A Worthless Crown

The day before he entered the part of the mines where all good men died.

I wake up to the same old feeling. The cold that seeps into my bones, the creak of the wooden floorboards beneath me as I get out of bed. It's still dark outside, the kind of dark that wraps itself around the town like a heavy blanket, a suffocating thing. I don't mind it. I'm used to the darkness. It's all I've ever known.

I can't remember the last time I woke up and felt different. I can't remember the last time I felt anything but this constant, gnawing ache in my chest, this emptiness that refuses to leave. It's like it's carved into me, shaped into the hollow pit where I used to feel hope.

I get dressed quickly, not caring that the shirt is dirty and torn at the sleeve, that my boots have holes in them. They were my father's boots, the ones he wore before he disappeared into the mines. It doesn't matter. Nothing matters. They're the only boots I've got and they'll likely be the boots I die in.

The house is still, as always. My mother is still asleep, probably in the other room, tangled in her own misery. I don't blame her for it. We're all prisoners in this place, in this life. But she doesn't know what it's like for me. She never has. She's too busy drowning in her own silent sorrow, too busy pretending that everything is fine to notice that nothing is, including me.

I slip out the door, stepping into the cold morning air. It's the same as it always is—nothing different, nothing new. The streets are empty at this hour, the houses closed up tight. The town's still asleep. I can hear the sound of my boots on the cobblestones, the only sound that breaks the silence.

I walk down the same roads I've walked a thousand times, passing the same buildings, the same faces that don't recognize me anymore. They never did. It's easier that way. I'm just another shadow passing through, another person who doesn't matter. I keep my head down, try not to look anyone in the eye. The fewer people know me, the better.

I arrive at the mine. The gates are still locked, still heavy with the weight of the day's labor. I wait in silence, my breath coming out in little puffs of mist. The guards know me, know my name, but they don't say anything. They never do. We all know what's expected of us here. We don't need to speak.

The gates finally open, and I walk in without a word. The air is thick with dust, the tunnels stretching endlessly before me, a black hole that pulls me deeper and deeper into its depths. It's a familiar feeling, this mine. The smell of stone and sweat, the constant ache in my back from bending low to dig. The dirt gets under my skin, settles into my nails, into my lungs. It's the only thing I've ever known.

I work. It's all I do. I dig, I swing my pickaxe, I break stone, I haul ore. The other workers do the same. We don't speak to each other. We don't need to. It's easier this way. If we speak, we remember. And remembering only makes it worse.

But today, something feels different. I don't know why, but I can feel it in my gut. The day's weight seems heavier than usual, the air thicker. It's like something's about to crack.

And then I hear it. The call.

It's faint at first, barely a whisper, but it cuts through the air like a blade. I freeze. I don't even know what it is, but it's familiar. The same voice I've heard a thousand times before, the same cold, detached voice that delivers orders as if they mean nothing.

"Alcors."

I don't move. I don't know what to do with it. The others don't react. They don't hear it. Or maybe they do, but they're pretending. They're always pretending.

"Alcors, prepare yourself. You are needed. It is the Lord's request."

I don't have to hear more. I already know what it means. I know what it's for.

It's the call. I'm being called to the deeper part of the mines. The part where the shadows grow too thick to see, where the madness creeps in, where the last remnants of sanity are stripped away. The deeper mines are where the unlucky go. The ones who are chosen. The place where my father died.

I don't move. I don't speak. I just keep my hands wrapped around the pickaxe, swinging it into the stone as if nothing's changed. But everything has. I can feel it in my bones, in my chest. This is it. This is the moment.

I'm not even surprised.

The others are talking, their voices hushed but clear. They've noticed now. They know what's happening. I was once friends with many of them, before our lives forced us to become human tools. Now they talked about me behind my back, as if I was blind and deaf to their comments.

"I heard it's Alcors," one of them says. "The lord chose him. He's the one going down to the deeper mines. He got the call. All we can do is pray his part of the mines doesn't collapse on him."

"I know," another voice responds. "It's always the same. Shame it's him, but it's a good thing it wasn't one of us. I would hate to go insane and die down there."

"Poor bastard," someone mutters. "I heard there's monsters down there."

I don't answer them. What would be the point? They're just voices in the distance, distant memories of people I used to call friends. I don't know them anymore. Not really.

I don't care if they're glad it's me. I don't care if they're relieved. I don't care if they'll forget me as soon as I'm gone.

I'm already gone.

The call comes again, louder this time, insistent. I look up, but I don't meet their eyes. The lord's voice cracks through the air, cold, impersonal. It doesn't care about me. It never did.

"Alcors, prepare yourself. The deeper mines await. You will go."

I stand there for a long time, feeling nothing. I don't feel fear. I don't feel anger. I don't feel anything.

This is my life.

The hunger gnaws at my stomach. The food we eat here is awful, tasteless. Thin soup, stale bread, meat that's been boiled until it's a gray, unidentifiable lump. It doesn't matter. There's never enough. There will never be enough.

I walk out of the mine, the weight of the call still heavy on my chest. The others stare at me, but I don't look back. I don't need to. They'll be fine without me.

They always are.

The house is just as bad when I get home. The walls are cracked, the windows broken. The floor is covered in dirt, and the smell of mildew fills the air. My mother is sitting in the corner, her face buried in her hands. She doesn't even look up when I come in. I have to do this, if I don't, both of us will suffer the consequences.

It doesn't matter. Nothing matters.

Tomorrow, I'll go down to the deeper mines.

Tomorrow, I'll vanish.

And nobody will care.