The last post for the Nightgale blog challenge (and I’m so, so behind I need to catch up for two weeks).
PROMPT : Writing is Immortality
Keats – “But on the viewless wings of Poesy, Though the dull brain perplexes and retarts: Already with thee! Tender is the night, And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,”(Ode To a Nightingale)
There had to be a better way to handle things. To make track them so that everything didn’t get lost through the bad memory of those that have forgotten in their old age.
Matthew panted and griped the posts, leaning his head against the table. What he was doing was supposed to be an honor. To carry on the the customs of his people. He grit his teeth and barely resisted the urge to cry could against the sensations. No one ever spoke of what the scribe’s assistant was supposed to be. That the powers that looked over his people, they afforded them the ability to live longer than most, in the valley. To not know the plagues that haunted those beyond the mountains. They were to keep their home and follow the laws and not question what gives them the gift that they have. There is only one book that is kept that records those that have lived, married and eventually died.
The sharp hiss of breath broke his thoughts and his teeth ground down on the piece of wood that had been shoved into his mouth. He had wanted to help, he had wanted to serve his people. He didn’t know what it would entail.
He jerked again and the back of his head was slapped. “Don’t move. This is what you wanted, to be part of your immortality?” The Elder dipped the quill again. “This is what it comes down to. You will be part of our tale. You should be proud.” The small pen blade was placed against the skin of Matthew’s back and the old man went onto the next line. “You will be remembered forever, like those before you.” He wiped the blood that fell over the young man’s back as he lay on the table. “We live because of your sacrifice.”