Pain of the Past (a Preminger fanfiction)

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By the ripe age of 15, Preminger rarely ever saw the sun. Every morning, he and the older boys were up before dawn. They'd slip into sweat stained clothes, blackened by the dust of coal, and grab a meal of bread and cheese for the road. Then, together, they'd walk though the hazy light of early morning and begin their decent down into the mines, deep beneath the earth.

It was always warm down there, and always unbearably dark. The first time Preminger stepped into the mines, he felt suffocated, like the inky black air would fill his lungs where he stood and choke the light right out of them. But in time, he grew well aquatinted with the darkness.

Soon, the ring of the pickaxe was constant in Premingers ear. Through the long hours of the day, its echo against the rocks was all that he heard. Sometimes he and the other boys would sing, low rhythmic tunes to pass the minutes and match their swings, but mostly they worked.

When the day was done, a messenger was sent for them and word spread around the mines. The boys would retreat, dragging their aching bodies back up to the surface, their calloused hands still throbbing with the rhythm of their work. The fresh air was like nectar to their throats which burned with dust and smoke. Preminger never grew tired of its sweetness.

Alas, by this time it was nightfall. Not that it mattered much. The fifteen minute walk back to the orphanage was all that stood between the boys and sleep. They'd stumble to their rooms and strip off their clothes as they fell to their beds. Not a moment was lost before they found themselves snoring. But sure enough, come day break they'd be up again and working. Such was the pace of Preminger's life. Always conducted in darkness.

"That's how they keep us down," one of the boys was saying as they paused for a short rest. "Stick us in the ground and keep us digging holes for the rest of our lives."

"Yeah well, it works." another responded, sitting on the dusty ground and laying his back against a pile of rubble.

"Nah," another kid responded, whose dirty blond hair had faded to black after his time underground. "I'd bet they're trying to kill us."

"Kill us?"

"Sure. You've never heard of miners living that long anyways, have you? They all die young in some accident or some sickness that makes them unable to work any more. Between now and then, you think we'll ever have time to find a woman? Have kids, raise a family? Nah," He bent over and spit at the ground.
"This pickaxe is the only family any of us are gonna get. The king and queen sit up there all high and mighty, having us dig our own graves, killing us bastards off before we make peasant children of our own.  All the while, they're lining their pockets with the riches we dig. We'll die down here, all of us. Once you're in this life, there ain't no way out."

The air was thick as syrup in the mines. It was the truth no one wanted to hear. It burned like a fire in the pit of Premingers stomach, but what could he do? What could he, a peasant's son, an orphan, do to change the fate that had been branded to him at birth?

So he and the others would return to their work in silence. They'd pick up their pickaxes and keep their heads low and their voices silent all the while the world went on up above them. And this is how it went for years.

By the age of 17, the work of the underground had aged him and taken a toll on his body and soul. Nearly half the boys he had began his work with had perished over the years. The mines were becoming a graveyard to him.

"Hey, new recruits." One man noted one day as they were laying tracks in the firelight. Preminger looked up.

Two boys were being escorted down the tracks by one of the kings men. They were nearly identical in all but hair color, but they seemed very young. Too young. That wasn't right.

After the guard had settled them into their place on the line, Preminger made his way over to them.

"You two."

The boys skittishly turned to face him. "Yes, sir?" the brunette said.

"How old are you?"

"We're fourteen, sir."

"Fourteen?"

"Thirteen, actually." The blond chimed in. "But yeah, fourteen. Thats what they said."

His brothers face flashed with annoyance, hitting the boy on the back of his golden head.

"What does he mean?" Preminger asked.

The brunette dipped his head, eyes flitting about the mineshaft in search of any onlookers. He leaned in close to whisper his response.

"Well sir, ya see sir, we're thirteen. But if any one asks, we're to say fourteen. That being the working age and all."

Preminger blinked, anger burning like acid in his gut.

"You could die down here."

"Better than starving to death up there, sir."

The blond nodded in agreement, leaning in over his brothers shoulder with a mischievous smile on his face.

"Thats what they got us for." He said in a giddy whisper.

"What, starving?"

"Stealing," The brunette corrected. "Stealing food. Or trying to. But at least we know down here we wont go hungry."

"No," Preminger sneered. "You'd be crushed by rocks first."

He sighed, looking down the mineshaft, eyes straining to follow the railroad tracks soon swallowed by the dark. Freedom was so far away.

"I'm Nack, by the way." The brunette said, elbowing his brother in the ribs. "This is my brother, Nick."

"Preminger."

The boys both gave him a lopsided grin, bowing clumsily before him.

"Pleased to make your acquaintance, sir."

Preminger let out a breath, looking the two up and down doubtfully.

"Try not to get yourselves killed."