Tordhir - Lost in the Deep

8♣ Since we arrived at the Kingdom under the Mother Mountain, 187 days have come and past. Now I, Tordhir, am the last survivor of our band. My companions have all fallen victim to the machinations of that ancient evil we unwittingly awakened in our foolish search for the treasure left by our ancestors. Now the evil in the shadows and its minions are behind me, ever near. I must find the stairs that will lead me out, but I have no idea where they might be. I still have water and rations for a few days. I hope I can make it.

At first I tripped on it and fear again dug its claws in me. Since my brothers in arms and the spear sisters that came here with me fell, I have been alone. Though I have never been truly alone, fear became my companion.

There was a time when I would have laughed at a dwarf who was afraid of the dark of the great caverns in our ancestral mines. Afraid of a rock falling somewhere in the distance and the echoing sound it can make. You could argue that I was just young, still I know I have friends back home who stick to the same kind of beliefs who would snicker behind my back. They would draw signs of weakness and that of the broken bridge when I came and went. To this, all I can say is that I didn’t know, they have no notion of how it’s down here.

I was looking up when I came upon the object, watching a spider weaving a net. Luckily it’s one of the small ones. Still large enough for me to see that it watched me and that it stayed away from my flame.

As I struck the object and fell I was sure that I had stumbled upon a trap. Looking up when I should have been looking down. I hit my left knee hard on my way down. The blinding pain was like pain is, but at least it woke me up. Still, I didn’t act immediately instead I lay there wide awake just waiting for the next part of the trap to spring.

I don’t know how much time actually past, then I panicked when I saw movement in the corner of my eye. But the movement was only the spider as it climbed away from me. I am not sure if the sound coming from me was laughter or if I was crying, either way I didn’t want to know.

I tested my leg, but wasn’t yet able to stand. That’s when I saw it, a faint glimmer of reflection from the light of my torch was coming from the object that had caused me to fall. After I had chased of the notion of it being a trap, I figured it to be a piece of rock sticking up from the uneven floor.

I crawled closer to the thing. My next thought was gold, even now I felt that familiar flutter in my stomach. Gold was still gold. Of course, I knew that gold had no value here. It would just be extra weight to burden me. What caused me to start digging and trying to free it wasn’t tied to greed or lust for riches. Simply that not taking the gold would be akin to giving up, to surrender to the idea that I would die alone in this mine.

I had to take it, because I haven’t given up yet. Hard packed dirt had buried the object. I started with my fingers but soon switched to using my spoon to dig. Just holding the spoon made me realise how hungry I was, I longed for stew. Mutton and carrots, slow cooked in the kettle for hours.

Only a small bit of the object seemed to be of gold. When I finally freed the thing, it had the shape of a big orb. I jumped, when the bottom part of it fell out, thinking the spiders were attacking. The bottom part was in fact dirt falling out from the helmet.

Glancing up I saw more spiders now but they were neither large enough or had the numbers to pose a threat to me. I used my kerchief to first clean and the polish the helmet. My hands were trembling as I worked. I had seen the golden rune for honour.

At the time I still didn’t know the full extend of what I had found. I was sure the helmet had once belonged to the royal guards. The Stone First of the Mother Mountain. Our forefathers had worn this helmet, perhaps to battle. Parts of it had rusted and were brittle. I even used some of my drinking water to clean the worst of the grime. Then my breath caught when I saw the inscriptions.

While it pains me that I don’t know all our old runes, I know some. I know the one for king and the ones for Mother Mountain. This helmet once belonged to the ruler of the Kingdom Under the Mother Mountain. It wasn’t just a helmet, but an ancient relic, a holy symbol, a link to my past.

If my companions were still alive I would probably never dared to put in on. I didn’t don the helmet as if it were a crown or from some kind of desire to feel like a king. I couldn’t leave it and I could think of no easier way to carry it. When I stood up my knee was still stiff and sore but it would carry me.

I started moving again. Slower than what I would have liked, though when you don’t know where you are going speed isn’t important. After walking some more I realised that something was different. I walked more like a soldier, purposeful. The helmet is blocking some of my sight, even so there is a new kind of clarity now when I take in my surroundings.

I am not enough of a scribe to correctly describe how I felt or what had changed. It felt silly to think it, even more to write it down but wearing the helmet made me feel like I had a responsibility. I don’t mean the responsibility of the current expedition, but to my ancestors, to the last king of these halls. Did he walk alone in the end? Did he die somewhere else?

Could grave robbers have stolen the helmet centuries ago only to perish themselves on their way out? If I were to die down here with this helmet will a future dwarven explorer find my remains and think that I was the king? Would they be so wrong? Am I the only living dwarf within this kingdom under the Mother Mountain? Is it false of me to call myself king if only for now? Maybe just to sustain myself until my next meal.

Did that old king also grow tired of the mushrooms that grow within outcroppings of the cavern walls? Even in my dreams the leek and potato soup aunt Gilfrig used to cook has started to taste like those mushrooms.