egil prologue

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Fantasy  |  House: Booksie Classic
after being kidnapped by an unknown organization a young teen, egil, is kept captive in a small prison where he works as a doll maker known as attila. his dolls are different though, they live and breathe just as those who order them. he awaits freedom but with no windows, clocks, or news of the outside, who knows how much time has passed or will pass before he is rescued.

Submitted: July 07, 2017

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Submitted: July 07, 2017

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Egil supposed that his new name was rather fitting, Attila. When he was born his parents had named him Egil Rey. Now bestowed upon him was Attila, or “Small father” it was well suited for his current predicament, though he supposed, that was the point. “Egil Attila Rey” he thought, chuckling as pale, bony fingers drew mindless shapes and swirls in the air above him, the other gripping a yellowed letter. His shoulder length black waves messy, splayed out on his bed, one lock had even fallen in front of one of his sapphire eyes as he tilted his head to the side. Egil paused in his twirling and stopped his thinking to brush back the downy lock behind his pointed ear.

He absently gazed into the space of his small workplace, the glistening silver colour of the steel coating the walls and floor making his eyes ache and water slightly. Across from him though, though there was a little space, a golden worktable marred with clay and scalpels rested at the corner of the room. To the right of him there was a rather large golden firepit, flames creating a warm glow that heated the entire room; to the left a tall stacked cabinet lined with shelves housed the monstrous supplies of clay, dyes and other bits needed to complete his newly assigned work. Overall the entire room, well, prison, was immaculate; lustrous to the point it hurt.

Egil glanced up again at the letter, though more of an order form, holding it above him, carefully memorising each detail of his client’s appearance, story and position. A noble family, needing to produce a heir as soon as possible to secure their inheritance, though unable to conceive one of their own. As he read through their request his eyes widened slightly, his lips curving up into a smile. Much to his surprise both preferred a little girl, as normally in orders for a firstborn the couple prefered a little boy. Egil meticulously studied the couple’s features, thinking of the way best to combine them.  The lady had smooth, dark chocolate skin and hair, eyes a golden brown, a strikingly gorgeous contrast with the rest of her appearance. Finely pointed chin, poised and elegant. The lord had light tan skin, green eyes and golden hair. His poise was similar to the lady’s with his angular jaw and a graceful pose. An attractively rugged yet cheerful appearance. Humming, he contemplated over the possibilities roaming his mind.

Supposing he must get to work,or else face punishment, Egil tentatively began to touch the floor. Gasping, he flinched at the sharp coldness that pinched at his toes. Inhaling, he braced for the cold and began to stride across the room, his light footsteps tapping as he reached the worktable. Egil welcomed the warmth of the golden stool as he removed his feet from the floor to sit cross legged on the stool. Fragile hands reached for the rather heavy and old looking book. He quickly scanned the index, finding the instructions that he was looking for and flipped to the correct page, inaudibly murmuring the instructions to himself.

Egil was a dollmaker, but not the kind of doll that small children played and danced around with. Well, in a way they were, but they were much more, not that many others saw that. His dolls had life, depending on how you defined it. Instead they danced and played along with the children, had families of their own, and worked alongside the men and women. Everything that his clients and him could do, his dolls could to.

Egil leaned back slightly as he contemplated what his life had become. He had imagined even as a young child, that he would become an artist, diligently studying the classic techniques and styles. Never had he imagined that he would be held as a hostage, abducted at sixteen, his body experimented on and controlled by others. “How long ago was that?” He pondered, after all, there were no clocks or windows. No darkness, seeing as the blinding white light overhead burned constantly. Lamenting his loss once again he bitterly supposed that at least he should be thankful he was still permitted to be an artist, in a bit of an alternative way.

Tenderly picking up the clay and a pointed scalpel he carefully began to mold and carve the clay into an infant’s skeleton, next moving onto the organs and tissues. He carefully sculpted every individual detail, cautious to avoid mistakes for the doll’s health. Despite his resentment of his position, he did not wish to harm his creations. He picked up a caramel coloured clay pile, delicately smoothing it across the doll before adding the finishing touches, rosy lips and two stunning hazel eyes with a tuft of dark brown hair, highlighted with gold to match. Smiling at the clay child, he strode across the room to collect his next materials.

He  stopped before the supplies corner, pulling out a drawer containing various herbs, another with flower petals and the last one with bark. He quickly gathered up some shredded bluebell, daisy and hollyhock petals; crushed oak and myrtle bark, and finally some minced mint and basil leaves. The child would have humility but ambition; innocence but strength, along with virtue to hold it all together. Good luck and wishes were an extra assurance he presumed. All fitting traits for a future leader for, and heir to, a noble family.

He put those into a small bowl from the large cabinet to the left of him, next reaching for a deep pot of honey above him. Softly pouring the honey in he stopped and began to stir the mixture before pouring into a crystal glass, glistening with the fire light, watching as it streamed down. Once the mixture was swirling inside he placed the bowl down and returned to his work desk. He carefully tilted the glass upon the clay infant’s lips, the mixture trickling down it’s throat. Ever so carefully he picked up the doll and shuffled towards the firepit. He rested her on a small shelf of gold, matching the firepit. Egil unbuttoned his shirt first, discarding it on the pristine floor, next feeling along his pale abdomen before finding a long, fine, scar and peeled back the skin. Inside his belly was a small metal kiln of silver, empty of flames. Collecting a few burning coals, depositing them inside as he emitted a gasp of pain, the fire licking the edges of the kiln. He quickly removed the shelf the doll was on, sliding it inside and closed back the skin door.

Egil quickly cleaned up the workspace, placing scalpels in the correct order, clay in the correct containers. Taking in a deep breath he returned to his small cot, resting against the cold metal. A few minutes later the heat escalated as if he had erupted in flames, the scalding, burning sensation raging through his belly. Egil gasped in pain as he felt the heat begin to move rapidly through his middle, the flames licking the walls. The gold began to liquidate, sloshing violently,vigorously bubbling with glaringly loud gurgles through the kiln, pounding against his skin. Soon forming a searing steam mixed with smoke from the coals, moderately distending his abdomen. He released one gripped hand and brushed back his hair from his sweat-glistened brow. As the coals died down the heat and pain that plagued him abated, allowing him to rest with his eyes closed, hands limp.

Feeling a harsh blow to his stomach, his eyes shot open. The next hit prompted him to push himself up so he leaned against the wall, bracing his back so he could reach for the scar.  Reopening his stomach quickly,  the smoke billowed out of the kiln, causing him to cough violently as it entered his lungs. though it didn’t stop him from reaching inside to collect the doll, his hands still burned as the steam scalded his ashen hands, turning them bright red. Egil cradled the new doll to his chest, murmuring softly to her between hacks as she cooled off and began to move.

The doll released a cry as it was “born”, not doll now, Egil corrected himself, an infant. “Hello darling” Egil softly crooned as his midriff contracted, stroking the babe’s cheek with a shaking hand, “Don’t worry, you’ll meet your mommy and daddy soon, m’lady.” the babe quieted, just before a golden door suddenly appeared in the wall by his bed, a masked man opened it.

“It is created?” The burly man roughly voiced, not really a question. Egil meekly nodded and shut the kilns door, his small form shrinking away from the hulking mass in front of him, carefully holding out the infant as he bowed his head. The man approached Egil, his pounding footsteps echoing through the small room, gently plucking the babe from his hands and swaddled her in a blanket. Egil rose his eyes to look at the guard, though he quickly averted them when they met the man’s. The man turned on his heels, heading back to the doorway. “You did good, Attila.” the man spoke, indicating the doll. Egil jerked his head up, eyes wide in shock from the rare praise. His positivity was shortly lived: just as the door closed, molding backing to the silver wall there had been before, another letter fluttered in.

Egil shakily grabbed the letter in between bony fingers and rolled himself onto his stomach, tears threatening to overspill. Egil permitted himself a small whimper at what was inside.

Another request.


© Copyright 2017 Avery R Kraus. All rights reserved.

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