If you sat on the far shores of the Arcadia basin, between the foot of those far mountains and the lapping waters of the lakeshore, choking gently on the woodsmoke that both kept you warm in the terrible depths of winter and brought tears to your eyes, and stared, tonight, of all nights, you'd see something lovely, if your eyesight was good enough. Usually, the glittering lights of Arcadia Academy were outshone by those of the city far beyond, merely candles flickering in the night and the lime-lights of groundskeepers and maintenance-men going about their duties, but tonight? Tonight, there was color. Stained glass windows as tall as grain silos, lit from behind, shone out over the lake. The Basilica's edge hung well past the edge of the island, hovering several stories above the water, but on most nights, this visual was hidden away by the dark, only glimmering occasionally when the moon caught it just right. But tonight, you could see Arcadia's greatest function room, and maybe, if you happened to know the right people, you'd know why those glass images of saints and heroes were visible tonight.
On the other side of that glass, a celebration of life, of piety, of glory, of thanks, was in full swing. As it was every year, the subjects of all this ceremony were panicking, whether they showed it or not, but those around them carried on as if they didn't notice. Waiters swept in, bringing plates of delicacies rarely seen in the glorious empire of the True Church – turkey and chicken, beef and haddock, species barely clawed back from the brink, alongside the roasted deer and chestnut-bread enjoyed by the laity as part of their new-years celebrations. Servants, terrified and hopeful at the opportunity they had been given, clutched away spent plates and glasses, and lunged in at every spilled sauce and dropped fork to ameliorate the situation. The orchestra played traditional holiday tunes, delving both into old secular music and the repertoire of current theologically-sound hits. While the students may not have been aware of it, their experience on this night was far more normal than almost any other that they had lived – The same music, the same atmosphere of romance, celebration, and relief was being broadcast, albeit in different orders, all across the Empire, informing the holidays of millions upon millions.
If you were to zoom out, to take your view out of what was once northern France, and look across the world, most of it would be dark. Much of the world had been lost, of course, and while it may have been dotted with fires here and there, that was safe to discount. Off in the far reaches of the Empire – in Tibet, Ethiopia, Moscow, or at least the places that once bore those names, spotlights roamed and the people who called those places home prayed for a safe night, Jesus willing. In the barracks of Angels and Demetrian Priests, steam engines drove enough electricity for them to listen to sounds of home, and in the mud-brick homes of those lucky few under their protection, hand-cranked generators let them listen to the sermons and songs, and let them feel, for just a night, like life was simple. Like nothing could keep them from the protection of the True Church, and they never had to worry that someday their children, their mothers, their friends, could be taken away by the hands of demons, or the claws of monsters, or by the insidious working of depression and hopelessness. Just for now, they could feel like they were in the arms of the Holy Mother, loved and protected.
The students, despite their piety, didn't, and most likely couldn't, appreciate this. Immediately after the Pairing ceremony, they had been ushered away from each other, back into their gender-segregated groups, and deep into the maze of side rooms of the Basilica. The newly-minted Guardians followed, albeit through different corridors and halls. Any tears were wiped away, uniforms were straightened, and they were brought into a grand hall; A few of the most talented actors in the student body could recognize it as a theater in which they performed for the Headmaster, once. First, the girls were sent in, taking a left past the wide, ornate staircase at the foot of the room, and then, the boys, to the right. Eight tables of five seats each awaited them on the two sides of the room, two between each column that held up the balcony. The tables, of course, had already been set with gleaming silverware and finely-threaded napkins, crystalline glasses and an array of condiments and spices that could put even Rome to shame.
And, of course, in front of the stage that held the orchestra, under the light of chandeliers and the watchful eye of the Guardians on the floor above, between the groups of girls and boys on opposite sides, was something both pleasant and menacing in that precise way that only an anticipated unknown could be: A well-polished wooden dance-floor.