Just jump!
The body did not leap. The desire to fall battled a deeper instinct. Ashman ways. To take one's own life was a disgrace, a mockery of the ash upon their skin. I don't have that anymore, do I?
The stones below would be sharp, the fall short. The pain would be momentary, and then a release. Return to the hands of the Almighty. Or ruination.
That thought struck deeper. He staggered back, surprised by the motion. What if ruin waited instead of peace? The Church taught that the self-slain were denied the light.
"Move!"
The voice cut like a lash, because it was. A whip had struck his back. Merrin stumbled.
"Get in there!"
A kick followed, sending him plunging. And he was over the edge, floating there for a moment. Then gravity pulled back.
I'm going to die!
Mind in abrupt chaos, he fell frantically. The chain shuddered, rattling in its rusted means. Merrin, frantic, gripped the metal. His hands turning white, burning. The wind, cooled by the Froststone, whipped his face. He wanted to live.
The chain groaned.
Then Snap.
A glint caught his eye where the metal tore free. One segment dangled, rusted. He hit the wall. Pain bloomed over his senses. Shouts raining from above, distant and incomplete.
The chain had not snapped fully; it held him, barely, swinging him against the flaring stone wall. But soon…
There was often silence before failure. A single mistake, and he would plummet.
"Please don't snap," he whispered. "Please, Almighty."
Tears streamed down, salt across his lips. He was afraid, admitting it in the blackness. After all, who would hear him? Surely the soul of a nobody had value? He looked down. The pit's mouth waited below, patient. He wanted no part of it.
He didn't want to become a part of the countless who had plunged into its depths.
Please no….He sealed his eyes…Please no.
Then suddenly….a quietness.
The chain?
He felt a stillness, no tremor, but dared not test it. If he moved, the grace would break. He just knew it.
But the voices above….They rained down.
Curses, mockery… praises?
Do they believe he had endured, that the iron held? But it had not. Not truly.
"Get to it!" an Excubitor commanded.
Merrin flinched. His brand burning. The pain lancing through him, the chain rattling under the trembling. Eyes opened and looked up. Blood tracking along his arm, dripping from his elbow.
And there, the chain.
In the pale light of a flickering lamp, the links shone. The iron was black now. Not rusted. Clean and strong. The rusted patches were gone, changed into a wholeness. Completely new.
What?
Did I not see it right?
He was sure he had….But no—undoubtedly, the chain was no longer what it had been.
Was it casted iron? Some type of Eltium? He didn't know. The idea held nothing, but neither did his knowledge of the Casters.
His arm burned still. Pain would soon become unbearable, and too frantic a motion would be fatal.
There was nothing else to do…Except…
Merrin inhaled slowly and reached for his pickaxe. The tool was cold now, rusted, yes, but cold…Still Useless.
But it's… It's all I have.
He drew his arm back and struck. Dust spilled into his face. He struck again. And again.
No thought now—just motions. The action suppressing pain. The heat faded, replaced by the numbness of his fingers. But he did not look up. He worked.
Soon, other chains rolled down. Slaves descended like silhouettes in the tenebrosity. Merrin could see their movements clearly. Even in the dark, he could…he had special eyes. This was known in the mountains.
Not here…He was alone.