Understar Halls
A dwarf was not meant to feel claustrophobia. Tight tunnels, narrow passages and cramped, lightless rooms, these were all a part of life and, in fact, he did not mind them. He enjoyed the weight of the Mountain over his head, the quiet whispers of darkened halls and the warm embrace of carved Stone. Yet, it seemed that there was never enough room for him, no corner far enough where he could stay away, distant from all others.
Even if a dwarf should not, could not, feel claustrophobic, he could very well feel like he was taking too much space, breathing too much air and simply existing more than he should.
Such was Borin's predicament, as it had been his entire life. Sitting, alone, in the cramped mess hall of the miner's guild, he stared angrily at the polished spoon in his hand and, even through the distorted reflection, saw the strange black eyes and the clay-like skin that had never allowed a beard to grow.
In his mind, in his heart, he knew that these things did not matter, should not matter, but as was the case with so many other petty things, they did. To him and to others, since the day he was born and through every single year of his five decade-long life, it had mattered. The strange little thing, the weird child,the freak, the unwanted, the beardless pariah.
No more.
He stood up and left, paying little heed to the other tables where laughter and companionship ignored him just as well. His clan was not a large one and neither was their hold in that part of the Thunder Peaks,but there were riches there,and beauty as well. Descending through a series of mine shafts and long staircases, Borin made his way to the largest and most precious cavern in the
whole network, the place from which the Halls had taken their name, the Understar Lake.
A narrow corridor of smooth stone opened suddenly into a large, natural amphiteatre, its curved wall more than two hundred meters away and its stage filled with cold,still water. A single stalactite descended from the cave's ceiling, fourty meters above the water, and on its very tip a bright white light shone and its pulsating radiance bounced upon the black mirror below, filling the entire cavern with a pale blue aura.
Borin knelt by the shore of the lake, withdrew a sharp knife from his belt, and looked up at the Understar.
No more.
***
The sound of his name awoke him. "Erothknurl", Eyes of Stone, his real name, in true dwarven, not the one he had chosen for himself. With that name came conscience and with it came memory, sharp and painful and burning his skull with white-hot coldness. The lake, the light, the knife in his hands and its blade cutting into his eye socket, it all came rushing back to him like the jets of blood that had spurted from his face.
'You fainted." - Someone said, not far from where he now laid. Borin found it hard to focus his sight at first and the world seemed to have gone hazy, as if seen through a dirty window. It took him a few moments to adjust and to recognize the face of his father, sitting beside his bed. Long, braided and blond, his beard was fastened to his wide belt. He wore the long, embroidered robes of the merchant guild. His gaze fell heavy upon his son.
"Nearly bled to death too. You were lucky that they found you when they did." His voice was calm and even, as it had always been. Borin saw no sadness nor anger there, only the resignation of one who had come to terms with an unfortunate but permanent state of things. That pissed him off.
"I will be sure to thank them for their kindness when next we speak. Rather, when I speak and they pretend I am not there."
His father's reply was a silent stare. There were words there, things buried in shame and pride and left to suffocate until they could no longer be said. When he finally spoke, he did so as an herald or messenger would, standing up and with a hand over his braided beard.
"Things will not be better from now on. Only worse. Your mother has stricken you from the clan, and you can no longer carry the Drakkmurl name or arms. The guild will still have you, but you will be sent to work alone in the deeper shafts." - The elder dwarf paused. Not looking down at his son, his voice returned in a hoarse and tense whisper - " You will die down there. Loneliness will prey upon you, turn you into little more than a worm."
Borin watched,perplexed, as his father suddenly grabbed him by the collar. There was fury in his eyes. There was also the threat of tears.
"Don't surrender to it. Fight, damn you!"
His father let go of his clothes, turned, and left the room. Borin would never hear from him again.
***
It took him a week to fully recover. No one else came to visit and he was put in a small room, separate from all others in the infirmary. The priest would come in once a day to change his bandage and clean the wound but they barely spoke. Borin spent most of his time thinking, thinking furiously, driving himself into angry bursts of frustration, against his family, against his clan, against himself.
So when he was finally allowed to leave, it was as if his feet moved of their own accord, making a bee line to his family's manor.
Located in one of the largest caverns of the Understar Halls, Clan Drakkmurl's house had been dug out of its western wall. Its front was a stoic, rigid thing, all clear and perfect lines that formed columns and arches over a set of double iron doors. There stood a single guard by them, looking mostly bored and idle. He jumped to his feet the moment he spotted Borin approaching at a fast pace.
"Wait! Hold! You can't! Borin! Wai-"
The words were muffled by a quick punch to the nose and Borin stepped over his crumpled cousin. With a heavy push he opened the gates and stepped inside. It was quiet, as it always was, but it did not matter. He knew where to go. Half running up a corkscrew staircase, he ascended to the second level of the estate and into a long corridor with doors opening all along its sides, but there was a larger door at the end of the hallway, the clan's arms forged from iron embossed into it: A dragon's skull with a coin in each eye socket. This door Borin angrily pushed open as well, and entered into his mother's office.
It was a large room made small and cramped by many shelves, armoires, chests and closets. Maps and charts of underground cave systems hung from several walls and were placed on a few tables and desks. Books and scrolls were piled up everywhere. Behind the largest desk, a piece of furniture made of blackened, hardened and polished tinder-fungus, stood Narrvel Drakkmurl, his mother. She wore practical, almost manly clothing, the sleeves of her shirt pulled over her elbows. Gold and silver bracelets adorned her forearms and her thick, jet black hair was bundled up into a large pony tail, held together by a fine mithril chain. Strands of that hair fell over her face as she leaned over yet another map, sprawled open under her hands. Without looking up, and in a voice as smooth and cold as raw granite, she said:
" Say what you have to say, and then leave. I do not have time for this."
It took Borin a moment to steady himself. Not only was he winded, Narrvel's indifference had caught him off guard. He had expected her to shout, send for guards to carry him away. Worse yet, he could feel himself choke, well up with a rage far too emotional for her to see.
"Narrvel. Why? Why exile me from the clan? Whatever I did, I did to myself."
The dwarven woman laughed mirthlessly as she finally looked up at her son.
" You still do not understand, do you? So long as you had our name, everything, anything that you did would be reflected upon us. What you ARE would continue to be a stain on this clan. "
"What I am? You do not even know what it is that I am! No one does! You'd rather believe mysticism an- "
"I do know what you are not! You are no proper dwarf. I might've been the one who pushed you into the world, and I do curse that day, but you are no son of mine."
Borin felt as if had been struck a blow in the gut. Not only by the weight of the words, but due to the expression of pure disgust etched into his mother's face. This was no act, no mask put on to appease the opinions of the other clans. This was the truth. The real face of rejection.
He wanted to say something more, anything, but the words failed him. Instead he just stuttered noiselessly. Narrvel's disgust took the form of a sneer and she again focused on the map across her desk.
"Leave."
And so he did.
***
Months passed since he spoke or saw anyone else. His world had shrunk into a blur of rock, darkness and silence,broken only by the harsh crack of a pickaxe. Every day was the same as the last: Wake up, eat, hack away at a rock wall, drink and sleep.
His chamber was an alcove dug out of the rock wall, barely five feet wide and ten feet long, his bed a rock slab covered with a bedroll. Whatever he mined he placed on a cart at the entrance of the tunnel which then, by clever engineering and use of gravity, would roll away into the mines proper.
The first few days had not been so bad. The peace and quiet pleased him and, most of all, he was left to himself, without sideways glances and derisive stares. The Stone, at least, did not judge. Truthfully, the Stone felt like an old friend, a silent and reliable company that allowed him to feel at ease. Perhaps too much so.
He had taken to speaking to himself. Sometimes he would sing or read aloud. Other times, he would sit in complete darkness and do nothing. He listened to the emptiness, to the deep dark void of the mountain's heart and it was as if a fresh blanket was drawn over his brain. In that cold stillness he felt as if he was breathing along with the Stone, slowly inhaling and exhaling across the ages.
The problems began when the darkness started to whisper back.
At first they were distant sounds in his dreams, faint images that crawled, hazy, into his mind's eye. Then he started to hear them while he worked. Each strike of the pickaxe against the rock would echo across the tunnel and in those echoes there were words, calling in a language that he could not understand. Eventually he heard them at every waking hour,
like a wind constantly blowing into his skull, through his hard, clay-like skin and straight into his brain. The empty eye socket ached and itched and at times it felt as if the eye was still there, small, pitch black and glassy.
Whenever he touched the naked rock it felt as if he was touching a piece of himself, an extension of his own self that stretched and sprawled outwards forever.
Borin was losing his mind and he knew it.
He was lying in the middle of the tunnel, his back against the floor, his one eye staring at nothing. His father's warnings had come true. He would die there, groveling like a lunatic. At least, he would finally do something his mother would approve of. He could just imagine it, her smile, as they burned his corpse to ashes.
Never.
Anger fought back fear and he rose from the ground. Whatever meager possessions he had he stuffed in a small bag. Some food, some drink, clothes and a knife in his belt.
The way back to the upper halls was a long one but he made it with haste. There was no time for hesitation, not anymore. He was finally claiming some ownership over his own life.
Dirty, filthy and wild eyed, he made his way through mines,carved tunnels and large chambers, ignoring all that passed him by until, at last, he stood before the Out-Doors, the gates to the surface.
Borin had never crossed them before and now there they were, wide open, a giant window to a world of blinding light and howling wind, a rush of air like he had never heard before.
And in that wind he thought he heard a voice.