No light draws from the sun upon the isles. Therefore, Vladimir must bring light from elsewhere.

Though the islands are all shadowed by night, there is an otherworldly glow that follows the land and stone, colouring his surroundings with a blue shade that carries the memory of green. He can see red in old tapestries, brown in ancient leather tomes, the white stone pillars that shape the church's exterior - still, sea blue colours the surrounding island. It is a light that allows him some vision around him. Even he knows his eyes have become accustomed to the Mist.

He doesn't realize how cold the islands really are until he lights the first match. The wax candles are ancient. and while the flames catch from the flint he worries the wicks will not hold the light - he is slow in lighting the first few candles he brings to caged lanterns against the walls just to be sure. It's when he's moved confidently to the candles by a table that his company is joined by the one who owns this church.

Karthus is silent - inquisitive, curious, yet silent, watching him light each candle, counting the seconds between holding the light and moving from the growing flame. Vladimir admits he does not know if he is summoning some ritual to perform - if the church's secret is buried in ancient wax and old stone, if he's igniting a sermon itself by bringing a little light to read next to. It's fun to guess the expressions of the dead sometimes - when Karthus isn't stoic, watching and waiting, he's rather emotive. Raising his brow and smiling something sinister, something simple, something handsome.

There's a candle holder he finds on one of the tables, the second one he lights as Karthus shadows him. The room glows with a golden hue, framed by the soft light that remains still in the haunting chambers - flickering in a wind that does not exist, steady upon their light. Vladimir takes one of the thin candles and places it in, fetching the materials he's collected to ignite, and lights it.

He lifts it between them, like the forge. Anywhere else in the world, it would be just a light - but in the land of the dead he feels the heat so vividly, like there's nothing else in the world like it, a mark of survival, and comfort, and silence, and mystery, and curiosity - all at once.

Vladimir has it in his right hand. He lifts his left towards Karthus, almost hesitant. With a push off the ground, he finds the footing he needs to hover, matching his height.

He catches on quick.

He kisses Karthus by candlelight.