'Quarters' were a generous word for what amounted to a storage closet with a cot.
Russ stood in the doorway, taking in the cramped space.
There was a narrow bed, barely wider than a coffin, a wooden crate that served as both table and chair and a chamber pot in the corner that had seen better decades. The walls wept moisture, and the air tasted of mould and despair.
"It's not much," Sarkas said, wringing his hands like a nervous merchant. "But it's the best I can manage. The mine wasn't built for… guests of your caliber."
Russ limped inside, his damaged leg dragging across the stone floor. He settled onto the cot with a wince, testing the thin mattress that felt like it was stuffed with rocks.
"Considering the generous contribution I made to your… administrative fund…" Russ's voice carried no accusation, just mild curiosity. "This is what passes for accommodations?"
Sarkas's face went red again, but this time with shame rather than anger.
"Sir Russ, please understand - I'd give you my own quarters if I could, but the Empire has inspectors. Questions get asked if officers start living in storage rooms while prisoners enjoy proper beds." He gestured helplessly. "This is off the books. Officially, you're just another convict. I have to maintain appearances."
Russ examined his fingernail stumps, pink and still tender. "Appearances. Yes, I understand those quite well these days."
"The walls are thick here," Sarkas continued, desperate to salvage something. "Quieter than the main prisoner blocks. And I'll make sure you get proper meals sent. Not the slop the others eat."
"How thoughtful."
The sarcasm was gentle, but Sarkas flinched anyway. The captain was sweating now, despite the cool underground air.
"Look, Sir Russ, I know it's not what you're used to. But I'm taking a real risk here. If word gets back to the Imperial Inquisition that I'm giving special treatment to a prisoner…" He didn't finish the sentence, but they both knew where it led.
Russ waved a dismissive hand. "Relax, Captain. I'm not ungrateful. After recent experiences, a quiet room with a roof is practically a paradise."
Sarkas's relief was visible. His shoulders dropped, and some colour returned to his face.
"Is there anything else you need? Water? Extra blankets? I could arrange for-"
"Actually, there is one thing." Russ looked up as Sarkas reached the doorway. "I'd like to see the miners at work. It would be too boring to spend all day cooped up in this room."
The request hung in the air as Sarkas turned slowly, surprise creasing his brow.
"See the miners work? Sir Russ, it's dangerous down there. Cave-ins, accidents… and especially with that bastard like eighty-seven around."
Russ's scarred mouth curved upward in response. "I've been through worse, Captain. Much worse."
"I don't understand. Why would you want to-"
"Humor an old man's curiosity, Captain." Russ's voice carried a weight that made the air feel heavier. "After experiencing the darkness of the capital, surrounded by four walls… do you think I can bear being cooped up in a room again?"
Sarkas understood what Russ meant. The way the man's remaining eye flickered toward the walls, then quickly away. The slight tremor in his hands when he spoke of confinement. Even when Sarkas wanted to argue, the weight of that heavy coin purse at his belt held his tongue.
"If that's what you want, Sir Russ. Though I can't guarantee your safety down there."
"Safety?" Russ let out a hollow laugh. "I'll take that risk."
Sarkas shook his head but nodded his agreement. "Very well. I'll arrange it when things are… calmer."
He started to leave again, then paused.
"Sir Russ… may I ask why? What's your interest in watching men break their backs digging ore?"
Russ settled back against the damp wall, his eyes gleaming in the dim light of the caged Winkers. His fingers unconsciously traced the scars on his wrists.
"Let's just say that I would like to make some friends."
✧ ✧ ✧
"The little menace got dragged to the black cells again?"
Tam shook his head as he received his portion of the slop. It was grey today, it was grey every fucking day. The slop barely qualified as food, but complaining about meals in the pit was like complaining about the weather -pointless, exhausting, and likely to get you starved.
The miners shuffled forward in their neat little line, holding out their dented tin plates for their share of misery.
"The boy's mad!" A young man was saying. He was pretty for a convict. Too pretty. That kind of face usually belonged to men who'd done something particularly stupid or particularly evil. Sometimes both. "We're all mad down here, but he's just extra nutcase," Patrick finished, spooning grey slop into his mouth without bothering to taste it.
"What do you say? Should I provoke him a bit for fun, Patrick?"
Tam looked a bit older, probably more than his actual age, but his eyes were still sharp - something hard to see in the mines.
"If you don't value your manhood," Patrick said, squinting at the man, "then sure, why not? You should've seen the man's face when his balls cracked." He made a wet, crunching sound with his mouth. "Argh!"
Tam's face lost color.
"He is a real n-"
Then Tam walked straight into a wall. Except it wasn't a wall.
"Fuck! Which shit-head-"
Oh, boy.
A giant. Not giant in the usual sense but actually, properly, monumentally giant. The kind of giant that made you reconsider every decision that had led to this exact moment. Arms thick as logs. Muscles that bulged and rippled despite the starvation rations, despite the back-breaking work, despite the fact that everyone else in the pit looked like they were halfway to corpses. Put him in clean clothes, and no one would believe he'd spent a single day underground.
Moreover, he was at least a good foot taller than Tam.
Patrick took a careful step backward - not wanting any share of it.
The giant looked down. His eyes were cold. Not angry-cold. The kind of cold that suggested violence was always an option, and often the easiest one.
"...Sorry." Tam's mouth was moving, words tumbling out fast. "I wasn't looking."
The giant stared at him.
It went on for a few seconds before he nodded.
Then he walked away.
Tam stood there, frozen, probably waiting for his heart to remember how to beat.
"I think you should pray more to Lord Vessa today," Patrick said, unable to keep the mockery out of his voice. "Might've used up all your luck in one go."
They watched him - Stone, a fitting name for a literal giant - follow a soldier toward the elevator. The guards gave him space. Even they knew better.
And there, at the bottom of the elevator, propped up like a broken puppet, was the most wretched cripple Tam had ever seen.
─── ✦ ✦ ✦ ───