Flames by elennalore

The darkness wasn’t the worst thing in the caves. The tunnels of the mine were pitch-black, but the darkness was our hiding-place. Veins of silver glimmered in the light of our tiny lanterns, and it was the only light we had. There was no sky, there were no stars. Our feet were cold and our throats thirsty, but after a while the steady sound of pickaxes hitting the rock became almost comforting.

Whenever flames appeared at the end of the tunnel, illuminating the walls with corrupt light, the sound of picks ceased, and we blew out the lanterns. In darkness, we pressed against the bedrock, hoping that the dreadful spirit would not turn their attention to us. Like mice in the woods, we quivered in our hiding hole, hoping to avoid the eyes of a predator.

Sometimes we were lucky; we were petty slaves of no importance, and the Balrog had other things in mind as they passed through the caves. At times, though, a fiery whip would fly towards us, and one of us would stumble and fall in a frenzied escape attempt. We never talked about those who were thus taken, but we learned to fear the flames.

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