A festival
Nov. 8th, 2020 08:54 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
taking_painsFar below the temple balcony, down in the streets, the streamers for the festival flutter in the breeze, orange and yellow, vibrant as summer.
The voices of the festival-goers rise up on the air, all shouts and laughter, occasional snatches of song. The sound of the parade drifts to them from three blocks down, a bright and wending tone of flutes with the rhythmic backdrop of drums.
Sye’s eyes flicker out and away – trace over the sea of humanity, the children with orange-gold flags clasped in their hands.
His own hands cradle a hand pie, the crust still flaky and warm. The smell of it, hot and savory, makes his stomach twist with want, but he makes no move to bite into it.
“Will you need to go soon, to begin the ceremony?” he says, tone carefully measured.
The young woman seated beside him snorts, indelicate. Her hair is a blonde so pale it nears white, tied back into a sloppy tail. She wears a men’s vest over a loose cotton shirt, the laces partially undone. She does not look prepared for a ceremony of any kind, much less as though she means to lead one.
“They can figure it out themselves,” says Ara. “I told them you were coming this week.”
Sye stares down at the pie in his hands.
“Your si-kalin,” he says, very softly. It does not sound like a question, quite – but it is a question all the same.
“I told him you were coming, too,” says Ara, firm.
Down below in the streets, the parade has drawn nearer. A troupe of men and women in vibrant yellow and sunset orange are performing a dance that looks more carefree than elaborate, more joyful than planned.
“I see,” says Sye.
There is a touch against his shoulder, and when he turns to look she has settled against him, comfortable, as though she means to stay there and watch the parade.
“Eat your pie,” she tells him. “You have three days yet.”
Sye nods, uncertain. He bites into the pie, rich chicken and mushroom gravy. He chews it, careful, and by the time he finishes, the first of the floats carried by the festival-goers is passing by below.
Ara passes him another hand pie.
This one is full of peaches, he discovers, as a spray of water blooms to life in the streets beneath them, beset with colored lights, and the flutes strike up a new refrain.
The voices of the festival-goers rise up on the air, all shouts and laughter, occasional snatches of song. The sound of the parade drifts to them from three blocks down, a bright and wending tone of flutes with the rhythmic backdrop of drums.
Sye’s eyes flicker out and away – trace over the sea of humanity, the children with orange-gold flags clasped in their hands.
His own hands cradle a hand pie, the crust still flaky and warm. The smell of it, hot and savory, makes his stomach twist with want, but he makes no move to bite into it.
“Will you need to go soon, to begin the ceremony?” he says, tone carefully measured.
The young woman seated beside him snorts, indelicate. Her hair is a blonde so pale it nears white, tied back into a sloppy tail. She wears a men’s vest over a loose cotton shirt, the laces partially undone. She does not look prepared for a ceremony of any kind, much less as though she means to lead one.
“They can figure it out themselves,” says Ara. “I told them you were coming this week.”
Sye stares down at the pie in his hands.
“Your si-kalin,” he says, very softly. It does not sound like a question, quite – but it is a question all the same.
“I told him you were coming, too,” says Ara, firm.
Down below in the streets, the parade has drawn nearer. A troupe of men and women in vibrant yellow and sunset orange are performing a dance that looks more carefree than elaborate, more joyful than planned.
“I see,” says Sye.
There is a touch against his shoulder, and when he turns to look she has settled against him, comfortable, as though she means to stay there and watch the parade.
“Eat your pie,” she tells him. “You have three days yet.”
Sye nods, uncertain. He bites into the pie, rich chicken and mushroom gravy. He chews it, careful, and by the time he finishes, the first of the floats carried by the festival-goers is passing by below.
Ara passes him another hand pie.
This one is full of peaches, he discovers, as a spray of water blooms to life in the streets beneath them, beset with colored lights, and the flutes strike up a new refrain.
