Scribe

It was a quiet night, illuminated solely by Haggard's singular candle, flickering ever so slightly in the frigid, windless reading hall. The only sound in the halls, so quiet it could not even echo off the walls of the nearly empty room, was the scritching and scratching of Haggard's feather pen as he copied down the transcripts that would be illuminated in the morning. It was tired, unappreciated work, and more likely than not, the book would be burned by the next king who decided that there was no need for education. The hours, weeks, months, and years of Haggard's life, thrown away in a matter of moments because a king wanted to be sure that he was higher raised than his people. It had happened before. It would happen again.

And yet Haggard could not deny his passion for the art. The careful, slow moving progress of transcribing words from one place to another, so as to give them a second home, where they could be beautiful and loved. Honing his writing skills so as to give the words the physical beauty that they so righteously deserved. He only wished that he could also be the one to give them great artistry - to give the scenes that they so vividly depicted form, and to let the readers have an image in their mind of what was happening. He knew how to space the words for the pictures, so that they would be framed by the words themselves, perfectly hugging the images of what is in the words. But to actually paint those images? He was sadly lacking.

The candle was nearly burnt out, the wick less than an inch above its holder, melted wax poured out into the metal basin around it. By collecting the wax, they would be able to form a new candle using a new wick, and save the resources. It was an invaluable method, saving the church large amounts of wealth. When they were in favor and in production, they had little to fear financially. But in the less fiscal years, when kings were jealous and the people less than zealous, any costs that could be cut would be extremely beneficial. They tried to maintain these strategies even in the good years, so that the wealth they accrued would be able to last longer.

As usual, Haggard's candle died out an hour before sunrise. He very carefully put the ink away in the dimming light, cleaned his pen, and set his drying pages in a safe place. If anything happened to the ink before it could fully dry, well... That would be many hours wasted, to put it lightly. When they were dried, he would be able to sew them together into a book, and encase it in fine leather. The materials were expensive, but necessary to make such a fine home for such fine words.

He was proud of his work. Exceedingly so, some might say. But he knew just how little they knew. And he knew that he would be doing this scribe's work until the day he died.