[P] soldier, poet, king | autumn fest

[Adonai]

« there will come a ruler whose brow is laid in thorn »
—

T

onight, I will go to the festival.

There is an old saying that there is no party like a Solterran one—and, while us of the Sun Court are well versed in our boasts, in this, at least, you must admit we are correct.

There is no party like a Solterran party.

The equinoctial festivals are the only events of the solar year where the rich and the poor mingle as one. It was custom, during the old days, for the masters of the house to shed their finery for plain white robes and seat their servants at their table, piled high with delicacies and an endless flow of spirits. The festival itself had been closer to bacchanalia than celebration, the streets running red with wine, children tucked to bed at sunset, white-robed lords and their ruby-clad mistresses stealing away in the haze of dusk like thieves, or a pair of young lovers.

I remember one spring festival I had made Mernatius sit at the head of our table. He had resisted, flustered, until I had pushed a fistful of grapes into his mouth, sealing it until he had swallowed. Father had looked on in amusement as he'd served Mernatius, and his father, chalices heavy with our finest wine, looking less like a lord in his plain linen robes and more like a man than I had ever seen him, his cheeks bright with blood, his smile less of a heavy thing.

The scene had delighted me, until Pilate had squalled from our mother's breast. I had sealed his mouth shut with a purple, syrupy fig.

The way to the markets are lit by thin black sconces that reach skywards in branchlike appendages, spiderwebbing into an arching canopy. Thimble-sized candles flicker within each knot, a thousand beating hearts. Wax drips down in clumping white tear-lines, staining a festival-goer's clean linens.

Pearl-shaped sapphires fall in gold chains down my brow and chest. They clink together like bells as I walk, pushed along by the rowdy procession. Some already hold wineglasses, brought, I assume, from home. 

The last time I had worn such finery had been at my father's burial.

Soon, the first of the vendors' brightly coloured stalls loom over the widening path. I do not know which one to stop at, so I stop at none and continue being swept along, like a pauper prince. So far I have not been recognised. I have yet to decide if I am disheartened or not.

A dark figure tugs the edge of a pale cape loftily past me, and I wonder if it is Pilate. Long ago we had come to these festivals together.

My lips lift into a sneer. Long ago is not long ago enough.

@Amunemhet <3

♢