Chapter Text
"Listen close, George, this is important."
Soft palms cupped small hands, guiding them to the full curve of a bottle. The glass was warm beneath his fingertips, sending sparks of heat running down his back.
"The story goes like this. Once there was a woman, who had lived an earnest life, filled with good. Plants blossomed under her green touch, birds soared with the weight of her voice to carry them high, and joy sprung wherever her smile went. This woman had a child, a child who fell terribly ill. She was beside herself with grief, knowing that her son would not make it to see the sunrise the next day. Determined to give him any chance of survival, she came up with a medicinal brew. Upon giving it to her son, his cheeks bloomed with roses, his voice rose from the smoke. It was said to be blessed by the gods, but we know the truth, don't we?" He scrunched his face as fingers tweaked his nose softly. "The real truth lies in our blood."
Into the crystalline water went hunks of shining melon, blooming a bright scarlet. Flakes of gold swirled around the quickly darkening mixture, flashing by as careful fingers shook the bottle by its neck.
"Healing, George." The bottle was placed into his hands, instantly clasped tight in tiny fingers. "Now you know how to make it."
A grin cracked his face as he peered into the glittering crimson potion, sparkling golden flecks winking at him through the barrier of glass.
Healing…
…
George's fingers trembled, blistered and bent by the splintering wooden handle of his pickaxe. Digging the tender flesh of his fingers into the wall before him, he tore out a hunk of smoky black ore, dropping it into his pack with a dull thud. He swung his pickaxe into the wall, grimacing as his bones shook at the impact.
The rattling of lungs joined the hiss of steel chains as the broken bodies of slaves worked around him. The flickering iron lanterns suspended above lit the faces of the half-dead. Ravenous pickaxes dug into the tunnel walls, smashing the stone into fractures that dug into soot-stained skin, scratching pale lines against their marred flesh. If hell existed in the overworld, this was it.
Every so often, the guards barked harsh orders, cracking their leather whips against the gravel-littered ground. Sometimes, the lash of their rage would carve rivers of red down the backs of slow workers. When the wretched cries of the tormented broke the tandem of work, no one uttered a word. Instead, they swallowed their screams into silence, driving their rage into the dull end of their pick.
No one survived the Imperial Mines, not even the skilled. Those born with magic in their blood were beaten and whipped until their skin no longer resembled the smooth facets of quartz, breaking their spirit and melting their resolve until mere husks remained. Those born without were destined to die in the tunnel systems - a fitful death for those that were thieves, criminals, rebels of the King, and dissenters of the throne.
On average, George suspected pure-blood humans would last a year at most before succumbing to the frozen Winter nights or the cruelty of the Royal Guards. Or worse yet, the creatures that roamed the mines at night.
George had lived in the mines for five years.
The ground beneath his bare feet rumbled, sending inky coal dust exploding through the air as exposed chunks were knocked to the ground. George steadied himself against the rocky cavern. He stared down blankly at the ground, wondering which unfortunate fellow had stumbled too far past the torch-lit tunnels. Would they come back? If the force of the blast hadn't sent walls of gravel collapsing around them, then maybe. The hope was futile.
They'd be the third to die to a creeper today.
A sudden ringing sounded out through the mines, reaching the eager ear of every worn and weary being.
"Return to your cells at once. The workday has ended. Return to your cells at once." The droning announcement echoed, drowning out the slump of knotted shoulders and the shuddering sighs of the chained.
The endless call of the guards looped over and over in George's weary head as he stumbled through the crowds of people, relenting his pickaxe to the nearest guard. The sack of coal was dumped with the others.
Though his bones shook on the frozen stone ground, the bite of Winter had begun to creep away. In a matter of weeks, the gentle winds of Spring would filter into the mines and after that, the lingering heat of the sun blazing the ground above. Sometimes, George let himself wonder what it looked like on the surface. Most of the time he didn't. It hurt to think about.
"Give it here, filthy mage."
The pick he held was wrenched from his blistered hands and George hissed, cradling his stinging fingers to his chest as the guard flung the pick onto a discarded pile. Anger bubbled on his tongue - molten lava threatening to overflow from twisted lips. The guards ran the mines like a prison. The numbers that died to their whips and swords made George sick to his stomach.
The guard's shadowed face loomed over him, his eyes hidden by the curve of his helmet. The base of his neck was scarred by a marring of burnt flesh, imprinted with the brand of the King - a crown of twisting, thorny vines. George's nose wrinkled at the foul sight.
A strong grip latched onto his forearm, pulling him back from the guard and forcing his scathing words down his throat. The crowd swallowed them, pushing him up the carved stone stairways up to the cell-levels.
"George, I need your help."
He knew that voice.
"Captain," He remarked, confusion drawing his brows down. Then, he stared at the man cooly, echoes of a conversation once spoken playing in his ear. “I was under the impression you didn't talk to criminals."
Jordan, better known by the other workers as the "Captain" for his experience and age, rarely paid George visits after the incident. A man of size and strength, his time in the mines translated over his hardened skin. With raking scars etched across his shoulders and arms, it was clear that even the Captain hadn't escaped the cruelty of the mines.
Judging by the haunted look in his darkened eyes, George knew whatever had brought the fellow slave to him had to be bad.
As they wound around the corner, Jordan spoke low and quick, funneling information directly into his ear. "Little boy on level two. He's sick, he's not going to make it past the morning. His father tried everything but…"
"It wasn't good enough."
Jordan shook his head, his eyes closing for a prolonged moment. "Nothing ever is here. Please, George. You know I wouldn't ask you if it wasn't urgent."
Of course, he wouldn't. Jordan hadn't spoken to him in five months. Not since the guards brought George down to level eight, the last level suspended above the abyss of the coal mines. The last warning.
Level eight was the silent floor, the only level in the mines with no hushed whispering or broken singing. The false comfort of people was absent - even the guards tended to stay away from the desolate level.
Had he wanted to go to the upper levels, he could have easily snuck out. The iron locks on the cell doors had long since rusted and as he had suspected, they had broken with one kick. Had he wanted to, he could have ventured up the mineshafts to level three to talk to the Captain, or perhaps dipped into the storage units to rifle through their chests.
There was very little reason why George stayed on level eight alone. But it was reason enough.
"George," Jordan pressed, his voice heavy.
Looking down at his scarred hands, he wondered if it was worth it. The last time he'd been caught by the guards- the mere thought of the beating had him looking away, his back prickling with phantom pains.
The thought of the young boy took the edge off the memory, and against his better judgment, he gave Jordan a nod, locking eyes with the other. "I'll be there in four hours. You know what to bring."
Jordan nodded, the tension rushing out of his shoulders as he clapped his hand on George's neck. "Thank you, George."
He was gone in seconds, just another tortured blur amongst the masses of workers trudging back to their cells.
George sighed, tucking his trembling fingers into the tattered pockets of his pants. "Of course, Captain."
…
George would never get used to the sounds of misery.
As he slipped through the lantern-lit path, the grating voices pleading, begging, crying for mercy around him grew. The upper levels were filled to the brim with slaves, some cells holding up to ten of the forsaken. The conditions were unspeakable, the company meant little to most.
The occasional trudge of boots on the stone floor ushered in a wave of silence, but it never remained quiet for long.
"George."
Jordan waved him close, his features crumpled into something that had George hurrying down the hall.
"Did you bring the stuff?" He whispered as they ducked into a cell, pulling the iron bars back. Jordan gave a firm nod. Pushing past the bodies crowding the cell, Jordan led George to the corner.
There, the bent form of a man on the ground greeted them. In his arms was a small boy, his eyes glazed with fever.
Jordan pulled out materials from his pockets as George set to work, giving the boy's father a grim nod as he pressed a hand against the boy's cheek. His face burnt like the lantern flames. His dazed blue eyes looked up at George and he whimpered a frail little sound.
George hushed the boy, running a hand through his matted locks. "You're going to be alright, you hear me?" The boy made no more noise.
Jordan placed a melon in George's free hand. It was a shrunken, discolored lump, spotted with black and blue. Cracking it open on the ground, George wrinkled his nose at the sour-smelling flesh of the fruit. It would have to do.
"Captain, give me the gold."
Jordan poured a pile of golden nuggets into George's open palm. The rough pieces of metal shone faintly under the sheen of dirt, promising.
"Will it be enough?"
Eyeing the pile, George clicked his tongue. "Barely."
From his pocket, he drew a leather flask. Glass bottles worked better, but no such luxuries existed miles beneath the surface. It sloshed around in his hands with murky water.
Tearing his fingers through the flesh of the melon, he dropped the pieces in. The flask twirled in his hold as he swirled the mixture together, his hand practiced. As the sickly sweet smell of melon hit his nose, he could picture the blood-red mixture inside. It usually smelled good- sweet and fresh like Summer. It didn’t matter anyway, the gold ruined the scent. Rubbing off the dirt as best he could, George dropped the nuggets in one by one. It was too dark to see inside the flask. If he could examine the brew, he wondered whether the potion would hold a candle to his mother's. It was a stupid thought.
He spilled a drop of the potion onto his hand carefully, examining the glittering liquid. The bead of crimson trailed down his hand to his wrist, leaving a line of glistening red.
It was a perfect mimic, to no one's surprise. Healing was a potion George had mastered from his early ages. And with the practice he got from living in the mines, his hands only got faster over the years. However rehearsed he was, he knew the strength of the potion would never reach his mother’s capabilities - not while he wasted away under the earth.
"You need to leave. The guards just finished their rounds here. They will make it round to level eight sooner than we thought." Though he concealed it well, Jordan's rigid posture gave him away. Time was running out, they both knew it, and the consequences of being caught were unspeakable.
George instructed Jordan to tip the boy's head back as he poured the pinkish-red liquid down his throat. The healing potion left flecks of gold on the boy's blue lips, which George quickly wiped away. The flakes crumbled under his hand.
Watching magic work never got old. George revered in the way his potions worked, the effects instantaneous and just as beautiful as the potions themselves. Sunken cheeks bloomed apple-red, giving the boy's face a youthful glow. His lips grew similarly flushed as his eyes shone with newfound clarity. His lips were pinched though, a divot forming between his brows. No process of healing came without the pain.
Allowing himself a moment to breathe, George cupped the boy's cheek. He still burnt as hot as a torch flame, but if the potion worked as he knew it would, his fever would dwindle by early morning.
To his father, George spoke quickly. "Give him water and as much sleep as he can get. Keep him out of the guards' sight as usual and if there are any changes to his condition tell the Captain."
The man's eyes were glazed over with tears and his hands shook from where they lay tangled in his son's hair. He wasn't listening.
"George-" Jordan hissed, already standing by the iron bars of the cell.
His hand shot out, latching onto the father's wrist. The man's eyes snapped to his, wide with fear.
"This was the last of the melon I had, you hear me? He doesn't get a second chance."
The man nodded firmly and George stood, tucking his flask back into his pocket.
A frail hand caught his in a trembling grip and George whirled around, his heart jolting against his ribs. Two fragile orbs of blue latched onto his eyes, swimming with delirium.
"Thank you." The boy's lips twitched into a smile before his eyes slid shut and silence swallowed the cellblock.
George swallowed the thickness in his throat, giving Jordan a sharp nod before he was slipping out of the cell, a wisp of a figure melting into the shadows.
…
George woke to the sound of the iron bars clattering to one side. Booted feet swung towards his crumpled form as he scrambled to sit.
It was early in the morning, the dawn's blithering cold leaching into the cell floor, numbing his fingers and toes. The guards never visited this early.
"Look here boys, see who's awake."
The guard strode forwards, crossing his arms as he looked down with loathing at George's huddled figure. He stood against the bars, too close for comfort. Too angry. The mass of scarring on his neck glared at George, red and raised in that terrible crown.
"Stand up."
His joints ached and his bones popped audibly as he dragged himself up, nails digging into the ridges of the wall for support. Nausea struck him hard, disorienting him until he was swaying precariously on his feet.
When was the last time he had been fed? He couldn't recall. The guards often neglected to bring him meals given he was on the lowest level, and in the windowless prison cell, it was hard to keep track of time. Judging by the dull pang in his stomach and the bout of lightheadedness that struck him, it had been a while.
"Get over here!" The guard knocked a hand against the bars and George grimaced at the shriek of the iron.
Slowly, he trudged forward on dead limbs, pain shooting through his arms as he tucked them into his sides. Cold brown eyes tracked the dusty floor until steel-capped leather boots came into view, scratched and worn.
"Good little mage." The guard hissed, and murmured agreements filtered in from behind him. There was a group of them, huddled behind the bars. He could feel their beady eyes fixated on him.
A hand shot out, pulling him forward by the tattered filth of his shirt. He stumbled forward, caught off guard. Blunt fingernails dug into the paper-white skin of his neck, forcing his eyes up to meet the guard's glinting gaze.
A sharp smell hung bitter and pungent around them, souring the air. The guards had been drinking.
"Weak little witch-blood, isn't he?" The guard before him was a large man, built wide and tall with dark features. He may have been handsome if not for the crooked length of his nose and the cruel twist of his lips curling high beneath manic eyes. The emblem of the King was burnt into the flesh of his neck, creeping down his stubbled skin to the arch of his collar bone.
The branding of soldiers was seen as a privilege to those in the ranks of the King's men. Commanding officers, captains, war heroes, traitors of the people, liars - those were the select few to receive the iron print of the King. A sacred mark, forever burnt into skin, to be revered and celebrated by all those innocent and loyal to the King. What a joke. It was a warning. A reminder. The branded served the King and only the King. They were his cattle, lead to be slaughtered.
“I’m just like you.” George followed the gruesome knuckles pulled right over the man’s fist up to his scowl. “I’m human.”
"You’re an abomination.” The words stung, as they always did. “The King must be a fool to think a creature like you would prove to have any worth. We're better off slitting your throat and using you as hunting meat."
George snorted, spitting a harsh bark of laughter back before he could stop himself. "I'm worth more than you could ever be."
"Oh really now?" The hand on his neck squeezed tighter and a torn gasp slipped from George's lips. The guard smiled and sunk his nails into the soft flesh. "Says the prisoner on level eight. Watch your tongue. You're one mistake away from death, one crime away from hell."
"Why are you here then? I must be of some importance if I get a private visit."
"I'm glad you asked, half-breed. We've gotten some reports of someone sneaking around the higher levels."
"Oh?" George's heart thundered in his chest, but he held a stony gaze as he examined the guard. "How interesting. How does that relate to me?"
"We had our suspicions of the perpetrator - who would be dumb enough to risk an escape? Oh, wait…" His tone was heavy and hid a sickening smile.
Thick memories obscured George's vision for a fleeting moment, brought back by the guardsman's words.
There's soot on his cheeks, lines painted down his face by burning tears. His hands are shaking, blisters crying against the grating leather handle of his pickaxe. The acrid smog around him is burning his nose, peeling the skin off his trembling fingers, consuming him in a roiling emerald sea. Warmth is spattered across his face, painting everything a horrible red.
"Now the question was, how did you manage to get out of your cell?" The guard spoke loud in his crowing tone, his face bobbing into view out of a cloud of green. He stared down the bridge of his crooked nose at George. "Imagine our surprise when we came down for a visit only to see your lock was broken."
Terrible silence followed. George's voice was stolen by the panic coursing through his veins, lighting his body on fire.
The guard's smile was chilling. His breath was warm against George's cheek, the first tingle of heat he had felt in months. It repulsed him.
"Get down on the ground."
"Listen, I- I know I-"
" Get down !" He thundered and George's hands shot up to guard his face. The man's eyes flicked down at his fists and he shoved George back by his neck. His hand swung to his side, gripping the wound leather handle of his whip.
"What do you think you're doing, boy?"
Shit. He was pissed. The strips of scarred skin that ran down his back prickled, a reminder of what happened when the guards got angry.
"I would appreciate it," George clipped, his heart thrumming in his ears, distorting his hearing, "if you would put that down." His hand dragged over his neck. There were deep indents of nails on the sensitive skin, cleaving crescents into his aching throat.
"Do you know why you're down here?" The man drew the coiled length of his whip out, unwinding the leather as he strode towards George.
Backed up against the frozen stone wall, George lifted his chin, squaring his jaw at the approaching guard. "Enlighten me."
"You are down here because you are a monster ." He spat and the whip cracked down on the floor. "A freak of nature."
"Funny that you're saying that to me. Look who speaks with hatred here. Look who holds the weapon."
"And yet none of us have ever murdered the innocent, have we boys?" Low laughter filled the desolate prison, the faces of the guards submerged in the shadows past the cell bars.
George's stomach lurched. Lava rose hot and suffocating up his throat, spilling out from his lips in a burst of heat. "You're far from innocent-"
"Are we?" The guard snickered, his black eyes glinting at George through the holes of his helmet. "Last I recall, those who are guilty rot in the cells of the King. You're here because you are an abomination. And you will stay here for the rest of your miserable existence."
The iron bars rattled as hands swung out of the shadows and latched on, pulling them back. Several armored figures stepped into the cell, grinning wide beneath dark eyes. George stumbled back on instinct, his hands dipping down to his chest. The guards were all equipped with leather whips, as well as armor that dripped down their bodies in silver sheets. Stalking forward in the dim square of his cell, they looked like endermen hunting prey.
"You broke the rules, half-breed. And you know what happens to people like you. You get taught a lesson." His lips peeled into a smile and George recoiled.
He knew what was coming next.
"Boys!"
The guardsmen shoved him back harshly, sending him sprawling to the ground in a heap of wiry limbs. The rattling of the bars sounded out like the warning growl of a beast as they were flung open. The heavy clomp of leather boots sounded out in the eerie silence, reverberating in his ears.
The first kick swung into his ribs, sending stars bursting behind his eyes as white-hot pain erupted from his side. His stomach sang in pain as the steel caps of the boots drove into him again and again, rendering him a hacking and wheezing mess. George rolled over and heaved breathlessly into the ground. Tears slipped down his red hot cheeks, splattering onto the grimy floor. The pain was never-ending and his breath tangled in his throat as the cracking of whips sounded out nearby, striking against the walls beside him. They chittered and hissed like leather snakes. Bile rose heavy to his tongue and he shuddered against the ice-cold ground, feeling tears drip off his nose.
"Remember this, half-breed. You are nothing. You are weak. And if you ever break the rules again, you are dead ."
The guards left him on the ground, their cruel laughter slithering down the halls with the stomp of their boots. The cracking of whips echoed throughout the cellblock, drowned out by the heaving gasps that shredded his lungs.
George shuddered as he felt the coppery warmth of blood blossom on his tongue, spilling out of his lips like red petals. It looked gray on the dirty floor, his darkening vision playing tricks on him.
No one would come to heal him, no magical healer would brew him a potion or sing him to sleep. George dragged himself into a ball, knees tucked under shaking arms, holding onto as much heat as he could. The sound of whips struck him once more.
No one can save me now.