Post by Seek on Jan 1, 2015 3:42:08 GMT 10
Title: Beltane Crossroads
Rating: PG
For: runyousillydetective
Prompt: 1. Rosto/Beka fic because I still like that idea
Summary: In Scanra, they invoke the Hanged God on Beltane. Sometimes, he stands at the crossroads and shows a worshipper a new path; a third way.
Notes: Hope you enjoy it! Happy Wishing Tree!
-
I was slightly surprised to see Beka at the courtyard behind the Dove. My people’re used to the Dogs coming and going, but as far as we knew, most of them knew nothing of the festivities held in that courtyard on Beltane. We don’t hold a grudge against the Dogs—they have their place, and we have ours. That’s how things are as they’re done in Tortall, or so I’ve come to learn, since Kora, Aniki and me came down from Scanra because we were curst tired of not having enough to eat.
Among other things.
A Rogue must’ve some secrets now, mustn’t he?
They celebrate Beltane in Tortall, same’s we do up in the North. Beltane is a time of the gods and the land—the king in his palace leaps the embers, and so do us in the Lower City. I am king here, after all, and a good Rogue leaps the embers for his people, just as the king does, up there in his palace, before the assembled nobles.
We’d kindled the Beltane bonfire; I was looking around for someone to leap the embers with. In the North, it’s the Hanged God that’s invoked at the fires: fickle Wod who stands at the crossroads and sometimes, opens a third way. As the saying goes: a man goes left at the crossroads; a woman walks to the right. And the Hanged God, he shows a third the way untaken, the middleroad.
We invoke others too, in Scanra: the Allmother especially, at Beltane.
They don’t worship the Hanged God here in Tortall; here, the fires are lit with an invocation to the Goddess and Mithros, and, among us of the Rogue, the Crooked God, and then the hearthfires in the Dove and other inns and homes across the Lower City are themselves lit with fire from the Beltane fire here.
I sipped appreciatively at a cup of mulled wine—they use different spices, here in Tortall, and it’s been curst difficult to get my hand on proper Scanran spices for mulled wine, but Kora knows a merchant as owes her a favour, and…
I miss Scanran food. Mulled wine is properly drunk in the winter, but it’s chilly enough, even at Beltane, that it oughtn’t go amiss.
I exchange a nod with Clary Goodwin. A tough Dog is Goodwin; tough but good. My people breathe a sigh of relief to know she’s off the streets, but groan at her replacements. And them as see her face when they’re caught and sent to the cages come back like meek puppies. It’s a difficult balance, that we have with the Dogs. Sometimes, I think it’ll be the smallest of things that breaks it all and brings down the king’s sword on our heads.
It’s been a long, hard year, with Tunstall’s betrayal. Unexpected, perhaps, although it’s hard on a man when his legs begin to betray him and he knows he can’t walk the streets any longer.
“Well, well,” I say, nursing my cup of wine. “This is rather unexpected, love.”
Beka, at least, is not in Dog black, which means this isn’t a formal visit. Her clothes are a faded brown; blue would suit her, I find myself thinking. Pale frost-blue, for those eyes. Her eyes are striking, as any man in my Court would tell you. But that isn’t what makes Beka stand out.
“I’m not your love,” Beka mutters. “Or ‘lovey’, or ‘cornflower’, or ‘dove’. Really, you great looby, can’t you manage a simple ‘Beka’ or ‘Cooper’, if you must?”
“How did you hear about this?” I ask, sweeping my free hand to indicate the small but exuberant celebrations taking place among the more trusted members of my Court. Aniki, I notice, is tapping mugs of mulled wine with Kebibi Ahuda. I smile; that friendship, at least, was unexpected. Phelan is speaking to someone whose face is in shadow. I’ll find out later.
Beka shrugs. “Kora invited me,” she says. “She invited Ersken, and thought I should be around to keep an eye on him.”
Kora shoots me a wink; I understand.
It isn’t about Westover: that boy’s clearly in love with Kora. It’s Beka she’s worried for: Beka who comes back to us with dead, tired eyes, Beka who killed her own partner, it’s said, while on the Hunt. Beka who watched as another friend—a Provost’s mage, I’m told—was slain before her eyes. Small wonder Kora feels she needs a little cheer.
I almost, reflexively, offer her some mulled wine to drink, and then I remember. It’s passing strange to offer her barley water on Beltane, but that’s exactly what I do.
“Well, then,” I say, “I’ve found the lucky gixie who’s going to leap the embers with me.”
Beka almost chokes on her barley water. Pale eyes glare at me—ghost eyes, they call them, and I have long known why. “Find someone else,” she informs me.
“You’re not on duty tonight,” I counter. “Besides, love—Beka,” I amend, “D’you want to leave me to the tender mercies of Aniki again? The last time, she stomped on my foot when we were trying to leap the fires. That’s bad luck for all the next season, that is.”
I give her my most wounded look I can manage.
“Besides, I hope you weren’t going to suggest I leap the flames with Kebibi Ahuda or Goodwin. A cove has his limits, you know.”
She folds her arms across her chest. Ah, Beka, at her most standoffish is a sight… “I know what jumping the fires means, on Beltane.”
I don’t place a hand on her shoulder. A cove can lose his fingers, that way. But I do step a little closer, and say, quietly, “Then you know it doesn’t have to mean anything. It’s just Beltane, Beka. No Dogs, no rushers. Help a cove out here, will you?”
I hold out my hand.
She takes it; places her fingers in mine.
I smile.
At the crossroads, a man can take the left road while a woman the right. Still, sometimes, the Hanged God waits at the crossroads. To some who approach, he offers them the middleroad, the third way.
At Beltane, we build the fires and worship the Hanged God, in Scanra. Sometimes, it is said, the gods walk among us, especially on festivals like Beltane.
Phelan speaks with the shadows.
The fire flickers, casting light and shadow on everyone present, cheering. Hand in hand, we approach it. The cheering and chanting and merrymaking grows.
The Beltane fire beckons.
Rating: PG
For: runyousillydetective
Prompt: 1. Rosto/Beka fic because I still like that idea
Summary: In Scanra, they invoke the Hanged God on Beltane. Sometimes, he stands at the crossroads and shows a worshipper a new path; a third way.
Notes: Hope you enjoy it! Happy Wishing Tree!
-
I was slightly surprised to see Beka at the courtyard behind the Dove. My people’re used to the Dogs coming and going, but as far as we knew, most of them knew nothing of the festivities held in that courtyard on Beltane. We don’t hold a grudge against the Dogs—they have their place, and we have ours. That’s how things are as they’re done in Tortall, or so I’ve come to learn, since Kora, Aniki and me came down from Scanra because we were curst tired of not having enough to eat.
Among other things.
A Rogue must’ve some secrets now, mustn’t he?
They celebrate Beltane in Tortall, same’s we do up in the North. Beltane is a time of the gods and the land—the king in his palace leaps the embers, and so do us in the Lower City. I am king here, after all, and a good Rogue leaps the embers for his people, just as the king does, up there in his palace, before the assembled nobles.
We’d kindled the Beltane bonfire; I was looking around for someone to leap the embers with. In the North, it’s the Hanged God that’s invoked at the fires: fickle Wod who stands at the crossroads and sometimes, opens a third way. As the saying goes: a man goes left at the crossroads; a woman walks to the right. And the Hanged God, he shows a third the way untaken, the middleroad.
We invoke others too, in Scanra: the Allmother especially, at Beltane.
They don’t worship the Hanged God here in Tortall; here, the fires are lit with an invocation to the Goddess and Mithros, and, among us of the Rogue, the Crooked God, and then the hearthfires in the Dove and other inns and homes across the Lower City are themselves lit with fire from the Beltane fire here.
I sipped appreciatively at a cup of mulled wine—they use different spices, here in Tortall, and it’s been curst difficult to get my hand on proper Scanran spices for mulled wine, but Kora knows a merchant as owes her a favour, and…
I miss Scanran food. Mulled wine is properly drunk in the winter, but it’s chilly enough, even at Beltane, that it oughtn’t go amiss.
I exchange a nod with Clary Goodwin. A tough Dog is Goodwin; tough but good. My people breathe a sigh of relief to know she’s off the streets, but groan at her replacements. And them as see her face when they’re caught and sent to the cages come back like meek puppies. It’s a difficult balance, that we have with the Dogs. Sometimes, I think it’ll be the smallest of things that breaks it all and brings down the king’s sword on our heads.
It’s been a long, hard year, with Tunstall’s betrayal. Unexpected, perhaps, although it’s hard on a man when his legs begin to betray him and he knows he can’t walk the streets any longer.
“Well, well,” I say, nursing my cup of wine. “This is rather unexpected, love.”
Beka, at least, is not in Dog black, which means this isn’t a formal visit. Her clothes are a faded brown; blue would suit her, I find myself thinking. Pale frost-blue, for those eyes. Her eyes are striking, as any man in my Court would tell you. But that isn’t what makes Beka stand out.
“I’m not your love,” Beka mutters. “Or ‘lovey’, or ‘cornflower’, or ‘dove’. Really, you great looby, can’t you manage a simple ‘Beka’ or ‘Cooper’, if you must?”
“How did you hear about this?” I ask, sweeping my free hand to indicate the small but exuberant celebrations taking place among the more trusted members of my Court. Aniki, I notice, is tapping mugs of mulled wine with Kebibi Ahuda. I smile; that friendship, at least, was unexpected. Phelan is speaking to someone whose face is in shadow. I’ll find out later.
Beka shrugs. “Kora invited me,” she says. “She invited Ersken, and thought I should be around to keep an eye on him.”
Kora shoots me a wink; I understand.
It isn’t about Westover: that boy’s clearly in love with Kora. It’s Beka she’s worried for: Beka who comes back to us with dead, tired eyes, Beka who killed her own partner, it’s said, while on the Hunt. Beka who watched as another friend—a Provost’s mage, I’m told—was slain before her eyes. Small wonder Kora feels she needs a little cheer.
I almost, reflexively, offer her some mulled wine to drink, and then I remember. It’s passing strange to offer her barley water on Beltane, but that’s exactly what I do.
“Well, then,” I say, “I’ve found the lucky gixie who’s going to leap the embers with me.”
Beka almost chokes on her barley water. Pale eyes glare at me—ghost eyes, they call them, and I have long known why. “Find someone else,” she informs me.
“You’re not on duty tonight,” I counter. “Besides, love—Beka,” I amend, “D’you want to leave me to the tender mercies of Aniki again? The last time, she stomped on my foot when we were trying to leap the fires. That’s bad luck for all the next season, that is.”
I give her my most wounded look I can manage.
“Besides, I hope you weren’t going to suggest I leap the flames with Kebibi Ahuda or Goodwin. A cove has his limits, you know.”
She folds her arms across her chest. Ah, Beka, at her most standoffish is a sight… “I know what jumping the fires means, on Beltane.”
I don’t place a hand on her shoulder. A cove can lose his fingers, that way. But I do step a little closer, and say, quietly, “Then you know it doesn’t have to mean anything. It’s just Beltane, Beka. No Dogs, no rushers. Help a cove out here, will you?”
I hold out my hand.
She takes it; places her fingers in mine.
I smile.
At the crossroads, a man can take the left road while a woman the right. Still, sometimes, the Hanged God waits at the crossroads. To some who approach, he offers them the middleroad, the third way.
At Beltane, we build the fires and worship the Hanged God, in Scanra. Sometimes, it is said, the gods walk among us, especially on festivals like Beltane.
Phelan speaks with the shadows.
The fire flickers, casting light and shadow on everyone present, cheering. Hand in hand, we approach it. The cheering and chanting and merrymaking grows.
The Beltane fire beckons.