ladysprite (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ladysprite) wrote2009-01-27 09:07 pm
ladysprite) wrote2009-01-27 09:07 pm
Entry tags:
It's That Time Of Year Again
I often tell people that one of the best things about being a relief veterinarian is that I don't have a boss that I have to answer to. I go from clinic to clinic, and I do my best to follow the policies at the clinics I work at, but ultimately I set my own schedule, I make my own plans, and I do my own thing.
That's not quite true, though. I do, on some level, have a boss. And while I don't have to answer to her often, when I do it's always an adventure. And usually not the fun, lighthearted, wacky sort - more the kind that build character. If you survive. And today was an answering-to-the-boss day.
I'm not sure why she picked today, but I've learned not to question her in these matters. Or in any matters, for what it's worth. I drove as far as I could (she's very picky about not allowing cars on her property, for obvious reasons), then parked in an empty lot, snugged my scarf and gloves tighter, and started walking down the path that led from there, alternately grumbling about the thoughtlessness of folks who schedule meetings in the dead of winter and thanking my lucky stars that at least the path was more clearly marked than the last time I had made this trip, and that I was at least making it in daylight.
Over the river, through the woods, turn left at the giant cliche - I'll say this for my boss. At her age, she has become rather... hidebound. I tend to think of it as a blessing, all things considered. I followed the path to its inevitable but still impressive end, handed my coat to the omnipresent "assistants," and, gritting my teeth (I am American through and through, and we have spent the past three hundred years refusing to bow to anyone as a matter of principle), I went down on one knee. "Majesty, you sent for me?"
The Queen of Air and Darkness laughed, a sound that had more in common with icicles and bells than any human noise. "You may rise, my pet."
I hate it when she calls me that. It feels uncomfortably close to truth. I stood, still carefully keeping my eyes towards the floor. Some things truly aren't meant for human eyes, and while I don't know for certain that looking directly upon her will melt my contact lenses onto my corneas, it's not a risk I'm willing to take. "Is there aught you need of me, Majesty?"
I don't set out to talk like that on purpose around her. She just... seems to bring it out, whether I want to or not.
"It has been seven years since you first swore to serve us. Do you recall? I believe that was the original term you agreed to serve, was it not?"
I nodded wordlessly, praying that, since my contract was technically with the Bright Court, I wouldn't wind up riding a white horse at the end of a parade to Hell. Not only would it be the platonic ideal of No Fun, the time of the great ballads has gone, and my name doesn't scan very well anyway.
"So. Your service is done. If you so wish. Is that your wish, mortal? Do you want to be free?"
"Um... is that a trick question?" Eloquent, I know.
She laughed again - it's good to know that, if all of my other skills fail me, I can still list 'amusing to fairies' as a lifetime accomplishment - and shifted on her throne. "No, my pet. While we are not above the occasional prank or misdirection, we keep our oaths. You have kept your part of the bargain, and we shall keep ours. So I ask again - do you wish your service to the Courts to end here?"
I closed my eyes, doing my best to think clearly in a hazy, uncertain situation. To be free of this - isn't that what I had been counting down towards, ever since the first day I realized that my student loan exit counselor had pushed me into a Special Service condition that most new grads weren't offered, and that he hadn't been joking? No more burn scars (my hands were still stiff from the last visit to the dragon barn), no more bite wounds from werewolves and weeks spent drinking wolfsbane tea and watching the moon nervously. No more manipulative boggans, no more attempts to explain that dryads are outside my area of service. No more patients talking back to me. No more nightmares about things with too many legs and mismatched shadows that try to suck me in as I work on them.
No more unicorns. No more tiny leathery wings scalding my fingertips as I coax them from their shell. No more free laundry service in exchange for keeping the brownies' stable of fancy show mice fat and healthy. No more wild kelpie rides.
I opened my eyes again, seeing the edges of the carved and gilded throne swim and start to fade before me, the chamber slowly shifting back into a cold, empty cavern.
No more magic.
I sank to my knees again, shaking my head, and surrendered to the inevitable. "No, Majesty."
"I thought not." There was gentleness in her voice as well as humor, as she rose. Her touch on my eyelids was as soft as rose petals, as cold as the first breath you draw in a blizzard, as she renewed the glamour that let me see their world. "Serve us well, child."
Seven more years. That's all. Then I'll stop, I swear. I said it last time, but this time I mean it. I think.
(Happy Rabbit Hole Day, y'all....)
That's not quite true, though. I do, on some level, have a boss. And while I don't have to answer to her often, when I do it's always an adventure. And usually not the fun, lighthearted, wacky sort - more the kind that build character. If you survive. And today was an answering-to-the-boss day.
I'm not sure why she picked today, but I've learned not to question her in these matters. Or in any matters, for what it's worth. I drove as far as I could (she's very picky about not allowing cars on her property, for obvious reasons), then parked in an empty lot, snugged my scarf and gloves tighter, and started walking down the path that led from there, alternately grumbling about the thoughtlessness of folks who schedule meetings in the dead of winter and thanking my lucky stars that at least the path was more clearly marked than the last time I had made this trip, and that I was at least making it in daylight.
Over the river, through the woods, turn left at the giant cliche - I'll say this for my boss. At her age, she has become rather... hidebound. I tend to think of it as a blessing, all things considered. I followed the path to its inevitable but still impressive end, handed my coat to the omnipresent "assistants," and, gritting my teeth (I am American through and through, and we have spent the past three hundred years refusing to bow to anyone as a matter of principle), I went down on one knee. "Majesty, you sent for me?"
The Queen of Air and Darkness laughed, a sound that had more in common with icicles and bells than any human noise. "You may rise, my pet."
I hate it when she calls me that. It feels uncomfortably close to truth. I stood, still carefully keeping my eyes towards the floor. Some things truly aren't meant for human eyes, and while I don't know for certain that looking directly upon her will melt my contact lenses onto my corneas, it's not a risk I'm willing to take. "Is there aught you need of me, Majesty?"
I don't set out to talk like that on purpose around her. She just... seems to bring it out, whether I want to or not.
"It has been seven years since you first swore to serve us. Do you recall? I believe that was the original term you agreed to serve, was it not?"
I nodded wordlessly, praying that, since my contract was technically with the Bright Court, I wouldn't wind up riding a white horse at the end of a parade to Hell. Not only would it be the platonic ideal of No Fun, the time of the great ballads has gone, and my name doesn't scan very well anyway.
"So. Your service is done. If you so wish. Is that your wish, mortal? Do you want to be free?"
"Um... is that a trick question?" Eloquent, I know.
She laughed again - it's good to know that, if all of my other skills fail me, I can still list 'amusing to fairies' as a lifetime accomplishment - and shifted on her throne. "No, my pet. While we are not above the occasional prank or misdirection, we keep our oaths. You have kept your part of the bargain, and we shall keep ours. So I ask again - do you wish your service to the Courts to end here?"
I closed my eyes, doing my best to think clearly in a hazy, uncertain situation. To be free of this - isn't that what I had been counting down towards, ever since the first day I realized that my student loan exit counselor had pushed me into a Special Service condition that most new grads weren't offered, and that he hadn't been joking? No more burn scars (my hands were still stiff from the last visit to the dragon barn), no more bite wounds from werewolves and weeks spent drinking wolfsbane tea and watching the moon nervously. No more manipulative boggans, no more attempts to explain that dryads are outside my area of service. No more patients talking back to me. No more nightmares about things with too many legs and mismatched shadows that try to suck me in as I work on them.
No more unicorns. No more tiny leathery wings scalding my fingertips as I coax them from their shell. No more free laundry service in exchange for keeping the brownies' stable of fancy show mice fat and healthy. No more wild kelpie rides.
I opened my eyes again, seeing the edges of the carved and gilded throne swim and start to fade before me, the chamber slowly shifting back into a cold, empty cavern.
No more magic.
I sank to my knees again, shaking my head, and surrendered to the inevitable. "No, Majesty."
"I thought not." There was gentleness in her voice as well as humor, as she rose. Her touch on my eyelids was as soft as rose petals, as cold as the first breath you draw in a blizzard, as she renewed the glamour that let me see their world. "Serve us well, child."
Seven more years. That's all. Then I'll stop, I swear. I said it last time, but this time I mean it. I think.
(Happy Rabbit Hole Day, y'all....)
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Thank you.
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No more patients talking back to me.
No sympathy. None. :)
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Drat.
Well, at least it's good fiction.
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demandingcoercive they can be when presenting their case. And how wonderfully brilliant it is there.no subject
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I'm no good at fleshing things out - I've lamented to a friend that I can't seem to write *anything* more than five pages long, maximum - but I seem to be at least fairly adept at short essays. :)
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(But it got me thinking--someday I'm going to write a story about the Faerie Courts modernizing at least a little. I mean, maybe it's just that I'm coming down from a contract high--*smirk*--but the potential for parol evidence rules in the Courts of the Fae? Heh.)
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I can't wait to see what you come up with....
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And I still think you should write a few more of these and start submitting the collection. It's got the best of both urban fantasy and James Herriot's tales -- someone will be interested. I've got a few connections that reach into Tor Books...
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To some extent, these are charming *because* they aren't fleshed out, because they imply so much more than they come out and say.
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iswould be so difficult to give up.If necessary, we can make your name scan. :)
(I LOVE this series of posts. SO MUCH. And you outdid yourself with this one as befits the day.)
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That's a good indication that some sort of compilation is probably a very good thing.
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I also think that this would work well as a story collection.
And I sympathize with you on the "flashing things out" problem...
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