PART II: MORGAN
Morgan was in solitary again.
He liked to pretend that he'd gotten further this time, that he'd almost made it out. He liked to pretend he saw the sun. He'd ran maybe three feet less than last time, and the sun was merely a well-placed lantern. Morgan knew this, but he didn't like to admit it.
He and his brother had been buried alive. A thousand miles deep perhaps. They were deeper than when they started, that much was certain, and liable to be that much further down when he finally collapsed for good. Morgan didn't like to think about it. He didn't like to think about the weight of a mountain looming over his head, didn't like to think about the blind tunnels they dug in hopes of finding some untapped vein, that would fund... who, exactly?
Custis knew, of that he was certain, but he doubted his brother knew that he knew, that their younger sibling was dead. He knew, in that strange way that only twins knew, that his brother had pinned his hopes on Treavor's mercy, wherever he was. Morgan, however, had pinned the moment the hope flickered out of his brother's eyes to the front of his mind.
Custis may have been the smarter of the two of them, but that did not mean that Morgan was stupid. He sometimes saw his brother hesitate when swinging his pickaxe. He saw him glancing at the wooden braces that pressed the mountain above them. Custis would then glance at his brother, and return to work. Morgan had seen this many times, and he wondered how often it happened when he wasn't looking.
The escapes had been born of desperation, but had quickly become habit, a game to break up the monotony of the mines. He wondered what his brother thought of him, breaking rank, splitting skulls indiscriminately with his axe, charging madly as far as his under-nourished body would take him, until he was felled by a misplaced stone, or a well-fed slave master. It occurred to him, on some nights, when he idly prodded the stub in his mouth, that he would never have the chance to ask.
