“Come now, I think hell's a fable.”

“But, Faustus, I am an instance to prove the contrary, For I am damned, and am now in hell.”

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Tuesday, Août 4th, Year 1734 in the Thorian Calendar

"So now what are you’s in 'ere for?' 

I glanced over to the sweaty, balding man beside me. The man had a damnable accent thicker than almost anything I’d ever heard. His voice had more in common with a gurgling horse than that of a man. Jack, I thought his name was. Or wait, wasn't this the man with the woman's name, Jenny or something? I frowned, thinking for a moment, then gave up. It didn't really matter. I’d have a new work detail by this time next week, there simply wasn’t any need to rack my brain over this man’s name. Plus, I’d been exhausted from half a day of back breaking labor, and was not in any kind of mood for thinking, or talking. 

"Does it matter?" I replied, glancing sideways at him. 

"Course it matters," The balding man replied. "I wish to knows whether I'm laborin' beside a thief or a rapist. If you’s a thief, why I got nothin' to worry about, seein' as I've got no possessions worth mentioning down 'ere. But if yous a rapist, why, there's no telling what kind of strange queer like behavior you’s get up to when my back's turned."  

"I'm not a rapist you fat slob." I replied wearily. "Mind your own business"

"Ohhh, now that right there is just what a rapist might say, me thinks. If yous was a thief, you's have admitted it, most of the thievin’ boys down ‘ere about ain’t shy with the details of their former lives." The Balding man happily explained.

"I. AM. NOT. A. RAPIST." I angrily replied, through gritted teeth, to the incessant man. "I told you the truth, and I'm not in the habit of repeating myself. Get that through your damnable little skull." 

"All right, All right there ser, no need to be gettin’ all hostile and the like. Was you’s a slaver then, perhaps? Nasty business, but it'd be enough to get a man sent round here's if he's decided to himselfs that selling off savages isn't enough for him. I know me many a slaver who has gotten a little too greedy for his own good. Were you kidnappin' Gaulicia's good citizens in the night by any chance good ser?."

"I was not a slaver either" I tiredly replied, pinching the ridge of my nose with my forefinger and thumb. “Please, just be quiet, we’re on break.” The guards only allowed the convicts to have two short breaks a day, to be used at their discretion, and I’d had the unfortunate luck of coming up for rest and water at the same time as the bastard beside me. This son of a bitch just wouldn't shut up.

"Then, my good sir, I am at a loss. If you're not a thief, rapist, or slaver, then I have no idea why the powers that be have sent 'ere. Did they maybe put you’s in ‘ere for political reasons and the like, why I knew a---"

"Murder" I finally replied, exasperated. “Satisfied? Will you stop talking now?” 

The balding man stopped short. "Murder?" he replied, shocked. "Murder? Why, my fellow, how are you still alive? I've never known me a Judge who allowed a murderer to escape the noose with hard labor. A life taken must be repaid in blood, not sweat, as my grandpa always telled, and I know the authorities tend to agree."

"You asked, and I answered. I'm in here for murder. Multiple murders in fact. Now. Go. Away." I furiously retorted. 

"Ah murder’s a right nasty crime, that. If it was up to me, I'd have you swinging in the noose. There’s no excuse for that kind of rotten behavior. But it's not up to me, so there's no use worrying about it. Me, I'm here for some honest thieving, highway robbery and the like. I never did stray too far from home, my thieving were always done right near the town of my birth. My up mother is still there, I’s recon, and she was who it all started for. She needed the money for medicine, you’s see. She be a beautiful woman, my mother, named me Samuel you’s see, and by golly, it must've been ‘ear 50 years since I was born. My father, you’s see, he was........"

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I hung my head in my hands and closed my eyes. My anger almost pushed me to tears. Why did the divine punish me so? No living creature deserved humiliation such as this. I just wanted to rest, to have ten minutes of peace, away from the incessant noise of pickaxes, wheelbarrows and the bellowing of working men. Yet, this man had, for some forsaken reason, taken my attempts at ending the conversation as an invitation to talk to me even more than he already was.

For not the first time since I'd arrived at this godforsaken mine, I cursed those responsible, with as much venom as I could possibly imagine. My bastard brother, my treacherous friends, and that repulsive harlot I had called my wife. And of course that serpentine Judge, the one only so eager to play along with it all. Out of everyone, I think I hated him the most. This prison sentence wasn't his creation, the man wasn't smart enough, wasn't cruel enough, for that. However, if the dullard had had any morals, any decency, he’d have executed me. The law was clear on what should've been done, and that corrupt lecher was the reason I wasn't already lying cold in my grave, and spared from this hell.

I'd always believed that the men who allowed injustice to occur were far worse than the men who created it. This belief of mine wasn't a moral or philosophical one; it was a physical one. I felt physically nauseous in their presence; These types of men quite simply repulsed and disgusted me. 

I did my best to ignore the man’s never ending tirade, with only moderate success. I tried to recall what the fool beside me had been blabbering about at the beginning.  Something about getting me in a noose? Ha! If only. A noose. A NOOSE! What I wouldn’t give for a noose right now. To think I’d been almost grateful to my brother all those years ago for those bribes he'd given, those strings he pulled, to spare my life. What a farce that had all been. What a fool I was. Death would have been preferable. Anything to get me out of this hell I’d been damned to. 

"...Right then I's said to me self, why that there's the baron's 'ittle daughter, a fat pretty prize that little harlot will get me! So I grabbed me knife and hammer, and readied to startle her, you's see, but that there was when it all went wrong, you's see..."

I slowly opened my eyes, and when I did, I spotted the pickaxe I'd lain down close to my feet. As I looked upon it, an interesting idea leapt into my skull. I slowly lifted my head and glanced sideways at the balding man, who was still prattling happily away, then finally back to the pickaxe.

Could I kill him with it? Not only would it shut the man up, but once the warden found out, well, he'd certainly have to give me the noose then, wouldn't he? 

Twelve hours of work a day in sweltering heat, short breaks in between, with only bread and water to keep me alive. I wasn't cut out for this. A life of parties and games, literature and art, that was where I thrived. I closed my eyes again, and a soft, sad, smile graced my lips just thinking about all of it. If I tried I could still taste the wine on my lips, and see the sight of Albian girls dancing with me, and feel the magical touch of a winter breeze on a hot summer day.  

Was any of it real? Each day my old life seemed more and more like that of a dream. A mirage, created by a broken mind, trying desperately to ward off complete insanity. Death was preferable to this life of a labor, this life of a slave, wasn’t it?

I opened my eyes anew, and once more glanced towards the pickaxe at my feet. The man was still talking. I could see the scenario before me now. I would take up the pickaxe and strike the man dead before he could even hope to react. It was all so clear. 

Yet, I didn’t. I couldn’t. 

What would the other men in the tunnels do if they found me beside his body? The noose I could take, but I would only get the noose if the guards decided to haul me before the warden, and there was absolutely no guarantee of that. The guards were just as likely to inform the other men in my work detail, and entertain themselves at my expense. The miners here had a culture of their own, and the other men in my detail wouldn’t take kindly to being short a man. If I caused us to miss our quota, every man in the detail would be lashed because of me, and I would be a dead man soon after.

It was, honestly, a very effective system. If the threat of the lash on its own wasn’t enough to make idle men work, the threats of violence by their comrades certainly would. A man slacking on the job or slowing down his detail’s work was liable to find himself as a corpse. I had no desire to be strung up and tortured to death by my dearest comrades in arms. 

I sighed. I just wanted this nightmare to end. Was that too much for a man to ask for?

A low whistle sounded throughout the restroom that we were sitting in. 

"Break’s over you louts, quit your lollygagging!" Shouted one of the guards stationed at the entrance of the break room. He gestured impatiently for us to go back down the tunnel with his musket.

I sighed again, and slowly stood up. The soldier might decide to come over and prod us with his bayonet if we took too long getting back to work, but usually they didn't bother. There was no need. The quota system made sure people kept at their work. 

I reached down and grasped the large pickaxe at my side, then swung onto my shoulder, and began my return trip down the mine. Unfortunately, Samuel followed close behind, his mouth never stopping its endless motion. This was going to be a long week.