Microfictions

Obedient servant

"Bring me the sun," the fairy queen demanded. Being an obedient servant, I did.

The mortal world was thrust into darkness, fierce winter; they froze; they starved; they died.

They begged my queen to give the sun back, but she was having too much fun with her new toy.

They pleaded for her to share its rays, but she refused.

Then they came to take it back by force. A mere centuries ago, we would have pushed them back into the darkness with little effort, with barely a thought, but they had grown stronger.

With their science and their weapons, in their machines of cold iron, they came, and we were powerless. Against iron, our magic can do nought.

The queen fled with her toy, to where I do not know. The mortals took us instead to serve them in their need.

Mortals can be cruel. We never knew when we were mightier than they, when our magic ruled, and we could treat them as playthings, trinkets for our amusement, to be used and thrown away.

When we were powerful, we were ruthless and never gave it a thought. Funny how that is: that you do not recognise tyranny until someone else is in power.

Now the mortals are in power; they can be just as cruel as we.

They encased us in dreaded iron to power their machines. For necessity, to survive in a darkened world, but also as punishment for our crimes.

Every day, every hour, every minute, every second, the iron causes pain. I am in agony. But I am an obedient servant. I serve my new masters as well as I served my queen.

I exhaust my magic every day, pour it into fields so crops can grow. I pour it all out. As soon as it is replenished, I do it again—day after day and year after year.

I do not curse my masters for their cruelty, and I never condemn my queen for her greed. I simply wait. I am immortal, and this will pass. One day, I will have a new master. I pray that he will not be cruel or greedy.

But regardless, I will be an obedient servant.