My
father was a scribe, and his father before him, all the way back to the days
before the Dark Lord. When our grim master came, he forced our letters and our
learning underground; this was literally, as his spies patrolled the air and
land. I learned how to read and write in a damp crevice my father carved out
with his own hands, after a hard day of farm labor.
We
were all farmers then, and fools or ignorant on top of that. That was the Dark
Lord’s doing, to keep us subject to him. I worked as hard to hide my learning
as I did to acquire it. All the same, it was hard for a bright boy to cover his
light with a basket. There was a close encounter once when I called the
bullheaded miller’s son on his “obstinate insolence.” I barely covered with “Aw
shucks, thimblehead.”
Not
even my wife knew of my birthright, nor the secret history I kept in a cave. I
would teach my son of his legacy, however, my wife’s womb was as barren as our
hopes. I was convinced the small rebellion of keeping a secret history would
die with me.
To read the rest, go to this page.
Your mind is amazing. :) This story takes Stockholm Syndrome to a whole 'nother level!
ReplyDeleteA good story. As with pretty much everything you write, I would like to read more. That is always a good sign. :)
ReplyDeleteThanks again! I didn't think of the Stockholm Syndrome angle, but that's a neat idea.
ReplyDeleteThis one is long enough (2700+ words) that I could expand it into a longer short story if I wanted. There were some ideas I had that didn't make the final cut, as they distracted from the flow.