Nightgale Blog Challenge: The Unfinished Tale

Fourth and last entry to Nightgale blog challenge. Thank you Glitterlady and other participants for the great stories. David A. Ludwig has written a summary of the challenge, read it here.

Emma sought the words her father would have chosen. Did the dragon’s scales glint or gleam as it shifted atop its mound of treasure? No, he would have first described the gold, rubies, and magical relics strewn into a pile and then revealed the dragon lying atop the fortune.

The words were right, now she had to write them down. She held up one of her father’s pages, studied the form of the letters. How the top of t’s curved, how the i’s were a little slanted and how the ink stains became more frequent when the pace of the story grew faster.

Like a muse, the memory of her father guided her hand. She worked throughout the night, studying the pages her father had written before death had claimed him. When her work was done she snuck back into her father’s study and hid the papers below a cupboard. As if they’d fallen there.

Come morning, she pretended to find them. She held her breath for a moment; she would have to sound surprised and elated at the “discovery”, otherwise they would see through her ruse.

“Mama! Lil’ brother!” Emma held one of the papers in her hand. “Come see what I found!”

“I’m not little!”

“I found some papers. The letters look like dad’s handwriting. ” She swallowed; mother had furrowed her brow. “And they pick up where father’s story left off.”

“Mama, read it to me!” Her brother bounced up and down, brown locks mimicking the movement. He’d believed the lie. Not much else mattered. “I want to know what happens next!”

“You’ll have to sit down and listen.” Mother had a knowing smile on her face as she walked in to the den holding the papers and began reading her daughter’s words.

Emma smiled; father hadn’t told her the ending of the story, but it had been clear to her. The beggar boy would outwit the dragon, not slay it, and return to his family a rich young man. Her little brother liked simple, happy endings. They made him smile when nothing else could.

Nighgale Blog Challenge: The Sacrifice

This is my second entry to Glitterlady's Nightgale blog challenge. I'm sorry it's late, I had a busy week and hit a wall with the story.

PROMPT:

Immortality comes to you, you do not go to Immortality.

The sacrifice had ceased screaming. Blood from the tear on his throat trickled down the sides of the stone altar, dripping on to the white flowers laid around the slab. Gibbet smiled; the first victim had been hard, but the time he got to the tenth he’d gotten used to the pleading and the threats. All a part of his quest for immortality.

The deity of life had ignored his request for years, but he could not ignore the death knells of his followers for long.

The dead man’s hand twitched and Gibbet quickly stepped back. Was it time?

Slowly the corpse’s hand rose to the gaping wound on his throat. Pinching the wound close, the man sat up and stared Gibbet in the eyes.

”Stop killing my followers!” The corpse’s face was beetroot red from anger. “I’m busy enough as it is without having to resurrect them.”

Good, he had the deity’s attention now. “Give me what I prayed for and the slaughter will end.”

The man’s mouth twisted as the deity considered. “Eternal youth is only for the High Priests.”

Gibbet’s mind wandered to the painting he had walked past every morning. Men like him being ripped apart by monsters, drowning in waste, subjected to horrors beyond his imagination. He’d committed murder several times. It was either immortality or the Underworld for him.

“I will continue killing your followers until you strike me down.”

The deity arched an eyebrow. “And why wouldn’t I do that right now?”

Gibbet hid his fear in false scoff, “What kind of deity of life would you be?”

“Hmm… you are correct. I cannot kill.” The deity lifted the man’s free hand to rub his chin. “Ah, if you will stop slaughtering my followers, then yes, I shall grant you immortality.”

The deity set the dead man’s hand atop his head and muttered in a low voice. For a moment Gibbet feared the deity would twist his head, snapping his neck, but the god of life couldn’t kill.

He felt the deity’s voice more than heard it. The words settled on him and slipped beneath. He could feel a change, something fundamental leaving his body.

“You’re now an immortal, bastard.” The deity spat the words.

Gibbet smiled as he bowed his head. “I will never grow old, I am forever young.”

The deity burst into laughter. “Forever young? Hah! No, you will rot, but you will not die. I was impressed with you, working and praying diligently. I would have answered your prayers and given you eternal youth, but you strayed from the righteous path.”

All expression faded from the man’s face. His hand fell from his throat; the deep wound had knitted shut, leaving behind only a thin scar. The priest’s eyelids slid down, then shot open widen.

“You slit my throat!” The man shouted, pointing an accusing finger at Gibbet, who just stared at him blankly. This had gone all wrong. Perhaps the god of death would grant him real immortality or at least take back his brother’s curse.

Tuesday Tale Challenge on Glitterlady's blog

Read the other stories here.

Cold gnawed her hand, yet she picked up the brittle flower from the snow. It was dead, as she should be. Envy surged through her; she crushed the wilted flower inside her fist. Her life had been an average one: she’d married, had children, then died calmly.

It was what came after the death that had frightened her; the realization that she was leaving her loved ones behind and stepping into a new plane of existence. Her feelings had been lugubrious, a clump of sorrow and fear lodged in her heart.

She should have been afraid of the offer of immortality instead.