilities aside were their craft.

"Oh Cillian, you've came!" exclaimed Nyomi, rearing her head behind. "I finally did it!"

The older brother cracked a grin. His grip on the metal bars attached around the walls of the laboratory firmed. Gently he staggered across to be next to his twin sister. "Only you would be spending the whole week obsessively working on a machinery instead of celebrating your birthday... our birthday."