When Frost made it out of here, those four men would be on their knees begging for him to spare their lives. They'd pray like he was a deity, and like a deity he'd be indifferent to their suffering. Indeed, he'd kill them all. The crimes he'd committed had never been personal, but now it was different. Who knew if there were even laws against that sort of thing in this world, though? One problem at a time, he reminded himself, focus on the one right in front of you.
And so Frost Direshard got to work. He kept his head down and focused on the prospect of escape.
He hefted his pickaxe and slammed it into the rock with a resounding clink. A massive portion of the rock came free and tumbled down to his feet where multiple similarly sized chunks already rested. His muscles ached endlessly, but he kept going. He'd been repeating this motion for so long that it felt like an eternity, but the day was only half done. The only thing to take solace in was perhaps the fact that he was not alone. A hundred men were around him in the vast tunnels of the mines, their songs resounding and echoing through the space.
If they died, their number was replaced within the day. The best way to fight, then, was simply to stay alive.
[Translation service active]
Whenever someone spoke, he got this little notification in the corner of his vision. It seemed that, normally, these people were speaking in a language he couldn't understand. That wouldn't be the only strange thing about this place, to be sure. The magic, the languages, and the strange energy. The wyverns and dragons. The men with four arms and the men shaped like lizards. The atomic make-up of this place was different from Earth. Frost could feel it like a gentle nagging at the back of his mind.
He lifted the pickaxe and slammed it down.
He'd tried to talk to the guards, none had said a single word to him. They acted like he was the wind whistling past their ears, a person who wasn't a person any longer. When they did refer to him, it was only numbers. He was Sixty-three. Sixty-three do this. Sixty-three, work harder. The first time they'd referred to him as a number, he'd mouthed off and gotten smacked across the head by a club. After that, he remained complicit. It didn't stop the anger beneath his skin from gently seething.
He lifted the pickaxe and slammed it down.
They had no interest in his problems, nor the fact that he wasn't a slave at all. If he wanted his problems solved, the solution was to go straight to the top. He'd asked a few of the men in the mines about it, and they said the only way to meet the master was to make a particularly good find. With his current streak of luck, that might never happen. They were supposed to be mining for diamonds and making the master rich; he'd been hacking at this rock for six hours straight with no break and hadn't found anything other than stone in his way.
He lifted the pickaxe and slammed it down.
How was it possible to be cowed like the others in a situation like this? Was their resentment not at the maximum? Were they not verging on boiling over the top of the pot? Frost couldn't fathom giving in to this lifestyle. No. It was escape or die trying. He wouldn't take it any other way. He wouldn't give his name away and he wouldn't serve these bastards any longer than he needed to.
He lifted the pickaxe and slammed it down. A week had gone by in this way. White stubble dotted his face, and he looked somehow even more tired than he had when he was back home.
In a week he'd been beaten more times than he'd like to admit. Frost was outspoken about his willingness to escape, and to show the master who was really the boss. He came to like the pain. Prior to what he'd thought on day one, he'd decided that the pain was a pleasant reminder that his mind was free. The others laughed and laughed when it happened. They all thought he was a fool. Frost laughed while it happened, too, and when he laughed they hit him harder.
He lifted the pickaxe and slammed it down.
Slop for dinner. Slop for lunch. Talk too much and you'd get beat. Talk in a way they didn't like and you'd get beat. Mine too slow while someone was watching and you'd get beat. One of the slaves, Thirty-six, had gotten shot through the head when they found him stealing rations for the second time. That night, Fourty-two had cried in his cell for his friend, the man who had apparently initiated him when he'd arrived half a year before. Frost saw in those tears that the last smithereen of hope in his soul had been diminished.
Thirty-six was replaced by the next day.
He lifted the pickaxe and slammed it down. A month went by. Frost's beard was thick like Santa Claus. He'd asked for a razor, or even for someone to shave it for him. He should've known better. They'd beaten him for his insolence.
[MasterOfTheFlute: This is a fruitless endeavour.]
[Checkpointer20: At last we agree on something, flute boy.]
[GreatGadfly30: Indeed. You will not find true knowledge here.]
Right, and the annoying chatters at the corner of his vision were still yapping. He had been successful in ignoring them for the majority of the time, but it was impossible to not see a few of the comments.
Frost had gotten decent at finding diamonds in the meantime. It was almost like a sixth sense. His productivity was through the roof compared to the others. They started getting beatings in his place. They started to resent him. One night, while walking back to the cells, ten men ganged up on him. Frost was able to get a few good hits in, of course, but it wasn't long until he was on the ground and beaten into a pulp. The guards stood and watched. He even heard one of them giggle.
Fifty-seven was the one behind it, that rat-faced bastard. It had happened four times now, starting on that first night he'd arrived. Frost never bothered to fight back anymore, not after that first time he fought back and ended up getting punished. He didn't know how or why, but the guards were in on it. Success was impossible. Everyone was an insecure bastard, and half of them also wanted to see him dead.
He lifted the pickaxe and slammed it down. If he worked too slow, he'd be punished by the guards. If he worked too fast, he'd be punished by his own.
He started to exist only through hatred. Hope was replaced with hate. His soul burned in agony. Every moment was torture. Once, he was able to imagine a future for himself. He'd lost that ability. It was gone, replaced by the damned rock in front of him. He'd have been expelled from university by now. It was all over for him, no doubt about that. Frost Direshard was just Sixty-three now.
He lifted the pickaxe and slammed it down. He'd broken the two promises that mattered most to him. He'd lost university, and he'd lost his freedom. Even so, he tried not to think about it. Keep working.
Fourty-two came walking by down the tunnel which was dark and dingy and only held up by flimsy wooden archways. He tapped Frost on the shoulder to get his attention as if Frost had somehow not heard his footsteps loudly echoing down the hall. He did this every day. It meant that it was lunch time. Time for another plate of shit with hardly enough nutrients to keep an ant satisfied. Frost turned to Fourty-two, his face sunken and bruised.
"Lunch. You coming?" Fourty-two asked.
Frost glanced at the pickaxe embedded in the rock, and then wiped the sweat from his brow. "Nah," he said. "I'll be over in a minute."
Fourty-two was looking much better these days. He'd managed to use his good worker points to get a haircut. Frost, on the other hand, usually had his points deducted when he got a beating for speaking out. Now, Fourty-two's aging face was plainly visible, and Frost dared to think he looked healthy. This man who'd been sold into slavery for gambling debt and left a wife and children at home. How was it that he was content with this?
"You said that last time," he said, "and then the next time I saw you was at lights out."
Frost frowned. "I have a good feeling today."
"You also said that last time."
Frost sighed, then stroked his beard before eventually doubling down. "I'll be here. Go on without me."
"You bastard. You're gonna work yourself to death in here. I–" He hesitated as if his pride wouldn't allow what he was going to say next. I don't want you to die. You couldn't afford to care about people in this line of work. Slaves died with little reason and quite randomly. Male slaves would be shot or hung in the common area after a second major infraction. Female slaves were never executed, no, they were too busy getting used by the guards day in and day out. Most of them never even got a chance to lift a pickaxe, despite the fact that this was their true job description. When Frost looked at his bruises and felt his aching body, he wasn't sure whether to be envious or horrified.
That was the life of a slave. Caring about each other was out of the question.
"Go, man. Go eat your lunch. I'll be here," Frost repeated.
Fourty-two looked at Frost and his decrepit form, so different from the man he'd met a month before. Even so, he nodded his head. His lips bobbed up and down, clearly considering an objection. What came out was different. "I'll see you later," he said.
[Translation service active]
"See you." Frost slumped down watching his friend walk away. This man doesn't know my language. He doesn't know who I am, who I was. He distanced himself from the people here. They were fools with feelings, and that was why they'd remain here and die. They'd rot with these damned diamonds. Frost hadn't given up the hope of escaping. He hadn't given up the hope of slaughtering those bastards.
That was why he lifted the pickaxe and slammed it down.
And the hope shined before his eyes as the final rock fell. That clear gem glistened like the sun shining on a lake. It glistened with hope, with happiness, with memory. He saw his face reflected in it, and all of the hardship of the last month. He saw the beatings and he saw the nights he felt like sobbing. He saw his cold and uncaring persona that became harder and harder to upkeep. His eyes became glossed over with tears, and though he couldn't see it, he knew very well what was before his eyes.
It was the biggest diamond Frost Direshard had ever seen.