A Different Story - Wil iii

         There were no heroes in the mines. Noone made a move. Even the scrub that carried food terrified most of the men. Strong men, with rock-shattering picks, feared the boy with a small pot. Most wet their pants -what little was left of them- when the guards came around, picking up those too weak and replacing them with younger blood every fortnight. Not a single one of us thought the ones that were taken away were luckier than those who stayed.

         Every day was alike. The light crawled across the white rock, dance around it. Withered away and died, and some men took to follow the exemple. The stubborn ones, those that didn't, slept little or not at all, from muscle cramps, or hunger cramps, or the smell, or all the yelling in the pain that took over when the mind was not busy axing solid ore.

         The white rock was gone. We soon heard the rustle of armor, the heavier stomping of the guards' boots. Each man lined up next to his pile of ore, hoping for the smallest piece of meat instead of everyday's  bread.

         No. No meat for me either. "I should have worked harder." The meekness was finding its way into me. "No", I thought, "I should get out of here." I had grown since I had been brought to work in the mine. There was no way I could feed my newfound constitution with bread and water. I began plotting a way to train, and still work. That was an action best delayed by thinking.

         I found the corpse right where I knew he'd be. The guard had been left to rot at the place he died, consumed by the disease and despair. The other guards showed him no more respect than they showed the living slaves, but me and a couple others took off his shabby leather armor and put him in a nearby crate. It had been a week, but he still had his iron gauntlet. Though rust began to creep in, the old soldier's name engraving was still visible. Thank you, "Porter".

Those few that watched, terrified, entertained thoughts of heroes and saviors as they caught my smile.

         It fit like the glove I never had.

         Even if it was slower now, the gauntlet was the focus I needed to keep practising. My style got better, at both fighting and at punching ore out of the wall. Personal space wasn't a rare resource. Entire galleries and closed walls were mine, and I couldn't work any more if I wanted to.

         Nothing the others said about being taken and not returning worried me.

And then it was my turn. I was swinging around an old pick shaft, when more blinded boys came tumbling in. "You with the stick, time to go.".

I put down my lame weapon and walked towards the hooded men. There was a "smell ya later" in my face that my coworkers caught on, although they couldn't see that the reason I was sad was the loss of my training place.
         Blindfolded again. And chained.
         I followed the sound of the armored boots again, stumbling a few times when someone split and they wouldn't tell us where to go. Without much else to do, I thought about my future. I hoped it would not be like thebug I just stepped on. Noone would remember me that way. I wouldn't have that.

         Keys fell at my feet a second after the iron door closed behind us. I hurried to take off my chains and clear my eyes.
         It didn't improve much. It was still dark, a long tunnel with but a single, small light at the end.

         Could I see the sun again? I ran up the slightly sloped tunnel, towards the light. It grew, it was a passage, could it be freedom?
         ..Such light..

         It hurt my eyes, accustomed to the dark as they were, but I was happy to see it growing larger and larger.
         With eyes half closed, I left the tunnel at what seemed to be at the foot of a valley too small to be.
         That....
         ...and the endless cheering all around me.

Where did this come from?                                                         Then what?

Original work C Pedro Nunes. Split according to OP's vision.