The Price Of Hubris Is Paid In Tears

20250803

Prompt from DailyPrompt.com

Every child who lived near the Smoking Rocks knew that you should never tease a salamander. So naturally doing so was a regular dare.
“Eh? Who goes there?”
The three youths froze in place as Einar turned his head. Counting on the fact that the old weaver couldn’t see, unaware their anxious breathing was perfectly audible in this otherwise quiet mountain path. At least to someone who’d been getting around using his ears for twice as long as they’d been alive.
“Tsk. Either turn back home or greet your elder!”
The trio exchanged helpless glances. With their clogs clutched in their hands like this, running down the path would be painful. But they didn’t dare speak.
“Hmm? Not here to talk, eh?” Einar’s hands resumed their work - but his face didn’t turn from the errant youths. “Then you must be here to listen to an old man’s wisdom. Am I right?”
Without waiting for a response (not that he would’ve gotten one) he declared “I was a real looker once, you know.”
Stefan let out a snort, then hastily went to cover his mouth - and smacked himself in the face with his own clog, setting off his friends giggling.
“Aye, hard to believe now, isn’t it?” Einar paused to run a calloused fingertip down his face, tracing the skin which was warped by a woodgrain mix of bulging and shrunken scars. Locked into an eternal lopsided grimace. “Know what happened to me?”
They did. As one they avoided each other’s eyes.
“I was seventeen. Top of the world. Making a name for myself as a talented weaver, creating colourful tapestries worthy of a master. Deeply in love with a beautiful woman. And then…” A despondent huff whistled out of what remained of his nose. “I went up this path, where I had no business being, and tried to show off to my friends by being a damned fool.”
The youths’ gazes were locked to the path underfoot.
“How much more do you need to hear, hm? Want me to talk about the agony I suffered for months? Want to hear about my own mother crying and begging to the gods when she saw my face? About losing sight, losing colours, and with it most of my artistry? About my love moving to another village because she couldn’t even bear to see me anymore?”
He rapped his shuttle against the side of his lap-loom. His voice cracking as he implored “Go home, children. Don’t make your families weep. Don’t burn away your future for a few heady minutes of feeling like a man. Be wiser than I was.”
Silence. Then two sets of footsteps slowly padded back down the path.
And one approached.
Einar tilted his head in curiosity.
“Elder, I…” Stefan faltered, fumbling for words. “W-we didn’t mean…”
“Neither did I, child.” Einar murmured, turning back to his work. “I don’t walk up here every day because I think any of you want your friend hurt. And I know most people get away with it. At least, they get off far lighter than I did. But, ah, some people get off worse than me. And they aren’t here to warn you. So, here I am.”
While he could no longer smile his voice lightened. “And the fresh air is good for my old body. Sunshine too, when we get it.”
“Mm.” Stefan hesitantly crouched next to the weaver. Staring at the pale green fabric which was growing under the old man’s fingers. Though plain in appearance, it was beautifully even and plush. “Is, is it dangerous to see salamanders? I’ve always wondered what they look like…”
Einar paused. “If you keep your distance, and don’t agitate them, it’s ‘safe’ as any other stroll through lava fields. It’s only if you want to get close that it’s dangerous.”
“Oh.” Stefan hugged his knees. “So if… if I brought a sketchbook and stayed back, eight paces or so, that would maybe be alright?”
“Hm. That would be better asked of Forester Helga. She goes through the lava fields fairly often, and has only a few scars from it. Perhaps she would let you follow with her.”
“I’ll ask.”
Einar nodded approvingly. “They are beautiful creatures. I’ll remember that beauty always. But remember that they are wild fire, and must be treated with respect. Not toyed with.”
He flexed and massaged his right hand, which was bowed and missing two fingers. “‘The price of hubris is paid in tears and flesh’. Ever heard that old saw?”
“I have…”
“But it never meant much to you.” Einar chuckled deep in his throat and picked up the steaming tin mug of tea. “It never meant much to me either, at your age. I suppose some wisdom can only be learned the hard way.”
“It… means much to me now.” Stefan murmured. Glad there was no need to try and look the old man in the eye, for seeing his face was too uncomfortable. Instead he kept his gaze on the loom.
“I’m glad. Makes every walk up and down this path worth it.”
Lost for anything else to say, Stefan got up and pulled his clogs back on. Then he blurted “You’re still a fine weaver.”
“Aye. While I never finished my masterwork, I make a living. The price I paid for my foolishness was light enough that I could keep going. Make good with what I had left. Thinking about what could have happened… that’s what drives me up here every day.”
“Mm. I, I’ll talk to my friends and…”
“Good lad.” Einar’s voice held a smile. “And I do hope you can get those sketches. Without paying in flesh, I mean.”
Stefan gave an uncertain laugh. “Thankee, elder. A good day to you.”
“And to you also, young one.”
Stefan’s footsteps clopped down the path, leaving the old man to his work. Secure in a job well done.

Prompt was “Write a piece which has ‘playing with fire’ as a central theme.”