Pride

Ambika asked Fenniel to do something, and hilarity didn’t ensue. What is the world coming to?

Authors: Ambika and me.

Ambika watched Fenniel from the tavern loft for a long time. She didn’t move, eat, or even drink from the water glass at her elbow. Gravy didn’t much care for her. She was icy to his friendly advances and only ordered water or tea… a few coppers worth of business for a priestess who demanded a clean cup, every time.

Tonight, though, the bartender had his hands full at the bar with a slightly-rounded customer who came in almost every day for supper. Ol’ Four-Eyes liked the punch Gravy kept behind the bar for kids and sissies. It tasted like pineapple and cherries, and Fenniel liked to drink at least three glasses of it every time he came in for one of Gravy’s daily specials. Mostly Gravy made sandwiches with fiery hot sauce that stripped your tongue of taste or feeling if you ate more than one spoonful in a sitting, but he also had a hotpot full of boiling broth into which he dropped whatever groceries were about to spoil, then dumped over steamed rice.

Fenniel loved that crap.

Blending into shadows was Bika’s forte. From her perch she could watch undetected as the lanky trollish bartender scooped out three helpings, one after the other, of what he openly called Boiled Garbage in his native Zandalari tongue. She watched with growing nausea as the hunter ate each bowl eagerly, pouring toxic quantities of hot sauce over each serving, and washed them down with girly punch.

Please, for the love of the loa, finish already so I can do this, she thought fiercely at him. Maybe a little too fiercely.

Fenniel stopped mid-bite three quarters of the way through his third bowl. He frowned, looked over his shoulder, then took another tentative bite.

Ambika closed her eyes and used every ounce of patience at her disposal to keep the tiny flame of irritation burning in her chest from blossoming into outright anger. Keenly aware that her temper was her greatest barrier to the discipline she craved, she was determined to wait.

Fenniel polished off the last of his Boiled Garbage. Gravy asked if he’d like another. The troll bartender looked surprised when Fenn shook his head and said “No, thanks,” pushing the bowl away. He picked up his shotgun from where it rested against the bar and slung it over his back to leave.

Like a shadow, Bika followed.

Once they were out of the bar proper and there was no one nearby to eavesdrop, Ambika took a carefully measured breath. It was time.

“Elf.”

Fenn jumped nearly a foot in the air, tripping over his own feet as he turned around to face the priestess. “H-hi.”

“Follow me, please.” She passed him and descended the stairs, aiming for a copse of shrubby palms beside the warrior’s training hall. There they would have privacy without having to hide. She didn’t look to see if he was following her. The elf was nothing if not obedient.

Sure enough Fenniel followed behind, staring ahead at Ambika. “Ma’am? Am I in trouble? Are…are you going to kill me? I’m really sorry about your ribs.”

Once the troll reached a suitable place among the trees, she stopped abruptly and stood on the hard red dirt, looking up at him. She resisted the urge to levitate the few inches off the ground that would allow her to be at his eye level. There were so many tiny steps toward humility, but she was learning. Unprepared in spite of weeks of rehearsal, she was silent a few moments, gripping the pearl in her right hand and looking at a pebble near her feet.

“I…um. Why are we alone? Is everything alright?” Fenn asked.

“Almost,” she said, and smiled faintly. When she opened her palm to show him, the pearl was still cold to the touch in spite of being held in her hand for hours. It lacked the luster of an ordinary pearl, devouring light instead of reflecting it. “I am a prideful wretch, Fenniel Dusksinger, and I seek absolution.”

The hunter frowned. “I’m um, definitely not a priest, Miss Ambika. I don’t think I can help you.”

She took his hand gently and held it next to hers, where the dark gem rested in the cup of her palm. If his after-dinner breath bothered her, she made no sign. “You needn’t be a priest to help me. You have a pure heart, and love even for the undeserving. I ask you to lift this burden from me. I cannot do it alone.”

Fenn looked from Ambika’s face to the pearl, then back again. He blushed. “I’m not sure I understand, Ma’am. I mean, it’s real nice of you to say all that, and well, I’m sure you’re a nice person too, but I don’t know what I can do to help you?”

“This pearl is imbued with my sin of pride. I cannot remove it myself. I must swallow that bitter draught and seek assistance freely given. It can be cleansed by one who does not carry pride in his heart.”

Fenniel just shrugged, and blushed even darker. “I dunno what I’d have to be prideful of after this week.”

Ambika just looked up at him, her fingers cool on his wrist. The pearl was a black spot in the rapidly descending twilight.

“Um, so all I have to do is take this pearl?” he asked.

She nodded.

“What do I do with it? Just keep it?”

“That is all. It will cleanse itself over time.”

He nodded in assent and took it from her hand. “Okay.”

The relief that washed over her was so overwhelming that she burst into tears.

The chubby hunter sputtered, closing his hand tightly around the pearl. “Oh, n-no Ma’am, I really didn’t mean to upset you. I’m sorry. Please don’t cry, I’m sorry.”

It took several minutes for the troll to compose herself while he looked on, horrified. Eventually she produced a delicate handkerchief and wiped her face. “Thank you. I am in your debt; take these blessings and be well.” She murmured a prayer over him and fled.

He opened his hand, staring incredulously at the pearl as she ran off. “I’m…sure it was nothing?”