Hyperion Evergrowing

Being blind had its benefits. You couldn’t see those you worked alongside wither away, turning into husks under the beating sun, how their skin was flayed and muscles atrophied as weeks turned to months, to years, to over a decade.

And while it could easily be construed as a negative, It also meant that you needed to learn to use your other senses. Hearing to know when arguments arose among your peers or when the overly zealous guards made their rounds, a failure to respond to either could result in injury or death.

Smell helped to avoid the corpses that lay forgotten in the fields, or detect pockets of almost odourless gasses deep underground. Taste would let you know if the gruel served every sunrise and sunset had been pissed in, not that one could afford to skip a meal.

The lucky ones lost their sense of touch over time, had the ability to feel pain beaten out of them. It was a small mercy, the final mercy someone could have before death finally grabbed them lovingly by the throat and choked one last breath out of their bruised lungs. And while time could beat calluses into every inch one’s body, touch was not a luxury the blind could afford to lose.

But losing one’s eyesight was also not as big of a detriment one may initially imagine. It wasn’t like the labourers were often given torches or lanterns when they went underground, so the tunnels of the old mine, stretching downwards like the roots of a particularly greedy tree, were pitch black at the best of times. Crystals and other sources of illumination were too valuable to be left down in the depths, and so, deep below the ground, all men were made equal.

Strange things happened in the depths of the world, especially during turbulence. While above ground the winds may howl and the rain may fall in acidic sheets, under hundreds of metres of stone phenomena ancient and unknowable made themselves known. Vast geometric chambers of stone would shift, crystals forming on every available surface only to shatter at even the smallest touch. Intense heat or cold could permeate the tunnels, and images could dance as the shadows came to life.

Heff the blind hadn’t personally seen the last thing, for obvious reasons, though he believed the stories he had heard from those who had. Mostly. His pickaxe chipped away at the vein of ore half revealed by a recent surveying team. He kept his aim true, listening for the small change in sound as his pick struck stone.

To his side another man worked in silence, the ringing of their own pick against the tunnel wall sounding half a second after Heff’s own. The melody was rhythmic, almost soothing, if one could ignore the thousand aches and strains, and a reminder that another was down here, sharing his sorry fate… well, that fact wasn’t overly comforting, reassuring maybe? Was he a bad person for not wanting to be left alone down in the bowels of the earth?

When, finally, the last chunk of rock fell away Heff let out a sigh of relief. He ran blistered fingers along the surface of the stone, experience allowing him to search sightlessly for any trace of the ore vein he had been working away at for the past few hours. There was nothing he could feel, but maybe his partner was not quite done.