Luke and Simon | Evening
This Turning was a more solemn one for most people than it was for Luke. For all the turmoil present in his life, he'd suffered significantly fewer losses than most, a fact that he always remembered to be grateful for during the first part of the festival. He'd spent the early part of the day tooling around the cemetery, honoring old ancestors and then rounding up a gaggle of bored children and making them laugh with various tricks, some of which involved his Gift (these often also included a gentle fall, which always amused the children) and some of which involved singing, dancing, or fiddling.
He was happy and buzzing by the time he shucked his shirt and made his way over to the unlit bonfire. He sipped an ale as he listened to Danu Llewellyn give his homily (twice!) and watched the oiled effigies turn the flames briefly green. This had always been his favorite part as a child, the way the gods seemed to alter the fire itself, if only for a moment. It sent the same flicker of awe through his heart as it always did, but this year, when the flames reverted to their usual color, a heavy, creeping guilt filled his chest in its place.
Others filed into their lines, their scraps of paper or other offerings already prepared. They had all done the first step already and figured out precisely what it was that they wanted to let go of. Luke, though... he wasn't sure. He knew he had burdens, sure he did. But which were the ones that he was allowed to put down? Which ones were even possible to put down? He brushed his thumb over the lucky rock he'd carried in his pocket every day since he'd started working for Antoine as he crept closer to the fire, squatting down to pick up one of the many blank booklets scattered around. As he got back up, though, he knocked his drink over, the rest of his ale spilling into the grass and over his sandaled feet. "One day," he said to his feet, "you're gonna do something right."