The Importance of Diligence: Part 6

One last task – that’s what Primrose had called it over the phone. Eight in the morning, sharp, as usual, the cherubun phoned Narcissus’ manor to summon him to the Embassy for more assistance with the ambrosia creation process. From seeds to harvest, Narcissus had made himself a useful – if not always especially efficient – helper. Cautiously, Primrose requested he come finish what he’d started – turning the harvested flowers into ambrosia itself.

Primrose gave Narcissus an address, now hastily scribbled on the succubun’s arm in green glitter ink. Thankfully, he’d written it accurately enough – at least, the white-brick building the sparkling letters took him to seemed to be the right place. The door opened easily on well-oiled hinges. That only helped confirm to Narcissus he was at the right place. Primrose didn’t seem the type to abide by a squeaky door.

The workshop was homier than Narcissus had been expecting. Furnishings of burnished brass complemented the wood furniture, both featuring delicately carved curls resembling feathers and leaves. The sheets of glass in the windows were of the handmade kind, pleasantly warped, and rimmed with yellow-hued panels of stained glass that turned the holy light of the embassy spilling through the windowpanes warmer still.

Primrose stood at attention in the center of the room, hands behind his back as if to force his spine straighter than usual. Narcissus was fairly certain that if he had a measuring tape to do it, he would find that Primrose had found a place to stand that was perfectly equidistant from each wall.

“Thank you for coming,” Primrose said, his tone even despite the little rock on his heels he did on the last word.

“Hey, I’m happy to help,” Narcissus replied, lying only a little.

“Come along, then. The ambrosia won’t mix itself.” Primrose gave a clipped beckoning gesture, two sharp flexions of his fingers against his palm, then turned on his heels to stride to a workstation along the back room of the wall. Narcissus followed behind, his strides longer, but markedly less hurried.

Primrose had saved Narcissus the effort of sorting the harvest (or, perhaps, saved himself the effort of directing Narcissus to do such). Leaves and stems were separated into neat piles, and the stems were lined up just so, forming pinstripes of green along the wooden table. Even the petals, expertly plucked from the flower stems, were arranged by color and shape, squares of florid yellow, gentle lilac, pastel blue and on forming a grid of many hues across the table. Empty sacks were folded and stacked in the far corner of the room. Their fillings had been removed, but even so, a floral scent lingered in the stitching of their canvas. Jars of the flower’s centers, stamens, and pistils, sat in jars behind the neat display. The jars’ contents gave a warm honey-yellow cast to their transparent glass. Two mortars awaited the men, sitting side-by-side, pestles leaning against their rims at exactly the same angle.

Narcissus felt an urge to blow upon the display and send the petals scattering. Something so perfect was just begging to be mussed up. Valiantly, he resisted the pull of entropy, instead busying his hands by mimicking Primrose’s actions - pulling up his sleeves and slipping on a pair of elbow-length gloves.

“Maybe we can go grab a drink after this, eh? Loosen you up a little.” Narcissus’ grin made Primrose shiver, despite the apparent friendliness of the invitation. He had never quite gotten used to seeing a mouthful of fangs behind a wide smile.

“I don’t know how coffee is supposed to unwind me,” Primrose quipped back, arranging his tools.

“Coffee?! Nah, I meant like Angora’s place. A little champagne, maybe a cocktail…”

“No!” Primrose shouted back. The volume and intensity of it was so unlike anything Narcissus had heard come out of the well-heeled man before; it sent him reeling.

Recovered from the shock, Narcissus flinched anew like the rejection physically wounded him. “Fuck, man. Don’t spare my feelings or anything, tell me how you really feel,” he snapped, sarcasm scabbing over the wound to his pride.

“No, no – I don’t mean it like that…” Primrose said, quickly at first, then trailing off. “I mean – I can’t drink alcohol. No cherbun can. No alcohol, no drugs, nothing of the kind. We’ll become ill; it may even kill us.”

“Devils, that sucks.” Narcissus’ posture loosened, no longer needing to defend himself from further spurning. If he wasn’t the problem, he didn’t have a problem. Instead, his mind was distracted by the horrors of imagining life without the comfort of wine and song. “You guys can’t even have a puff on a cigarette?”

“No, not even one.” Primrose shook his head. “That is most probably the case, anyway. I wouldn’t dare to test how many before sickness set in.”

Back at Dove and Jackal’s apartment, there was a pack of cigarettes, Narcissus remembered. He’d scolded Dove for smoking them. They must have thought he was an idiot. Maybe they wouldn’t be wrong about that. Perhaps noticing the morose look on Narcissus’ face, Primrose spoke again.

“You needn’t pity me. I don’t feel like my life lacks for enjoyable pastimes when I have tea and choir... there is far too much to do here to be distracted by such things, regardless. Speaking of which, we really mustn’t tarry any longer.” Primrose gave another little shake of his head, as if to clear it of any distracting thoughts. He picked up his pestle in one hand and a pinch of petals in the other. “Now – do exactly as I do. You should know by now how precious Ambrosia is to the Embassy. We can scarcely afford a misstep now.”

Primrose moved with efficiency and elegance, as always. His hands seemed to move on their own, driven by a higher force, plucking petals and pouring nectar jars without even needing to look at what he was doing. Narcissus couldn’t hope to match his speed, but he followed along as best he good, even if the pace of his pestle against the mortar was more of a dripping faucet than the mechanical engine of Primrose’s grinding.

When it came time to pour the concoctions into their thin-necked glass bottles, Primrose stopped what he was doing, watching carefully. If Narcissus’ hands seemed too shaky, Primrose steadied them himself, ensuring not a drop was spilled. Narcissus gave a light protest at first but gave up quickly – Primrose lending some personal space-invading helping hands was better than him yelling, after all.

Sap from stems, pollen, nectar, it all was used to create the ambrosia. Different concentrations yielded different flavors and scents – all pleasant, of course. The petals added brilliant color to the concoctions, filling the glass ambrosia bottles with bright, floral hues. Instead of rows of flowers in piecemeal, the table was now covered in tens of bottles of the heavenly liquid, each filled with a syrupy, glowing liquid. Maybe it was just a trick of the light, but Narcissus could swear the bottles themselves had little halos above their corks, just like the one floating above Primrose’s blond curls.

Supernatural manifestations of holiness aside, the stuff looked strangely appetizing, Narcissus thought. He’d put in so much work to create these elixirs, it seemed a shame he wouldn’t get to sample them. Just one little taste couldn’t hurt, surely. Delicately holding one precious bottle by its stem, pinky out (such expensive drinks deserved nothing less), Narcissus brought the glass rim to his lips and -

“What in heaven’s name are you doing?!” Primrose cried. Narcissus nearly dropped the bottle he’d picked up in shock, but a quick juggle safely put it back on the table with the others. Good thing, too. Primrose looked ready to blow. If Narcissus had dropped the ambrosia, he might have erupted like a golden volcano.

“I was just gonna have a sip!” Narcissus yelped back, cringing. “I can pay for it, you know I’ve got the money!”

“No, no, it’s not that!” Primrose said, voice a mixture of exasperation and worry. “Well, not just that. Ambrosia is toxic to your kind. You’ll get horribly sick. Frankly, I do not want to clean vomit off my floor or have to take you to the hospital.”

“Oh. Damn.” Narcissus gave another look at the bottle of ambrosia. Its glowing contents now seemed radioactive to him. “Well, I guess it’s only fair you holy folks got to enjoy one nice thing up there that we couldn’t.”

“We had plenty of ‘nice things’ in the Heavenly Meadow!” Primrose said, trying not to snap. Narcissus’ offhand remark had touched upon a sore spot he could not have fathomed, even if he knew it existed. “We did not have a life of endless indulgence, true, but one of peaceful virtue is better - well. Was better.”

“That’s what Melangel always said to me,” Primrose added, the words coming through on a shuddering breath, fragile like a drop of water quivering on the edge of a glass.

Narcissus wasn’t exactly equipped to help Primrose work through whatever emotions were bubbling beneath his porcelain surface. He held his breath, hoping the cherubun wouldn’t begin to cry. Thankfully, no tears came. Instead, Primrose released a sigh, squeezed his hands together, and turned to look at the two’s handiwork – ambrosia thankfully undrunk.

“So, the work is done. For now.” He said, voice even and measured once more.

“Yeah.” Narcissus scratched the back of his neck. Months of his effort were now distilled and bottle before him on the table. He supposed he should feel proud, but instead he just felt empty. Though that, perhaps, was something he was used to. “A lot of work for some fancy drinks I can’t even have.”

“We weren’t making them for us. We do this for the greater good. At least I do.” Primrose retorted. He paused. “…You never did tell me why you decided to help the Embassy, Narcissus.”

Narcissus jolted. He hadn’t expected it to come up again. “I dunno, I guess I thought – “ he struggled to find a way to describe his popularity scheme in a way that didn’t sound completely hare-brained. Stalling for time, he tugged on one of his long ears, rubbing the fur between his fingers. “…I guess I thought it’d make people like me more.”

“Hm.” Primrose’s expression flickered for a moment, but Narcissus couldn’t catch it in time to decipher it. “I suppose I don’t dislike you.”

“Well. It’s a start.” Narcissus quipped, and despite himself, he found a smile on his lips at Primrose’s words. He didn’t realize he cared what the cherubun thought of him. ‘Not disliking’ was more than he thought he could ask for. But maybe he could do even better. “…So, Prim, how about that drink? I’m sure Hops could whip up something fruity and alcohol-free.”

Primrose laughed, and that was the most surprising thing Narcissus had heard that day.

“I’ll think about it,” he said, a smile in his voice for just a moment – then back to business. “Now why don’t you help me clean up?”

Narcissus had gotten in the habit of agreeing to things, lately – one more little chore wouldn’t hurt. Besides, the annoyance of the task didn’t occupy his mind nearly as much as him plotting out his potential outing with Primrose. Less so the event itself and more so the aftermath. The gossip. The delicious, delicious gossip. Why the head of the Heavenly Embassy in a den of sin – what a scandal! And he, Narcissus Jonquil, would be the co-star! Surely that would catch some celebrity blogger’s attention, at least!

Primrose had gotten back to talking about Embassy business while he cleaned up his tools and put the bottles of ambrosia away for later sorting. Narcissus only half-listened, lost in revelries of new-found celebrity. His phantasms and fantasies were interrupted only when Primrose said his name.

“Narcissus – will we see you again for the next harvest?”

The succubun blinked. Once. Twice. First, because he had to shoo away his fantasies to allow space in his brain for Primrose’s words to settle in and be understood. Then, after his invitation was processed, he was newly shocked by the fact that Primrose was inviting him back. He grinned, a sharp-toothed grin. He’d won himself a few allies, after all. Dove, Beanny – even prissy little Primrose. Maybe this all didn’t need to be a waste. His cunning plan hadn’t worked – yet. Three people weren’t exactly the crowds of adoring fans he’d envisioned. But maybe he needed just a bit more time. Needed to work a little harder. Needed to remain diligent.

Through his fangs, and with a wink, he said back: “I’ll think about it.”