Dara

Dara

canary in the silvermine
Character Profile
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There had been a cave-in the day before. A crumble of ground beneath their feet, collapsing into a lower tunnel, dug decades ago. The maps had mentioned the unstable route. Janu, who could read, had mentioned the maps. The foreman told them to dig anyway. Now, Nils was dead.

The crew worked through the night to try and dig his body out in time. But Sitha, the Renewer, was round and full overhead, and they had not yet shown her that Nils was gone. The canary in its cage, pale as that moon, had its whistle turn to wheezing. The part of its soul anchored to the Shroud went quiet. By the time they cleared the opening, Nils was undead.

Five of the crew, sweating from the work, stood round the edge of the hole. Mourners at an open grave. At their feet, Nils scratched and moaned against the rock of his cold tomb.

"Can't we just put fire down the hole?" Kohada said. The tip of the hume's shovel ground against the pit's edge, sprinkling grit in to Nils' eyes. The dead man did not react.

"No good. There's a streak of sulphur along the wall. If we light 'im up, it'll burn for weeks." That was Janu, harder and always caught up with production. A pit fire would slow them down long enough to halt the flow of sliver.

"Smell awful, too."

"Someone will have to go down there," Dara said. He was squatted down low, looking intently into the dark. Nil's lips had tightened around his jaw, giving him a frozen scowl. Other bits of his face had gone too slack.

"You volunteering, Dara?"

"Leave the lad alone, Kohada. We'll draw, like we always do." Janu stepped away for a long while. He came back with a handful of sticks, tapped to uniform end, and held them out to the men gathered. "Shortest two go take care of Nils."
 
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There was nothing there behind the eyes. No hope of a word, or that easy laugh. It was all turned to shambles and groans. Just a promise, for them all to remember.

Didn't matter how tired they were. Didn't matter how hard they wanted to be done. They'd keep on going, until there was nothing left of them.

"Jona, come on then lad," Janu called out.

Glass eyed, Jona went on staring at the thing that was once Nils. Pickaxe's haft firm in his hands. The grain of the wooden handle hissed against callused skin.

"Jona, we ain't gonna wait much longer, now, come on-" Janu turned to look for Jona.

Down the hole the big man went. Rocks skate and skirt. Rumbled and rolled. A thump against a man he used to know. A grunt. A shove. Teeth grit, hands wound tight. A step. A strike. The pick's beak split through. Skull busted. Blight leaked. A kick and a pull. The thing that was Nils fell limp in a heap.

Hard breaths weighed down his chest. Pushed through hard pants and cold sweat. Pick fell to the hole floor with a thud. Miner came next. Back against the pit wall, slumped all the way down to the floor with a thump. Dust clouds. Elbows against knees, head slumped as tears rolled down grime stained face.
 
Janu swore under his breath. The rest of them turned away, save for Dara. He remained kneeling at the edge, straining foward in the dark to see where Jona went. It took one strike. The arc of sap that spilled upward was black, not red. It wasn't a killing blow, not really - Nils was only a place to hold all that blighted gall and bile. Caving his skull open was like hitting a pocket of tar.

Still, none of the others could bring themselves to look. They all pretended not to hear Jona's ragged gasps, at the bottom of that hole. The one they wouldn't go down.

"Well shit," Janu grumbled. "Sorry for trying to hold together some semblance of fairness."

"Forget it. I'm getting out of here," Kohada said. His voice was pitched with exhastion, and fear.

Footsteps started to receed, as the others muttered their concessions. Only Janu's stride hesitated. "Dara?" He asked.

"Going to stay with Jona. See you topside."

Dara slid down the rock side, landed with a wet squelch in Nils' puddle. There weren't anymore eyes to close, so he pulled a blue kerchief from his pocket. When he draped it over Nils' face, it soaked up the black stain. A prayer parted his lips, nothing more than warm breaths of air. The Smith was supposed to be every miner's patron, but he had been praying to the Caretaker a lot more, lately.

Sitha, give us the strength to keep going. Sitha, make our recovery swift. Sitha, let us rest when we fall. The words weren't just for Nils.

He moved to where Jona slumped. Nestled in close to the big man. Reached up to wrap fingers round thick wrists, and pull those calloused hands from tear-stained face. Grabbed onto them tight, pressing his palms against the back of Jona's thumbs.

"Remember when we all went down south to the Festival of Lights, couple years ago?" Dara said, voice soft and steady. It had been Kohada's idea to cross the border into Rodhan territory. There hadn't been enough trouble to get into in Hvithelm, for him. That was back when he still smiled. "Nils got so piss-faced drunk, you had to sling him over your shoulder and carry him all the way home. An' he was singing off-key the whole time. How'd that awful song go, again?"
 
It was the warm uttering of a prayer, all the more familiar in this long dark days up the tunnels. When another one fell. When another one turned. When the cave crushed one, or some foul air robbed the breath straight out of their lungs. The prayers came.

Least Dara made it sound good. Made it sound like it meant something still.

The prayer stopped. A familiar weight leaned against his bulk. A small comfort, that sank right to the core of him. Hands, too familiar, wrapped around his wrists and pulled him out of the walls he had raised up. Careful pressures, there in the tender joints of fingers, too sore from the work to feel much of anything anymore.

Still, he felt Dara's press. Heard his gentle voice, and looked into his caring eyes. A small laugh at the trace of a memory. Of a great song, sang so horribly. "When you are sad and lonely," he crooned low and soft. "And have no place to go `" his voice shook some.

He grabbed Dara's small hands in his own large ones. Brushed his thumbs over the sinew and bone there, that could be so strong. "Come to see me, baby, and bring along some dough~" he whispered with tearful smile. Pressed a kiss against a knuckle. Shook his head. "Kept singing the whole way there," he looked off, as if to see the distant memory. "How did his voice crack, when he tried the chorus?"
Lyrics from Honky Tonkin' by Hank Williams
 
A grim smile cracked across Dara's face. He couldn't quite make it to a laugh, heavy as his chest was. "Sounded like a braying donkey, caught in a snare. You'd think we were murdering him."

Pushing off the ground with a knee, Dara peeled away. He let his hands stay caught until the last moment, fingers giving the parting touch, unwilling to untangle themselves from Jona's. He stepped a pace backwards as he turned away. If only because he was about to holler loud enough to shake the rafters overhead.

"And we'll go honᴷᴱᴱee ta͎wnkin', hon-ᴋᴇᴇ tawnkin'," He made his voice go caterwaul on every honk and tonk. "Ha͎w͎wwnᴷᴱᴱ tonkin', ₕₒₙₑy bₐby."

He'd made his way over to where Nils lay. Left the chorus unfinished; it hurt his throat. Dara squatted down low, and hooked up an arm and a leg of the corpse. "Alright Nils," he said with a grunt, steeling himself for the load. "Let's carry you home, this last time."

The blight had taken something out of Nils. His body was no heavier than two sacks of sand, and lifted easily enough over Dara's shoulders. He thought he could get up the ledge with that weight, and felt around for some decent footing.
 
Jona shift onto his feet as Dara yowled like a mountain cat, stuck on a sunbaked stone. Voice echoing off the walls, till he finally fell to the floor and hitched up with what used to be Nils. Made a scramble up the wall. Boots dug in to the crumble stone, but the rock gave way. Dara started to slip, and Jona was there to catch him. The thick pads of his palms pressed against the back of the smaller man's shoulder as he caught him.

"You go up first," Jona said in a quiet rumble. "I'll take Nils, and, pass him up," he grabbed the body, and hefted him up over his shoulder.
 
Above, the world was grey.

The rest of the day shift were trying to find what little rest they could. Janu dozed between bags of bone ash, feet propped up on a crate, boots still on. Leaned against the side of the mess hall, Kohada had crawled beneath a thin wool blanket, nothing but that beaky nose of his stuck out between the folds.

Dara stopped in an open space between the outbuildings. "This spot will do," he said, letting his half of Nils' corpse slacken to the ground.

"We should burn him," Dara said. "There's wood and armonium in the shed. The stuff they use for the furnaces."

When the sun rose, they'd have a decent view of the valley. The silver mine sat halfway up the hill. Down below, rolling fields were flush with the green of early crops. If Dara squinted on a clear day, he could see his house, with the white chimney and the thick stone wall his grandfather had built 'round their garden.

It wasn't going to be clear. The horizon had been hazy with smoke and dust for some days - an omen that Dara could not interpret, because he had never seen soldiers take to march.
 
A thump, as what was Nils hit the ground.

Jona stared long at the lifeless shape of a man he once knew. Died in the mines. Died again at the end of his pick axe. Jona node. "We should burn him," he agreed, voice hardly a whisper over the sounds of their work party. Lugged his steps, one after the other, toward the shed.

Picked up pieces of wood with broad fingers. Palmed log after log and loaded them into a rickety old wheelbarrow. Tossed the sack of armonium powder on last, and carted the supplies back.

Laid the cart down. Arms full of ache. Still he moved. Smoke in his lungs, lighter than the silvermine dust that clung to his nose. One by one, he stacked them about where Dara had prepped what was Nils.

"Dara," he said quiet between them as he stacked the wood. Piece by piece. "You make sure you leave me in the hole when it comes my time," piece by piece. "No one's gonna be able to drag me out," steady. No doubt. "And no one need waste what little they've left to do it," he stopped. Looked to his man who spoke so well. "You burn me though, Dara, in whatever hole you find me. You make sure I burn," he held his eyes unto Dara. Hard as the stones they saw break. Day after day.
 
They worked in silence for a long time. Jona stacking wood, while Dara got the body ready. Washed the grime and blight off Nils' face, stuffed the wound with sawdust so that it'd stop seeping. Laid the dead man's favorite pick across his chest. It was the one with a strip of yellow fabric wrapped at the base of the eye. To keep the head from slipping on the upswing.

Last came the armonium. Dara emptied the whole bag, spreading it careful in a perimeter around the body. The foreman would notice the missing inventory. Fire Armonium wasn't cheap. It had to be shipped all the way from Suldaza, and the ships had to be armed against pirates, who liked the stuff near as much as miners. But they needed the whole bag; Nils' blood had gone black. Syrupy with blight and difficult to burn.

From beside him, Jona spoke soft. Barely heard over the hollow sound of dry wood knocking around, but Dara felt the words all the same. They dropped him down a pit, like an ore skip broke free of its cables.

Jona's eyes gleamed like gems, clear in their conviction. When Dara looked back, his eyes burned like coal.

"Don't talk like that. You're not going to end up like, like--" He couldn't say. Too many names came to mind, too many faces swallowed by that pit. His voice came out rough, ready to break. "I won't let you die in some hole."

He could spin a story out of this. He could swallow the fire that clung to his throat and speak something else into being.

"No, that ain't the way of it." Dara reached out and took the next log from Jona's hands. Stacked it himself. Steadier than before. But he still couldn't blink the ash out of his eyes. "First of all, the sun'll be on your face. The whole world'll be looking at you, they won't be able to look away from Jonathan Henri. And there won't be no more regrets weighing you down. No burdens left to carry. Only then, might I let you go."
 
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"Word weaver," Jona said in a soft surrender. Let his hand scoop up that one that Dara still had on the log. "Might those words of yours come true, Dara," a squeeze, that wanted so much more. "I truly am hoping they do." he looked over Nils once more. Saw him there again, with his pick upon him.

"But you have to promise me all the same," he said. No fear there in it. "You can't leave me to turn to one of these, moonlost scramblers. You make sure I find my rest, Dara," he looked to the smaller man. Dark brightness of his eyes imploring. "You don't let these mines take that away from me, you hear?"
 
Those sleek words of Dara's, didn't come. Jona brought him up and tore him down in just a few breaths, in that sincere way of his. Didn't let him squirm out of it this time.

He closed his eyes against the heat that welled up around them. And in that darkness, imagined what the blight would turn Jona into. Dark, earth-rich skin bloomed with flaking rot. Once-steady hands shook with hollow strength, grasping for something they would never find. And his eyes, those clear deep eyes turned shallow and unblinking, dead to pain and joy for the rest of time.

He put his head against Jona's chest. Dug fingers into fabric and leather, and let out some of the breath that had caught in his throat. Tears buried there in fabric, unseen, and sorrows left unsaid.

"Okay," Dara relented with one last ragged gasp. Looked up with dirt-smudged face. "I promise."
 
Wide arms wrapped round the smaller man. Held him tight and close against his chest as they both gave in to the hurt. Almost sweet, tangled therein, beneath the brambles of so much they'd been made to suffer.

He felt Dara shift there in his arms. His own head keeled down with the weight of it all. Heard the words. The acceptance to what so likely awaited them.

Jonathan nod. Cheeks wet with warm streams. A breath pulled in. A large hand pushed back the greasy strands of Dara's hair that'd fallen there between them. "Thank you," the big man said, fingers run through dark and dusted locks. He let his head knock soft against the other man's. "Now I ain't sayin' I'm going to let it happen, Dara," Jona pressed his lips against Dara's forehead. Taste of dirt and stone, mingled with the salt of him. Held him the tighter in his arms. "Best believe I won't let it just happen," "he eased on him. Put some space between em. "But I need to know you'll be ready,"

Hollowed out, limbs wrung out with tired. Jona lulled his head toward the work still needing to do. "I'm ready now," he said. "To see Nils off,"
 
If only they could stay knit together like that, safe against the blight and the foreman's orders and Janu's maps and everyone who was dead and moved on and everyone who was still alive and moving in the dawn, getting ready for the next work bell.

But there was still work to do, and Jona and Dara needed their arms untangled to do it.

Dara pulled a spark stone out of his pocket. Not standard gear. He'd bought it off a trader with a glass eye and gap-toothed grin some years ago. Real shroudwork, the trader had insisted. Dara wasn't supposed to bring it into the mines with him, on account of what the runes could do to combustibles.

He palmed the flat stone, rune-side up. Held his hand close to the line of armonium sprinkled round Nils. Snapped his fingers, and the flame lit up just like magic.

"As we began our labors,
so shall we lay them down.
In wood, we are cradled,
and with fire, we rest."

Armonium sparked and bit at the blight, catching flesh where the softer fire cradled in the wood couldn't. It stank, not like a burned body but like bog and greenstuff. Dara didn't cover his nose. Everyone who worked in the mine had their sense of smell dulled by the sulphur dust, eventually.

The pyre burned. Birds chirped their warning songs, high and loud. The sun rose, and red mixed with red.
 
Watch the fires burn. Tongues high against the cool sky. Dusted pink, blazed with red, turned to marigold. Cinders and sparks caught the heat. Spat high with pops and hiss. Wavered and danced about the tongues that shimmered and shook in the dead man's wake.

Jona could but stand. Hands wrapped about each other, cupped and smoothed over knuckles and bones. Worked, in small movements over each other. Calluses rasped across cracked skin as the stink of it worked down each breath he pulled through his nose. Could still smell the acrid char of it. Impossibly wet despite all. Like old grease, gone stank in the pan.

"Birds never do like the smell," he found himself thinking. "Smart enough to fly afore it stains em,"

The fire though. The fire burned it out. The wood, clean as it was, drove the foulness away. Wasn't that how it went?

And when the fire had done and did its work, they would pour water on it all, so it could find its rest.

Till that time. Jonathan Henri stood by his man, and watched the fires do their part.

A stomp against the earth. Away from the pair of dust covered mourners. A clap soon after. A low growl, turned moan. A stomp again. A clap again. A growl that spurred the fires on.
A low sweet pitch belt out from Jona's big frame.

Rise on high, bright embers,
Gone fly unto the mother's rest,
Rise on high, bright embers,
Gone fly unto the mother's rest.

No pick will swing, no spark will strike,
Rise on high, bright embers,
On swallow's wings, my spark will fly,
Rise on high, bright embers,

Others gathered round. Voices joined in.

With tired eye, with leaded leg,
Rise on high, bright embers,
Still them stars, burn through the night,
Rise on high, bright embers

There in that sky, I will soon fly,
Rise on high, bright embers
Don't you worry, we all do die
Rise on high, bright embers
,
And if I die, before you do,
Rise on High, bright embers,
I'll send a swallow down to you,
Rise on high, bright embers,

Rise on high, bright embers,
Gone fly unto the mother's rest,
Rise on high, bright embers,
Gone fly unto the mother's rest.
 
They all called Dara the wordweaver, but it was Jona's voice that had the depth to move, the weight to be heard over the din of the fire. You didn't need a temple for this kind of song, ancient as it was. Anyone was a priest when they sang. Others joined in. It was not a moment to measure voices, or count heads. But it felt like everyone sang for Nils. Even the canary in her cage.

High in the watchtower above, the first morning work bell rang. A dry chime over the gravel of the dirge.

Folks stirred, but not to work. Janu came to stand next to the pyre. He took his cap off, and pressed it to his heart. Calloused hands trembled with the rise and fall of his chest, but the old man's voice was low and strong.

The second bell rang. Longer, this time. Insisting.

Armonium singed Dara's nostrils. The last of it was burning off, green. Then the fire crackled down to the color that fire was supposed to be. Nil's body shift in its bed as a log broke underneath.

Janu clapped Dara on the shoulder. Dara wrapped his arm around the old man. They sang the words of the last verse, but underneath they said something else to each other.

Let the last bell ring forever. We won't answer it.

And ring it did, a clang clang clang in the watchtower. No one heard it above the singing.

Guards lived in that watchtower, with its stony foundation sat into the cliffs above the mountain road. They were meant to look out for bandits, and protect the hauls of silver coming down. Dara had never seen them fight off a bandit. He'd only seen them drink ale on the tower landing, and pick fights with the miners who stepped out of line.

Sometimes two or three of them stood behind the foreman when he came up to give a speech about the quota. But the foreman wouldn't be up this early, and the guards wouldn't leave their tower without an order from him.

That's what the miners must have thought, anyway. As the last verse drifted away, high as the ash that flaked off the fire.
 
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