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Piett has not been back on Axxila for a winter equinox since he was twenty. The Night of Feats has not changed. Drums pound in the night, so much louder out here in the Derelicts than would ever be allowed in Dúicixxila proper, even in the thirty second level. Not something the missionaries would let slide, even if they don’t try to stamp out Piett’s religion so thoroughly as they had even a few centuries ago. Even the Chandrilan saints of the “least fortunate” don’t give a damn about the poorest district of the city.
But here, the drums ring through the dusty streets and Thrawn looks transfixed by them, before they even make it to the square where the Muingha whirl in bright colored linens and carefully crafted masks. “The ritegivers,” Piett says quietly to Thrawn, a hand tucked in his elbow.
The woman wearing the mask of the Shining Goddess dances past in a swirl of white and pale green. She’s pursued in a ring around the square by a man in the mask of the Fanged God. Any time he catches up, they fall into a dance of spinning kicks and swinging elbows. Most outsiders would not notice the remaining edges of Axxila’s old martial traditions in the movements, hidden in dance to avoid the persecuting eyes of Chandrila’s pacifistic missionaries and then later, the occupation that Chandrilan scrutiny had invited by blunting the teeth of Axxila’s warriors.
But Thrawn, Piett knows that Thrawn catches them. Is lining them up against Piett’s own combat style, noting the telegraphed versions of his favored elbow strikes. The patterns in Piett’s footwork traced out with dizzying complexity far faster than he could ever manage.
And then the woman slips away again to take up her run, the man chasing after.
“This is not a scripted fight,” Thrawn observes, head tilting to take in the other athletic competitions and bartering and matchmaking taking place around the edges of the square and spilling out into the side streets. But he always, always keeps one eye on the dancers.
“If it were scripted, how would we know we were genuinely in for good luck this year instead of just wishful thinking?” Piett asks teasingly, drawing Thrawn toward one of the food stalls. The smell of proper Axxilaan spices linger on the air and Piett knows his work for the empire is important but he’s realizing that he’s missed this desperately.
Thrawn eyes the dancers curiously. “Is that the outcome of this fight?”
“They’re seen as proxies for the deities, mimicking the celestial struggle that takes place tonight. If the Fanged God wins, the year will be a tragic one. If she does-”
“Good fortune for the year,” Thrawn finishes, smiling down at him. It’s a tiny quirk of the lips, unrecognizable to anyone here but Piett. And it makes Piett so happy that Thrawn is enjoying this, seeing the joy and liveliness and not the dust or the cracked and blaster-scored limestone of the houses.
“Or so the lorespeakers say, at any rate,” Piett says. He dodges a flailing limb from one of the wrestling competitions as they pass.
“And the purpose of the elders who are pushing potential couples together? The bartering?”
“Spreading around new hope and blessings and other good beginnings,” says old Aka Ralana. Her lekku hang down even longer than when Piett had last seen her twenty years ago and her montrals reach for the stars. There are new wrinkles in the old woman’s white facial markings but her bright purple eyes are as vivid and full of life as ever. “Helps the Goddess, you see. Gives her a little boost in the fight, if we’re making good things on our own. Then she can use more of her energy to stop him from bringing on the bad ones.”
And then she sees the matching tattoos on their arms, purple for prosperity in marriage, winding up their arms. “Oh good, for you, Firmus, truly!”
“Thank you, Aka,” he says, leaning a little bit into Thrawn’s side. Mostly just because he can.
She smiles at them. “I’ll leave you boys to your evening, I have a grandson who I need to find a husband for.” And then she’s bustling off, vanishing into the milling crowds.
“Come on,” Piett says, tugging Thrawn up to the food stall he’d been aiming for. It smells strongly of pomegranate, orange, and meat. Piett can feel his stomach growling in response, even though they ate a few hours before. “Do you want the egg dish or the dumplings?”
He gets no answer and turns back to look at Thrawn, worried. And finds he has nothing to worry about at all. Thrawn looks almost rapturous, with his eyes closed and his head tilted back to expose the long strong line of his throat. His hair is coming free of it’s gel slightly and there’s a faint blue stubble on his chin and in the flickering light of one of the many small fires dotted around, he has never looked more handsome. “It smells like Csilla,” he says, breathing in the scents of the night.
“It does?” Piett asks, curious. He still knows so little about his husband's birth culture. Just the little mental evidence board of scattered observations or little comments throughout the years.
“It’s traditional for our equinox festival to eat citrus fruits,” Thrawn says. His eyes are still closed. “It smells… It smells like when Thrass used to bake pastries for the two of us, when I was still a child.”
Thrawn doesn’t see the vendor tuck two of the orange fritters, topped with a healthy dollop of sweet yogurt and sprinkled with a generous helping of cardamom, into Piett’s hand and utterly refuse all payment. He does however, feel it when Piett stands on his toes to press the fried treat to his lips.
A strong arm wraps around Piett’s back as support. Piett watches Thrawn take a careful bite of the treat and gets to see the exact moment he registers the surprised pleasure flare across his husband’s face. So very open and delighted, as the drums beat around them. The stars and three moons gleam in the night sky and the firelight flickers on Thrawn’s face.
A great roar goes up from those watching the dancers and Piett knows this next year will be a very good one. How can it not be, when its beginning has already blessed him with getting to see Thrawn smile like this?