The candle was burning low, wax dripping from the bronze holder and over onto the wooden tabletop. The flame flickered, and the boy's eyes briefly looked up, hesitating, halting, waiting for the fire to go out. It wavered, shook violently, and then steadied. He exhaled, smiled to himself, and cast his eyes back downwards.
His fingers were light as they turned the pages. Barely breathing, he marvelled as the candlelight caught the gold-leaf illumination of the margins. Fantastic beasts roamed in the corners, unicorns and dragons, as tendrils of ivy wound its way around letters. It was beautifully made; the boy himself had spent his own morning painstakingly illuminating a manuscript of his own. It had taken four and a half hours and he had only completed half a page, but as the day wore on, the boy grew excited. The monks around him grew tired and longed for their beds, but he waited in anticipation for the darkness, for in darkness he could tiptoe from his bed, into the library, pull down a heavy, leather bound tome from one of the top shelves, light a candle and disappear.
Sometimes he disappeared to France. Sometimes to Italy. Tonight he disappeared to the edges of the world, where dog-headed beasts and giants roamed free. It was all he longed for, all he dreamed of. Knowing. It didn't matter what. He just wanted to know. He was sure he would be in trouble from the abbot if he ever found out. All the knowledge in the world wasn't meant for him, after all. It wasn't his business to spend his nights here, filling his brain. His business was to serve God. He was meant to transcribe these manuscripts to preserve them for others to come in the years, decades, and centuries after. He was to pray, several times a day, for the souls of the departed. He was to work the land and complete chores in the monastery to ensure its smooth running. When he retired to bed at 7pm sharp, he was expected to stay there until 2am, when the bell would awaken him for Vespers. But lack of sleep didn't bother him; he wouldn't be the only one yawning through their morning prayers for the dead. Besides, this was worth all the tiredness the Lord could bring. It made the toil of the day worth it. And yet... it wasn't enough.945Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡDJJY1DE3a7
Still he wanted more. He wanted to know for certain what lay beyond the edge of the world. What lurked in dark caves in the northernmost hemisphere, and what could be found in the deepest depths of the oceans. Here, in his small monastery in the north of England, as rain lashed at the windows and morningtime prayers edged nearer, he just wanted more. He wanted the thrill that came with the knowing, and the joy he got whenever his fingers skimmed the spine of something new, something he hadn't yet read. His soul sang, and with each word he read, he only wanted more.
The vellum pages were almost transparent as candlelight filtered through them when he turned them. In the flickering light, the lion almost seemed to roar, and the knights could almost have smote down the dragon right there on the page. The ladies were waving from the towers and the snakes were winding their way around the corners of the pages, curling and lengthening with each stutter of the candle flame. They came alive as he sat in his creaky wooden chair, and he wondered to himself, as the moonlight shone through the high windows, cold and white and bright, what else is out there? Will I ever know?
A/N; I've attached some manuscript illuminations purely because of how stunning they are. Enjoy! (Also a 'day in the life of Benedictine monk' in case anyone is interested) http://www.bbc.co.uk/timelines/zt99v4j#zt88bk7945Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ9NANzSiEdo
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945Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡndjjg2tgB5
