Once upon a time...

[timefather]

[ For the residents of Märchenstraße, and all the land surrounding it, the eighth of December was a day to look forward to. Looking at it from an outside perspective, strangers and travelers could easily assume it to be a holiday. At the very least, a day for a festival, if a modest one. A day that shopkeeps spent all morning preparing for, that all manner of creatures spent days traveling to the city to witness. They'd heard the talk that passed around, the rumors from those still left. But would it work? No one knew for sure, no matter how confident the stories seemed to be. But hope was very quickly becoming all they had left.

They had decorated the whole town. Streamers, banners, wreathes and garland made of autumn flowers, plus whatever the Fairy Godmother had cooked up. Oh, she was just giddy. No skepticism could be spoken around her, not if you wanted to escape the wrath of her wand! Rumor had it that she had caught wind of a few piglets squealing about the likelihood that their magic would fail, and that they were subsequently transformed into the band of musicians who could be found performing in the park.

Well, at least the music was festive.

Of course, the decorations weren't for the newcomers alone. Autumn was coming to a close in just a few weeks, and Old Man Winter would take the reigns like he did every year, and their weather would turn cold and harsh. The chill was already there, cool and biting when the wind picked up speed. Lady Autumn was much preferred to the citizens of the city with her gentle nature, even if she failed to show up, finishing her work in the orchards instead. That was what they liked about her.

It was mid-morning when Father Time was found outside of his tower, checking one of the numerous pocket watches he kept on his person. "Unnecessary, but comfortable," he called them, and closed the watch again. It was twelve o'clock in the afternoon, and where empty space had been just seconds before, now they were. Sitting on benches, lying in flower patches, scattered about the city and outside of the gates in peaceful slumber. They would awaken to the bells of the clock tower. Some, to many friendly and relieved faces all around them, some to grateful ones carrying gifts of food and clothing and magic, and some to fearful, cautious faces. Regardless of how the town treated them, they would awaken to a celebration of their arrival, and choices to be made, and the books. Each and every one. ]

Comments

[big_n_tall_paul]

Babe can be a bit thick sometimes, but I like to think he understands me. He definitely acts like it. Still don't know if he talks though. And yes, Babe is mighty warm to lay against on a cold night, though his hooves are colder than a witch's titter in the dead of winter. Maybe his hooves that are frozen.

[A pang of pity resonates in Paul. Such a sad story for such a sweet girl. It's damn near enough to break his over-sized heart. If he could find away to exchange her story with another, he would. He wasn't in charge of that though, he is just a simple lumberjack. A simple, incredibly huge lumberjack with the strength to move mountains.]

I think you're suppose to sell the matches you have there. If my memory serves me, I believe that's what happens to the story. As for your book with no words, why don't you write some down yourself? That's what empty books are for. As to why you have them, I'm kinda fuzzy on the details, but according to father time you and all the other newcomers are here to be new versions of fairy tales that have been lost. They tell me it's quite the honor. If your book says that you're "The Little Match Girl" then that is your fairy tale. Was that any help?

[gardienne]

[She laughs loudly.] Well, Sir, perhaps that is where you shall find me on a winter's morning. And you must not chase me away, for truly, I won't steal from you. It is just for the warmth, you understand.

[She looks back at her book, stroking it gently.]

I could practice my writing - I can write, you know? I know I don't look much, but I was not always meant to be such a woman as I am, you know? But I do not see much honour in selling matches, Sir. I don't want to be that. You know, my brother can fly? I would rather do that, I think.

[She sighs. Eponine rarely gets her way.] Thank you, Sir, for the biscuits, and for stopping with me. I ought not to take more of your time. I suppose I ought to try to sell these beastly matches so I can at least buy a hot meal for the night.

[She stands up, and brushes down her filthy rags, and pushes her bundles of matches into her pockets. Quickly, she curtseys.]

Thank you, Sir.