Emilee had once dreamed of grand adventures, of goblins and magic, of great battles and clashing swords, but now, at the imminently reasonable age of twenty-three, she reluctantly acknowledged that such a time was unlikely to come for her; no, hers was a world of dreams only, or of memos and smiles plastered on, distant niceties, and a yearning heart. Reality had taught her all too well that if she were to be thrust into some grand tale in this life it would likely be a dystopian horror of bombs and blood and death.
With that cheery thought, and a self-castigating smirk at her oddly pessimistic existentialism this morning, she shoved another sheet of paper into the shredder. Her life of corporate drudgery was not to last, however, for that would make for a very dull tale indeed.
Somewhere, across the pond in Great Britain, through the strands of time, and sideways into another universe an evil group of wizards were hatching a very dastardly plot for our dear heroine to become embroiled in. So comes a tale of goblins and great magic battles, of bombs and blood and death, of stark harsh realities in a world where fantasy is the reality, and of how a modern day girl is broken and remade in a world not her own.
She had been in bed; she knew she had, because that is what one does. They go to work, have dinner, go to bed, and begin the process again and again until they either retire or get driven to a psychotic break by the monotonous drudgery. Only the cycle had been interrupted somehow, or else she was still asleep…but she didn't feel asleep, you know, and usually acknowledging a dream is enough to startle one into wakefulness, but she had best cut off that unproductive train of thought, she thought, as her current situation seemed somewhat dire.
Emilee knew three things: first, that she was still in bed, albeit face down and unable to move her hands or legs, likely caused by the fact that they seemed to be bound by coarse rope to her bed frame; secondly, that she was definitely no longer in her bedroom, as she could feel a not so gentle breeze yanking pained goose bumps to attention on her bare arms and legs; and thirdly, goddamn Toto, she was fairly fucking sure this wasn't Kansas anymore!
"The spell is cast, the deed will yet be done, she is the perfect sacrifice, sent for the ritual, bequeathed by Magic to harness its power. First we must defile what is pure, then we must complete the circle, claiming the magic of the sacrifice for our own…"
And then the world! She thought snidely, more than a little afraid, as the hushed droning voices moved out of her range of hearing. They sound like a weird evil mixture of Polonius and Macbeth's witches, she thought inanely, struggling to keep the tears and a not-so-small urge to scream at bay. Then the darkness consumed her, or, more accurately, she promptly passed out.
She woke to strange lights flashing in her periphery. No longer bound to her bed, she instead found herself floating several inches off of the ground, limbs outstretched, unable to move so much as an eyelash. The tears came now, streaming down her slack and unresponsive face unhindered, blurring her vision, which became somewhat of a blessing. She wanted, now, to scream, tried to scream, but she could not open her mouth, nor could she make any sound at all, as her very vocal cords seemed paralyzed inside her where they lay. Cloaked figures came into view, metal skulls gleaming for under their hoods; mouths open in a hideous parody of laughter. The world swam wetly in front of her, and she lost the ability to discern more than shapes, mere outlines, but that was both not enough and too much, as they surged toward her, arms raised, light flying at her. Cutting into her, then burning, muscles seizing, bones breaking, as they were poking, prodding, forcing their way inside her, hands bruising, her spine bowing grotesquely, moved by unseen hands. Those beautiful lights touching her, as they touched her, biting, stinging, freezing, spinning…lost, so lost. The blessed darkness now no more than an elusive memory, taunting her with the peace of it, for she could not stop feeling, she was a giant pulsing nerve, raw and exposed, and still it could somehow be made worse and, somewhat thickly, she rather thought she was insane now, that it was impossible to hurt so. Then they entered her mind, raping that as well as her body, taking away her joy, her memories, her sense of herself, until she was a great gaping nothing, twitching and inside out on the forest floor. And this time she knew her oblivion for a mercy.
When she came to, she found that, horribly, she had been put back together. Her body was whole, and, even worse, so was her mind. She knew who she was, who she had been, but she knew, also, that she was no more than the empty cracked shell of humpty dumpty, glued together, every last piece replaced, but missing something vital in its center, for she recognized the truth: that she was also that gasping, writhing, silently begging hunk of flesh, that they had left rotting with the dead leaves on the forest floor; and that, easily, and quite likely, she could become that thing again. They could do this forever, she thought, they could do this to It, to her, break her and fix her like so many porcelain dolls. Thus she knew despair and prayed for Death.
a/n let me know what you think, everybody!