Author's Note: Don't ask questions, just read it and leave your thoughts.

Published 9/29/18

Reinhardt was burning the midnight wax. The other heroes had all long since gone to sleep, but Reinhardt had no intention of leaving the Order of Heroes' storeroom until his enemy had been vanquished. Reinhardt, Mage Knight of Friege, staked his honor and perhaps even his very life on seeing this battle through to its end.

Try as he might, however, his foe would not yield. The lid to the Order's pickle jar was a stalwart adversary; the roiling inferno of the Múspellflame seemed like a flimsy paper barricade in comparison. Not helping matters were that even Reinhardt's very hands were ill-suited to this endeavor; so small as to be nearly microscopic. Lost to him was the option of flattening his palm atop the metal lid and stretching his fingers down along the edges any other normal human would have tried; indeed, with the inadequate size Reinhard's digits possessed, it took all of his carpal concentration just to grasp a small part of the lid and twist. His left hand turned up below, supporting the bottom of the glass vessel while his right flexed in preparation for another assault on the impediment disc.

Reinhardt gritted his teeth and strained as hard as he could, but to no avail. Still, surrender was never an option, so he tried again and again, switching hands whenever one of the appendages cramped up from overexerting its miniscule musculature. As he grunted in agony, he could swear he heard something give deep within the sinister mechanism. Reinhardt put all his relentless might into one final push, but was again denied. He had been mistaken; the gherkin gate would not yield to his will tonight, it seemed. Even a clash against four copies of the accursed mage Julia seemed more favorable to Reinhardt's odds at this juncture.

Setting the jar of briny goodness down on a crate, he sat himself down on a wooden chair and rested his chin atop his small hand. Brute force was getting him nowhere, it seemed. Reinhardt pondered his pickley predicament, and tried to recall any advice from his long, storied career as a knight that could assist him now. Saias, surely, would shake his head and berate Reinhardt for tackling the problem head-on; finesse was required in situations such as these, so Reinhardt considered alternative methods of loosening the metal plate that obstructed him from enjoying his snack.

Magic is everything, but not always. To smite the container with Dire Thunder would certainly vanquish the object of his scorn, but it would also likely leave no trace of the juicy, sour pickles behind to consume. A worse possibility, the pickles could survive but become festooned with shards of glass, wailing to Reinhardt in the misery of their continued existence as inedible hazards. He had to consider their feelings too, damnit! The Meisterschwert was invalid for similar concerns, though Reinhardt did quietly lament not bringing it with him for precise quartering of the soured cucumbers upon their liberation.

He remembered a trick one of Ishtar's elderly retainers had showed him one evening. If he could borrow one of Maribelle's tea kettles he could perhaps prepare some hot water and run the lid of the jar sideways within the pouring stream, which would loosen it. However, this risked spilling the precious produce, was not guaranteed to succeed, and would require circumventing the locks on Maribelle's tea kit.

Wrapping a rough cloth around the source of his ire would provide a better grip, but it did nothing for the issue of his pint-sized palms grappling with a quart-sized quagmire. Reinhardt cursed himself, gazing forlorn at his hands. It was then that he noticed, as he stared, the prominent elbows beneath them. He flexed his arms up and down gently, noting the collapsing angles of his appendages, and an idea stormed into his brilliant mind. It was a long shot, but it was better than nothing.

In a last, desperate bid, Reinhardt brought the jar into the Order's kitchen and retrieved a handcloth from one of its myriad drawers. The cloth was laid across the top of the vessel, and subsequently wrapped in the determined man's right arm. With the lid embraced snugly in his cubital fossa, Reinhardt put all his strength into one more last, desperate bid and twisted.

The pickles remained secure and inaccessible. Reinhardt clutched his scalp with his tired hands and wailed in despair. The door swung open.

"Sir Reinhardt, what are you doing awake at this hour?" It was Camus, the Sable Knight.

"Ah, sir Camus… I apologize. It is quite unbecoming of me, but… I cannot seem to open this jar. Its design is bafflingly impenetrable."

"Your hands are too small."

"I beg your pardon? My hands are normal hands. I have strong hands, I have good size hands."

"Nothing like these, sir Reinhardt!" Camus hoisted his own gigantic grabbers onto the countertop, their sheer size and weight hitting the granite with a heavy, audible thud. "The small, weak hands give way to the bigger, stronger hands. Stand back and allow me to vanquish your foe."

Camus grabbed the lid and pulled on the protective plate perched over the pungent procurement of pickles. He did not even need to twist it; indeed, a straight pull generated enough force to rip the lid from its spiral finish. A satisfying plok registered, and the freed odor of vinegar and dill filled the nostrils of both knights.

His spirits lifted, Reinhardt reached for a crunchy taste of heaven, but Camus was already making the first move. He reached down toward the fermented fruit to reward himself, only to find himself thwarted by an unexpected-yet-expected obstacle. His gigantic hand collided with the rim of the glass cylinder, unable to fit through the narrow hole.

"Ah, hm. This is a predicament…"

He squeezed his fingers together as tightly as he could and tried again, in an effort to pinch even a single specimen, but was again blocked by the nefarious nozzle. Indeed, it seemed his hands were too big. Was such a concern even possible before now?

Reinhardt's panic at Camus's plight resided as a calm washed over him. This was his chance to make things right. To redeem his fallen honor. Gently brushing Camus aside, he reached into the jar, his own hands easily clearing the gap. He glanced directly into Camus's eyes. "We now use the Reinhardt."

At last, Reinhardt retrieved the sacred treasure he had fought so hard for. One crisp, delicious pickle for himself, and a second submersion to fetch one for his friend.

The two clunked their snacks together. "Cheers."

The pickle was everything Reinhardt had hoped for. A crisp bite gave way to a rush of sour, salty juices. The inner depths of the fruit provided enough resistance to satisfy that human need for crunch, without distracting from the experience. The seeds were soft and brittle enough to be little more than a footnote waiting at the center, rather than a chewy nuisance. And the taste! For herbs, vinegar, peppercorns, sugar, salt, mustard seed, and the cucumbers themselves to join together in perfect harmony, no one member of the band playing over its friends… It was a true symphony of flavor. Indeed, Reinhardt suspected that these very pickles had been crafted not by man, but by gods of fermentation!

His hunger satiated, Reinhardt noticed that Camus was now doing something strange. His gigantic left hand was aloft, its palm facing Reinhardt. Wordlessly, Reinhardt understood, and held his own right hand up palm-to-palm. The two hands of extreme sizes met. Reinhardt's dwarfish digits didn't even reach Camus's own, Reinhardt's tips extending only to Camus's third knuckles.

"I believe this to be a sign, sir Camus."

"Indeed, sir Reinhardt. When one hand fails, another steps in to support it. Together, you and I can surpass any puzzle, any predicament that requires very large or very small hands."

"It is our destiny."

The night was still, young, however, and it was about to get a lot stranger. The forlorn lid, once a dangerous foe, rested belly-up on the counter, and it wasn't until their ceremony was complete that the two noble knights noticed a strange glow radiating forth. Where one would expect an alabaster shellac, the underside instead hid a mysterious portal. Two wisps of smoke emerged forth, dropping to the ground and shaping themselves into human forms.

As the last of the ethereal fog dissipated, Camus and Reinhardt found themselves blessed by the presence of two enigmatic figures called forth by their snacking: the shriveled Manakete Bantu, and the equally-old-in-spirit samurai Hisame.

Hisame spoke first, his voice flat. "You two who have called upon us…"

Bantu took his turn. "By joining forces to overcome the arduous task before you, you have proved your worth to us, the Gods of Pickle Production and Consumption."

Both Reinhardt and Camus knelt, the latter's enormous hands shaking the floor.

Hisame spoke again. "Rise, heroes. As merit for your accomplishment, you shall be granted one wish."

"You must choose carefully. Once you have come to an agreement-"

Reinhardt interrupted. "I wish for the four of us to have a pickle-themed four-way."

Camus nodded knowingly as his comrade answered correctly. Hisame and Bantu spoke in unison. "Your wish shall be granted."

And thus, they all made sweet and sour love then and there, into the night.