I have no excuses. It's pure self-indulgence. But if you're curious about what goes on in my deeply troubled mind, then look no further.
It's been very fun to write… probably shows…

Warnings: If you're not into 'author insertions' (after a fashion) or 'modern-girl-goes-to-a-fictional-universe' scenarios, then stop reading NOW. You have been warned.
Also includes infrequent undiluted swearing and adult themes.

Disclaimers: Don't own anything herein except 'me' and the plot. Otherwise I'd have satisfied the fangirls' desires for some sort of knight-orientated prequel. Maybe even as a TV Series… I'd have enjoyed the casting sessions too…

So here's the set up: The evil, extremely sadistic god of Cloud-Cuckoo-Land exploded into my life a few months ago and decreed that I would be transported into fictional worlds at random, in a C.S. Lewis style time-warp/wormhole scenario. He and his mates would then watch me flounder about trying to learn how to survive and generally cocking things up royally. When I'm there, I am forcibly crippled with a convenient episode of amnesia as to where I am and who the characters are, as well as a profound absence of clothes.

In return for such a humiliating start in my new life, I am compensated in being given the ability to speak whatever language I hear (very convenient) and I am also impossible to permanently kill (amazingly inconvenient when you consider it logically). However, I don't know what would happen if I got a really shitty deal where I'm torn to shreds or dismembered-surprisingly, I didn't want to find out either. Apparently, the 'never permanently dead' thing stemmed from my being somehow anchored to my own universe and reality. This also means I don't age at all. Try explaining that one to your fellow humans.

The reason this unique suffering is visited upon me (of all people) is because I'm one of those incredibly rare people with a mind shaped like the universe (it turns out the universe is shaped like a brain) which means that it wouldn't explode when transported between the overlapping universes.

Oh bittersweet irony…

The surreal conversation ran thus:

"So… my meta-physical mind is one of the rare few in all of creation in the shape of a brain, which just happens to be the physical shape of the universe; and this somehow qualifies me as being capable of moving between the universes, space and time?"

"Correct."

"Well that's… convenient I suppose. Especially since I happen to have a account and assignments to escape from…"

"This was prophesied long ago – as foretold by the Elders."

"Okay, well, what happened to the other experiments?" I asked, eyes hooded with suspicion.

The god shuffled, his belly wobbling. "They… the failures, they…"

"Spit it out,"

"They turned into Justin Bieber, Twilight, and High School Musical fans." The god jiggled in anxiety under the weight of my stare.

"And I'm your lab rat?! Why are you even doing this?"

"We want to see what will happen,"

"Since I clearly don't have a choice in the matter I'd just like to warn you that if you screw this up, I swear I will track you down and torture you to death before ending my own hellish existence via a black hole."

The god gulped audibly.

However, we were both very lucky on that occasion and next thing I knew I was cavorting around Narnia with a sword too heavy to swing, a knife too blunt to stab someone with, and four prissy monarchs who said things like "Jolly good show!" to each other and were impossibly uptight. I avoided them like the plague and the fact I ended up rather fancying the dark-haired one had nothing to do with it.

This second time, I was hunched over my laptop as usual, reading a journal article for my essay when the tell-tale thunderclap announced the arrival of the God of Cloud-Cukcooland. He was a squat fellow with green skin and big, round amber eyes. Otherwise he resembled an incredibly fat and short Jack Nicholson in a purple robe.

"Hear me, mortal!" he boomed nasally in the voice of Andy Hamilton, as he appeared on my bed. I didn't really react; considering how the muses regularly sabotage my working habits – this wasn't anything to write home about. I finished the sentence I was copying and then turned in my chair to look at him.

"Hi," I said frostily. "What do you want, a review of my little trip?"

"No, no – we were watching. Good performance," he said, bouncing up and down on the bed – I heard the springs groan alarmingly in protest. This horrible little creature had been responsible for sending me to Narnia (of all places!) last year and I hadn't enjoyed it very much at all. One of the drawbacks of this deal was that I would essentially remain an unchanging constant until this douchebag god had decided I could go back to my own world.

Later, when we were sharing a case of beer and a pizza, I tried to tell him that his look was a terrible cliché, but he didn't really seem to care. I suppose when you're a god you can just hurt people who annoy you with impunity. I then tried to plead with him to let me know where I was headed. I tried to at least be allowed to take underwear. The bastard was having none of it. All I would know was where I was from and the generalities of the deal I had with the god.

I stripped (because last time I never got my favourite jeans returned to me after they were lost in transit) and reverentially laid my watch on the bedside table before turning to face the leering god.

"Ready," I said. And next thing I knew, it was dark and all I could hear was the sound of rushing water and air around me.

Waking up in a forest in the pouring rain was a less than stellar start to this new life. Last time I had materialised in a snowdrift – and when you're oh-so-naked it's a real shock to the system; this was a slightly better situation. My hair plastered itself to my skull and back, falling into my eyes. Usually, it was my only vanity-thick, long, black, strong and straight, it successfully resisted all my attempts to curl or style it. Mostly I just left it alone for fear of enraging it. In spite of the dark curtain, I looked about. Judging by the colour of the leaves and bone-chilling wind rattling through me, I surmised it to be early autumn in a temperate climate. The smell of the air was totally unpolluted-which meant a metropolis was too much to hope for. It was still very much day time, but I knew I had to find shelter from this rain.

I looked about-there wasn't much I could do except start walking. Maybe if I was really lucky I'd come across a cave or a road.

Fortune is a mean-spirited bitch who loves no one (except maybe bankers and oligarchs). I had been walking for an eternity through the forest-there was no end to it. I hadn't even found anything to wear. This was truly wild land. Once, I heard wolves howling in the distance-but they were very far off so I didn't worry too much. But it did tell me that I would have to spend the night in a tree or face the possibility of being eaten in my sleep. I soldiered on until I found a stream where I stopped to fill my achingly hollow stomach with water. As I crouched on the bank, I wondered if the stream to a settlement. At this point I really didn't care so long as I was out of this rain. As I was preparing to wade through the stream, I heard a noise.

It was far off, but instantly recognisable: a horse's scream, rising and falling like a sick trumpet. It was one of the worst sounds I'd ever heard. Then came the screams of men and the high-pitched ring of metal striking metal. More screams.

I knew it was a battle, and one that involved horses and-more importantly-sharpened metal. I was a puny twenty-one year old student from England, in my birthday suit, without a prayer. Walking into a battle to ask for some clothes wasn't smart. So I sat down again by the stream and waited for the battle to end. I might be discovered in the aftermath, but it was slightly less risky than meeting them when their blood was up.

Unlike the movies, which make it seem like battles last all of five minutes-they're actually long, torturous, and very, very messy. This one was no exception. The clashes of metal eventually died down and the screaming took on a different edge. Clearly the victors were performing the coup de grace upon their enemies. I didn't want to hear the screams of dying men… but I had little choice. If I blocked my ears then I wouldn't hear what else might be sneaking up on me. But if things were less immediately chaotic, I reasoned it was time to set off. So I hobbled across the stream and in doing so, fell over after cutting my foot on a sharp rock. Soaking wet, utterly frozen and bleeding, I crawled onto the bank.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…" I growled through chattering teeth. This was not fun. The god of CCL was going to be faced with a lawsuit after this was all over.

I limped on-worried that the cut on my foot would get infected, but knowing full well there was nothing I could do for it. Then I heard whoops and yells before people suddenly flooded the forest in front of me. I could tell where they were because they were all painted blue. More surprising was the fact they weren't wearing a lot of clothes-weren't these lunatics freezing? Nevertheless, I threw myself into the undergrowth. Being raped was not on the 'to do' list. Looting dead bodies was. After all, dead bodies weren't inclined to try anything. The blue people walked past me, watchful despite their victory-perhaps they were the raiding party and their enemies had been the natives? I pushed myself deeper into the leaf litter, holding my breath. Eventually they were all gone. The forest was quiet. I stood, brushed the leaves off and checked my foot. Still bleeding, it was deep, jagged and ached something terrible. But I had no time to stop and mourn-the battlefield may be discovered soon and I wanted to be away from it with as much as I could carry.

When I finally reached the edge of the treeline, I hesitated and looked about. Seeing no one and hearing only the rain and birdsong, I edged onto the open ground.

The battlefield looked much the same as previous ones. Dead men and horses lay about the blood-stained ground. By the look of the armour, I was inclined to say the losing side had been a Roman Several men had been decapitated, but I couldn't see any heads. Had the blue people collected them? I wasn't sure, but it really didn't matter – I couldn't bury these men, couldn't even say the right prayers over their bodies. A sort of despair welled up in me-it was all meaningless really, but it was also in humans' nature to fight and kill. So I ignored my personal feelings on the matter and set about the bleak task of salvaging what I could.

But what first caught my attention was the horse struggling and thrashing in the mud. I hobbled over to it, making gentle cooing noises. I'm an experienced horse-person, being infinitely more interested in equines than boys as a teenager; I knew what to do. The horse didn't calm down, but I knew it had noticed me and was listening to me despite its panic. It was a beautiful blue roan, powerful, fine and tangled in its expensive-looking saddle. I frowned and moved towards the horse's head. Never approach a thrashing horse by way of the hooves, that's just a stupid idea. So I knelt by the horse's head and stroked its neck. I needed it to be calmer if I was to free it. The horse took some time to calm though – and in the mean time I'd silently christened it Fizzy. Don't ask me why, I'm crap at naming animals. One of my cats at home is called Porridge.

Finally Fizzy was calm enough for me to inspect the damage, although he was very highly strung. I stood behind him and leaned over to look at the damage-his foot was caught up in a broken and twisted strap of leather. I had no idea how he'd managed to get himself into such a mess, but every time Fizzy kicked against the improvised snare, it tightened around his ankle and put pressure on his back.

"How uncomfortable," I murmured, patting Fizzy's flank as I wondered what to do. The easiest thing would be to cut it, so I looked for a knife. Most of the weapons had gone, so it took some time. But I eventually found a small dagger in a man's boot-praise the Powers That Be for small blessings. I also grabbed a discarded and surprisingly clean cloak and wrapped it about my body under my arms like a towel. Fizzy whickered as I walked back to him and damn, that horse knew how to push my buttons. I loved it when horses called to me in greeting. I smiled at him, even though it was a wasted gesture on a horse.

Cutting Fizzy free took a long time-the leather was tough and well worn, but the horse was smart and didn't struggle too much. When it was done, the first thing the horse did was scramble to his feet and try to shake the saddle free. It slipped round his belly to hang underneath and Fizzy looked very surprised at this new turn of events. I stepped forward, smiling and put out a hand. The horse pushed his nose against my fingers and sighed wetly.

So cute. "I bet all the girls love you, charmer," I said fondly, scratching his ears. Fizzy leaned into the touch, eager for a bit of fuss. But a gust of wind reminded me I had to keep moving. I unbuckled the remains of the saddle from Fizzy and tossed it aside. Fizzy's bridle was still intact, except for the snapped reins, but tying them together again was no hassle. I then looped them around Fizzy's neck loosely so he didn't tangle himself up again and looked around, thinking.

Now that the horse was free I needed real clothes. I wandered through the dead men, looking for the smallest I could find. I eventually came across the body of a young man. He was one of the Blue People-scarcely more than a teenager really. I would have contemplated the horror of it all if I hadn't been nearing hypothermia. So instead I crouched over him, pushed his eyes shut because something about rain hitting lifeless eyes freaked me out, and started to undo the belt about his waist. Needless to say he wasn't wearing underwear-no time to be embarrassed, girl, I told myself sternly. Wrestling clothes off dead men is a near-impossible task. It took me forever to tug the trousers off. From what I could tell they were made out of finely-woven wool-nice. They were also wet and too big, but that didn't matter. Next I threw off the cloak and grabbed a sash of cloth I'd found, wrung the water out of it, and wrapped it firmly around my chest.

Nature and genetics had gone bankrupt before they could hand out feminine endowments, clearly thinking that everyone wanted to look like an under-fed teenage boy, but still, at least it made me feel feminine, even if I really had no breasts whatsoever. Unfortunately, acquiring a tunic took even longer than the damn trousers and Fizzy even wandered over to see what I was up to. Eventually, I managed to pull it off. The man had died from an arrow to the throat so there was a lot of blood around the collar and shoulders, but I had little choice.

After more looting, I scavenged another knife, some sort of dried meat (I ate a bit immediately and it tasted horrid) and several bundles of a very dry sort of biscuit made from oats, and flints for fire; half-a-dozen serviceable arrows (but no bow), another belt and a broken spearhead which I could probably use as another knife. Maybe even make another spear if I had to. I tied the arrows together with the spearhead and flints, then wrapped them in a strip of the cloak to make an improvised bundle. I threaded the second belt through this and made a backpack. The first belt was holding up my trousers. I cleaned my cut foot on the untainted wet grass as best I could, then wrapped more strips of material around it.

Shoes were not going to happen-these men's feet were all at least double my shoe-size. But I'd decided to ride Fizzy-I wouldn't need shoes. I needed at least another cloak for shelter-so I looked about again. I noticed there were two men tangled together in what must have been a very sticky final match. I pulled and pushed the Blue Man's corpse off the other and then as I reached forward to check the 'normal' one for anything useful, I screamed, causing Fizzy to flinch.

The man was alive. Barely, but his skin was warm to the touch and his chest rose and fell.

"Right… oh crap… shit, shit… calm down, calm down…" I stammered, sitting back on my haunches and thinking hard.

Shock gave way to practicality. This man needed help. True, I had just been looting his fallen comrades and enemies, but I hadn't defiled their corpses. Just taken stuff. He could have been my intended enemy in this universe, but I didn't care. He did look rather fierce though-wild dark hair fell across his face but failed to obscure the slightly raised tattoos on his angular cheekbones. He was clean-shaven and looked peaceful in his unconsciousness.

My first aid was very rusty, but I knew I had to check for head injuries first. I ran my fingers through his hair, feeling along his skull for any lumps or wounds… his head was alright save for a large superficial bump – probably the reason he was unconscious. Next, I felt the vertebrae of his neck – all were okay. The inspection continued, hampered by infinite layers of leather and cloth. Finally I found the injuries: a large, deep slash to his thigh, a long wound in his side and another along his shoulder. The rest were superficial.

I'd need lots of cloth now…

So I salvaged what I could from the other bodies, thoroughly checking that they were all dead this time. Then I went back to the man. I had to get him out of this rain – even into the trees. There was shelter there, and the wolves wouldn't be so interested in a meal that fought back. Fizzy took lots of coaxing, but eventually, I got him to lie down on a bit of ground I'd cleared of bodies. What a well-trained horse, I thought. Then I grabbed the man under the shoulders and hauled him up. He was heavy and slumped against me, his head lolling back and bashing my jaw before resting on my shoulder. I took a moment to avoid dropping the man. That hurt.

This guy didn't deserve me as his nurse. I'd probably end up killing him. He groaned as I jostled his injuries.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, taking a moment to pause. I was tired, cold, my foot hurt too, and I am not even close to being described as physically strong. Most of my heaving of dead bodies had involved inelegant grunting, shoving and rolling.

After a titanic struggle, I finally managed to haul the guy onto Fizzy's withers. Fizzy didn't like it, but I could see he'd been trained to do this because he stood up, with me steadying the man thrown over his back. I tossed the cloaks and cut up tunics over the man, trying to keep the rain off him. Then grabbed the rest of the things and led Fizzy to the trees. After more toil and swearing, I then made several trips back to the battlefield to grab more materials, including the man's sword which had been trapped between him and the Blue man in their final confrontation. I found several waterskins and a sort of gourd. Fizzy stood close to the man as I made trips to the stream for water.

I was beginning to feel like myself again. Albeit a version of myself who was tired, cold, stressed and frightened. But I knew what to do… sort of. I had to make a shelter, I already had water, I needed a fire. But at least I was making progress.

When I got back, the rain had eased off and was almost done in harassing my efforts. The man still hadn't woken up; even when I'd cut my hand and sworn very loudly when making the tent. I'd tied some leather straps from Fizzy's deceased saddle and strung them between two trees at about waist height. Using cloaks hanging over this, I'd made an impromptu shelter. It was easier than attempting a tipi with the spear shafts, which I used instead to hold the sides of the tent out, preventing the cloaks and saddle blankets from sagging. I crawled into the tent and checked on the man. His breathing was regular and even, I felt his pulse, which was also steady. He must be cold, his hands were freezing.

I fought with the fire for what felt like an age, before finally persuading wet wood to burn over wet hair and twigs. Yes, I cut off some of my hair to facilitate this man's survival. He'd better be very bloody grateful, I thought crossly as the acrid smoke stung my nose and eyes.

So I had to wrestle a man out of his clothes again… this was becoming a bad habit. But this time it took a lot longer than previous long efforts, since the man was alive and injured. By early evening, I had managed to strip him to his underwear. The tent's draughts had been combated as best they could, and the man was lying on several pieces of clothing.

It was then that I got a good look at the man. He was very attractive, and had several tattoos on his chest and shoulders as well. The greenish-blue swirl on his shoulder had been mangled by the stab wound, but I didn't think he'd mind. Life was preferable to a ruined tattoo, surely.

I set to work carefully cleaning the wounds. It was easier that he was unconscious – I could be objective and not think about how awkward the situation was. I was also spared any conversation. Bandaging the wounds took time, but I was proud of the final result. The deep wounds on his thigh and side were the most problematic – neither were immediately life-threatening, but I was terrified of infection and had no real way to prevent it.

Fizzy snorted outside – it was a worried noise. I threw a couple of the still slightly damp cloaks over the man and then stuck my head out the tent.

"Fizz?" I asked. It's stupid, I know, talking to animals like they're people. But it gave me comfort. Especially when I was afraid the man would die next to me in the night. I crawled out and stood next to the horse. Fizz flicked an ear at me, but was staring down at the battlefield, quivering and hyper-alert.

Wolves and birds were scavenging the corpses. I felt a little sick. Would they come after Fizzy? Would they smell the man in the tent? I sighed. The ground was still damp, but the firewood I'd gathered was drying by the fire and I felt I could make another fire on the other side of the camp.

After checking on the man again, hanging the remaining clothes and cloaks on branches to dry, and hugging Fizzy around the neck for comfort, I settled down to keep watch with the one intact spear at hand.

Nothing happened that night. One of the wolves trotted over to the camp to investigate, but when I hissed and threw stones at it, it went back to the feast on the battlefield. Fizzy had been terrified, but I'd tied him to a tree. If he'd bolted, the wolves would have been more likely to chase him. And I couldn't lose the horse – he was essential to getting us out of here alive.

Around dawn I crawled into the tent and checked the man. I'd been making checks all night, but he hadn't woken. The colour had returned to his face, and he was warmer, but still not as warm as I'd like. I threw back the tent covers, put more wood on the fires and then lay down next to the man, burrowing under the covers to lie next to him. Maybe shared body warmth would help. And I was exhausted. I fell asleep with my face pressed against his uninjured shoulder. Fizzy woke me a few hours later, nudging me like a puppy with his nose. I rolled over, groaning.

"Fizz…" I moaned. "Go 'way…"

I was nudged again. I felt awful and pushed myself up into a sitting position, knocking my forehead against one of the poles. The sun was out and so were the fires. I groaned again and looked around, taking stock. The man was still asleep! This was remarkably unfair, despite his grievous injuries.

"You bastard," I growled. Then crawled out of the tent and walked to one of the waterskins, wetting my hands and running them over my face. A little more awake but no less grumpy, I fetched more water and decided to do a little laundry – the collar of my tunic had dried and the blood made the fabric stiff and uncomfortable. Similarly my breeches were stiff with mud.

I brought back the water, leaving a waterskin next to the man in case he woke up, and grabbed his blood-stained clothes from the untidy pile I'd thrown them into last night. Then back to the stream. Washing was a freezing affair, but woke me up. I stripped and washed the clothes – scrubbing the various substances out of them with difficulty. Then, with no other option, I wrung them out as best I could and walked back to camp naked. It was a risk, but I wanted the clothes to dry a little more.

When I got back, I pulled on the cold, wet clothes and nearly sobbed at the awful clamminess. Rolling up my sodden sleeves, I hung the man's clothes on branches to dry and checked the ones that I'd put out the previous night. They weren't dry, but were considerably less wet. I decided to tear them apart and make them into more bandages for the man's wounds.

Speaking of which…

I walked over to him and stared down at him. He was actually much younger than I thought… probably my age, or a little older. He needed to wake up. I had to get him to drink something at least. I knelt down and touched his cheek.

"Hey," I said, loudly but gently. No response. "Hey," I said with a little more force, patting his cheek gently. Still nothing. Did I have to really slap him?

I squatted back on my haunches and frowned at him. Eventually, I grabbed the waterskin and sprinkled water on his forehead while talking loudly in a nice tone.

"Please wake up, please… it's the morning – I think – look, please wake up," I patted his cheek again. Finally his breathing hitched and deepened the way it does when people wake up. The long-lashed eyes fluttered and opened slightly. I was amazed to see they were a deep, deep green. They focused on me immediately and were unbelievably hostile.

Dun-dun-DUN! Well, how will this mysterious (*cough-Tristan-cough*) chap react? Find out in Chapter 2!
PS: Reviews will greatly improve my mood, and talents as a writer. ^_^ Love you all!