December Event - Long Nights, Bright Lights [Holiday Catchall]

[pumpkinhollow]

Long Nights,
Bright Lights

All Manner of Celebrations

Winter is hard for everyone, but none more so than the residents of an island that has been isolated by the cruel hands of fate. Where the rest of the Emerald Isles is able to rely on imports from other nations in warmer places, Marrow Isle has no resources but her own. All the while, her mettle continues to be tested against the horrors brought on by the curse.

It is for this reason that among all the holidays celebrated by the Mothers' children, Givingstide is particularly beloved. A warm and cozy festival based around wishing each other prosperity and love in the new year, the lengthening of days, embracing generosity even in the lean times, and celebrating the fact that the darkest part of the year is coming to an end. Set on the Winter Solstice, this gathering marks final day of darkening skies. While some observe the day in family homes, it's customary to join together in communal spaces.

Then, the following week, Mourner's Night is hosted in Fall's Promise Cemetery. A holiday dedicated to mourning the dead can feel a bit strange on an island where residents no longer die, but the tradition is kept up for all manner of reasons. Mourning those who died before the barrier, mourning the loss of offworld lives, and even mourning oneself are all entirely valid reasons one might attend. This year, as well, it is projected that there may be a special guest...

And of course, this year there are a number of festivities being hosted by the island's newly booming interfaith community. Chief among them, Hanukkah and several variations of Christmas will be celebrated around the same time. The Temple and the interfaith community encourage offworlders and locals alike to share and enjoy their festivities with the island in this most sacred time of year.

By Candlelight We Go

Check out the various festivities below!

Givingstide

The fireplace is lit at the Oak & Iron. A wreath of pine boughs hangs over the merry blaze, paper horses and snowflakes decorate the walls, and a table in the center of the room has been done up to look like a silver sleigh. As people file in, hot food and warm drinks begin coming out of the kitchen and bar, and gifts begin piling up on the sleigh table. (Ultimately, a fair amount of them end up on the floor around it.) Everyone greets each other warmly with hearty handshakes, firm hugs, and wishes of a blessed Givingstide. Perhaps if you have a clever eye, you may even see a horned figure drinking hot cocoa in the corner harmlessly, enjoying the atmosphere of good will and keeping watch over the party to prevent any troublemakers. And for once, just once, for the first time in so long on this frightful, forsaken island, there is true peace.

The tavern is warm. Orange firelight flickers, as if dancing with the shadows. Decorations of shimmering silver and hunter green, the colors of Givingstide, adorn the dark wood decor of the Oak & Iron. The stucco and timber walls of the dining hall safeguard those within from the bitter wind and snow. It's no Leeds gala--- the food is simple, but it is beautifully made. Roasted chicken, potatoes, onion soup, and fresh-baked bread. Slices of pumpkin pie are passed around for dessert. Hot cider with or without alcohol, mulled wine, coffee, and spiced tea are served with the meal. It isn't glamorous, but it's made with love and tastes like coming home somehow.

As dinner carries on, music begins to be played from the tavern stage, and Mayor Poe has Yorick assist her in doling out the gifts from the table. They read the tags and summon the recipients to the table to recieve them. You can open yours right there or at your table, and decide for yourself whether you care to announce the name of the giver to the room.

Once the gifts are distributed, the partygoers are left to their own devices, allowed time to laugh with friends, dance to music, drink to their hearts' content, sneak off to while away a private moment in one of the inn's sitting rooms, or head home for an early night. Regardless of your choice, let it be with a loved one. A friend, a partner, a member of your newfound family. Blessed Givingstide, and may your lantern ever stay lit.

Mourner's Night [cw: grief]

As the early dark of high winter begins to fall, people begin to gather on the streets. A somewhat odd sight, but this isn’t the first time that people have come together under lantern light for an event that is in defiance of the danger posed by darkness. They are bundled tightly, wearing mostly black if it is available in clothes warm enough, and many people have donned veils which cover their faces with black lace.

From the streets, there is an informal procession. At intervals, there are men in uniform black military peacoats and black caps carrying tall poles with bright lanterns on top, swaying in the frigid air. Their faces are painted to look like skulls. Yorick is among them, as are Father Mulcahy and Darcy. The rest of the townsfolk are asked to follow along as they please, each bearing a long white candle stuck into a paper cup meant to catch its wax. The candles are in no danger of blowing out— the wind is eerily still.

The procession is largely silent. The people who do speak do so only in whispers. It winds through the streets of the town, converging on one of the main roads. Once it is clear of buildings, the front of the solemn parade becomes visible. A black funeral carriage, like one that may have once conveyed caskets, bearing lanterns at each corner. The two black horses are marked with skeletons using white chalk on their fur, and it is driven by a woman in black garb representative of deepest mourning. This is Fever, playing the role of Mortanne.

It has been a long time, what feels like ages, since the people of this town have had a funeral procession outside the context of Mourner's Night. But they remember well their traditions and follow them with reverence. This, for you outsiders, is a unique glimpse at something you might not otherwise see due to the effects of the barrier. Each and every person in town follows the trail left by carriage wheels in the fresh snow and arrives at Fall's Promise Cemetery.

Beyond the wrought iron gate, there is more silence. Locals gather around the graves of their friends and loved ones, saying silent prayers and spending time in contemplative remembrance. You see Dahlia stand outside the central mausoleum, looking grimly up at her own name carved into the stone.

LEEDS

Degas has made his way over to a grave. He is here as himself, not as a reverend, and he does not leave the side of the headstone he gravitated toward. Melly Clayton.

Meanwhile, Dr. West is loitering at the back near a gargoyle. For once even he is present. And far off in the shadows, a small figure looms outside the fringes of lantern light, looking off into the sea. Cherry red hairs catch the light occasionally. Elsie.

The candlelight vigil remains silent for a long time as people recall and honor their loved ones. Any sound of shuffling or movement is dampened further by soft, fluffy snow, creating a deep and heavy hush that is almost loud in its soundlessness. Perhaps, deep in the Season of Spirits, the presence of the fallen can be felt in the quiet dark.

Your mind drifts as the somber reverence beckons your mind to your memories. Who do you honor? A lost lover, a passed parent, someone you left behind in your life before? Or perhaps you honor yourself. You did die to get here, after all. And it’s probable that you aren’t the only one to think so.

In the distance, the bell tower chimes. Then, rising up from the snow, soft at first and then louder, a song. The locals are beginning to sing a hymn about Mortanne sharing carriage rides with passengers, reminiscing about their lives as her carriage drives them to the afterlife. Did you learn it from a local before the festival? Do you sing, hum, or remain silent?

As the song finally comes to a close, all at once the locals blow out their candles, leaving the graveyard in darkness aside from the lantern poles. The silence now broken, people shuffle along, meeting up to mingle and hug or heading home for an early night. Some of them are crying.

Throughout the festival, lingering at the outskirts, shrouded in both the deepest darkness and layers of mourner's black, is a woman whose pale hair occasionally catches light even under her elaborate lace veil. If you are someone with a special connection to death, or to winter, you may feel her eyes upon you.

Interfaith Holidays

On the 24th and 25th of December, touches of red and gold are added to the traditional Givingstide green and silver, and images of angels and stars take their place alongside horses and snowflakes. On the left side of the main congregation space, a table has been set up to give a wooden Nativity set and an advent wreath pride of place. A little book, kindly crafted by Pinhole Printing and Binding, has been put together for those unfamiliar to read the story of Christmas.

From December 25th to January 2nd, the majority of interfaith space is decked out in blue and silver, handmade Stars of David hung in each window, in celebration of Hanukkah. On the right side of the temple's congregation space, another helpful storybook by Pinhole rests alongside a brand new menorah, as the evenings have the space reserved for candle-lighting and gathering. Additionally, a frying booth for latkes and sufganiyot can be found at the Winter Market, typically manned by Cecil (though Gerry is almost certainly there as well).

And for those that celebrate the pagan Yuletide, an outdoor altar can be found on the town's festival gazebo, protected from the elements but still amid nature. Plenty of places for indoor merriment can be found for those who observe it--- the Oak & Iron has discounted drinks from the Solstice till New Years! Skål!

Hand in hand, we put the darkness to our backs and step into the light. Rejoice, spring cometh.

Comments

Radar O'Reilly | M*A*S*H | OTA

[incomingchoppers]

it's the season of grace coming out of the void [givingstide]

Radar's been happily deputized as one of Santa-Hawkeye's... okay, not elves, since there's actual elves around here, but one of his partners in gift-giving crime. So along with him and Mulcahy, Radar spends nearly all of the gathering scampering around, handing out toys, explaining who Santa is to the littler kids, and keeping up the kayfabe by insisting -- with the same straight-faced, wide-eyed earnestness that's fooled three-star generals before -- that yeah, that really is Santa! He flew his sleigh in this morning! We got people taking care of his reindeer out on the farms! One of 'em's even got a glowing red nose and everything!

It's really nice. Since he got here, Radar's spent so much time with other stuff around town that he hasn't gotten much chance to help out at Autumn Leaves. He's missed playing with kids like this; like he would with the kids from the village or the orphanage in Korea.

Which means he's a bit out of practice and looking a little ragged by the time the festivities start winding down. Cheerful as ever, beaming with the pride of a job well done, but kinda ragged all the same. Once the last kid's out the door, he grabs a plate and a cup of cider (with just a tiiiiny bit of brandy in it) before flopping into the nearest chair with a loud, "Phew."


and knowing we are not alone in fear [mourner's night]

He joins the procession, silent as the rest.

The weight in the back of Radar's head has gotten heavier and heavier the longer he stays here. Death is so light on this island. It loses meaning when it's no worse than being knocked out for twenty-four hours. It becomes an inconvenience, a joke, even a reassurance: nobody stays dead here for long. And every time he patches his heart up and tries to take on the weight of what death ought to be, well --

It matters when people die, he cried to a near-stranger once, and it always has and when people here start acting like it don't, how's that any better than being back home, huh?

Here, for one night, it matters again. And it's kinda weird how the weight of so much collective grief makes Radar feel a little lighter.

At the cemetery, he sticks close to Dahlia for a while, slipping his hand into hers. Elsewhere, on a patch of open space between the headstones, he sits in the snow. Writes HENRY BLAKE with one fingertip; the closest his CO's gonna get to a grave when he's buried in an ocean a world away. There's more he wants to add, but it'd be whole sentences worth, not names. Everybody Dahlia's killed, even if some of them were only temporary. All the people in Korea who didn't ask to be pulled into some dumb police action war. The soldiers who left their homes and won't ever go back.

Radar guesses he's one of those soldiers for now, until the barrier comes down. He just hopes the world hasn't kept turning too long while he's away. He doesn't wanna think of his mom and Uncle Ed getting a letter from Colonel Potter in the mail -- and who'd be taking down the letter, anyway, if Radar's not around as clerk anymore?

He wipes his eyes. But when the singing begins, his voice stays steady.

mourners night

[griefs]

James keeps his distance from the mourning procession, trailing behind several paces. He doesn’t know why he’s bothering — the whole thing just makes him sick to his stomach. It’s ghoulish. He can’t stand the makeup or the candles or the clothing or any of it.

Yet still he follows them all the way to the cemetery, and lingers at the edge of the crowd until he can’t bear to linger any longer. At that point he breaks away and wanders through the gravestones to clear his head. He doesn’t read them, doesn’t even look at them as he walks, struggling to wrangle his own grief into something manageable again.

He’s so lost in his own thoughts that he almost doesn’t notice the kid crouched in the snow — well, not a kid, but he looks young enough that he might as well be. James stops and watches the stranger trace a name in the snow.

“Sorry," he says, as the kid puts the finishing touches on that E in BLAKE. "I didn't mean to interrupt. I was just..." He trails off, hesitates. "That's someone you knew? From before, I mean."

[incomingchoppers]

Radar startles. "Oh -- "

Too caught up in his own grief, he didn't hear the other guy approach until he was almost on top of him. A new guy from the look of it. Hastily, Radar scrubs a couple fingers under his glasses to get rid of a few more tears.

"Yeah, um. Yeah, he was my CO. Lieutenant Colonel Henry Blake." He looks back to the writing in the snow; carefully extends one of the lines of the final E to make it as neat as he can. "I sent out a lantern for him in the summer too, that's something else they do here, so maybe I didn't need to do anything for him tonight too. But I wanted to."

[griefs]

"Oh."

Given how most of his interactions had gone in Silent Hill, James half-expects this kid to stand up and go off on his way, leaving the conversation there. But Pumpkin Hollow isn't Silent Hill. People here seem close, less like strangers coexisting and more like a proper community. No one cuts and runs the moment a discussion gets a little bit uncomfortable.

So James stands in silence just long enough to make it awkward before offering some bland words of comfort about a man he doesn't know.

"Well, I'm sure he would appreciate the gesture." It doesn't feel like enough. He pauses, then: "Do you ... want to talk about him?"

[incomingchoppers]

Radar hesitates, but only briefly. "Yeah."

It's real nice of him to offer, especially when he doesn't know Radar at all. And besides --

"You know those people who're so great you wanna tell everybody about 'em?" He smiles, very faint and wistful. "That's who Colonel Blake was. He's the very first person I met at the 4077th -- that, uh, that's my unit, MASH 4077. Mobile Army Surgical Hospital. He wasn't very good at being in the Army but that's why he was such a good guy, you know? He really liked people. He, um." Radar tries, and fails, not to sniffle. "He was kinda like my dad. Or I guess what my I always thought my dad'd be like if he hadn't died when I was little."

[griefs]

"I'm really sorry," James says. "He sounds like a good person."

It's the kind of thing that would have annoyed him had people said it back when his wife passed — though if he allows himself to think about it, he realizes he can't really remember any condolences, no words of comfort, nothing at all. It's strange.

So he doesn't think about it.

Instead, he focuses on this kid who apparently served in God only knows what war, sitting in the snow, making a temporary memorial for someone who didn't get a second chance like the rest of them. (Because s o m e b o d y put him on the tdm when they were having No Words In Brain disease but that's beside the point.) The world really doesn't spare anyone its unkindness.

"You know, you're going to freeze down there," he goes on, in lieu of more comforting words. "I know this thing isn't over, but... are you sure you wouldn't rather go inside? I bet the colonel would rather you remember him over a cup of hot cocoa than..." He trails off, gesturing vaguely at the ground.

[incomingchoppers]

A sniff. "He really was."

Radar has never met a platitude he couldn't accept in full earnestness. Sure, maybe it's the kind of thing people say all the time, but it's better than saying nothing at all, right? Anyway, it's true. Colonel Blake was a good person.

...James is also the second guy now who's worried Radar'll freeze his literal butt sitting in the snow like this. He looks up, blinking, rubs his eyes again as he considers the offer. "Yeah, okay," he says eventually, with some reluctance. "I guess you're right, it is gettin' kinda cold."

Like the snow just appeared out of nowhere five minutes ago and not that Radar willing plonked himself down in a drift that's been there for weeks, probably. Gingerly, he starts to push himself to his feet, dusting off his pants -- and his backside, which, yeah, has definitely gone numb from the cold. Oops.

[griefs]

A part of James wants to call this a job well done and be on his way after sending this kid down the road but everything about tonight's starting to wear on him. He could use a break.

"Do you mind leading the way? I still don't really know my way around." Pause. "I'm James, by the way."

[incomingchoppers]

"Oh, sure." Radar doesn't exactly snap out of his funk, but having an immediate task at hand does lighten his expression a little. He finishes dusting off his pants and points. "The Oak & Iron's over that way, they got all kinds of stuff, not just cocoa. Oh and I'm Radar, sir, Radar O'Reilly. It's nice to meet you."

As they begin their short trek to the inn, he stuffs his hands in his pockets.

"I don't think I've seen you around before. Didja just get here?"

Mourner's Night

[hate_gettin_older]

"Hey." A hand on his shoulder, a voice gentler than the words. "You're gonna freeze your arse sitting in the snow like that."

[incomingchoppers]

"It's okay, I got layers on," mumbles Radar. He gives his eyes another rub; leans into Edgar's hand, unthinking, as he tries not to sniffle.

[hate_gettin_older]

He squeezes, just enough for Radar to feel it, and crouches next to him to try and read the words he's written in the snow. A name, he's almost sure; he's a slow reader, but it's only two words, neither of them very long.

[incomingchoppers]

"That's my CO."

Softly. Radar's breath steams in front of him.

"Back home. My commanding officer I mean. Lieutenant Colonel Henry Blake. He, um. He died a couple months before I got here."

[hate_gettin_older]

"Ah, hell," says Edgar softly. "Sorry, man."

He's got only the vaguest idea of the meaning of commanding officer, but he knows what Radar's tone means.

[incomingchoppers]

Radar nods, a bit helpless.

"He was a real swell guy, you know? Decent as anything. I looked up to him a whole bunch, and -- aw, jeez," he finishes brokenly as he swipes at his eyes again. "Sometimes I think the way he died was even worse than him dying in the first place. Because he was going home. He was on his plane home and it got shot down over the Sea of Japan and, and he never made it."

There were no survivors.

[hate_gettin_older]

"Going home from -- from the war?"

He's only got a vague understanding of the war that Radar's here from, but he's aware that it isn't anywhere near their homes; that it's happening somewhere worse, and far away.

[incomingchoppers]

"Yeah." He wraps his arms around himself. "That's how they do it. You serve long enough, you get enough points, they discharge you so you can go home. And, and he did it. He was going home to Illinois to his wife and kids. If he'd just been on a different plane he would've made it."

mourner's night

[lovethyneighb_or]

Mulcahy is a shadow on the hill for the duration of the singing. His contribution is quiet, a small tune slipping from him, capped by a muttered prayer and a crossing over himself.

It's then that he comes down from his place in the potter's field and sets down besides Radar, wordlessly putting his arm around the young man's shoulders and pulling him into his side.

[incomingchoppers]

Radar's mostly kept it together -- weepy, a bit sniffly, both of which got a little worse when talking about Colonel Blake to friends and strangers alike. But as soon as the Father sits down next to him and pulls him close, the waterworks start in earnest.

He buries his face against Mulcahy's shoulder, his cold glasses digging into his cheeks, and cries. Quietly, though; this isn't like when he bawled his heart out on Hawkeye's steps after their big fight. The acute pain has had time to fade into a chronic ache that spikes every so often, and even the spikes don't hurt quite as bad as they used to.

[lovethyneighb_or]

Mulcahy feels one or two tears well up as he pulls his cloak over Radar, but not more than that. There's only so much regret you can subsist with if you mean to go on with it day after day. But he holds him close, remains there for him, hoping to be a safe port for Radar to sail into as he rubs his shoulder. He's got to be worthy of his friendship somehow.

"He'd be proud of you, you know," he murmurs.

[incomingchoppers]

"I hope so," he mumbles, voice thick. "Boy I really hope so."

He's tried to keep doing good. Keep everything running, even if he's not gonna be back at the 4077th for who knows how long. Make sure that if someone needs help, they got it, or they at least know where they oughta go or what they oughta do if Radar can't help them much himself.

He draws in a shuddery breath, and turns his face enough so his glasses aren't quite as smushed. "I just keep thinking it's so unfair, y'know? Us being here but him not."

[lovethyneighb_or]

He sighs very gently, and his figure deflates imperceptibly with it. "Oh, I understand that. I think of it too." Half the time he looks at Hawk or Radar, if he's being honest.

"Even myself, I... I don't know why so few of us are left from that Village. Why one of them was me, of any of them. There were teenagers there." His brow furrows. "If my younger self had any answers, they've all been thoroughly knocked from me now, but they would've all been hokey anyway. I wish I knew what to say."

He reaches out to squeeze Radar's hand. "At least they get to rest--Lord knows they needed it. And at least I got to see you again."

[incomingchoppers]

Honestly, Radar wouldn't've minded. Hearing Mulcahy say something a little hokey would've felt like being home, with the Father he used to know comforting him in the snow. But Mulcahy isn't that guy anymore, and... what he's saying is still a comfort, in its way. The admission that he doesn't know what to say feels like a wisp of fresh, cold air whisking aside the stink of the OR.

"Yeah." He twists his hand a little so he can squeeze Mulcahy's fingers back. "I guess even if they're not here, at least they're not still there, neither. But..."

Oh, if a priest doesn't know what to say, Radar's got no hope of figuring out what he oughta say, either. Except for the important part:

"I'm so glad you made it out so I get to see you, too."

[lovethyneighb_or]

And like that, there's a great cracking through the stones of fatigue that wall him in, an arrow lancing through a tender place. Mulcahy laughs or maybe gasps, small, unbelievable. The fact that he is alive is a thought that keeps him up at night. He is his own ghost. There are some sleepless hours where, staring into the silent dark, he feels something terrible threaded through him, as true and real as his veins or blood: that his continuation is a treachery against what is good and fair.

And a good and fair man would think twice before hinging his existence on another person. And he does. Because if he were here only to give Radar this joy, he would consider that fine, but. That. Wouldn't be quite fair, would it? Not to Angel. Not to Gaeta. He doesn't even have the excuse of suggesting that this is a temporary peace. Radar knows what he's done, and he's still here.

He gazes upwards, blinking. Looks down again. Breathes, shaky, and wipes at his face. "Thank you, son. I... forget that, sometimes."

[incomingchoppers]

It always hits him like a punch low to the belly when the Father gets that overwhelmed by simple kindness. What feels to Radar like the easiest and most obvious thing in the world always seems so fragile and precious to Mulcahy. It makes sense, after six years of anything but kindness, but it aches all the same. It's not fair either that his friend broke so hard in the course of surviving.

He shifts a little more so he can sneak an arm around Mulcahy, still half-huddled under his cloak. "Well, any time you need me to remind you," he says, "I will. 'Cause I mean it, if you weren't here I'd be a whole lot lonelier and missing even more of my friends."

His gaze drifts back to HENRY BLAKE written in the snow, and he blinks hard as he tries to stop his eyes welling up all over again.