We humans will question the means and chances of the things that are written and known. I, too, wonder this. It is a change of things--a flux of events. All of which began with a moment.--First Age. Author unknown
White lamps buzzed at the base of the walls, the glow reaching for his person. Merrin saw this, imagined it, and discarded the scene. Instead, he heeded another: the cave. Ahead, the light stretched into a narrow path, a harsh, sterile radiance carving a lane forward—a trail into slavery.
An Ashman once, free as the rising soot, the hissing steam curling to the sky. A long time ago. Not now. No more. That freedom was gone, stripped from him like cloth torn from flesh. He cowered in it but knew it absent.
The corridor swallowed him in shadow, its walls hewn from crude black stone, jagged and raw. A tunnel of pain, worn smooth only by the passage of the countless broken before him. It felt wrong. A place not meant for men. He longed for his home—the wild beauty of the ash-ridden air, the dance of self on steam.
Here, they were not granted the simplest look of the sky's face. No endless black expanse, no drifting soot carried on the wind—only the presence of stone. High above, the ceiling loomed, cold. A prison in every sense. He sighed.
Barefoot, he walked onward, the heat rising from the ground, licking at his legs like a living thing. Maybe it was a creature. His brother, somewhere, without witness, laid on it.
You killed him.
Merrin reined the thought and touched the stone fitted to the side chest of his clothes. Froststone, blue, the cooling veil from it kept the heat away. Without it, he, everyone, they would burn.
Maybe that was better, he felt, being a slave seemed worse.
How could he endure this?
The line moved slowly, the steps of the slaves dragging in a somber rhythm. They seemed lost, depressed, hollow. Would he soon, too? likely.
Then he saw it: The imprinter.
The man sat slouched on a three-legged stone stool to the right. His head, round and fat-filled, his stomach bulging like a bloated carcass, pale green and oily. Wide, bloodshot eyes, with loin rags barely covering his crotch.
A repulsive thing to see.
In his thick fingers, he gripped a heated pole, the end shaped into a unique triangular mark. For the slaves. He pressed it against the arms of the bony peons, and black smoke sizzled from the scorching flesh. Some screamed in pain; others yelped. The pain proved itself tremendous.
Merrin was in no better state. Months aboard the black ships had stripped the meat from his bones—hunger, exhaustion, and weakness gnawed at him. But, fortunately, any tell of such a state did not render him invalid. Returning home seemed a greater punishment.
And considering what he had done, preferring this over that, well, that proved necessary.
It didn't take long for bright dots of light to fade into the hall. Floating around the heads or arms of the enslaved, branded or not, the dots bore varying shades of color. Some red for rage, blue for sadness, and the same for the rest. Although there were no yellow servs—likely because none shared delight with the situation. Not even the brander, it seemed.
Hopefully, no serv had yet to observe him.
Serv; that was what the watchers were called here. An odd name to give to an eye of the Almighty.
Regardless.
At times, despair drove a slave to lash out—fighting, fleeing, breaking the line. But when they did, the excubitors were swift, mercilessly cutting them down and dragging their bodies away to be burned. Hard land was too scarce for graves. Especially, one for such lowly men. darkCrowns.
He walked the line in silence, accompanied only by the whispers of the enslaved, the screams of the branded, and the maddening sizzling of flesh against iron. It would soon be his turn. Would he also scream?
It was a fleeting thought, one he discarded as quickly as it came.
Now, he was before the fat of a man.
The Bloated Brander scowled at him, bearing the rod toward his right arm. Merrin felt the heat's inkling even before it touched. It seemed a warning of imminent pain. A potent one.
The brander pointed at the dark, tight, long sleeves, then pointed up. Repeatedly. Merrin understood, realizing what was implied.
He pulled up his sleeve, revealing a pale, slender arm—skin taut against bone. The brander patted his flesh like a cleanseWitch searching for a vein. Then, without pause, he pressed the iron against him.
Dark smoke fizzled out.
Merrin winced, bit down on his lips. His arm felt hot, burning as if the pain was stretching into his bones, charring them too. So painful.
Misting thing!
The rod clung to his flesh, reluctant to part. But when it finally did, the agony remained—a throbbing fire, undeterred by the froststone's barrier. The stone shielded against external heat, not the pain internal. Against the pain, he wished for the other.
He clenched, holding his right arm, taking even steps serially. The burning pain remained, throbbing, not at all dulled by the effects of the froststones. In a way, it made sense, the stone created a protective bubble around him to keep out the heat, not to prevent what was already inside.
Heaving a couple of breaths, though he doubted they helped, he managed to starve off the pain long enough for it to stop hurting. Alright, that's that. He told himself.
He pulled his shoulder close, inspecting the markings now carved into flesh—forever to remain there. It seemed a triangle, with varying dark burned glyphs etched within. Around it, the skin was pinched and rough, still warm from the branding.
He sighed. Now, he was officially a slave! An ashman with no right; not one to bathe in the soot, and certainly not to dance. Feeling the smoothness of his skin, so little ash remained. The remnant had been long washed by the sky's drizzle.
He was Ashless, thereby lifeless.
Following the others of his kind, Merrin moved.
Just then.
The ground shook, a violent rhythm. Legs trembled under the quake, sending an unsteady pulse through his body. He grimaced silently. Such things were common back in the ashMountains. The awareness of that somewhat remained.
It was obvious what was happening, and he prayed for the outcome of the very walls collapsing on him. Him alone. No more needed to die for his own mistakes. Sinfilled mistakes.
Merrin, for one, would prefer death over what was to happen—he had heard tales of things in Nightfell. Maybe they were exaggerated, Mindless talks. Not that it mattered anyway.
He wanted death.
Nevertheless, soon, the quaking stopped, and the ground calmed. Serene. Many glanced around, perplexed, searching for a crack in the structure—an escape. But none appeared. However, the line did stop, and Merrin guessed the obvious cause: the wall ahead had collapsed from the quake.
They were underground, he knew this. And from time to time, ruin came to the structure—even casted ones.
Attracted by the commotion and halted line, a man walked the slave-scarce space on the left. He had faint white hair and a slender body, froststone shimmering blue on the left side of his chest.
brightCrown!
Merrin peeked out from his line to see what the Caster was to do. Yes, he abhorred their actions, but given what chapter his life had turned to, it would indeed be better to have something to think about once in a while.
He was a bit hindered by the shuffling, musky-scented bodies of the slaves, but yet managed a peek. And what he saw was a caster guarded by excubitors.
He surveyed the rummage; the cracked black stones had roughly walled them from the path forward. They were like large beads, placed atop each other in a scattered but strangely fitting pattern.
It would take days to dig through it. However, the Caster seemed undeterred by that, instead, he spoke a few words to the Guards around him—likely a command to back away, as following that, they proceeded to retreat steps behind.
With the distance given, the caster stretched out his right hand, placing it gently on one of the interlocking stones of the wall. He reached with the other to the side of his pockets, taking out a small waterhusk and uncapping the bottle.
There was a pause after that, as if the very winds, voice, and scent had vanished away. Everything seemed dull. Yet, oddly, Merrin thought he heard a distant screaming. Next, quite abruptly, the stone shattered into a cascade of clear water, flooding down where solid rock had stood.
The sudden water washed down, sizzling against the hot ground, turning into steam, stretching like searching tendrils of fog and mist. But since there was no sky above, the steam hopelessly reached out.
Some water, not yet turned to vapor, lapped at Merrin's legs—warm, almost soothing. It simmered out steam, clouding his vision, itching, flooding his eyes.
He blinked a couple of times, remaining silent. A dusky blue serv appeared beside, floating against his cheek as if drawing near for a kiss. Longing Serv.
Merrin so longed for the Steam.
With the path clear, the line moved again. The dampened air lent them energy, however fleeting. Even his face felt wet.
The rest of the match was uneventful; no quakes, defiance, or anything—even the servs had slowly vanished, returning to the body of the Almighty to reveal to him what it was they had seen. What would they show, even? A group of slaves? Did the almighty care for that?
He pushed the thought aside as the line halted again. This time, for a different reason—they had reached the gates of the Iron Mines.
Even from his distance, he could see them. The obsidian black gates stood towering like a mountain, embedded between two stone walls, the height of hills.
The gate was odd-looking; its surface, although calm and slick, would ripple like the surface of a disturbed lake. The ripple would spread through it, returning to the serene, slick calmness. It was like a pattern of sorts.
Eltium! It was his first time seeing it, at least in this specific form. He did, though, feel a repulsion to it.
To fit a human soul into that. He grimaced.
Black spirits they called them, but to him, it was simply another attempt humans made to copy the works and power of the Almighty.
Sometimes we should just accept our own extraneity, He thought, lowering his eyes from the behemoth of a gate. It was opening now anyway. Though it would be a wonder to know who could even open them. Perhaps no one. Perhaps it was cast. They used them for everything, anyway.
The gates parted, revealing an endless darkness within them. A gust of wind scented with the pungent myriad scents blew from the abyss, rustling through the pathway like the breath of some monster. A horrible monster that sought to hold and trap him forever.
Merrin shuddered, his breath stopping in his lungs. He had prepared himself for what was to come, but now that he stood here, at the boundary of freedom, he couldn't help but feel his will wane—fading away like the blowing wind.
A breath in.
What can I even do? He thought, then shook his head. There was nothing he could do. This was the moment he knew amnesty was gone, the steam was gone, the booms of lightning and dark sky...gone also.
So what could he do?
He accepted it. Fear remained, yes, but in the end, that was the limit of what control he had. This was now his reality. There was only acceptance.
When he sold himself into slavery, he knew the outcome. The memory recalled itself. He chose to forget.
The line moved, and in accord, his steps followed.
He gradually drew closer to the large gates. Heart pounding with every step. Each motion revealed something. Ahead, he noticed persons standing attentively at the boundary of mine's maw.
Through the cracks of the line and the occasional peaking, he caught sight of them: Women dressed in tight black dresses—ones that revealed well-portioned, slender bodies. They were tall, faces covered by a pitch-blackened veil. Despite that, their overall visage compelled desires out of a person. There was a holy beauty to them,
Sisters of the Gresendents sonitras Merrin awed. Even in the isolated ash mountains, their stories still found way. Either a scholae…or.
He had heard of them; They were what female Aspirants were called in the Church.
Each of them wore a single odd glove, reaching to their elbow, stopping around a silvery ring with gray glyphs inscribed in it. The gloves, much like the gate, seemed made of Eltium and so pulsed with a ripple.
Other than that, there was also the white, glowing gem-shaped thing embedded into the silver circle atop the glove.
He hadn't seen anything like that before, but based on the descriptions, the realization of familiarity surged.
The Sisters seemed to be in selection of slaves as they pointed at a few, while the rest proceeded into the darkness. Those who were pointed by the sisters were moved to the side of the gate, watching solemnly as the rest vanished in the blackness.