Pursuit of Diligence Chapter 6: Thank You

Really, despite the revelation that they're friends, nothing much changes between Temple and Primrose. The cherubun is just as uptight as ever, and Temple, if anything, has doubled down on finding ways to needle and annoy him.

 

Case in point: today.

 

Today is brewing day.

 

After days and weeks and damn near months of hard work, of planting and tending and raising these hell-forsaken flowers, after finally, finally getting to harvest the fruits (so to speak) of his labors, it's brewing day.

 

Temple, for once, is there bright and early, still waiting for the caffeine of this morning's coffee to fully hit his system. He's there even before Primrose opens the gates- technically, the Embassy is open 24/7 to those in need, with Primrose's residence tucked away in the back, away from all of the public areas, but even he needs to rest, and there are few in burrowgatory who would be willing to staff the Embassy reception desk overnight.

 

Primrose gives Temple an exasperated look when he sees the succubun waiting, practically jittering from the combination of the crisp winter air and the coffee slowly waking him up.

 

"You couldn't have been this easy and eager before this, I see," the cherubun grouches, the only sign that he's still waking up; as always, Primrose is perfectly groomed, his eyes bright and focused, and not a crease or wrinkle to be seen on his clothes.

 

"I-"

 

"Don't finish that thought," Primrose says with a grimace. "It's too early for such vulgar language."

 

Another point for Temple- he's annoyed Primrose without even having to say anything. He's inn Primrose's head, living there rent free, filling in for himself even when he's not doing anything. Nice.

 

"...why are you smirking," Primrose sighs, finally holding the door to the Embassy open. Temple trots past him, oozing smugness. "We haven't even started on anything yet."

 

"Am I not allowed to just be happy to be here?" Temple asks, turning on his hoof and offering up the most fake sincere smile he can manage. "Months. Literal months. How the hell did you manage to get so far behind on growing these damn flowers that it took this long to reach this point."

 

"Language," Primrose chastises, though it's said more absentmidnedly than aggressively. He brushes past Temple, beckoning the succubun further into the Embassy, instead of taking him to the greenhouse like usual. "You're not finished quite yet, and as you are still under my supervision, kindly limit your blaspheming while inside the Embassy walls."

 

The cherubun leads Temple to a room he hasn't been in before- bundles of flowers hang from twine, while others are laid out on long tables, some a chaotic jumble and some neatly sorted into piles. One corner of the room holds a variety of equipment- some of it resembles old fashioned siphon coffee makers, some resemble chemistry experiments, and some are so complicated in their interconnected tubes and wires and heating and cooling elements that Temple has no idea what he's looking at.

 

"Today, we will be distilling and brewing a batch of seasonal ambrosia," Primrose says, slapping Temple's hand down when he reaches out towards a no doubt delicate piece of glass equipment. Temple makes an offended noise, but doesn't try to touch again- for now. "Each type of ambrosia requires a different method, but the overall goal is the same: to extract the divine essence imbued in the plant and distill it into safe, drinkable form.

 

"For seasonal ambrosia, we use the anther of the flower- yes, that part. Don't mess with it yet." Temple makes a face, but he's come this far- he can wait a little bit longer to make sure that he doesn't mess things up and make all his hard work for naught. "The pollen... well, basically, it becomes imbued with the energy from the season that it forms in. So if we use exclusively the pollen from the anther, we can distill an ambrosia rich in seasonal elements."

 

"...the stamen is tiny though," Temple points out, seeing a potential flaw in the plan. "You'd need so many of them to make the ambrosia, that doesn't make any sense, it's stupid to just throw out the rest."

 

"We don't throw out the rest," Primrose answers, stopping in front of one of the tables of sorted flowers. He reaches beneath it, producing a two pristine glass bowls, and setting them down in front of him and Temple before taking one of the flowers from the biggest pile. He pinches one of the stamen just beneath the puff of polen at the tip, gently moving his fingers up until the anther pops off, dropping into the glass bowl below unceremoniously. "The rest of the flowers get used to make other, simpler ambrosias. But this, Temple, is why seasonal ambrosia is so difficult to make."

 

He looks up from his work, hands continuing in practiced motions to remove the tip of each stamen before placing the rest of the flower in the second bowl. "Well? Don't stand there, take a flower, I'll instruct you on how to harvest the pollen."

 

Temple is frozen for a moment. About a dozen puns about deflowering come to mind, but the thing he manages to say?

 

"...why is everything here so tedious??"

 

---

 

While the days and weeks and, ultimately, months of time it took to reach this point were painful and seemingly neverending... somehow, the last few hours needed to make the ambrosia itself are worse.

 

"Don't touch that," Primrose says, the closest thing he's ever done to snapping at Temple. Temple obligingly pulls his hand back from the orb of clear liquid merrily boiling away over a bunsen burner. "You'll burn yourself, just let it sit."

 

"No, we are not done yet," Primrose sighs, his hands on Temple's shoulders as he forces him back down into his seat. Temple goes with a dramatic flourish. "And no, you cannot leave, we need to monitor the pH so it doesn't ruin the batch."

 

"Carefully," Primrose stresses, hovering like a brooding avia as Temple uses a pair of long iron tongs to grab, transfer, and pour a vial of viscous, slightly cool-toned liquid into a beaker for safekeeping. "Don't squeeze too hard, you don't want to drop it but you also don't want to fracture the glass."

 

"Now-"

 

Temple interrupts Primrose before he can get anything out with a dramatic groan, splaying his upper body across the table. The equipment on it rocks slightly, sending Primrose jerking forwards to make sure nothing falls.

 

"I've done so much," Temple whines, reaching up to grip his horns in frustration. "And we're still not done?? I thought torture was, I dunno, against your virtues or something..."

 

"Temple."

 

"It's been fucking months, Primrose. Months!! And I haven't been slacking, I did the work! How is this being drawn out this much?? Aren't we friends now, can't you cut me a break now?? In these final hours??"

 

"Temple-"

 

"I'm sick and tired and just want this to be finished-"

 

"Temple!"

 

Temple shuts his mouth, rolling his head to the side to give Primrose a glare. The cherubun doesn't rise (or sink) to the challenge, however, his expression remaining calm and collected, if mildly exasperated.

 

"If you would let me speak," the embassy head says, fingers tapping on his forearm where they rest. "Then you would know that we are finished, and all that is left is to bottle."

 

Temple blinks once, twice- then shoots up, jumping to his hooves in excitement, all of his exaggerated exhaustion gone in an instant.

 

"It's done?!"

 

"Yes," Primrose answers, turning to grab something from the endless supply of miscelaneous junk that Temple has realized exists beneath each table in here. He straightens, holding a box full of vials, each one cushioned by soft packing material to keep them from knocking into each other. "I'll guide and steady, you just lift and pour when I tell you."

 

And it really is that easy. After hour upon agonizing hour of going against the core of his being, it's literal minutes to finish up the ambrosia. The liquid is thick and viscous, pouring like molasses into each vial, but Primrose is steady with his hands so that not a single drop is wasted. When the container Temple is holding gets too heavy, Primrose swoops in with a spatula to wipe any escaping drips back into it, before directing Temple to set it back down.

 

"I'm not waiting," Temple anounces, stretching out his sore arms. For as little yield as they get for making seasonal ambrosia, the resulting liquid is incredibly dense. "Gimme."

 

Primrose opens his mouth to speak, but Temple is already grabbing one of the now-filled vials and pulling it out. It's not yet corked, but the liquid inside is thick enough that short of turning it upside down, there's not much of a risk of spilling.

 

The glass is elegantly curved, a round body going into a slender, symmetrical neck, covered with cool-toned metal. It's perfectly smooth, not a blemish to be seen- Temple had no part in the glassblowing process, but it's clear even to him that whoever made these is truly an expert. Really, it's beautiful, it's the fruit of his labors, it's-

 

"Frosty??? It's fucking winter frosty ambrosia???"

 

It makes sense. The harvest happened during the winter, the time taken to grow the flowers having stretched longer than he realized. The embassy had sold out of the autumn ambrosia early, and must not have been able to plant more in time, and-

 

"Please calm down," Primrose says, like Temple's world isn't crumbling around him, like he didn't just put all this work in for nothing. Sure, he made friends and learned useful life skills, but what's the fucking point if he doesn't get what he came here for in the first place? He turns, pointing an accusatory finger at Primrose, and debating the merits of chucking the ambrosia at the cherubun's face. "And don't even think about throwing that."

 

He shifts his weight to one side, a far more relaxed pose than he usually shows anyone, and Temple is downright offended. As if that'll stop him! The audacity, to see Temple as so little of a threar! But before he can do anything, Primrose produces something from behind his back.

 

The glass is elegantly curved, a round body going into a slender, symmetrical neck, covered with dark-toned metal. It's perfectly smooth, not a blemish to be seen, and it's clear even to Temple that whoever made these is truly an expert. It's beautiful, it's perfect, it's- absolutely not something he just made.

 

Primrose is holding a vial of bitter ambrosia, decorative skull stopper and all.

 

"Dove and Beanny insisted on making sure you were properly rewarded for your hard work," Primrose explains, though Temple doesn't hear a word of it. "They were able to find a collector selling at a reasonable price, and I assisted in purchasing it. I expected a reaction like this, and despite your complaints, I am not, in fact, a 'heartless monster' or 'cruel slavedriving master.'"

 

He sniffs at the end, before holding the bottle out. Temple takes it, his hands careful and tentative. Dark, viscous liquid sloshes about as he lifts it up to the light, taking in the details. The color, the skull, the everything- it's perfect.

 

It's silent for a long few moments, though if it bothers Primrose, he doesn't say anything about it.

 

Temple is the one to break the silence.

 

"...thank you."

 

It's the most sincere he's been since he began volunteering, his voice soft and vulnerable as he lowers his arms. He doesn't look at Primrose as he says it, but the genuine tone is clear to hear.

 

He's not looking, so he misses Primrose's small smile.

 

"It's only fair. Thank you for all your hard work."

 

Temple hums, then, in an equally soft and sweet tone-

 

"...I'm never fucking working here again unless you put me on desk duty."

 

"..."

 

"..."

 

"...fine."