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The Darkmoon Archives was newly built, the smallest library overseen by a god of Anor Londo. Light slanted through its tall windows in soothing shades of moonlight blue. Midsummer it was, and thus not dark - it would not be full dark for hours, on this, the shortest night.
A figure glided amongst the tall shelves, white gauze trailing behind. Slender serpents held up an otherwise human frame. Slim hands touched the spine of a book, then moved on, dissatisfied. The day’s last light caught the spires of a solar crown, the sole hint of warmth in an otherwise chill and formal setting. Neither the voices of boisterous Blades, nor the conversations of respectful study in the carrels, disturbed the silence. Until a second, smaller figure, also draped in concealing white, raised her high voice.
“Darkmoon Lord? I am sorry to trouble you.”
The little girl’s voice did not surprise Gwyndolin; the eyes of the serpents gazed all about. He’d seen Priscilla, quick and quiet as she was.
“Thou’rt welcome to join me, Priscilla.”
“Will you be going to the Midsummer Ball?”
“I will not, child.”
“Me either.” She looked up at him, big silver eyes full of sorrow.
The child was not favored in her grandfather’s court; well, neither was he, and for similar reasons. Pariahs, both of them; him, for the serpents that served him as lower limbs, for the magic that his father thought too feminine for a trueborn son of the Lord of Sunlight, for the way his delicate robes never seemed to sit right on his thin frame. He would never bear the might that his father, or his beloved elder brother, possessed. No, his power was different, and difference was not acceptable.
For Priscilla, it was the obvious draconic ancestry, her nub horns and furred tail. Some day, she might outgrow the gods themselves, in stature and in might alike. On that day, Gwyndolin suspected that things would go badly for her. If she were an acknowledged child - but no. Most of Anor Londo attributed her presence to Seath and his misbehavior, and so it would stay, the truth veiled in polite lies.
No scion of the dragons would be permitted to outshine the gods, whether or not divine blood flowed in her veins.
Gwyndolin paused in his slithering. Slow, the snakes coiled to bring him closer to her height.
“Dost thou wish to see it so greatly?”
She just nodded, one sharp tooth visible where she bit her lip. Could he not be kind? They lived in the edges of acceptability, both of them. It was why the little girl followed him so. Gwyndolin decided: enough.
“Come thou with me.”
Back through the shelves, back to his personal study. Just like she would to hear a story, Priscilla clambered up onto a couch and reclined, tail laid carefully along her legs. Gwyndolin took up his catalyst, and without a word, an image formed before him: a great glass globe shimmered into being, milky as the moon. Its surface rapidly turned clear, and a moving picture formed, like a reflection. Priscilla drew a sharp breath in amazement.
The image followed a single masked and hooded human servant, floating a mere few lengths above their head. He would have summoned the illusion anyway, in time - his eyes had followed his Blades at a distance many times, and it was essential to the safety of the celebrating gods that someone be watchful, even on this most joyous of festivals. For the sake of the crossbreed girl, he spun the light more beautifully than he planned.
Gods turned and laughed, soundless in the globe, and around them floated motes of glowing sorcery like snow out of season. Resplendent in formal armor of dragonhide and gold, his eldest brother raised a solar salute to the crowd, arms high. Just behind him came Gwynevere, radiant in her white gown, to beam and beam and grant favors to her admiring sworn.
The crowd of gods, both greater and lesser, was so thick that the servant could not pass through. All at once, they parted. The servant - the Blade - bent low as Gwyn, Lord of Sunlight, passed by. This was his day, the height of his power! He too raised his arms in a gesture of victory. His robes fell in luxurious softness, his belt gleamed with plaques of gold, and his face was full of martial joy. Upon his brow shone the crown of Anor Londo. His lips moved - but the illusion carried no sound.
Gwyndolin looked sharply away, and studied Priscilla instead.
The little girl was rapt, propped up on one elbow. As the gods in the image began to turn in a stately court dance, she too leapt off the couch and bounded in circles, giggling.
When the God of War bowed and extended a flirtatious hand to one of Gwynevere’s maidens, Priscilla too swept an extravagant curtsy, and held out her hand to Gwyndolin. The moon god smiled beneath his mask and slithered into a turn with her. Round they went, his gliding motion a graceful counterpart to her happy prancing. Her tail stirred her skirts to a dance all their own, and the long fringe of his mantle made his every movement shimmer. Even without the festival, even without the musicians, they two could enjoy the Midsummer still.