Dwarfs enjoy holes. The farm boy who went on to become a man--but always a son--whose descent into the dark beneath him found itself broken up by and only tree roots did not share the same enthusiasm for hole dwarfkind committed itself to wholly. In other words, the man who fled in the dark fell in the dark. And while he fell, he fell as man.

But he landed dwarf.

To detail and describe what transpired in the darkness beloved by dwarfs is betrayed by the very nature of its being dark. If one were to share a space with the son, no closing of distance would reveal what had been endured beyond touch. Only he could offer insight, an account cemented in trust--like the rest of this tome--and is recorded as thus: first, the hair once rooted at the top of the son’s skull severed its bonds and flitted away to reveal a great, bald dome. At the same time, his cheekbones became ravaged with strands of the same hue as that which remained flowing and flaring out the sides of his scalp (the last survivors of his own sudden barbering). The man became overcome with sudden pain shooting through his legs, the bones beneath his flesh shortening themselves into one another forcibly. Nothing shattered nor splintered, but the son could not stir free from the feeling of one’s limbs caving into themselves. His arms too shrunk in size, but they near doubled in girth. The same fast became true of his legs, the mass of his skin stretching wide to cover such unexpected developing. Blows delivered to the man’s nerves mounted the peak of its potency, and he hollered. Despite the wind screeching right alongside, his voice seemed to command attention of the shaft itself. Then all became very quiet...

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Some time later, the man who fell into the earth woke up surely at its bottom. His dazed vision caught the same dirt smeared fingernails he had once observed beneath the branches of a tree--a tree that too easily sentenced him, he felt. But the bearded was wrong--concerning judgment brought down by bark is one matter; it stood incorrect to assume he gazed upon himself the same. Realization wore his callouses.

He had become dwarf.

The son had not the term to describe this condition of course--this complete change in composition. But he knew change had happened. The dwarf’s hands were wider than his father’s. His arms teemed with hair not too dissimilar to that which hung from the his cheeks and the bottom and sides of his skull. His head was cold. The dwarf became aware of dull pain that continued to hang in his limbs, and so he did not make any immediate attempt to rise. Momentarily, he marveled at his ability to behold himself at all--that he’d survived.

The dwarf craned his neck to look straight up and, beholding a distant star, the moon met his gaze. But of course, he was wrong on this account as well.

The complete dark that returned did so during hours of immobility. The dwarf was aware of the creeping blackness and felt he could do nothing. And indeed he did only lay, waiting for the blanket that would smother. When the star completed its abandoning, a very quiet swept save for stifled groans. The dwarf shut his eyes and opened them again. He concluded no difference.