I'm very conscious of the fact that I'm not at home, but I try to ignore the dirt and moss pressed against my cheek and pretend that it's just the bathmat. That the damp floor is the pipes leaking. That my friends stayed the night and they're bickering; Mabel's bitching about how Wyatt won't let her eat popcorn for breakfast, and Opal, ever the diplomat, is smacking them both upside the head.

In fact, I'll be honest here. I'm so wrapped up trying to convince myself that this is just a bad trip on drugs that I don't even notice I'm not alone.

Something pokes me in the shoulder, you see, and it's a hard, painful jab against my collarbone, effectively waking me.

My eyes snap open. I sit up, nearly smacking my forehead against an outstretched bow.

Jerking back just in time, my gaze travels up a pair of green-clad legs to a face that's both unnaturally beautiful and somehow. . . creepy. It's framed by shoulder-length, pale blonde hair, pulled back in the dorky half-ponytail everyone wore in middle school. His eyes sparkle with curiosity barely masked by disgust.

And as a mixed kid, I take particular offense to this.

No matter if he looks like that Elven wizard guy from the DnD manual or not. He radiates danger, which is not something you want to radiate off of somebody at seven in the morning, and it doesn't take me long to deduce that the daggers strapped across his back - and the quiver of arrows at his waist - are both very real and very sharp.

I squeak, not quite able to form words.

He, however, is, and speaks, very quickly. His voice is velvety, bordering on deep but not quite. I ignore that in favor of his tone, cold words in a language I can only guess is Gaelic. Not that that matters, since I can't speak Gaelic.

"I - I - " I swallow, trying to speak, but the ability escapes me. My tongue is dry and thick, too big for my mouth.

He squints, tilting his head to the side. No doubt he pegs me as a bit, ah, special, and at this point, I might have agreed with him. At least he's put away the bow, and my shoulders sag as I try desperately to find something to say.

"I don't understand," I finally manage, and he can't hide the surprise on his features. The tip of his bow is again pressed to the side of my neck - which isn't that threatening, considering it's not sharp, but then I remember that he could easily use it to beat me over the head with - and asks something else. He seems to be firing questions at me. Interrogating me.

Short explanation? I don't like it.

But then I realize that he's not speaking the same language as before. Each tone, each sound and word is different; some are harsh and guttural. Some are smooth and melodic.

I can't understand any of them, and only watch him helplessly as he switches back and forth, back and forth. None of the languages are English or even remotely close to something I recognize.

Finally, he steps back, and I realize he isn't alone. Fear creeps in, because we're surrounded, and several of his. . . what, cronies? Chums? Brethren? Whoever they are, they're dressed similarly, and all have their bows drawn. Bows that were, unsurprisingly, aimed at me.

I draw in a breath. "Well, shit. You're a Dungeons and Dragons cult, aren't you? Hey, it's chill. I love that game!" I raise my hands in a surrender gesture, plastering a big, fake smile to my face. It's the only explanation I can gather, and it's a flimsy one. It's also a lie. I hate Dungeons and Dragons.

The blonde stares at me with an indeterminable expression, and then turns to bark something at a pal.

I'm still very, very scared, and I don't want to believe this is a cult, because they don't seem to be afraid of hurting me. I briefly want to entertain the idea that my friends slipped something in my drink, waited till I passed out, and then carted me off to the forest and booked some creeps interrogate me; as if any moment now, Wyatt would walk through the ring of cosplayers with that irritating swagger and tell me, You got PRANKED!

Wow. . . those guys are not my friends.

But I know that isn't the case. I try to get to my feet, but the ponytail guy pins me with such a glare that I almost trip and fall on my ass again. Gracelessly, I lower myself back to the ground. He clearly doesn't want me to move, and maintains a few moments of awkward eye contact with me before he motions to two of the guys behind him, who come forward and latch onto my biceps.

"No - no, no, no, no, no - " I squeak and nearly start hyperventilating as I try and twist away from them, but they hold fast to my arms. See, I know what's going to happen. Scenario: you're confronted by a guy and his armed buds. You're obviously trespassing. He makes some weird gesture. They're going to tie you up and chop off your head! Easy math.

. . .Leo, that wasn't math.

But we've established already that brains don't really work properly when you're scared out of your wits.

Shut up, I tell my wayward thoughts as I'm jerked to my feet. My wrists are tied behind my back with rope that is at once coarse and smooth. I test its strength - no go. Not even The Rock Johnson could break out of this, I figure wanly, but I still try to wiggle my hands to loosen the bonds. As I expect, it doesn't work.

I look up just as Ponytail beckons his hand in my direction. When I hesitate, I'm harshly pushed forward, and trip over my feet in the process. It takes me a moment to remember I'm not wearing shoes, and in that moment my feet start to scream in pain. Not literally, of course, but I wouldn't be surprised if they had. It'd already been a weird fucking day.

So there we are, marching through a forest with a layer of fog masking the trees. My gaze bounces from our surroundings to the barely-visible path we walked on, and then to the intricately made swords strapped to Ponytail's back, and then I wonder if his legs are as well muscled as his arms, and then I have to remind myself that he's captured me and it's probably not the smartest idea to perv on him.

As we walk, I try to ignore the way my socks are getting more ruined with step I take, and how my feet are going to be so calloused by the time we stop. I don't really want to focus on much else than my cruddy socks, to be honest. It feels more normal than freaking out about where they're taking me.

Or, more accurately, I just don't want to focus on freaking out about where they're taking me - because so far, they sure as hell haven't been all that nice. I could only hope they're bringing me someplace with showers - and food. I'm really hungry, being the type of girl who can hardly go a few hours without a snack. Yeah, sue me. I'm not a bikini model, and I've missed my breakfast.

Finally, Ponytail stops walking. I nearly run into him, but the guy behind me holds me back. I hold back an affronted noise at the sudden contact; nobody's touched me since they'd tied me up, and a) I hadn't been expecting it and b) I'm not really fond of the people who are trying to kidnap me putting their hands on my body. But I'm in no position to hiss at somebody with a weapon, and the guy merely pins me with disgusted eyes - I'm starting to hate that expression - and slowly removes his head from my shoulder upon hearing the strangled noise that leaves my mouth.

So I shake the feeling of his hand from my skin and look away, then up, then further up, and gasp in awe. I don't mean to, since I'd rather not appreciate anything these people have built, but the citadel that rose before me was truly something to gawk at. Which is precisely what I'm doing.

A tree had fallen across a gorge, hewn to make a walkway, which would've been impressive if the walkway had railings, and since it didn't, I'm pretty sure it violates at least three health and safety codes. Beyond that, two enormous pillars, carved to resemble birch trees, entwined to form a canopy over a gate - an entrance to an enormous city, towers spiraling through the trees towards the sky, arched windows snaking around the building. It radiates power and elegance, which is weird for a building, but it makes it work.

I barely have time to drink in the sight before I'm pushed forward again, and I realize we're moving. I don't want to cross the bridge - the gorge is really deep - but I have no choice, and I shuffle across, suddenly afraid of not only toppling off the edge but also of getting splinters impaled in the soles of my feet.

But at least it's shelter, I tell myself, and I'm glad to be out of the wind. Once we're inside, I'm enveloped by a warm, cozy breeze that smells reminiscent of cinnamon.

I barely have time to enjoy it. Ponytail barks something and leaves, marching up a set of stairs and disappearing around a corner. Most of his envoy disperses - going back outside, striding down corridors, vanishing into the shadows - but two remain.

The girl speaks first. Her hair is a darker blonde than Ponytail's platinum, and her slanted eyes are green. She has a strongly boned face, like mine - not what most of the world would call pretty, but certainly striking. When she smiles at me, it lights up her features and sends me spiraling into a pit of self-consciousness. She puts her hand on my shoulder, saying, "Lariel i eneth nín."

I can't understand, but as she puts her other hand over her heart, I grasp that she's introducing herself. She repeats the phrase a few more times, I guess for my benefit, and at last, I shakily nod.

Her companion, whose hair is hilariously long and has a reddish sheen, crosses his muscled arms and hisses something. She cast him a look that I recognize as fuck off.

I very suddenly find myself liking her immensely. She's nice, she's hot and she has the no-nonsense attitude when it comes to assholes.

Of course, he retorts something like, Ponytail said we had to lock her up, and you're teaching her linguistics? You fuck off. ( Later, when I began to learn their language, and his memorable words came to mind then. Yeah, my translation is pretty spot-on. )

Lariel rolls her eyes. She says something to me in an apologetic tone, but since I can't understand, I barely react as she grabs my upper arm and hauls me down a corridor. I'm more than a little surprised at her strength and struggle to keep up with her, following her a little more willingly because she was, at the very least, nice about it.

Unfortunately, I began to get the idea why she was apologetic, as the corridor we travel begins to angle down. The air grows chillier, smellier, and more stale. I'm not amused.

Listen, it's not that hard to figure out where we're going.

il.

Or the dungeon. You know, whatever you want to call it.

If I'd been my DnD character, I would've unleashed a can of whoop-ass on Lariel and cleverly escaped in the nick of time. Unfortunately, I'm not a badass, so I allow myself to be tossed in a cell. At least Lariel looks sorry; the guy behind her doesn't mask his look of contempt in my direction.

Let me tell you this right now.

I've never been in jail, but it's. . . it's awful. I cringe as my foot skates across a puddle of water. The walls are hewn from rock, jagged and glistening with water that slowly drips down to the equally rocky floor. A niche is cut into the wall - a place where I assume I'll sleep - and slowly, I pick my way over, more than a little terrified that I could cut my feet against the sharp floor.

After I sit, I peel off my socks, and grimace as I examine them. "Ew." Once a clean, white color, they are now stained with grass and mud, and practically shredded. The bottoms of my jeans aren't much better. Equally wet and muddy, they cling to my ankles, and I make no attempt to remove them.

I drop my socks, drawing my knees up to my chest, and realize that Lariel is still staring. Her hand lingers on the iron bars of the cell, and I don't want to hate the sympathy in her green eyes, but some small part of me does. I don't bother to say anything, knowing she won't understand me, but she doesn't have the same idea.

"Man eneth lín?" She asks, and I stare with low-drawn and tired eyes. I don't understand. I don't want to. I'm tired of asking what the fuck to everything.

She puts a hand to her chest. "Lariel." Then she extends her palm to me. "Man?" She pronounces the word like ma-ahn - 'man', but British.

Bitch. . . I ain't no man. You see these boobs? Well, actually. . . I don't have boobs.

I get the gist of what she's saying, and try to manage a smile. I'm pretty sure I fail. Spectacularly. "Leoma. My name's Leoma."

Lariel's eyebrow quirks upward. She says something else, but I shrug in return and turn my gaze away. A rustle and then a few footsteps tells me that she's left, and after a glare in my direction, Redhead leaves too.

I lay my cheek on my knee, wiggling my toes in the chilly air.

How long am I supposed to be here? Will they kill me?

My insides shiver at the thought, and I suddenly feel sick, but there's nothing in my stomach to throw up. Still, I lean over the side of the niche, preparing to empty my guts. I wouldn't put it past these guys. . . this isn't a joke, and not even Wyatt is that demented.

My friends don't have anything to do with this.

Drugs don't have anything to do with this.

And I don't know what does.

I get the feeling that I'll have an aneurysm if I try and explain what's going on, so I decide it's best not to think about it, and stare off into space. I imagine myself back at home; Friday morning was waffle day. I can almost taste the soft, buttery Belgian waffles Lou - his actual name is Steven, but don't believe him - from down the street sells. Besides, I only have one class on Friday. One that I'm probably missing.

But I'd rather miss class than be stuck here.

It sends me into a bit of a depressive - and temporarily vegetative - state, but I'm brought out of my thoughts when someone bangs on the bars. It's Lariel, and I glare at her. Then I realize she's brought food, and that changes everything.

Oh.

HELL, yes.

Is that golden light and a chorus of angelic voices? I couldn't tell if it's fabricated by my own mind, or if she's actually a goddess.

With a smile, Lariel slips the tray under the door. I hesitate for only a few seconds and then scramble towards it, my feet slipping against the wet rocks. The bread might once have been soft and airy, but it's stale now; the cheese is a tad too goaty for my taste. It's not Belgian waffles, but it's food, and my burgers had disappeared from my stomach fifteen hours ago.

When I'm finished, I stare blankly at the crumbs and feel like I shouldn't wish for more, but I do.

Lariel crouches to eye level and produces an apple from her pocket. I look from the fruit to her eyes, which glint in the dim light, and I break eye contact to stare at the apple pleadingly. I'm not a fruit person, but I would even take an orange over nothing else. And oranges are the devil incarnate.

She tugs it out of reach of my gimme gesture and says, "Hafal."

I'm not in the mood for games. "What?"

Pointing at the apple, Lariel repeats the word. I know what she means, but I still feel the need to ask, "What the hell are you saying?"

"Hafal," she says again, and she's definitely gesturing to the apple this time. Hafal means apple, I get it, now give me the food.

"Alright, alright, fine, Hafal. Can I eat it now?"

She laughs - a tinkling, melodic, and completely, unfairly pretty sound - and passes it through the bars. I practically inhale it. It's tart and sweet at the same time, plump and rosy and juicy. You can't get fruit like this in the States, or at least not where I'm from. This is the best goddamn apple I've ever eaten.

You know those makeup commercials where they're like, 'it's better than sex', and you're thinking, 'well, that must be really shitty sex?'

This apple is the best sex in the universe.

It's a good apple.

Lariel laughs again and says something that sounds like 'bear'. I stare at her, hoping she's not calling me a rude name, but she stands, bidding me a
"Navaer" and slowly walking down the stony corridor before disappearing around a bend. I thoughtfully gnaw on the core of the apple before placing it back on the tray and pushing it under the bars.

The metal scraping against stone makes a loud screech, and after the ringing in my ears stops, I crawl back atop my stone bench and close my eyes.

It's cold, and I curl up to try and protect my arms and the goose bumps popping up on my skin. I'm trying to force myself to sleep, and it's not working. Not counting sheep, reciting the multiplication table, pretending I'm on a private island in the Caribbean.

Maybe when I wake up, all of this will disappear.

Want to know something?

It doesn't.