umbria eon { nine } fin

I.

It has always been Elspeth and I. We were born only seconds apart, Espie first and then me — and we both came out kicking. I don't remember if our mom was a good mother or not, but she left us at the House of Eons, an orphanage. Maybe she died, maybe she couldn't take care us; part of me has always wondered what happened to her and why we ended up at the orphanage. But perhaps our origin doesn't really matter; Espie doesn't seem to pay much mind to it.

I have just always been more curious. I like to know things, not be left in the dark to draw my own conclusions.

We grew up learning how to fight. That is what the House of Eons was all about. It was sink or swim when we were being taught how to throw punches and pin someone to the ground — you were either strong or you became strong, because if you did not, they would throw you out on the streets.

I have seen it happen enough times.

It is a give and take. The House of Eons will provide for us, care for us, and in return, we fight for them to make them money.

Espie and I were lucky enough to be naturals, or so our instructors said. Fighting came easily to me, because I quickly found that it wasn't all about brawn, but also brains. One had to have strategy to win, and I was always skilled at thinking on my feet.

When I was younger, it was a game to me — objectives: find their weak spots, map out their typical moves, do the unexpected. Sometimes, it still feels like one, though the fights have grown more and more violent as we became older, leaving behind black and blue on some of the girls' skin.

But I'm usually not the one with all the bruises.

Usually.

There are times when even I am beat. I'll try to assure myself that it was a fluke, that I, one of the strongest fighters in the House of Eons, couldn't be beat by an outsider.

I wish.

To lose is to be shamed; you lose your pride and your dignity when you lie in the ring, bloodied and pinned down by exhaustion. There is no pity in the House of Eons; those who are beaten deserved to be beaten because they were weak when it mattered to be strong.

It's the way it's always been — it's the way it's supposed to be.

II.

I am not quite like the rest of them.

The other boys and girls channel hatred and anger to throw a good punch, but I have never needed it. I've never needed anything to get on.

Despite my talent in combat, I lack the anger and aggression that usually comes with it. I've heard that I have an eerie stillness about me, like the ominous calm before a storm; and that such ruthless, powerful punches and kicks were the last things expected of me.

That's a good thing.

"Find your anger," my instructor would tell me. "Channel whatever hatred you have within you."

But there was none; I only needed determination.

I wanted to be the best — that is what fueled my fire.

Anger is amusing to me, perhaps because I do not often feel it. My opponents typically are full of it, red-faced and spitting insults across the ring, and I'll just smile. It'll drive them insane, make them lose control and do something rash — and then, I'll really have them. When I do speak, retorting with a remark too witty and quickly spoken for their brain to fully process (probably because they were hit in the head too many times), they will usually fire back with aggression. The natural monotone, flatness of my voice is like nails on a chalkboard to their ears, or so I've been told. My past opponents have tried, again and again, to get a rise out of me, but it is to no avail.

I couldn't give less of a damn what they say; the House of Eons teaches its children to grow a fucking spine.

. . .

"You're fucking weird, Umbria, you know that?"

"Of course."

Espie has always teased me for my odd behaviors — going out at two in the morning to talk a walk rather than during the day like everyone else, shutting myself up in my room, keeping all the lights off.

I have always hated the daylight, preferring the cold and the silver of the moon. But Espie has always loved the day, the sun warming her skin, how it paints everything golden in the morning. The sun is too hot and it makes me sweat and it burns my skin; I prefer ice on my back and the cover of shadows.

Most children feared the dark, but I never did. I loved the way the night covered everything in a dark blanket, how it changed people's perspective on their world. At night, everything looks different than they do in the daylight.

I'll walk through the neighborhoods far past midnight or sprawl out on the rooftop of the orphanage, thinking and thinking and thinking about abstract things: what happens when we die, why our mother left Espie and I. And I will search the skies for shooting stars, but not because I want to wish on them — I do not believe in magic — but just because they are beautiful, and they look like tiny white diamonds embedded into the blackness.

Espie may beg to differ, but there is nothing more beautiful than the night.

III.

It has always been Espie and I.

But despite being twins, we do not look the same. She and I are clearly siblings, with our matching auburn hair and the similarity of our faces. We have the same nose and face shape, though her brows are thin and pale and mine are more defined. Her skin is all peaches and cream, fairness and freckles; mine is just pale and porcelain like the moon.

And the eyes — hers remind me of the day. The way they shine in the light, their color. They are hazel, with green in their depths like the color of the forest in the summertime. But mine remind me of the night. They are like round, endless pools of darkness. At a glance, it seems as if my pupil and iris have collided into one, single blackness. But sometimes, if the light hits them just right, little ambery brown flecks can just barely be seen around the irises.

She is day and I am night; she is all bright and light and beautiful, but I am all dark jeans and T-shirts, black eyeliner and ruffled hair. Espie has always looked more polished, more pretty, but the only thing I make an effort to do is eyeliner, which I take the time make myself out of charcoal and oils. I just wear what I like and disregard what anyone else thinks of it; my favorite color is black, so that is what I show on the outside.