DAVIE + PEARLE // pride
Who: Pearle & Davie
When: The 10th.
Where: The citadel.
Rating & Warnings: PG
It was such a tiresome business, working inside the citadel. Pearle never minded manual labor or cleaning her own quarters, but she was starting to go mad polishing the pews. Still, today it was her duty to remain behind in case someone came to the Citadel in need of a healer. She would not, as so many other priests did, waste time memorizing The Epistles. There were more copies of the text than people in this building, she wagered.
Crouching down to oil the kneelers, Pearle puffed a thick chunk of red hair from her face. As much as she resented whining, that man on the ledgers, the one who always complained about winter, he did have a point. Such a stifling season... She was working her anger up, she realized that, but couldn't help herself. As she ground her rag into the tin of polish once more, her eyes fell on a girl she'd seen in the kitchen.
"Sister," she said flatly. "You live here, don't you?"
Davie, startled out of her reverie, twisted around in her seat to look at the redheaded priest, her mouth open. "Oh!" She'd come to the pews to pray, but her mind had gotten stuck worrying. What would have happened after the fighting in the grounds? Did she even have somewhere to go back to? If she did, would she survive winter or not? Everything had been made about a thousand times harder by the gangs; she was slowly nurturing a small flame of rage for the members of each, though she'd never admit it.
The other woman's words though had snapped her back to the real world. Now she looked from her to the bench with mixed guilt and surprise. "Oh...temporarily. I'm sorry, do you need help with something?"
She'd been right. Pearle had an excellent memory, yet doubted herself when it came to faces. She usually didn't lift her eyes high enough to look at them unless she was angry, as she was now. "Are you injured?" she snapped without bothering to inquire the girl's name. Her palm kept sliding against the leather of the kneeler.
That was a surprise. Davie stood awkwardly, unsure whether or not she was being sarcastic. It was likely but, so far nothing had shattered Davie's illusions of priests as all kind, calm people.
"No," she answered, voice doubtful.
"Then you ought to help. Here." She took the spare rag from about her neck and tossed it at Davie. There was no reproach in her tone. One of Cita's followers or not, if the girl was eating their stew and dirtying their linens, she could do some chores. "Polish is there."
Without a second thought, Pearle was back to work. She kept herself from glancing as she practically scrubbed the stain off the leather. "Are you a runaway?"
Davie fumbled the catch, nearly dropping the cloth. Confused and slightly annoyed by the priest's attitude by now, she dipped it into the polish and began to rub down the pews. She moved slowly, rubbing hard, wanting nothing less than perfection for the bench. "A runaway? No." She'd nowhere to be a runaway from. "Cancellarius Bruhn offered me shelter."
"You're homeless?" she asked, voice lilting up at the end of the question.
Pearle kept at her work, but listened, every now and then angling herself so that she could see if Davie was working or not. Bruhn wasn't particularly soft-hearted, though he had his types. It still stood to reason that any able-bodied person living off the Citadel's charity should tend to Cita's House.
"No..." Davie worked at the bench carefully, her eyebrows knitting together in thought. "I'm from the grounds."
It wasn't exactly private knowledge that something terrible was going on there. Rubbing the bench harder, Davie kept her head down, hoping she wouldn't be asked anymore questions.
"I'm sorry."
Her hard jaw clenched. She had seen with her own eyes the wreck The Grounds had become. She'd treated the wounded, most of them injured as they were trying to flee the war rather than fight in it. Pearle had wanted to fight in it, to lead a third side to take out the other two, but she did more good as a healer. That was what she told herself.
"But," she continued, the edge back in her voice, "You're polishing, not greasing them down. Use less."
Davie felt her face grow hot and ducked so that the priest wouldn't see her. "Sorry," she mumbled, no longer looking at what she was doing. She hated messing up, getting things wrong; it was why, she told herself, she was in the Grounds. She wasn't clever enough, good enough, to hold down a stable job and climb out of that hole.
"...So," 'so I see you're a priest' wasn't a good conversation starter. "You're a priest?"
Pearle couldn't keep herself from slowly turning in Davie's direction, an incredulous and somewhat snotty look on her face. She felt her father's influence rising, but instead of berating the girl she just scowled harder and crouched before another kneeler. "Mm. And have been for quite a few years," she hummed.
She was never going to make cancellarius. The world had gone red when Pearle was told of the Occia's decision to appoint her father, a feeble old man, to the position. 'Stupid cow' rang in her ears, then she spent the rest of the day in prayer apologizing for thinking such a thing of Cita's bride.
Truly annoyed now, the redhead clicked her tongue and got to her feet. "Give me your hand. First you use too much, then you use too little."
Davie looked up once, then ducked again when she saw the priest's face, shame and annoyance creeping up inside her. Of course she'd get it wrong. Of course. But the woman didn't have to rub it in so!
Half-heartedly, she held out her hand, but did not meet the priest's eyes as she did so.
Pearle bent down. She snatched the rag from the hand she'd expected Davie to offer and forced it into the one she was holding by the wrist. "Like this," she said. She sounded quite calm as she guided Davie's hand. Slowly, she rubbed the rag in, then pulled away quickly. Pearle wondered if she shoudn't do it again, just to make sure.
"Understand?"
Davie's jaw set at the condescension- when Pearle pulled away, she yanked her arm back, her mouth a thin line. "I think so," her voice was taut with a mix of embarrassment and annoyance. You can't even hold out your hand right, there was a little voice inside her head with a stream of insults and criticisms that apparently never ran dry, what is wrong with you?
"I'm not a child," she muttered after a moment.
"You're right," she said scathingly, turning her head to the side slightly when Davie tore her arm back, "You aren't." Letting that settle a moment, she turned her back on the girl. They did the work of Cita, that was true, and were meant to expect nothing in return from the people they helped. It wasn't a practical approach. How much work could they do if they took care of every wretch in the city without having them earn their food, their bed?
Dragging a finger along the pew, Pearle quirked an eyebrow when she couldn't feel any film on it. That was how it was done.
Her vision overtaken by nothing but red, Davie fumed, rubbing the bench perhaps harder than was strictly necessary. "You don't have to watch me so closely," she insisted, through clenched teeth. "I can do this."
Her patience, however, was rapidly running low. One more push, and she'd snap completely, she could feel it. It was best that the priest moved away from her.
"Hmm?" Pearle glanced over her shoulder to narrow her eyes at Davie. She could do this. Of course she could. Probably better than half the initiates, at that. But her method wasn't effective. It wasn't worth the effort she wasted trying to rub the red from the leather. "I wasn't watching. Will you do a better job if I do?"
She arched one eyebrow as she set her cloth down to give Davie her full attention.
"No, just," Davie shut her eyes briefly, then shook her head, frustrated. "Leave me be, please."
"Don't bother, then," she said, hardly sparing Davie the least bit of attention now. A girl living on charity who couldn't be bothered to do a proper job? Pearle would have to fix everything she did anyway, which would probably be more time-consuming than doing it all herself in the first place. "Go to your room if you want to be left alone."
"Fine," Davie said, her voice just as hot with anger as her face. She would. Arms moving quickly to finish the patch, she dropped the rag and stood up. she'd feel terrible about this later - already she could feel white hot fingers of guilt walking down her spine - but she couldn't stand this now. "Goodbye."
Pearle's eyebrows lifted before she went back to the tin of wax. "Goodbye, sister," she said tonelessly. A few moments later as she ground the cloth into leather harder and harder, she felt a twinge of guilt like a knot in her back. She'd been too harsh with the girl. The priest would have made her father proud. Scowling, Pearle took a deep breath and focused on cleaning instead.
When: The 10th.
Where: The citadel.
Rating & Warnings: PG
It was such a tiresome business, working inside the citadel. Pearle never minded manual labor or cleaning her own quarters, but she was starting to go mad polishing the pews. Still, today it was her duty to remain behind in case someone came to the Citadel in need of a healer. She would not, as so many other priests did, waste time memorizing The Epistles. There were more copies of the text than people in this building, she wagered.
Crouching down to oil the kneelers, Pearle puffed a thick chunk of red hair from her face. As much as she resented whining, that man on the ledgers, the one who always complained about winter, he did have a point. Such a stifling season... She was working her anger up, she realized that, but couldn't help herself. As she ground her rag into the tin of polish once more, her eyes fell on a girl she'd seen in the kitchen.
"Sister," she said flatly. "You live here, don't you?"
Davie, startled out of her reverie, twisted around in her seat to look at the redheaded priest, her mouth open. "Oh!" She'd come to the pews to pray, but her mind had gotten stuck worrying. What would have happened after the fighting in the grounds? Did she even have somewhere to go back to? If she did, would she survive winter or not? Everything had been made about a thousand times harder by the gangs; she was slowly nurturing a small flame of rage for the members of each, though she'd never admit it.
The other woman's words though had snapped her back to the real world. Now she looked from her to the bench with mixed guilt and surprise. "Oh...temporarily. I'm sorry, do you need help with something?"
She'd been right. Pearle had an excellent memory, yet doubted herself when it came to faces. She usually didn't lift her eyes high enough to look at them unless she was angry, as she was now. "Are you injured?" she snapped without bothering to inquire the girl's name. Her palm kept sliding against the leather of the kneeler.
That was a surprise. Davie stood awkwardly, unsure whether or not she was being sarcastic. It was likely but, so far nothing had shattered Davie's illusions of priests as all kind, calm people.
"No," she answered, voice doubtful.
"Then you ought to help. Here." She took the spare rag from about her neck and tossed it at Davie. There was no reproach in her tone. One of Cita's followers or not, if the girl was eating their stew and dirtying their linens, she could do some chores. "Polish is there."
Without a second thought, Pearle was back to work. She kept herself from glancing as she practically scrubbed the stain off the leather. "Are you a runaway?"
Davie fumbled the catch, nearly dropping the cloth. Confused and slightly annoyed by the priest's attitude by now, she dipped it into the polish and began to rub down the pews. She moved slowly, rubbing hard, wanting nothing less than perfection for the bench. "A runaway? No." She'd nowhere to be a runaway from. "Cancellarius Bruhn offered me shelter."
"You're homeless?" she asked, voice lilting up at the end of the question.
Pearle kept at her work, but listened, every now and then angling herself so that she could see if Davie was working or not. Bruhn wasn't particularly soft-hearted, though he had his types. It still stood to reason that any able-bodied person living off the Citadel's charity should tend to Cita's House.
"No..." Davie worked at the bench carefully, her eyebrows knitting together in thought. "I'm from the grounds."
It wasn't exactly private knowledge that something terrible was going on there. Rubbing the bench harder, Davie kept her head down, hoping she wouldn't be asked anymore questions.
"I'm sorry."
Her hard jaw clenched. She had seen with her own eyes the wreck The Grounds had become. She'd treated the wounded, most of them injured as they were trying to flee the war rather than fight in it. Pearle had wanted to fight in it, to lead a third side to take out the other two, but she did more good as a healer. That was what she told herself.
"But," she continued, the edge back in her voice, "You're polishing, not greasing them down. Use less."
Davie felt her face grow hot and ducked so that the priest wouldn't see her. "Sorry," she mumbled, no longer looking at what she was doing. She hated messing up, getting things wrong; it was why, she told herself, she was in the Grounds. She wasn't clever enough, good enough, to hold down a stable job and climb out of that hole.
"...So," 'so I see you're a priest' wasn't a good conversation starter. "You're a priest?"
Pearle couldn't keep herself from slowly turning in Davie's direction, an incredulous and somewhat snotty look on her face. She felt her father's influence rising, but instead of berating the girl she just scowled harder and crouched before another kneeler. "Mm. And have been for quite a few years," she hummed.
She was never going to make cancellarius. The world had gone red when Pearle was told of the Occia's decision to appoint her father, a feeble old man, to the position. 'Stupid cow' rang in her ears, then she spent the rest of the day in prayer apologizing for thinking such a thing of Cita's bride.
Truly annoyed now, the redhead clicked her tongue and got to her feet. "Give me your hand. First you use too much, then you use too little."
Davie looked up once, then ducked again when she saw the priest's face, shame and annoyance creeping up inside her. Of course she'd get it wrong. Of course. But the woman didn't have to rub it in so!
Half-heartedly, she held out her hand, but did not meet the priest's eyes as she did so.
Pearle bent down. She snatched the rag from the hand she'd expected Davie to offer and forced it into the one she was holding by the wrist. "Like this," she said. She sounded quite calm as she guided Davie's hand. Slowly, she rubbed the rag in, then pulled away quickly. Pearle wondered if she shoudn't do it again, just to make sure.
"Understand?"
Davie's jaw set at the condescension- when Pearle pulled away, she yanked her arm back, her mouth a thin line. "I think so," her voice was taut with a mix of embarrassment and annoyance. You can't even hold out your hand right, there was a little voice inside her head with a stream of insults and criticisms that apparently never ran dry, what is wrong with you?
"I'm not a child," she muttered after a moment.
"You're right," she said scathingly, turning her head to the side slightly when Davie tore her arm back, "You aren't." Letting that settle a moment, she turned her back on the girl. They did the work of Cita, that was true, and were meant to expect nothing in return from the people they helped. It wasn't a practical approach. How much work could they do if they took care of every wretch in the city without having them earn their food, their bed?
Dragging a finger along the pew, Pearle quirked an eyebrow when she couldn't feel any film on it. That was how it was done.
Her vision overtaken by nothing but red, Davie fumed, rubbing the bench perhaps harder than was strictly necessary. "You don't have to watch me so closely," she insisted, through clenched teeth. "I can do this."
Her patience, however, was rapidly running low. One more push, and she'd snap completely, she could feel it. It was best that the priest moved away from her.
"Hmm?" Pearle glanced over her shoulder to narrow her eyes at Davie. She could do this. Of course she could. Probably better than half the initiates, at that. But her method wasn't effective. It wasn't worth the effort she wasted trying to rub the red from the leather. "I wasn't watching. Will you do a better job if I do?"
She arched one eyebrow as she set her cloth down to give Davie her full attention.
"No, just," Davie shut her eyes briefly, then shook her head, frustrated. "Leave me be, please."
"Don't bother, then," she said, hardly sparing Davie the least bit of attention now. A girl living on charity who couldn't be bothered to do a proper job? Pearle would have to fix everything she did anyway, which would probably be more time-consuming than doing it all herself in the first place. "Go to your room if you want to be left alone."
"Fine," Davie said, her voice just as hot with anger as her face. She would. Arms moving quickly to finish the patch, she dropped the rag and stood up. she'd feel terrible about this later - already she could feel white hot fingers of guilt walking down her spine - but she couldn't stand this now. "Goodbye."
Pearle's eyebrows lifted before she went back to the tin of wax. "Goodbye, sister," she said tonelessly. A few moments later as she ground the cloth into leather harder and harder, she felt a twinge of guilt like a knot in her back. She'd been too harsh with the girl. The priest would have made her father proud. Scowling, Pearle took a deep breath and focused on cleaning instead.