Dance Among the Candelight

From where he’s seated at his desk, quill in hand and dozens upon dozens of papers laid scattered around him, Silas swears the flames beckon him.

He’s always written by candlelight before - that is nothing new. From within his grand mansion of an apartment- or more like his self-inflicted prison, he privately laments - it is not uncommon for candles or all sorts to be used as the main light source. Unscented, seasonal, colored or even plain - Silas would gladly take them all.

Normally, the thought wouldn’t even cross his mind, yet it’s so … fitting in this moment, as his quill keeps starting and then stalling, his piles of discarded paper growing increasingly upsetting to simply even comprehend.

When he’d been asked to write a simple short poem for the local anthology for All Sinners’ Day, Silas hadn’t even thought twice about accepting. It had felt like a given, only natural for him to provide at least *something* back to the community that his so kind to his written work over these past few months. He’d even been excited to do so!

Now, as he stares at the flames of his desk’s primary candleholder as they flicker and dance, he’s beginning to have second guesses.

He’s tried just about every subject imaginable. The most voracious of vices. The demonic patrons of which this grand holiday is all about. He’d even tried the comedic retelling of a costume gone wrong, for hell’s sake! Yet nothing seemed to stick. Nothing truly *worked*.

So here he is. Staring at a candle instead of writing, just as he has been for the better part of the past hour. Or has it been two now? To be quite honest, Silas had lost track. He’d stopped paying attention to the passing of time around sixteen discarded papers ago.

The gentle brush of another being against his pants’ leg draws Silas out of his trance. Looking down, he finds it to be exactly who he’d predicted it to be - it seems that Edgar, his emotional support Candyl, has picked up on his distraught. He nudges at his leg consistently, demanding his attention be turned away from his inner turmoil to instead look into the wide expanse of his glowing white eye.

Silas can’t help but smile, reaching down to allow the Candyl what it is he had been so persistently requesting of him - he scoops him up in one fluid motion, allowing him up onto the desk. With the new position, Edgar can properly fix him with a leveling stare.

The imp doesn’t need to be able to speak for Silas to know what it is that those eyes say. He sighs, heavy, before it turns into a full-on groan as he leans forward to slump against the desk.

“I know, I know,” he mumbles grumpily, squeezing his eyes shut tightly. His head is pounding slightly, the headache that had formed quite a while back making its presence known again with a vengeance. “I really should take a break - but I can’t !”

Turning his head so that his cheek rests against the paper before him that he had already given up on, Silas watches as Edgar scoots himself closer to be able to bump his head against him. He chuckles slightly, reaching up to pat at the flatter part of the imps head. It quickly turns into a more proper chin scratch, causing the little imps tail to begin swaying back and forth, just like the flame from before.

“The deadlines only in two days, Edgar,” Silas openly complains out into the open air, his own exasperation evident in his voice. “What am I going to do? I haven’t even managed to get past a draft of a work that I would feel comfortable sharing with everyone, much less actually finishing something ! At this rate, I’m not going to have anything to show for it, and I already promised that they could count on me to fill a spot!”

Drawing his hand away from where he’d been continuing to scratch at Edgar’s chin, Silas lets his whole body slump in defeat. “Maybe I should just give up. Even if I do let everyone down, at least then it won’t mean the publication of something less than perfect.”

Another forehead bump from Edgar follows Silas’s words, stronger this time - with enough force to actually leave a bit of a sting. Silas lets out a little yelp, sitting up to be able to glare at the imp before him.

“What was that for!?” He demands, offense clear, only for the impending scolding to die in his throat. Edgar has moved to go beside the candle from earlier, mimicking the sway that the flame gives to the best of his ability.

Suddenly, it clicks in Silas’s head. That’s what Edgar had been trying to tell him - his inspiration had been right in front of him all along. He just hadn’t taken the time to properly look.

“Oh, Edgar, you little genius, you!” Silas exclaims then, scooping the Candyl up to be able to snuggle against him. Edgar squirms in his grasp, breaking free to be able to nudge Silas’s quill back towards him, as if asking him ‘what is it that you’re waiting for’?

Watching the flames dance on this beautiful candlelit night, Silas writes with Edgar dutifully by his side.

--

“‘O, by Hell, do the flames call us forth,
To dance among the candlelight.
By wicked wax and wishful wicks,
we welcome those who sins are as their birthright.
Come one, come all, let none be dissuade ,
to come and partake in the accursed All Sinners’ Day.”