[SEASONAL EVENT][OPEN]A Crown for You and You

Phoebe When you need some shelter from the rain, when you need a healer for your pain, I will be there time and time again Apparently during Flowerbirth there was some sort of festival that went on, and people made things to contribute to it. Or so Emmett said. That made Phoebe anxious. What on earth could she make to contribute to such a festival, especially considering she had never attended one! Of course, she could have asked Emmett. Did she though? Nope. He had other things on his mind to worry about more than her contribution to a festival. However, a recent gift caught her eye as she was mulling it over and gave her inspiration. Flower crowns! She could make flower crowns for the women – and she supposed men if they wanted – to wear. It was pretty and fun and served no purpose other than that. Frivolity was part of festival thinking anyways right? So she went out and gathered some flowers. Honeysuckle for joy and devotion, daffodils for rebirth, orange and yellow lilies for passion and gaiety, yarrow for love…all flowers she thought both pretty and perfectly symbolic for the season. She had them carefully trimmed and organized in little piles on her porch, deciding to enjoy the day as she set to her task of weaving together the crowns.

 

M E L I T A

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Melita and Fangorn were not quiet, hushed, peaceful creatures. This day, they were heathens, racing down streets and alleys, playing games with one another simply so the honeybee girl wasn’t restless, and because the vampire gourd was eager to oblige. While the pumpkin bounded, making ridiculous hissing sounds and insinuating bloodthirsty challenges, the youth laughed, limber legs carrying her along corridors, ebullience rising towards chimneys and hedges, giggling away in the spring air. Together, they likely appeared as savages, her auburn locks bouncing in absolute, devilish glee, and the marauding companion’s intonations were enough to send anyone on edge; but it was diversions and amusements, sprung out of LongNight’s claws and talons, rippling through the stone pathways and varnished rubble because it was an opportunity to breathe, to entertain, to be something other than cooped-up and miserable.

Their silly tirades took them right past Phoebe’s porch, and when Melita looked up, she saw the familiar blonde hair. Instead of racing by, which she’d done to many other homes, houses, domiciles, and residences, she opted to wave, to catch her breath, to inhale and exhale the familiar smells of honeysuckle, daffodils, and lilies – a pang slashed its way through her heart, and she ignored it. “Hello!” She called from a fair distance, before grabbing hold of Fangorn, who’d already ceased panting and growling, proceeding closer and closer until her curious, inquisitive mind saw the petals and blossoms piled amidst one another; beautiful, warm colors. Clementine would’ve adored and revered them (this one is for joy, and they would’ve giggled together, weaving them amidst one another until their tiaras were adorned and covering their hair, attracting bees and butterflies in the middle of the fields). Her tones were fervent and ardent, hopeful, dabbling in the nature of the past, aiming for it in the present. “Are you making crowns?” She peeked over the edge of the wooden frame, face obviously eager and fervent, craving to ask if she could join – the memories and patterns would be in her fingers, easily divested and helpful.

Phoebe

Seiji

Longnight has changed something in him. Seiji no longer explores so far from. He is content, instead, to wander the streets between houses, greeting people there, watching new coats of paint go on, watching children run past. This place sings with life, with hope sorely lacking during the week of Longnight. And he can better watch Kiada if he stays near home. Home. He still is not quite sure what to do about that. Today, though, he does not think about it. Today, he is on his way to the atheneum once more, enjoying the spring sunshine, when a familiar face flashes by. Well — a familiar cloud of hair. She is bright and then she is gone, laughing, her strange companion bouncing along in her wake. Seiji hesitates, surprise written on his features, before he trails along after her, his pace more leisurely by far. He finds her not to far ahead, speaking to someone in front of a nearby house. Seiji is pleasantly surprised to see he recognizes both of them; a warm smile spreads across his features as he approaches. To Phoebe he waves first, as he knows her name. "Hello, Phoebe. I am glad you are well." Seiji has no idea what passed during her Longnight; so far as he knows, she and Isla both passed the time safe in the Infirmary. He turns next to the redheaded girl, his features bright. "Hello," he says to her as well. "We met, I think, but I don't know your name. I am Seiji." His eyes scan curiously over the flowers arranged on Pheobe's porch. "What are you making?" as a child I mostly spoke inside my head had conversations with the clouds, the dogs, the dead

Phoebe When you need some shelter from the rain, when you need a healer for your pain, I will be there time and time again First one voice, then another interrupted the quiet around her. Phoebe looked up in surprise, smiling to see familiar faces. ”Hello, Seiji, hello Melita.” she said with a smile to the both of them. Apparently Seiji and Melita were at least somewhat acquainted, if not on a first-name basis. But either way she was happy to see them both. ”Yes, I’m making flower crowns for people to wear for the festival.” Phoebe said with a smile, to answer both Melita and Seiji’s questions. ”I picked all of these flowers for their symbolism to go along with the season.”” she said as she gestured for them to join her on the porch if they wished. ”Would you like to join me? They are easy to make.”

 

M E L I T A

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Fondness and affection flowed through the girl with the slightest answer of yes; the facets of blooms and memories scattered through the darkest reaches of her mind, and she could hear her sister laughing, giggling, a thousand miles and seconds away. She didn’t simmer or sink into the brink of what could have been (the stirring, the longing, sat there, waiting for her to break one day), and instead, her smile blossomed, unfurled and uncurled in such a radiant bliss likely no one would have ever thought she’d cut down demons and monsters months before. “I’d love to!”

Moments later, another appeared, familiar, the press of LongNight an inner flinch, a grimace, a stain along the intertwining lace of her essence; but she didn’t wear it on her features. The rancorous chords still hung in their ramparts and rafters though, reminded her of Kiada and death lingering from outside the Rathskeller’s walls, confusion, apprehension, and her utterly incapable of doing anything about it. Uselessness wasn’t a garb she tolerated wearing. “Yes, I remember you,” she said, a little softer, a nod to proceed in the same luminescence. Her name had been uttered, but not recalled; not with Kiada’s sorrow and anguish clinging to the corners. “I’m Melita. Pleased to see you again, Seiji.”

Then her attention slipped back to flower crowns and the murmured festival, and she allowed the acrid notions of LongNight’s persistence to thread away from her, a hundred other inquiries forming in her mind. “A festival?” The excitement was tangible, dancing on her tongue, forming in the depths of her gilded gaze. “How exciting! I’d be glad to help. My sister and I used to make these all the time.” She hummed under her breath, maneuvering her and Fangorn quickly onto the porch, as if she’d always belonged there and simply needed an invitation to rejoin the faction. The gourd occupied himself by staring at some flowers and hissing; Melita patted a spot beside her for Seiji if he obliged.

Her eyes slid over several petals and hues she’d never seen before. Some were familiar, the beautiful bounty of fields and the wilderness, but she didn’t know the stories or myths behind them. Clementine and her had been mere children dancing in meadows; never quite pondering what each fragrance or floret represented, and she certainly didn’t want to combine and weave things that shouldn’t go together. “What are their meanings?”

Seiji

Flower crowns. Seiji cannot help but smile at this simple but joyful idea. What better way to celebrate spring than with flowers? Or — Flowerbirth as they call it here. He nods as Melita gives her name — a pretty one, a soft note of song, bright to match the cheerful girl. “Kiada is better,” he adds, thinking she may wish to know. “Thank you for the help.” Longnight may have gone so much more badly had she not been there to do what he would not. Now is not the time for lingering in such dark spaces, though. Seiji follows Melita up to the porch, eyeing the flowers curiously. “I would like to help!” he declares cheerfully. He takes a seat beside her as she offers, and cranes his neck to look over at them. She has asked the question on his tongue — what do they all mean? — and more importantly — what festival?. Caido is still full of surprises. as a child I mostly spoke inside my head had conversations with the clouds, the dogs, the dead

Phoebe When you need some shelter from the rain, when you need a healer for your pain, I will be there time and time again Phoebe smiled and nodded. ”Yes a festival! I’m not certain what it is about exactly but a festival is a festival.” And festivals meant fun! She moved the baskets around so they all could reach them and sit comfortably. It was going to be nice to have some company while she did this. ”Have you made flower crowns before?” she asked Seiji, since Melita mentioned she used to make them all the time. If not, she would show him how to weave the stems together. ”Oh lots of things! The honeysuckle represents joy and devotion. Daffodils represent rebirth. The orange lilies are passion and the yellow ones are gaiety. The yarrow represents love.” she said with a grin, point out each one in its representative basket. ”I thought they all had good meanings for a Flowerbirth festival, don’t you?”

 

M E L I T A

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These amiable efforts were far more exalted than the turbulent, tumultuous intervals of LongNight and its disastrous touches; she nodded in rhythm to her hums at the information Seiji provided of Kiada’s wellbeing, of her help (however miniscule; she’d opened a door with an eerie sense of boldness, ignoring every warning because she could, on a chance, on a whim). “You’re welcome. I’m glad to hear she’s doing well.” She didn’t ask any more about the woman; but gods, she wanted to – enigmas and quandaries floating around her skull since the stretched evenings of death and damnation. Clementine would’ve shaken her head at her notions, smiled and directed her inquiries elsewhere, her mother would’ve told her to save them for a better time, a better moment. We cannot ask now, my bee, was a constant echo; sometimes Melita had held the words steadfast in her heart, sometimes she ran away from them and bellowed, howled, and roared into the heavens for her answers. She refrained for the present moment, swallowing down the incoming queries. The flowers beckoned her.

She’d been hoping to gain more information about the upcoming festival – the Rift had no happy celebrations except the latest night’s survival, and Helovia had been content, beautiful, in those sparse moments before the end. “Do you know what we’re honoring?” She asked anyway, even if Phoebe remained uncertain; the depths of her gilded gaze settling on the girl briefly, before attending her attention back to stems, leaves, and blooms. Honeysuckle was contentment and loyalty, constancy through storms and tempests. Daffodils were renewal, resurgence, the sprigs of spring after winter’s frigid touches. Lilies were ardency and fervency, deep-rooted passion draped in orange, cheer adorned in yellow. Love, no matter the reaches, curled and pearled in yarrow. Her eyes floated to each, clucking with her tongue as she attempted to decide which she’d pick for the first crown, for the diadem and tiara stretching over skulls and craniums. “Sounds perfect,” she proffered back, grin restored, as her hands reached for honeysuckle and yarrow, clutching hold of the stems and beginning to weave them in place, as if she’d done this for her entire life.

The honeybee girl tried not to cry at the incoming of feelings, at the whistling memories coiling their into her mind, all at once, beatific and wondrous, segments of a better time, of a better place, before the bitterness, the nightmares, the horror crawled in and burrowed its way into her core. She blinked rapidly, fought them away; and recalled a sweet little girl placing whatever blossoms she could in her hair.