The annual Festival of Lights is probably the strangest holiday ever. 

"Bright Festival to you!"

It is a contradiction of terms in many ways. 

"May your Festival be bright and joyous!"

It is the one day of the year where Londinium turns off all the overhead lighting. 

"Enjoy your Festival!"

Beginning on the 20th day of the 12th month at 2100, until 0700 on the 21st day, the "nighttime" lighting remains dark. Normal light levels resume with "daylight" levels at that time. Individual families may leave their lights on, though many chose to use low level lighting during that time, and families can often be found walking about to view the various personal light displays that have begun to spring up around Londinium. It is a time for quiet reflection and valuing the family, often with giving gifts and eating meals together. A time when solemnity and reflection are paramount.

And everyone wants to tell each other to enjoy the brightness of a holiday that reveres darkness.

It irritates me. Along with having to shop for gifts during the leadup to Festival. I generally wait as long as possible before venturing out to shop in order to put off the stress of being in public. Which is why I am currently standing in line behind three others at the mercantile right now, on the morning leading up to Festival, instead of being in bed asleep as I should be. 

“Put your gift for Grammy up on the counter so Mommy can pay for it.” The mother at the head of the queue is being impossibly patient with her spawnling at the moment. Said little boy is vehemently refusing to let his purchase out of his grip. He is on the verge of a tantrum, though the mother has no way to access that information. I can see it though; frustration flows through the boy in a magenta wash, ready to erupt from him at any moment. 

“Would you like to scan it yourself?” The cashier is trying his very best to help. But I can see that he is also about ready to explode from the stress of dealing with this small creature that is not cooperating. He is at least holding himself together better than the woman in front of me. She has begun grumbling under her breath about how annoying the spawnling is, and can that mother be any worse at parenting, and if it were her offspring he would have been getting a stern talking to already.

I just roll my eyes behind my goggles, confident that my exasperation remains unseen.

The little boy is finally convinced to hold the item up just enough for the cashier to input the purchase and not give vent to his outburst. His mother praises him effusively, which garners another round of complaints from the woman in front of me. But at least the cashier can quickly finish ringing up the parent and her spawn. 

They leave. The line takes a step forward.

Next up is a middle aged man, who is just there to pick up an order he placed the week before. That goes quickly enough. Thank the Dark.

He leaves. The line takes another step forward.

Now it is the turn of the irritated woman. For all that she made a fuss about how long the other woman was taking, she takes her damn sweet time checking out. Entitled ass. May the Hungering Dark reclaim her sooner rather than later for her hypocrisy. She even has the audacity to ask if the proprietor is considering a frequent shopper savings program, because she shops here all the time and spends her hard earned money only here. Her words, not mine.

By the time the cashier starts bagging up her mountain of items, he looks like he would rather drop kick her out the front door. I would not blame him one bit if he did. In fact, I would probably put aside my aversion to touch and hold her in place so he could. And she natters on the entire time, about how a different shop has better prices but she still comes here because she knew the previous owner and everything has just gone downhill in the last five years and why is everything more expensive, it must be the fault of the council. 

“Annika has nothing to do with it,” I growl under my breath.

Apparently, I growl louder than I thought. “I beg your pardon?” The patron gathers the first of her shopping bags to her and turns to face me.

I can see the exact moment she realizes she might have gotten herself into more of a situation than she can handle. Her eyes go as wide as her mouth and I see the nervous surprise pulse in her with a flash of sickly yellow-green. She is most likely accustomed to having her own way in all things, and I am not only an unknown quantity in her equation, but I look unlike anyone else she’s had to deal with before. I know that look on her face all too well, paired with the emotional response she cannot help.

In for a penny, in for a pound, as the old saying goes. 

My eyes narrow, though I know she cannot see it. “I said, ‘Annika has nothing to do with it’. Chairman Surazi is actively trying to limit the spending of the rest of the Council, in fact. And none of them have control over the prices the merchants and traders charge for sales of their goods. If you want to take exception with the prices of goods and sundries, take it up with the trading guilds and caravans that supply us with necessities rather than just griping about it and taking up the time of others.” Once I open my mouth, the rest rolls out before I can stop myself.

I watch the color drain from the woman’s face as I speak. She takes a step away from me, pressing her back against the counter, though I have made no move toward her. But I recognize that she feels threatened all the same. It sets my senses on alert, readying myself for whatever reaction she may have.

“Ma’am?” The voice of the clerk interrupts the tense standoff, shattering the impasse. “Here’s your bill of sale. Thank you for shopping with us today.” 

I flick a glimpse at the cashier, in time to see the last vestiges of satisfaction and vindication shimmer off him. He keeps it locked inside behind a professional exterior of calm. But he cannot hide it from me. I feel my lips twitch as I stomp on an impulse to return that emotion with a feral grin.

The woman does not turn from me. Instead, she edges to the side just enough to take the rest of her bags from the counter. “Th…thank you…” Clutching her purchases to herself, she backs away from me for several more steps before turning and all but fleeing out the door. I just watch her with outward placidity before stepping up to place my own purchases upon the counter.

A sigh from the clerk brings my attention back. “Did you find everything you were looking for?” His professional mask is firmly back in place. But beneath it, he is quite weary. Probably of today, but it could be of his employment in general.

I offer a non-committal noise of assent that the cashier thankfully takes at face value. Small talk is not my forte, so it is something of a relief that this clerk does not wish to engage in it. Even more, I am grateful that he is not wishing me a “merry” or “festive” anything. 

“May I see your ID for the alcohol purchase?” 

I blink stupidly at him for a moment as I process the words. Then my hand goes for my wallet automatically. “Yes, of course.” I must admit to being a bit surprised; I have not been carded in many years.

“Policy,” he explains, almost apologetically. “There’s been an increase in citizenry trying to buy for the underaged, so the manager thinks this is somehow going to help crack down on that.”

I scowl as I flip open my wallet and draw out my Londinium issued citizenry card. “That makes no sense.” He makes as though to take the card from me, so I quickly place it down on the counter and withdraw my hand to avoid the possibility of contact. Out of habit, I also begin to reach for one of my business cards to provide a secondary source of identification. But he merely glances at the citizenry card before holding it out to me again with a mutter of thanks. I pluck it from his fingers with care and slide it back into the safety of my wallet, tucking it all back into my pocket as he returns to ringing up my purchases.

I realize lamely as my hand falls to my side once more that I still have to pay. Which means I need my wallet. That I just returned to my pocket. Well, that was stupid. I decide to just wait until the clerk asks for payment rather than look any more foolish. 

"Gift shopping for Festival?" Oh no. Small talk. The cashier seems only halfway interested in my answer at the moment. However, if I do not answer, his interest will spike. That is the way of this torture. 

"Ah...yes." Perhaps I can get away with minimalist answers. "For my… family." It is painfully obvious that I was originally going to say something else. But I have no desire to explain to this individual what a fellowship is. 

The cashier gives me a grunt to acknowledge my words. "You'd think I'd be done myself, working here, but I haven't even started." He chuckles, and I wonder how much longer I have to endure this. "I still have to buy for my wife's family, too.”

I did not think I was purchasing enough to warrant this small talk. Why does this man feel chatty of a sudden? He did not do this for any prior customers. Dark help me. As Kellen might say, this blows. Is this because I helped fend off that entitled woman immediately ahead of me? If so, I am never doing that again.

There has got to be a way out of this. Maybe if I just keep quiet…

“Oh, someone’s lucky! This is a good find; we just got this in this morning.” He is ogling the goose down pillow I am purchasing for Kellen. How is it that he sounds surprised to see this? He is employed here; should he not know what items his store has in their inventory? And why is he taking so much time ringing up these purchases?

I realize the cashier is looking at me expectantly and I quickly replay in my mind what he just said. “Yes. It is indeed a good find.” That was an especially awkward reply. Please finish quickly. Dark help me get out of this without killing someone. The sweat that is beading on my spine is threatening to collect into a droplet big enough to run and it is bothering me enough that I have to stifle an urge to fidget.

“Do you have a purchase account on file?” Suffering Dark! Thank you! Finally time to pay.

“No. A moment.” My hand flies back to my pocket to dig out my wallet. There is nothing controlled about the action as I flip the billfold open, yank out a random paycard, and slap it onto the counter. The concussion of the card impacting the countertop practically reverberates through the store. I feel a building urge to flee from the shop, certain I have just made a spectacle of myself and everyone is staring. My subconscious interprets the stress and irritation as a threat, which results in my scales unsheathing. And there is nothing I can do about it. 

Deep breaths. Calm down. I recognize that I am overtired and stressed. The cashier is clearly startled, and is now working to finish processing my purchase in double time. I can see his fear starting to ramp up the longer I stand before him. A quick glance over my shoulder assures me that no one else has stepped into line behind me. This will be over soon.

“Here you go.” The clerk is shaken, his fingers trembling slightly as he hands my paycard back to me. I can hear the faint quaver in his voice and see a faint green edging of hesitation upon him. At least he did not run screaming. With a nod, I carefully pluck the card from his fingers and slip it back into my wallet before tucking that back into my pocket for the second time.

“Thank you.” My own voice is not exactly steady. Anxiety is turning me into even more of a disaster than I usually am. Wordlessly, my now bagged purchases are shoved toward my side of the counter. There is a mutter from the clerk that I manage to parse out as an offering for my Festival to be merry, and I refrain from reminding the cashier that it is intended to be a somber occasion by a fraction of a hair. Instead, I simply nod nervously, collect the satchel of goods, and make my way out of the store as quickly as I am able to without outwardly appearing to flee.