y father had once declared, to a room full of stone-faced lords, that hedonism had turned the heads of our kings rotten.
Even as a child I had known he did not truly believe this—this was after the rebellion, you see, and he had merely wished to keep his head—yet my solemn epiphany was quickly drowned by a chorused round of agreement, glass clinking against metal as fifty wineglasses were emptied, all at once, down the bowels of an iron chamberpot. Just like that, frivolity, in a ritual near-traitorously ceremonial, became a thing of the past. Deed done, they were monarchists no more. In one silent line they shuffled back to their seats, where a cold dinner and a cup of flat ale awaited.
(The champagne would not be opened until dessert.)
Festivals had once been as common as sandgrouse in the court of the Sun. It is hard to imagine, no? Hard to imagine even for an Ieshan. Yet in my father’s father’s time, there were celebrations for everything. For the birth of a son; for the triumph of a generalissimo; for the end of summer; for the reaping of the grain; for the joining of two families in marriage. It was Calvhura II who had started the tradition of celebrating the birth of daughters, and in that year, the streets had run red with wine.
Wine, or blood? For Solterra, it is either one or the other.
§
The sun cake, hot from the ovens, melts like butter on my tongue. I bite down, flood my mouth with honey, wince when my teeth strike metal. “You have followed the recipe exactly,” I say, with a laugh.
“Yes,” says the baker, his breath the white of flour. “I was worried at first, putting the coins in—afraid they wouldn’t hold.” He shakes loose a batch of golden cakes from their oil-slicked molds. Tongues of honey drizzle over their crust. I pluck the sun coin out and hold it up to the oven’s leaping fire.
The baker looks over. “I think that is the only one in this batch, your majesty. What luck, eh?” He smiles at me warmly; and because I was born a prince, I know approval (filling up the space left open besides contractual civility) when I see it. I smile back.
“Is it really?” Through the open window wafts in the crisp, hot smell of senita pastries. I toss the coin into the air. “What luck.”
It is the morning before the festival, hours before the first bell of the Noon Feast will be struck. The palace kitchens are hazy with black smoke and white flour and bubbling conversation, riverine and lax.
I offer to carry the platters to the feasting table three times, and three times am waved away by a sigh and a bitten-back smile. “Oh, come now,” I say to the fourth, my eyes crinkling up to slyness. “It is tradition. It would be cruel to let me go out empty-handed.” She hesitates, bites her lip, looks from her tray of flan to me, princely eager besides her. I do not yet know how to be a king. This is the trick; this is the currency I will use until they tire of it.
The platter drops gently into my grasp. Set it between the basket of anemones and the flagon of Deluminian wine, she whispers. The anemones and the flagon, I repeat, before ducking victoriously out into the courtyard.
§
a shard of god
in my mouth
« r » | open to any <3
as a note, Adonai is walking through the courtyard where the feasting table is placed!
BRIGHT SPLASH OF BLOOD ON THE FLOOR. ASTONISHING RED.
(All that brightness inside me?)
♦︎♔♦︎
01-27-2021, 01:59 AM - This post was last modified: 01-27-2021, 03:20 AM by Adonai
The Solterran sun shone bright enough to burn away the shadow of guilt that had plagued Raglan since his return to Novus.
And so the orphan found himself seeking refuge within a furnace.
The temperature amid the sands continued to climb, and Raglan was reminded of the stories he had been told of Solis’ fierce summers; of cobbles so hot that hooves melted fast to their surface, of wells that ran miles upon miles into the earth only for the bucket to be hoisted up with water boiled to dregs, and of sands so scalding that pools of molten glass formed themselves beneath the war God’s relentless heat. As he walked, blackened hooves clacking softly amid the bustle of festival preparation, with the stifling air pressing about him like a second skin, Raglan began to believe the stories.
Though while part of the bay rogue resented the lack of cool alleys and chilled streams here in Solterra’s capitol, his complaints were easily hushed in the face of the stallion’s complete anonymity. With Reichenbach vanished, a new ass seated in the throne of Day, and the Crows whisked away beneath the cover of Night, the Silvertongue had no need to worry about any creature in Solterra recognizing head nor hair of the Last Crow.
Indeed, beneath the furious eye of Solis, even Caligo must shy away; and with her absence, so too did the weight of grief lift from the pegasus’ shoulders.
It was only luck that Raglan had returned to Novus during a festival, and it was only his rumbling belly that had lead the lanky male to the massive table resting in the square. At the sight of those rough-hewn planks — worn to a shine by decades of use — being laden with tray after tray and trough after trough of food and drink, the Silvertongue’s mouth began to water and his stomach started up a racket loud enough to frighten a forest into silence. Inhaling, the lad had to bite back a groan at the intoxicating scent of pastries fresh from the ovens and sweets glazed with honey and sugar.
Yet, he was a child of Denocte, a son of Solis’ most hated sibling — if he were to sup on the God’s festival foods, would he not call down the renowned fury of the Sun? Raglan swayed slightly in his indecision, the desire to gorge himself battling against the ancient divisions that had been sung into his blood before he was even born. The bay took one step toward the table, then another, unable to hide his hesitance or the tension bracing his spine.
Another step forward and the Crow found himself in the path of a stallion with a grin in his eyes and a platter of buns as his charge. The arrival of the alicorn broke Raglan’s spell, the Silvertongue lifting the corners of his mouth into a smile of his own as he pivoted and fell into step alongside the pastry-lugging stranger. It was not his job to keep at bay the eternal rivalry between Godsiblings; if they were so concerned for the conduct of a twice-orphaned Crow, there had been countless times that the deities could have stepped in before now.
“A good day to celebrate that days exist, is it not?” Came his greeting, silvery eyes sparkling with mirth, “I am Raglan, newly refamiliarized with Novus and a Solterran first timer— would you mind telling me what this festival is all about, and if any of your buns are eager to make my acquaintance?”
@Adonai — yay! Is the comment about “your buns” a double entendres? Is it purely my idiot flirting? Is he really just hungry? The world will never know
01-27-2021, 07:42 AM - This post was last modified: 01-27-2021, 07:44 AM by Raglan
he sun is an attentive presence at my back as I cut through the yard towards the feasting table.
It spares none of us, our beloved sun. Not yet noon and heat rises already from the sandstone pavement in bright shivering waves, everywhere beached palace maids fanning their faces with cleaning rags as they bustle from pillar to unpolished pillar. I am still unfamiliar with the palace’s revolving cast of staff, and they with me; without my finery few of them recognize me, and I merely grin sheepishly as I am shooed from one maid’s path to another’s.
My stride is leisurely, as the temperature is at such an extreme that there is no danger of the sweets arriving cold and deflated to the table. A cart filled with white amaranthus skirts past me before pulling to a stop to unload. I pause to watch, my wing brushing up against the coolness of a (just polished) pillar. Dew drips like rain from the whispery flowers as the cart driver extracts them by the bundle and places them smartly in bottle-blue vases. From her pocket she draws out a bottle of colorless tincture, and squeezes the dropper into the vases: once for each bouquet.
The buds explode into vivid, kaleidoscopic bloom.
“A good day to celebrate that days exist, is it not?”
The voice, bright and chipper, drifts from somewhere to my left. I pivot away from the magicked amaranthus towards the glint of a green gem embedded in the center of a forehead where a unicorn’s horn would grow. I blink; beneath the gem is the smiling silver eyes of a boy, his coat brilliant crimson, rare in the muted palette of the Day Court—and memorable enough for me to attach a name to his face had I known it.
My tongue presses to the roof of my mouth as I tilt my head, regarding him. “As good a reason as any,” I oblige. It is the oddest greeting I have ever received—and useful too, for I know instantly from it that he cannot be aware of who I am. Comforted, I settle back against the pillar, my mouth curling up in amusement.
“I am Raglan, newly refamiliarized with Novus and a Solterran first timer—would you mind telling me what this festival is all about, and if any of your buns are eager to make my acquaintance?”
This time I do not attempt to hold back a snort of laughter. The temptation is too great; he is making it altogether too easy for me to slip into a role I have always wanted to play.
I look sidelong at that shining emerald before shifting off of the pillar and leaning towards him, my voice slipping out of the articulate accent of courtly Sahvahn and into a cool native slur. “Well, Raglan, Solterran first timer—” I pause to gesture towards the bustling maids, the dripping flowers, the platters of steaming food, “you have stumbled upon our midsummer festival, a tradition revived by our newest king. Bit early though. Festivities don't begin until the first bell at noon.”
The platter floating besides me bobs up and down as I nod at it, my voice dipping into solemnity. “And—I was tasked with bringing these to the table.” I flick my gaze to his, lowering my voice as a maid hurries past. My tail swishes casually against my leg as I pretend to weigh my options.
“Though I suppose one missing wouldn't be noticed.” I tilt the platter towards him.
The Crow had not spread his roots and blossomed in the light of the sun or been watered with care. It could be argued that he had a rougher upbringing than most equines, not until the Orphan King had sat the Reveler’s Throne and brought forth splendor for his fellows. Though by that time, Raglan had been all but grown. A life cultivated between dingy alleyways and grubby hands had not taken from the stallion, however — the truth was indeed quite the opposite; Raglan had found he had been given the gift of joy.
As a colt, it had been frustrating that the budding Crow could never quite master the cold calculation that had been Raum’s calling card, couldn’t grasp the quiet groundedness that had emanated from Acton, or the soft elegance that belonged to Rhoswen.
No, the Silvertongue had always embodied a childlike spark and a youthful amicability — no matter how many hours he had spent making stern faces at his own reflection. At some point, the pegasus had decided to accept his fate as comic relief, to fine tune whatever insatiable mischief danced in his eyes. Raglan had long since come to terms with the fact that he may never become the hero of a story, but what was a tale without a few peals of laughter between the tragedy? And so he had grown, filled out his skin in whatever lanky way he could and did his best to fit whatever mold the universe had selected for him.
Raglan watched his predestined role take effect on the bun-toting stranger; saw it in the loosening of posture, the smile that spread over champagne lips, and the conspiratorial way the golden male leaned in to reply. Raglan mimicked the stallion’s body language, the pair of them standing near the pillar like so many gossiping spinsters. How long had it been, some distant part of the rogue wondered, since he had been able to pretend at secrets for the fun of it? Done much of anything just for the pure fun of it?
The grin over the Crow’s lips widened further as his newest ally discreetly offered him one of the delectable pastries, and Raglan wasted no time in scooping one up — steaming and shining with glaze — and stuffing it into his mouth. He bit back a groan as the nearly too-hot dough practically melted in his mouth, the taste buttery and sweet and altogether luxurious. Mouth full, the pegasus managed a grateful nod toward his companion and a cheerful wink; winks were, after all, the preferred form of approval and managed mischief among newly minted partners in crime.
Swallowing and making himself a promise to devour an entire tablefull of those buns after the noon bells tolled, Raglan held back his belch and turned silvery eyes back to the palomino at his side.
“What luck, my bun-baking friend, you have earned my undying loyalty via pastry — were I a proper gentleman, I’d have already asked your father for your hand in marriage.” Punctuating his words with a chuff, Raglan eased his posture into something looser, “I get the feeling, however, that my advances would be both clumsy and unwelcome, seeing as I am, as a kindly Lady once advised; a complete and utterly hopeless cad.” A small adjustment as more servers swept by, the Crow careful not to get his feathers in the various treats and drinks floating by.
“You mentioned a new king — though I’ll be honest, I was unaware of an old one. Is Maxence’s grouchy and wildly muscular rump no longer perched in your people’s throne?” The query was accompanied by a small tilt of Raglan’s horned head, his expression open and quizzical. “I’ll bet he ate too many of these delicious honey cakes and died of ecstasy, didn’t he? Poor handsome cavedwelling bastard...”
@Adonai i am soooo sorry for the wait! I completely forgot that i had this reply half written!!
