A Light in the Darkness
Universe: TES IV: Oblivion (Vanilla) CW: Alcohol Words: 619 Context: Written for the @tescheer prompt "Lantern".
[Being an excerpt of Arkved of Cheydinhal's journal, c. 3E431]
The month of Morning Star is a drear and dreadful one. Even Anvil, jewel of the Gold Coast, is not immune to winter-tide storms filled with freezing rain and howling gales. The Abecean grows bitter and cruel under leaden skies, goaded by the winds to make rubble of the docks and soak through even the toughest oilcloth. The desperate weather, however, could not deter me from attending a most interesting event with my good friend, the painter Rythe Lythandas.
Attired in our glad rags and oilcloths, we ran through the sheeting rain from the Count's Arms to the Great Chapel of Dibella; for what better time than this dark and dreadful month to bring the light and cheer from a celebration of the Arts?
And cheer there was, in plenty! The church's main floor had been rearranged, with great trestles down the center and pews becoming seats at the feast table. And those pews were filled bursting with painters and playwrights, weavers and tale-spinners, artisans and lutists. The raucous crowd rhapsodized with animate flailing of limbs. Snatches of song, as took the players' fancy, filled the air. Laughter danced, sprinkled between lines of poetry.
The Sybil welcomed us in, bade us relax and find a place in the myriad company. I found my hand filled with a cup of mulled wine and with Rythe gayly beside me, took my time in admiring the chapel. It may surprise you, dear reader, that despite this chronicler's wide travels, I had yet to be inside this very chapel.
The chapel is a vast space, with arching hights – velvet-dark on this night of revelry – decorated in sheets of dainty lace. Planters of sunrise-coloured flowers adorned the altar, but what most struck me were the garlands of sacred lotus flowers. They hung suspended on threads of gold between the chapel pillars and, like joyful lanterns, glittered by some magical fancy. Under their soft incandescence, as if the hand of the goddess was laid upon my brow, I was filled with peace and awe at the marvels and wonder of our world. At my side, Rythe nudged me. "Committing it all to memory, eh?" "Indeed," said I, my gaze lingering upon them, "They're extraordinary in their holy beauty." "Take good note then, my friend. You can describe them to me anon, and I shall paint them for you." "Oh! You're the painter with the 'magic' brush," Rythe's neighbour cried, and Rythe turned away to converse with them, while my own – on hearing I was a scholarly adventurer – implored me to tell of my travels. And thus the night was spent in amiable chatter and the trading of stories; but ever did my eyes find those most sacred of blooms…
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Several months later, Rythe invited me to dine with he and his Lady wife, and bade me recount the glittering lotus blooms to her, her delighted smile widening as I spoke. As we were saying goodbye, he handed me a small rectangle, wrapped in cloth. I should not open it, said he, until I was at home. Dutifully I did so, and found to my most pleasant surprise a portrait of myself, gazing up at the golden blooms, my face dusted with buttercream light. It hangs in my study, mere feet from where I write now, lending me the joy of that night.
Although… I would swear to you, gentle reader, there is something otherworldly about it. On nights most foul, when winter has his firm and frozen grip upon the world, the painted blooms will glow with an echo of the revels in Anvil, dusting my room in Dibella's golden light.
