Giacomo Iago (ex_iago979) wrote in bearandbarnacle, @ 2008-09-18 15:49:00 |
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Entry tags: | iagopost, jobs, topic |
Iago: Topic: Jobs
Back when Iago was a soldier, the career he'd chosen and worked at since his youth, he knew he was on the path to success. In the six years between his enlistment and earning his commission, his rise had been meteoric, his talents recognized and valued. And even after the promotion that turned out to be a complete dead end, he worked at his soldier’s duties with relish, seeing his actions accomplish results that were visible and tangible and well-rewarded.
There was no pleasure in being home for him, not then, when he was ever in the taverns or on the canals or in his general’s house. His life was on duty. To return to his house was to return to a wife he disliked and an endless time of waiting for the next time he would be called upon to leave. He always left before called for. Even in the rare moments when his presence was no help to his general’s business he saw to his general’s pleasure … and now, looking back, Iago sometimes half-envies himself that life, of success and achievement, recognition, status, a soldier’s career.
But now he knows how limited it was, how many joys he never knew.
He’s turned taverner now, and however little he thought of it when he worked for someone else, now there is a pleasure in the hundred little tasks. He’s his own master, sets his own hours. He works with time to talk to his patrons and to play with his daughter, and though this is a stepping stone to nothing, it has its own satisfaction.
And now he knows what a pleasure it is to leave work for home, a home of one’s choosing, a home his lover is creating around them with his own beloved hands. And again he has the pleasure of leaving that home in the morning with the person whose company he would rather know than any other’s.
Watching Xellos come into their room with a basket of laundry balanced on his hip for Iago to help fold. Bringing him small gifts of live herbs to grow in their windows. Taking him to bed tired from their day in the occupation they share. Rising again in the morning to their daughter leaping onto the bed.
It’s not a career as such, Iago often thinks. But the thought doesn’t bother him a bit, and he contrives to pass by the grill and give Xellos a kiss, to ruffle Dora’s hair where she’s perched at the bar with her crayons. Being a taverner with a spouse and a child is no career at all. And he wouldn’t give it up were he offered every other thing in the world.