"Mostly," said Lavan Firestorm, but without much anger.
"Tragedy," Myste countered, with great dignity, "Is generally considered to be more compelling than any other dramatic force."
"I could have done with being a little less compelling," several male leads said in unison, then looked at each other.
"Oh?" Lavan replied. "Is `compelling' supposed to make up for getting dead before I ever got laid?"
"Teenagers," Myste and the Author mumbled together, and exchanged a
knowing glance.
"And do you think she doesn't suffer as much as you do in all of this?" Myste continued. "The amount of facial-tissue this woman goes through—not to mention cola—! The long nights, the frenzied sessions at the keyboard? Van, she didn't have a life when she was writing you—you were her life! Everything you people feel, she feels! Oh, maybe not the physical torture—"
"I did work for American Airlines," the Author murmured.
"—but she goes through the same emotions, or she couldn't write all of yours so well! Did you ever think of that?"
"Yeah but—" Lavan started another objection, then looked around.
But the rest of the crowd seemed to be talking it over among themselves, and even Vanyel tapped Lavan on the shoulder and drew him into a four-way colloquy with Stefan and Talia. A line of limping, scorched, arrow-pincushioned or just plain exhausted blue-eyed white horses just sighed from the sidelines. The Author began to relax, as one by one, the characters turned away from the bed and its contents, and wandered off into the green haze. Eventually, there was no one left but Myste and the Author.
The Author heaved an enormous sigh of relief. "My god, you saved my ass," she said, sincerely, but rather without the grace she usually showed in her prose.
"Well, I am you," Myste shrugged. "Lucky for me, they haven't caught on yet. On the whole, you've done rather well at not putting yourself in your books, though. That's pretty admirable."
The Author shrugged and blushed a little. "Is there anything I can do to thank you?" she asked.
Myste raised one eyebrow, an expression cloned straight from the author's own face. "Well...I don't suppose I could get a walk-on in the next book, could I?" she asked.
The Author considered it. "I don't see why not," she said cautiously. "There's room. But I'd have to figure out why you're permanently at the Collegium."
"Not another missing leg in the Tedrel Wars," Myste snapped. "You've done that. Twice."
"Er," replied the Author guiltily, because she'd been considering it. Then she brightened. "I know! And every fan-kid in glasses would love it! You're myopic!"
"Nearsighted? Can't that be Healed?" Myste asked dubiously.
The Author shook her head in triumph. "Nope. Established canon. Healers can't Heal genetic defects; they work on the existing pattern of the DNA and—"
"Enough!" Myste interrupted, holding up her hand. "That's the stuff the readers don't need to know. But you've got the Artificers; surely they'd have come up with glasses by now. You've got good optics established canonically."
"In the Field?" the Author countered.
"Well...they'd probably have to have big wooden frames and straps that went around the back of the head...they'd look like dorky sports-goggles, but they'd work."
The Author frowned. "True enough." Then her expression changed to one of glee. "But not after you went into bifocals, my dear!"
"Eh?" Myste said, puzzled. "Benjamin Franklin had them, and you're into steam-tech by now—"
"Oh no—you're me, remember? That's why I had laser-correction, bifocals made me dizzy." The Author sat back with an air of triumph.
"Point taken. Can't have dizzy Heralds, at least not in the Field." Myste nodded her satisfaction with the solution. "One other thing, though—think you could get me a boyfriend too?"
"A love-interest?" the Author asked.
"Whatever."
She frowned. "I'm not sure I want to bring in too many incidental characters. You know how they try and take over a book. Look at Almsley!"
"Oi!" objected a voice from deep in the haze.
"Use an existing one," Myste suggested.
The Author looked thoughtful. "How about Alberich?"
"Alberich?" Myste considered that. "Good body. Facial scars aren't that bad a handicap. Sexy, in a Bruce Campbell's Evil Twin sort of way. Yeah. Kind of mono-focused, though, isn't he?"
"Aren't you all?" the Author countered. "That kind of goes with the white suit."
"Along with the periodic severe bodily injuries. Point taken." Myste nodded. "Cool. Alberich it is." She frowned as a thought occurred to her. "Don't go giving me the hobby of raising fancy chickens, though."
"But I like fancy chickens," the Author said weakly.
"I know, and so will everyone else if you put it in," Myste replied. She walked off into the green haze herself, which began to close in around her. "Most excellent! I get a walk-on, a fleshing-out, and a boyfriend!"
"Love-interest!"
"Whatever."
The green haze closed down to a pinpoint, and vanished.
And once I make her really likable, I can drop a mountain on her....
Mercedes Lackey
Tulsa Oklahoma