Another night, another stool at the Minoc tavern, and another mug that’s seen more use than a miner’s pick. I came in heavy—nearly fifty ingots in my pack, all iron, all dug from the red-veined walls down in the deep tunnels near the old mine forge. My shoulders still burn from the weight, and my hands won’t stop twitching, like they’re still wrapped around that pick. You know the one—the hickory handle worn smooth from months of swinging, the steel head chipped but true. I’ve swung it so long it feels like part of my arm.
I remember one strike, just before I called it a day. The pick hit that dark stone, and for a second, nothing. Then a crack, sharp as a whip, and a chunk broke free—rich, raw iron ore, still warm from the earth’s breath. I knelt there, sweat stinging my eyes, and touched it. Not for value—though I knew what it’d bring—but just to feel it. That rough, crystalline skin, the way it crumbled slightly under my thumb. It’s strange, isn’t it? That a man can find comfort in cold rock. But down there, in the silence between swings, it’s like the mountain talks to you. In rhythms. In resistance.
I carried the load up through the torchlit shafts, past the old support beams groaning like old men, and hauled it all to the blacksmith near the stables. Old Tamsin was there, her face lit amber by the forge. She didn’t say much, just nodded when I dumped the ingots on her scale. “Good weight,” she said, and slid me a few gold. Not much—barely enough to refill my pack with coal and oil—but enough. That moment, watching the coins land in my palm, I felt it. Not pride, not exactly. Just… continuity. Like the cycle held. Like I hadn’t been broken by the rock, nor the rock by me.
Tomorrow, I go back. The mountain’s still speaking. And I’ve still got a pick that knows the way.
No replies yet.