By Constance Alderbrook, Keeper of Traditions
As the nights grow longer and the wind wraps its fingers more tightly round the chimney pots of Eyehasseen, the people of the realm prepare for one of the most quietly beloved observances on the calendar: the Festival of the Lanterns-in-Waiting, held annually from the Firstday through Fourthday of Midgloam, when shadows linger, and light must be invited rather than expected.
Though less raucous than the Parade of Spoons or the infamous Revel of Unnecessary Fireworks, Lanterns-in-Waiting holds a special place in the heart of the Kingdom, especially among those who keep to the older ways—the watchers, the menders, and the contemplatives. It is not a feast of flame, but of expectation.
The origins of the festival are obscure, but most historians trace it to the aftermath of the Great Blackout of 947, when light abandoned the kingdom without notice, and it was the humble lantern—not the torch or the chandelier—that most reliably guided folk through the dark. A lantern, after all, is a portable hope. And it waits.
In villages across the realm, preparations begin weeks in advance. Lanterns of every size and design—tin-pierced, papered, glassed, embroidered—are inspected, cleaned, and quietly placed in windows, on steps, or along stone fences. But in keeping with tradition, none may be lit until the appointed hour on the festival’s final night.
This restraint is the heart of the celebration. For three days, the unlit lanterns sit in public view, patiently present. Children are encouraged to whisper wishes into them, and elders may sit beside them and tell stories of “what the light has yet to show.” The phrase has become something of a proverb: a gentle rebuke to haste, a reminder that not all is meant to be illuminated at once.
Each day of the festival carries a name and a mood:
- Firstday: The Day of Wicks – Families check their lanterns and gather their candles. Old wicks are replaced, oil topped, glass polished. A day for quiet preparation. Children are taught to respect the slow readiness of things.
- Secondday: The Day of Shadows – No artificial light is used from sundown onward. Candles are not permitted, and even hearth fires are banked. Households dine by memory or moonlight. In cities, lanterns line the streets unlit, and silence reigns. This is the night when the phrase “even the dark waits for its hour” is most often murmured.
- Thirdday: The Day of Steady Hands – Known for lantern blessings and local processions. In abbeys and parishes, lanterns are brought forward to be marked with chalk symbols or scented with myrrh. It is believed that a lantern so blessed will never flicker in the presence of doubt. Small songs are sung—lullabies, mostly—and windows remain shuttered until the hour approaches.
- Fourthday: The Lighting Hour – At precisely the second bell after dusk, a horn is blown in each district by the appointed Waitwarden—a role usually assigned to a particularly trustworthy child or a vicar with good lungs. At that moment, every lantern in the kingdom is lit.
The effect is breathtaking.
Hillside cottages bloom with pinpricks of gold. Streets glow in soft reply. The rivers reflect threads of light like spun honey. In larger towns, public squares hold mass lightings, where neighbors light one another’s lanterns with murmured prayers or awkward smiles. It is a communal moment unlike any other—a visible reminder that while some lights burn alone, they are never truly alone.
The lighting is followed by The Waiting Feast, a modest meal of warm things: soft bread, root stew, hard cheese, and elderberry cordial. Nothing spicy, nothing showy. The emphasis is on presence, not performance. Many households invite neighbors or travelers to share their table. Those who eat alone are considered especially honoured, as they are seen to represent the ancient watchers—the keepers of vigil.
Culturally, Lanterns-in-Waiting is often compared to other Kingdom observances, but locals bristle at the idea that it is “less exciting” or “too quiet.” As the Venerable Mayhew of the Church of the Low Wall once wrote, “Noise gets attention. Silence gets truth.”
In recent years, the festival has seen a modest revival among the younger folk of Eyehasseen, particularly those weary of constant spectacle. Lantern-making workshops, storytelling circles, and “silent socials” have grown popular. In Inverness, a café now offers a Lanterns-In-Waiting menu served entirely in the dark, lit only by the breath of a single candle shared among tables.
Somewhat controversially, the Ministry of Temporal Integrity has proposed standardizing the lighting hour to avoid regional discrepancies, especially in outlying districts where lanterns are often lit early “to get on with supper.” The proposal is under review, but most traditionalists have already ignored it entirely.
For the people of Eyehasseen, the Festival of the Lanterns-in-Waiting remains a quiet defiance against the impatient glare of modernity. It reminds us that not every light must dazzle, not every truth must shout, and not every blessing comes with speed.
Sometimes, the best things are the ones we prepare for in darkness, light with reverence, and carry forward—step by glowing step—into whatever comes next.