Arnbjörg watched the swarthy men attack his home. The farm he had worked since he could walk. They took what they could use and burned the rest, saying that it would help pay the debt. His father, or so they told him, had gambled everything and refused to pay. The farm was only a portion of the debt, his family was the rest. His father they had seized first, he would pay his debt with blood. They sized Arnbjörg, his mother and his sister carefully. At sword-point his mother stood as tall as she could, showing no emotion. Hard work, and difficult years showed their toll in her hair and face, grey and withered before her time. Heiðrún hid crying silently, she was young and vivacious in her eighth year Arnbjörg watched, wanting to comfort his sister and mother, but the large men grabbed him roughly and dragged him away. He heard his sister screaming, his last memory of his family.  What happened to his family he never learned for certain, he was deemed strong and young enough for the demanding work in the depths. Heiðrún’s screams echoed in his mind, he could not recall her laugh, or bring to mind his mother’s joyful smile. If she lived, his sister’s life, nay existence was as meaningless as his own. Ceaseless work in dark caverns.

They asked his name, and he answered not. They laughed and gave him a new one, Úrgangur, this name he accepted blankly. His old name, his old life, he would not give them. He quickly learned to keep from making eye contact, keep his head down, move quickly, and to always look as though he was working hard. Fourteen hours a day he worked, fashioning thousands of wheels. The keen whip bit at his back, if he paused for but a moment in his work. Into darkness fell his thoughts, and soon he looked no more to the tunnels leading to the surface. His taskmasters assured him, his family was gone, his town hated his cheating family. He was scum and trash, he was nothing but a slave. He watched a man run for the tunnels, his death was slow, and his screams resonated throughout the caverns. Escape was futile. Years passed in this meaninglessness. Úrgangur grew sallow and sickly as lack of sun and hopelessness began to wear upon him. He was spared the mines, tunneling to death. At first, he was grateful, then he wondered if perhaps that death would have been better than his half-life. Then he ceased to care at all. He became nothing, Arnbjörg was dead, only Úrgangur remained a hopeless slave and empty shell.

The only thing keeping him from utter despair was the distraction of creating poems. During mind-numbing hours of work he carefully crafted lines and committed them to memory. These he shared with his fellow slaves in their few short hours of rest.