It is a matter of negotiation. 

The others think of it as simply digging your claws in and taking what you want, but my people know the truth of things.  Real, honest mining is a dialogue, a conversation.  A give and take.  Soft picking away of disagreements, steady hammering at vital issues, even conceding when the point is well argued.  The vaults and caverns of this world were carved, not blasted.  A miner listens to the earth and takes what it willingly gives.  And he provides willingly what it asks. 

Such are my thoughts as I lay my pick aside and tilt back my waterskin.  The stray drops trace tributaries through the dust on my face, and I look across the tunnel to Glondheim.

He sees my gaze and takes a rest from his own talk with the earth.  I don’t have to expound to him on what it means to be a miner– Glondheim is of my people and knows full well.

“The bounty here is rich,” he says.  “The only ones here I pity are the poor souls who push the carts – we fill them up so quickly!” his laugh is satisfaction.

He peers about before sneaking a swig from the flask in his belt.  Even from here I can smell the unrestrained power of the liquor.

I chide him: “The Overseer-“

“The Overseer knows,” he says.  “But if the rest of you lot found out, you’d guzzle it all!”

“Bah!” I sputter.  “We’d use that stuff to polish our boots!  We’d only drink it if we wanted to go blind!”

“Why do you think I drink it, Thorsten?” his eyes shine with mirth.  “So I don’t have to look at your filthy mug all day!” he taps his head with shrewdness.  “I don’t need my eyes to know where the rock is.”

As we lift our picks again, I am content in the truth of his words.  We know where the rock is, always.
We are miners, right and true.

-

We work in silence for a while, letting the chink of metal on stone echo around us.  The earth harkens to our assertions and gives way.  The scattered rocks and rubble of our labors is gathered up by others and rumbles away in carts of wood and banded iron.

Glondheim rests himself on the stone ground and chews his biscuit thoughtfully - the crumbs of it gather in his auburn beard.

“How long have we been here?” he asks.

The answer is in my mind instantly: “One hundred and eleven days.”

He whistles.  “We’ve done a lot in that time,” he says.  “And it will do a great deal of good.  The ore in this place is fine and hearty, like those who mine it!” he thumps his chest.  “It will make sturdy blades, stout armor, and many shoes for the riding rams.”

“We’ll go home proud,” I say.

A little more of his biscuit disappears into his mouth and falls in crumbles about his beard.  He pauses again, and his brow furrows.  He says nothing.

“Thorsten?” his normal baritone is unsettled.  “Do you think of your family much?”

“Absolutely,” I say. “On every one of those hundred and eleven days.”

“I... do as well.”  He looks up from the ground into my eyes.  “But the thing is, I feel like it’s been so long that I almost can’t... see them, you know?  All I have to remember my wife is this image in my head...  Am I remembering her, or just the image?  What if I have her hair wrong, or her face wrong?  What if I get home and she’s not the woman I remember?”

“Or if there’s a man sleeping in bed with her that you don’t remember!” I slap my thigh and grin at him, but he doesn’t ready one of his usual retorts.  I feel badly, and look down.

“I’m sorry, Glondheim,” I say. “I’m just having a joke with you.”

“Oh, I know it,” he says.  “It’s just- do you ever feel that way?”

I sit for a moment, but he’s a dear friend and I tell him the truth.
“I don’t, I don’t,” I answer.  “I see them so clear in my head, always.  I see that ribbon she ties on her wrist, and the strands of her hair I’d always pull off of my jacket after I laid it on the bed.  My son and his silly big feet and his wise young eyes...”

Glondheim’s eyes are moist.  “You’ve a blessed thing, my friend, and I’m happy to know you have it.”
He smiles, stands, and brushes the crumbs out of his beard.  We return to our labor and the earth  returns to us.

-

Days fall away like the stone beneath our picks, and our work proceeds well.  The Overseer is pleased with our progress, and our service is well rewarded.  The rock of this place sings to us, and we are the refrain.

But today is different – our chorus is jarred by screams and clashings.  Glondheim and I are startled from our work and brace ourselves against the wall.  The sounds of strife draw nearer until a staggering figure arrives – a clanking cacophony of spaulders and vambraces and helmet.  He carries axe and lantern, but his gait and his build mark him as one of our people.  I look to Glondheim and we lower our picks.

“Quickly boys, hurry!” the figure waves a beckoning hand.

We do not move.  Glondheim is perplexed, as am I.  The figure raises his lantern to me, and my eyes squint closed by reflex.

“...Thorsten?” the suit of armor says, lowering his light.

“I am he,” I say.  “Do you bring a message for me?”

“What?  A message?  Thorsten, we’ve got to get you out of here!  You can escape!”

“Escape?” Glondheim looks at me, confused, and I shake my head.  I don’t understand either.

“Look,” I say.  “Whoever you are, you don’t understand.  We are miners, helping with the war effort.  My pay goes to my wife and child who depend on me, and I am paid well.  We are safe and happy here, and I promise you, there’s no ‘escaping’ needed today.”

“Wife?” the stranger stammers.  “Children?!  Thorsten, you daft fool, you’ve got no wife!  You’re barely old enough to have a beard, let alone a family!”

Nothing moves – even the rock is silent.

“Now you two pull yourselves together and come with me this instant!  I’ll explain once we get you outside!”

His gauntlet closes upon my arm and he tugs me toward him.  I look to Glondheim and he nods.  There is work to be done, and we will go nowhere until it is finished.  We raise our picks, and negotiations begin.  Our arguments are weighty.  The intruder gives way.

The floor of the tunnel is still slick when the Overseer comes.  It senses what we have done and we feel its pleasure in our minds.  One of its tendrils crawls along my cheek and caresses its approval.
The Overseer shambles back into the tunnels. 

-

One day when our task is completed, Glondheim and I will return home to our families, and I will see my wife and son again.  I will think of them always, and the clear vision I have of their faces and our home will never ebb.  But for now, there is mining to be done, and we are miners, right and true. 

The earth sings.