Eliza In The Flesh!: the festival.

The story of Providence, though a tragedy, is celebrated as an annual tradition. On the first day of a moonless sky, people gather in groups to celebrate, and feast, and party. This festival is held for half a moon’s turn—for those who use the Babylonains system, the equivalent of two weeks—and begins at the start of the new four seasons—in other words, a year.

 

The Festival of Conception is when the great divide between opposing ideals dissolves into celebration.

 

The ones who believe the death of Providence to be a murder wear clothes of dark red lined with gold accents.

 

The ones who believe the death of Providence to be a sacrifice wear clothes of deeper blues with silver jewelry.

 

And the ones who do not know go about the celebration in their regular clothes, preparing to be swayed at any given moment.

 

The first day is the establishment of parties. Colorful banners of red and gold, blue and silver deck the streets and homes of many. Women and children weave flags out of wool, or silk, or cotton and wave them all through the streets.

 

Later that evening, the townsfolk will gather to watch a story told only through music, flags, and carefully planned choreography.

 

The next days follow with groups of travelers passing through the residency, and the folks will host them in exchange for a story.

 

After a quarter turn passes—in other words, a week—the folks will dance in the streets and through the night, allowing a single candle worth a few hours to guide their steps as they dance to the music, mimicking Providence and The Lover’s game of waltzing against the other.

 

As a new quarter begins, the citizens start to set the stage. The first show is always the death of Providence as his death must play out before any other story can begin.

 

Then myths written in sand, fables found in stars, and stories told through leaves are all brought to life through the visionaries and thespians.

 

On the final day of the festival, the evening falls and the people gather to host a final feast as a toast not to the tragedy, but the aftermath of it. The feast proceeds and a great number of stories are passed from ear to ear. Stories of men made of clay, risen from tears. Stories of stars shedding light and warmth upon the world. Stories of daggers and betrayal. Passion and anger. Dawnings of heroes and the vanquishing of others.

 

The festival ends and the travelers depart. In the back of their minds, however, and scrawled in journals are the stories of old and tales of new, waiting to be spoken aloud.

 

***

 

As strange as Raventown was, it seemed that they, too, celebrated the annual festival at the beginning of the new four seasons. The duchess couldn’t say that she was surprised, however. Eliza didn’t celebrate much despite previously attending a religious school. Occasionally, she will be called to attend some of the events as a part of her responsibilities as a duchess. Until, of course, she left to travel to new lands.

 

She watched as villagers began to put up their respective banners, gazing at the many out in blue attire. Most didn’t have silver jewelry, so they fashioned themselves necklaces of iron and tin. Those who wore robes of dark red, though few, tended to be more boisterous about their decor and apparel. 

 

She watched as women along with their kids paraded around with flags of red and gold, blue and silver, twirling them around with joyous smiles. Merchants began to open their stalls with wares to suit the occasion. Then, Eliza watched the exchange of words begin.

 

Debates and folktales were spread from ear to ear, some she heard through eavesdropping. She listened to stories of sirens with dreams to fly among birds. She heard tales of brave warriors collapsing at the knees. She minded the fables of a goat-man and a witch with a mischievous raven. And before long, she was whisked away into a world of her own.

 

A tall man, with a dark complexion and a handsome face, offered her a story. She supposed she took too long to respond because the man began to speak. Eliza had half a mind to leave mid-conversation as she had better things to indulge herself in, but the narrative this man told felt deeper than fiction.

 

“‘Hark, dear king! The stars have brought a gift’ the servant cried. ‘What more could they grant me if I have all there is to give?’ the king asked. There was nothing he couldn’t reach, nothing he couldn’t gain, all with a flick of a hand. But then the servant answered ‘A wish,’ he whispered, and the stars shone a little brighter.” The man’s face broke into a small smile just a bit as Eliza blinked away the surreal imaginings of a king, a servant, and a wish from her eyes.

 

“Upon hearing this gift, the king sought the stars himself, climbing to the bridge between the stars and The Mother. ‘I wish for gold,’ he said, and the stars shook their heads. ‘You have it all already.’ Confused, he requested again. ‘I wish to conquer. To have my legacy embedded in stone.’ The stars shook their heads again. ‘You have it all already.’”

 

Eliza swallowed, suddenly understanding where this story went. Visions of bridges and stars blinded her sight like a cloak over her eyes. The man in front of her was not a resident. Perhaps not even a traveler at all. “The king fumed at their response, cursing the stars. ‘Then what good are your wishes?’ he yelled so furiously, it shook many out of the sky and sent them to The Mother in streaks of light. ‘Come back to us when your head is full of dreams and your heart is full of desire,’ they said, forsaking him as the sun drove them further into the dark.”

 

“So what?” Eliza snapped at him, partly shaken by how surreal it felt. The stars in his eyes shook their heads in displeasure. “Everytime the stars fall in streaks of light towards The Mother, the king has gone back again and failed to place a wish.”

 

She stared at the man, unsure what else to say, unsure if his story was meant specifically for her, unsure if this man was a mortal at all, or perhaps a messenger from the skies. She decided that if she blinked and he vanished, she would not question it at all. If she turned her head for just a moment, and he disappeared from where he sat, she would not pursue it further.

 

The evening followed and Eliza watched among the crowd as tales of old and new were told through movements and music rather than words. She would’ve left long ago to retreat to her home if a song of somber anger started to play in the background. The scene capturing the night sky with a servant, a star, and a wish all present. And portraying whom Eliza assumed to be the king was a man with stars in his eyes and a faux crown of bronze.

 

Her storyteller onstage met her gaze and winked. She never saw the man again.