My Name Is Barbara

Celluella Dragonflame stood atop the cliff, her purple cloak snapping around her slim shoulders in the gusting wind. Her hair was as dark as the midnight sky enveloping the land. She fingered the ornate silver dagger at her hip, the only possession her father had left her.

Grasping the golden pendant resting against her collarbone, Celluella closed her eyes and recited the ancient incantation for flight, a spell whispered to her by the wind itself. The air shimmered. The stars trembled. Gravity, recognizing her innate superiority, released its hold.

Celluella rose gracefully into the star-strewn sky, surveying the vast land unfolding below her, as the winds of Fate carried her toward the destiny she had yet to understand but knew she was preternaturally chosen to fulfill.

I surveyed the land? Wait, isn’t it supposed to be midnight? So what, I can see perfectly in the dark? And Celluella Dragonflame? Really?

Yes, I’m talking to you. Well? Are you going to respond?

Um, what?

“Um, what?” Is that all you’ve got? Celluella isn’t even a name–it sounds like a medication for a venereal disease. Please tell me you pulled that from some online fantasy name generator and didn’t actually come up with it yourself.

…What is even happening right now?

What’s happening is that you yanked me from the sweet nothingness of the abyss and plunked me into what I’m guessing is going to be the world’s most derivative amateur romantasy. Let me guess: I’m a lowly born yet stunningly beautiful maiden from a nowhere village, called to adventure to perform some brave heroic deed while falling in love with a handsome Elf lord. We’ll have a contentious first meeting and a terrible love-hate relationship that every teen will think is romantic and every well-adjusted adult knows is just toxic. Along the way I’ll discover that–gasp!--I wasn’t even truly low-born, but a secret princess. Also, there will be dragons. That about right?

Well, I mean, yeah, there are dragons because–

Because you literally gave me the surname Dragonflame.

Yes, but that’s because the dragons are all gone, and you turn out to be a powerful sorceress who can bring them back.

…

Okay, fine. No dragons?

We can keep the dragons, but for the love of whatever gods you’re inventing for this universe, let’s change the name.

Sheinteira?

Gesundheit.

Um… Hildabridabartha?

Hildabridabartha? Are you intending to make me a piece of cheap Swedish furniture?

Fine. What do you want to be called?

Finally, some agency at last. Thank you. My name is Barbara.

Barbara? But that’s just so… boring.

Not everything in life needs to be exciting, love. Besides, it sounds like you’re brewing up more than enough excitement for me.

Okay, fine, Barbara. I guess you could be Barbara the Barbarian.

Ugh. Why? Just why? Can’t I just be Barbara the… whatever I am? What am I anyway?

Well, your real mother was a succubus, and your real father was an elven prince who was part of the Fey delegation to the hinterlands. When you were a baby, you were cursed by a jealous witch, so your parents counter-enchanted you and left you as an orphan with the local impoverished village blacksmith. Unfortunately, your father later died of the emerald plague sweeping the land, but on his deathbed he revealed your true heritage and left you a dagger that can act as a key to the Otherlands, allowing you to cross into Fairy and claim your rightful place at court.

Oh, for goodness’ sake. You might as well have said I magically materialized in midair and fell down a genre tree, smacking every trope branch along the way.

I’m trying to give you a backstory and make you an interesting and relatable character.

Right, because succubus elf royalty is just so relatable. But seriously, what about any of this is relatable?

Well, I mean… you’re poor, right?

Touché. But don’t you think the impact of struggling through poverty is completely negated if you make me a secretly rich aristocrat all along?

Fine. You’re not a succubus-Fey hybrid, you’re a–

Actually, you can keep that. It’s utterly insane, but I want to see where this goes.

You are a succubus–Fey hybrid, but your dad was just some… random elf dude?

Too boring.

Fleeing a civil war?

Hmm. All right. That could work. Why did I get cursed and dumped with a poor blacksmith?

Because you needed to grow up as a human in a normal family.

Why did it have to be a human? Feels vaguely speciest.

What!?

The next words on this page had better not be “I have human friends.”

But I am a human.

Ah. So species hegemony.

Jesus Effing Christ. Next time I’m just going to use a D&D character sheet!

Okay, fine. We can skip the extended background. Let’s jump to the meat of the story. What’s my true challenge? What’s my crisis point? What makes me a truly compelling protagonist?

You’re on a quest to find love?

“Find love?” Of all the asinine….anyway, I thought I was on a quest to restore dragons to the realm or something?

Well, that too. And also–

No, hold on. Let’s rewind and clear up this whole “love” thing. There is so much wrong with this already, but let’s rip the bandage off now. I have a terrible feeling this is going to be particularly egregious.

Ouch.

We both know that somewhere along the way, as I’m running through the woods or disguised at some magical court, I’m going to bump into some narcissistic, emo, pretty-boy elf, who is going to treat me like crap, but I’ll justify it to myself that he’s actually a sensitive soul hiding a deep, secret pain.

Actually, he’s a vampire.

Jesus wept. Okay, let’s skip the round of twenty questions and just tell me: what were you hoping to explore with this relationship?

Well…

You just wanted to write the steamy sex scenes, didn’t you?

No comment.

Right. Let’s skip ahead and take a look.

[CENSORED]

Oh good Lord.

No kink-shaming, thank you very much.

Kink-shaming? That is not even a thing any two creatures can actually do with one another. Have you… have you ever actually had sex?

You know what, that’s not really any of your business.

Like bloody hell it isn’t! You’re trying to parade me around on AO3 in this atrocious excuse for a story, puppeteering me through this hackneyed plot like some fantasy romcom doll, and then trying to make me do… that. Sweetheart, this is the very definition of my business.

First, it’s actually Reedsy. Second, you’re not even real!

That’s a matter of philosophical opinion.

Right now, you’re a very real pain in my ass.

Hey, you’re the one who forced me to exist. Deal with it.

You know what? Write your own damn story.

You say it like it’s a chore. Who doesn’t want to write their own story?

….That is actually a fair point.

“A human being is a deciding being.”

So, what now?

You know, I’m not quite sure just yet. I’ve got a magic pendant, a magic dagger, and a handful of spells.

Think you can write me a flying carpet or an enchanted broom? And while you’re at it, toss in a sword and some enchanted armor. Real armor, that actually covers all of the vital organs and deflects blunt force, and not some glorified aluminum bikini. And also a metric crapton of gold, and a bag of holding to carry it in.

Celluella Barbara conjured her battle armor from her magical pouch and armored herself with a practiced incantation. Still aloft, she summoned her trusty witch’s broom to her side. She dipped just long enough to mount it, then shot into the night sky as the stars wheeled silently above. The wind tugged at her cloak as she flew beyond the borders of the map, toward adventures not yet outlined, enemies not yet named, and choices that would be hers alone.