Chapter Seventeen: The Festival of Names
Chorus:
A city reborn must learn to name itself anew. In Thebes, where names once chained and silenced, now they are shouted, sung, and reclaimed. The Festival of Names is not just a celebration—it is a declaration that every voice matters, every story counts, and the future belongs to those bold enough to claim it.
The morning dawns bright and clear, the air alive with anticipation. Banners in every color ripple from balconies, fluttering like the wings of a thousand birds. The city's many squares bustle with preparations: garlands strung between olive trees, tables piled high with breads, figs, and honeyed cakes, and musicians tuning lyres, flutes, and drums. Children dart through the crowds, their faces painted with symbols old and new, laughter ringing like bells.
At the heart of the main square, a great wooden stage has been built. Its planks are rough-hewn but sturdy, adorned with fresh flowers and woven wreaths. Here, every citizen will have the chance to step forward and speak their name aloud, to claim their place in the city's unfolding story.
Chorus:
Once, names were weapons—used to bind and break.
Now, they are shields and songs—
A chorus rising from the ashes of silence.
The F*** It All stands at the edge of the stage, her cloak worn and dusted from the road, but her eyes bright with fierce determination. Echo stands beside her, a steady presence amid the swirl of voices and colors.
The F*** It All (raising her voice so all can hear):
Thebes is not just stone and blood.
It is the people—their hopes, their fears, their stories.
Today, we reclaim what was stolen.
We will build a city that listens, that cares, that grows.
A city where no voice is silenced.
The crowd erupts in cheers, a wave of sound that sweeps through the square like a storm. But beneath the celebration lies a quiet tension. Change is never easy, and Thebes is a city of many wounds—some fresh, some old, all aching to be healed.
The first brave soul steps forward—a young girl, no more than seven, clutching her mother's hand tightly. Her voice trembles at first, then grows strong.
Girl:
My name is Dione.
I am not afraid.
The crowd cheers again, the sound rolling like thunder through the city. The girl beams, her mother wiping tears from her cheeks, pride shining in her eyes.
Next comes an old man, his back bent with age but his voice steady and clear.
Old Man:
I am called Nikandros.
I have lived through three kings and two wars.
Today, I am free.
One by one, the people of Thebes step forward. Some speak the names they were given at birth, others claim names they have chosen for themselves—names that speak of hope, strength, and new beginnings. Each story is unique—a tapestry of sorrow and joy, loss and resilience.
A blacksmith steps up, his hands scarred but steady.
Blacksmith:
I am Pyrrhos, son of fire and forge.
I will build not just swords, but futures.
A mother holds her infant close.
Mother:
This is my daughter, Callista.
She will grow up in a city of light, not shadows.
A young scholar, eyes bright with dreams, speaks next.
Scholar:
I am Theron, seeker of knowledge.
I vow to teach and to learn, so Thebes may never again dwell in darkness.
Chorus:
The city listens,
And in listening, it learns to love itself again.
Scene shift: The council chamber, a humble but bustling space filled with representatives from every corner of Thebes. Farmers, merchants, scholars, former soldiers, and artisans sit side by side, their faces a mosaic of hope and skepticism. Jocasta presides, her regal bearing softened by humility and determination.
Jocasta:
We are here not as rulers, but as servants of Thebes.
Our task is to listen, to learn, and to lead with justice.
A farmer rises, voice steady and clear.
Farmer:
We need fair laws.
Laws that protect the land and those who work it.
A merchant speaks next, passion in his tone.
Merchant:
Trade must be free and fair.
No longer a tool for the few to grow rich at the expense of many.
A scholar adds, eyes bright with conviction.
Scholar:
Education and knowledge must be open to all.
Thebes cannot thrive in ignorance.
The council debates—sometimes heatedly, sometimes with laughter, always with purpose. They draft new laws, plan schools, and discuss ways to heal the city's wounds.
Chorus:
The work is messy, imperfect, and slow—
But it is theirs.
The city's soul is being forged in the fires of debate and hope.
Scene shift: The F*** It All and Echo walk the city's neighborhoods, visiting places scarred by neglect and violence. They listen to stories of loss and resilience, of dreams deferred and hopes rekindled.
The F*** It All (kneeling beside a group of children):
Your city is yours to shape.
Never let anyone tell you otherwise.
Echo (to a weary mother):
We will not forget your pain.
We will build a city worthy of your sacrifice.
Chorus:
The city breathes again—tentative, fragile, but alive.
Scene shift: Agent Gray, now a reluctant ally, meets with The F*** It All and the council. His bureaucratic mind struggles to grasp the chaotic beauty of Thebes's rebirth.
Gray:
Order is necessary for progress.
But order without justice is tyranny.
The F*** It All:
Then let us build order on a foundation of justice.
Gray nods slowly, the first spark of understanding lighting his eyes.
Chorus:
Even the outsider begins to see—
Thebes is not a problem to solve,
But a story to tell.
Scene shift: Night falls. Lanterns glow softly in windows. The city hums with quiet hope. The F*** It All stands atop the city walls, looking out over the streets below.
The F*** It All (to herself):
The road is long.
The wounds run deep.
But Thebes is worth the fight.
Echo joins her, eyes reflecting the city's lights.
Echo:
What comes next?
The F*** It All:
We keep building.
We keep fighting.
We keep dreaming.
Chorus:
The foundations are laid,
But the city's soul is still being forged.
Thebes is alive—scarred, hopeful, and fiercely free.
Chorus (closing):
The story continues,
Written by the hands of the many,
Guided by the courage of the few.
And The F*** It All stands at the heart—
A beacon in the dawn.