Prologue
Once upon a time there existed a mystical library hidden away in an old home in a picturesque countryside. Distant from any town or city, tucked between rolling hills of verdure under a perpetually clear blue and sunshine sky. A home that no one knew who the owner was nor who the creator of this phantasmagorical athenaeum was. Whether they were a man or a woman, it did not seem to matter for this strange tale, for all that mattered were the tomes contained within the repository.
It was said that in this mysterious library there were many books, as any good respectable library should have, however, what set this library apart were the fantastical books within. Books of power, books of magic, only decipherable for the owner of this peculiar collection that was said to span the ages, back to the first tablet carved in stone. A rare collection that set a fire ablaze in any bibliophile, in any lover of the written art and penned word. Records of time immemorial, and even rumored of events to come, a Garden of Eden for philosophers and linguists.
This mystical library had an owner, but also a librarian, verecund and docile. A young woman of calm disposition and undeniable thirst for knowledge. She had been blessed to lay eyes upon the vast collection of volumes that mankind had created. A passion for the philosophy of the greats and the art of the literary masters, in her heart she contained them all. Seeking to learn the most she could, the librarian would spend days and days, reading away until her eyes were dry, and her body called her to rest. It might seem like an exaggeration, but it was in truth what she would do. After all, to be a librarian not only gave her an opportunity to be so close to her heart's innermost desires, but also was a quiet monotonous life.
Perhaps it was in cruel irony that her passion would lead to her downfall, or perhaps it was the tedium of spending countless days, in a sunless home like a prison, that made her commit the single sin. An act of utmost transgression to the owner of the fantastical bibliotheca, almost unspeakable, even if petty. The librarian, though meek and docile, had a virtue that became a vice. In an act of defiance and resentment, she took one of the books of the library as her own, seeking perhaps to start a repository of her own. Alas, the librarian was a fool.
In guided passion, she took the book, but in anguished fashion, she was stricken, sickened. The owner of this library, in righteous fury, set a curse upon the librarian. For if she loved so much the dolls and puppet characters inside those tomes, she would become one herself. Her flesh became wood, and her eyes became glass. An unmoving manikin during the day, watching the books she loved so, and at night, a moving puppet, eating the books she loved so. A dreadful and tragic curse for the one who saw tomes as her paramours. A netherworld of despair, from which the foolish librarian could not scream her woes.
This fairytale would end here, if it was only a cautionary story, however happy endings are always expected from such narratives. So, we turn to the owner of the bibliotheca and her cursed doll. Perhaps, the owner took upon the saddened doll that longingly gazed upon the treasures of this mystical place, hearing deep within the cries of who was once human. This punishment for defiance was too much for one to bear, and for one to watch. Yet, curses are a strange magic, these bewitchments, borne from divine punishment cannot be simply erased by tears of regret from the accursed. A blessing would need to be bestowed in order to clean the soul of such a spell, a redemption was needed.
The doll, to become human again and be freed from her burden, would need to travel far and wide. She had to truly understand the hearts of those masters that she had admired so much that lead her to commit her folly. Through three distant lands, she would travel, guided with only a magical old book, and a compass with a golden needle to point the way. The owner of the library gave her the task of searching for the ones who understood the hearts of men and women better than anyone else. Those who penned down tales of adventure, love and solitude; literary masters, whose works littered the athenaeum, the mystical records.
A fateful journey through the world, a quest for redemption, and for knowledge. To be finally free of this curse, she would take to her heart, under lock and key, manuscripts of those blessed with the quill to elate and tranquilize the soul of others. Masterpieces to be remembered by, and stories to be praised for. Unknown literary masters of this era, in their artistic prime, those who would the ones who would give back the doll's humanity, piece by the piece. And it was with this quest and the tools given, that the doll would travel. Far and wide, through these three lands, of sun, freedom and antiquity, she would journey. An arduous task, a lonely journey. Perhaps one day, it shall come to completion lest this strange fairytale is doomed to have a tragic end.
After all, tales like these extol virtues and romance, a faint hope that all humans cling so closely to their hearts. Fascinating creatures, that witches like us observe and read. For it is in those books, that we collect that we understand the human heart, even if a modicum. Ah, the long journey that this doll has shall be quite the tale to write down in my personal records.
"There was once a young man who wished to gain his Heart's Desire."
― Neil Gaiman