The Bloom-and-Wither Festival, as best as he could translate, was meant to celebrate the waning days of summer and the coming of fall and the harvest–so perhaps the end of July was a bit early, since August would stretch on for four more hot, long weeks on Earth, but that was fine with him. tHe weather on Kerberos was beautiful, warm and breezy, and the tail end of summer vacation for some of the younger Senshi and Knights seemed as good a time as any to schedule a little party.
He couldn’t entirely recreate the festive atmosphere that would have accompanied this–that did, according to everything he’d studied. He was the only Kerberan left, after all, by any measure–and he just carried the soul of their Senshi. There would be no priests to guide each activity, no performers, no grand stage–just a few spaces for the most important parts of the festival.
Food and drink, of course, because what was a party without it (perhaps he ought to welcome people to bring their own dishes if they liked; potlucks always had an element of joy and community to them.) Decorations–garlands of glowing asphodel woven through with fairy lights to illuminate a little dance floor. And of course, the two centerpieces.
Seed paper existed on Earth, that was easy enough. So was ink, and pots full of soil, to recreate the mourning ritual of writing the dead’s name on paper filled with seed and planting it.
Let the memory grow into something new and beautiful.
And, of course, the centerpiece–the making of little Kerberan lights, preserved flowers like the ones he had once given Caedus and Lyndin to remember his world by.
(He wondered if Lyndin had heard anything about the sheep–some of his Vanguard had been there. Kerberos could only hope. Perhaps he ought to make serious time to check in with his friend, and see if there was anything his living world could give them that might aid Velencya.)
And between decorating, when he had to sit down and catch his breath, he pawed at yet more documents. Perhaps it was just luck, but the more he read, the more he swore it was really starting to make sense–like that second form of Kerberan was really finally starting to stick in his brain.
Which was good, because if he was going to be borrowing ancient recipes, he really wanted to have them translated correctly. Instinct for food preparation or not, Kerberos didn’t take that kind of thing lightly.
Things had gone well with the sheep. Here was another opportunity to put his world’s best foot forward; he would be a fool, he thought, not to do it as well as possible.
Even if it was definitely leaving him exhausted. It was just a lot of hours put into preparations. He would, certainly, be fine.
[wc: 577 words]
