[SWE] Festival of Lights - 318 PC

sit down now for some ground rules, thank you
do you think you can handle that much?

“I imagine we were intending on saying our official glad you are still alive until later, so perhaps that is a boon for us.” Asta murmurs with a small more playful tug on his lips. Almost as if it were a pride thing to pretend that they were best of friends for not hounding her at a festival with a billion other people attending. But that’s just the butcher being narcissistic.

He follows Danta easily over toward the stalls, snagging a cup of cider for himself to share with Danta for when the current cup empties. He’s busy watching the steam rather than too many others – though the argument he hears captures his attention briefly, a language he can’t make out and so he tries for context clues. Suddenly, the taffy is offered and the butcher – with his sweet tooth – snags it and pops it into his mouth, chewing down on it and finding he has to do quite a lot of chewing.

The sharpness of his teeth were always geared for tearing rather than chewing and he finds himself surprised with the amount he has to continue to chew. “What is this?” He asks around the mouthful, wondering how difficult it would be to take an entire basket home.

Astaroth

i've just come back to life, i'm here, i'm your little ray of sunshine

the harder the rain, honey, the sweeter the sun

'Amham', happy enough with his nickname and delighting in the cotton candy he manages to procure with Evie at his side, offers her a grin and holds up his own colourful cloud to compare it with her own. "Well, at least the taste is pleasant, even if it is all the same," he says, following suit to pluck some of the fluff from his cotton candy to pop it into his mouth, where it instantly melts on his tongue. Eyes widening - cue baby's first sugar rush - he is clearly oblivious to the idea of getting sick or his usual preferences.

Clearly the Evergreen's penchant for sweetness has passed to her greenhouse-born son.

"Hm? Oh, that is quite a language," he notes, readily accepting the second bouquet of cotton candy (someone will hold his hair when he's sick on the way home, won't they?) and glancing to Deimos as he approaches with a smile. "That sounds like a good idea." He nods.

LUDO

As it does every year, there comes a point in the Festival of Lights where all grows still, all grows silent. And then, one by one, the lanterns begin to dim until only one remains. The only one to light the way for the returning soul to approach, guided by the candlelight and the loved one standing in wait.

For the second year in a row, she has been called back. Only this time, rather than seeing her daughter, it’s another face she wished to have seen amongst the crowds. And as the festival begins to darken until one lantern is lit, its hers – crafted by the best crafter and best friend she had ever known. And so, Rexanna steps past it, forgoing anything else and everyone else so that she can wrap her arms around the Resurrected Sword in as much of a hug as a spirit could manage.

“I hear a congratulations is in order.” She teases, withdrawing with a vibrant pale smile and eyes so wholly sapphire blue that they manage to somehow still feel warm in spite of it. She reaches up to cup his cheeks with her hands, ensuring that his attention is entirely on her when the Penumbra hums a soft and tender whisper for just his ears only. “I know you carry the weight of the door and what happened to me because of it with you... But stop blaming yourself, Deimos. I never once thought to blame you for it.” It’s an honest smile that flickers across her face before she goes to hug him once more. “You have a son now, you can put your mopey energy toward him instead.” It’s playfully teasing, as she always had with him, but gods if she doesn’t hope that this helps that guilt he carries.

---

Deimos's lantern for Rexanna has been chosen for this year's festival!

He shook his head, looking down at his friend and co-ruler fondly. "I would do the same." It seemed less selfishness than mortal nature, to want to see those who were gone to Mort's Halls. He had kept his attention on the food stalls around them, the friends passing near and far, and Flora beside him - doing an excellent job of not looking at the family tiff going on a short distance away. Far enough that he couldn't hear the strange language, but not so far that he couldn't see the gestures and pick out the raised voices.

Her comment drew his eyes back to the two men before they went their separate ways, and he considered them without expression before glancing down at her blonde head. If there was humor in his eyes he hid it well as he gave a deep nod of his head. "Indeed." And whether or not it ran in the family, he did not say.

But then the lights dimmed, the lanterns winking out, and he saw his own fade from view as the Arclight water flickered and went dark. Eyes closed, he drew a slow breath in and then released it, a pang of loss swiftly quieted until he could grieve anew in private later. Raising his head, he saw who had been chosen and then turned away to give the Resurrected Sword privacy with his loved one. "Will you be returning to Torchline with Captain Barclay?" he asked quietly, feeling no inclination to linger much longer.

and the only solution was to stand and fight

The contrast in the atmosphere loomed momentarily – from jokes about cotton candy and impending sugar rushes – to the hush and lull of the crowd. Familiar with the taut listlessness, the way the air stilled in expectation, he presumed the light of his lanterns to fade, as they had each time. He would cast his sights upon the rest of the crowd, peering over the tops of frames, discern who and where, and remain in silence. Eventually, his parents’ echoes dimmed, then Adam and Peter’s, and then, finally –

His brows furrowed as he watched Rexanna’s stay bright and vivid, luminescent above all others, glow and flicker until the being it represented was right there, in front of him. At first it was a stark clarity brushing over the surface of his features – heart racing, rapid and beating in his chest – before the wonder and the melancholy threatened to take over. Would she berate and condemn, as he so justly deserved? Would she rage against his actions, in those days where he’d tried so desperately to guard them during LongNight, that it sent her to her grave?

He nearly shied away, surmising the worst and not being able to face her reviling him. He’d take it all, as he always did, but gods the self-torment would never be as reprehensible as her own –

And then her arms were around him, nearly tangible, words of congratulations instead of damnation. His eyes were already filled with tears well before her hands pressed against his cheeks or words flew; the desperate finality of things he’d always wanted to say rushing through. “I am so sorry,” for everything, because even if she hadn’t blamed him, he’d certainly held all that weight across his shoulders, down his spine, and along his soul for years. He could hear Erebos gurgle and giggle to the ghost somewhere in the periphery, and the Sword tried to encircle the Penumbra as best he could before she broke away to look at him.

And maybe it was all a release, to varnish and lacquer away the guilt that had consumed him for so long. But gods knew he’d have to hear her say the exact words, rather than anyone else. Her pledge, vow, and assurance, for all those actions, were the ones that mattered. “I will try,” he answered with such a watery grumble, he couldn’t help but laugh afterwards. “Thank you for coming. I miss you.”

DEIMOS

Thalassa

Hands getting cold

The world seemed to have a cruel humor about it. Not only was her lantern hanging dimly in the tree next to her, the man who seemed to annoy her at every opportunity now stood in the embrace of a spirit-woman. They seemed happy, resolving long-past regrets. Thal had to turn her eyes away, the ache of her own pain tightening her throat like a noose. Guilt and confusion swirled around the envy of what she'd hoped for herself - forgiveness, release, freedom. 

Maybe every glimpse of pale skin or white hair would always be like a ghost finger trailing down her spine. Maybe the mention of her name would always bring dark thoughts of regret as suffocating as a bag being pulled over her head. Maybe Thal would never be free of her memory, their presence shackles on her future. 

But then again - maybe Maea wasn't dead.

Maybe one day they would notice each other in a crowded street, eyes meeting with a mix of difficult emotions. Maybe they would be like passing ships in a storm, wondering who might shoot first. Or maybe they'd race to each other, Maea's words determine her salvation or downfall. 

Pulling her cloak tighter around her hunched shoulders, Thal tried to cling to that speck of hope. It twisted in her grasp like a fragile thread keeping her sanity from falling to pieces. With any luck, she could weave new strands together, slowly strengthening it through pure determination. And maybe - just maybe - she could find the strength to grant her own forgiveness. 

For now, Thal left the lantern behind, a step away from her guilt, as small as it was. 

---

Thalassa out!

Losing feeling is getting old
Was I made from a broken mold?