Work Text:
September leaned her head into the soft vellum of Ell’s shoulder. Her dear Wyverary had patiently listened for the better part of an hour as she ranted about Charlie Crunchcrab. He had sought out a profession as a doctor after his short, failed stint as King Charles Crunchcrab I of Fairyland, and he was now causing her a great deal of trouble.
“And he says my feet can’t possibly hurt badly enough for the wheelchair, if I spent all these years tromping around Fairyland on them!”
September had reached this part in her rant before, but this time Ell opened his mouth to speak, and she let him. She didn’t mind that her friend sometimes needed things repeated and thought more slowly before responding. September knew she could build up quite a head of steam when allowed, and it wasn’t a terrible thing to be allowed to rant for longer. She had quite a lot of feelings, after all.
“September, dear, aren’t those years of running around after villains and moons exactly why you need the wheelchair? Your feet were troubled at the start, but surely all that time on them without rest can’t have helped.”
“That’s exactly right, Ell! But Doctor Charles Crunchcrab I refuses to see it that way. He says my feet ought to just keep on carrying me, if they did such a great job.”
“Haroom. I do not think so, September. Your feet did not always do so well at carrying you, even during your years of childhood adventure. I seem to recall many times when you rode a velocipede or upon my own shoulders.”
It was true. The velocipedes, wild winged bicycles they’d encountered in a herd led by Calpurnia and Penny Farthing, had supported her well when her feet hadn’t. Her beloved Wyverary Ell too had transported her great distances with his wings, and was it truly so different to need a wheelchair?
“You’re right, Ell.”
“Of course I am! I have learned many facts in my quest to become a librarian.” Ell peered down his spectacles at her. “One such fact is that little children and grown adults alike shouldn’t be in pain to please the whims of doctors. You ought to use the chair, September. You need it.”
“I need it,” September echoed into the soft vellum of his shoulder. “Thank you, Ell. I feel a little better now.”
“It’s no trouble, my dear. Every now and then we all need to hear what a fool the reigning or past ruler of Fairyland is. You don’t deserve pain any more than I do.”
Ell nosed gently at her hair.
September leaned into him, letting the hug comfort her just as his words had. It was true: Charlie Crunchcrab hadn’t been a good Ferryman; he had been a far worse king. She’d had no reason to believe he would be a good physician. She would think about finding a new doctor, a better doctor, another time. For now, the comfort was enough.