The Heart of Stone

by Ben Galley

He had to admire their spirit. It felt true to him. Innocent. Even though their blades had cut flesh like the rest. That kindled fresh hope in him. He could not fight for the Truehards; not for Huff. But he could fight for men and women like these. Men and women who were shackled by the sway of their betters, just like him. In that moment, for the first time for centuries, he felt camaraderie.

Better to live one life bold and bright, instead of flickering on for decade after decade, bearing too much along the way. Too many fools like Huff. Too many cages. Immortality was a curse.

That’s all this religion thing seemed to be: blind hope.

“Judge not by what the bowl still has to give you, but what you’ve already taken from it.” It’s

Somewhere within Task there was a shard of stone that needed all of those things. Over the years he had learnt to ignore the feeling, but this night had rekindled it.

‘Bend the will of man to a false patriotism, and he will walk blindly into the fires of war with a grin on his face.’

But we are broken. And you know what? That’s fine. In fact, it’s perfect because it’s imperfect. Each crack, each blemish, each scar, whether of the skin or in the mind, they make us whole. We’re made through livin’, not by bein’ born. What we learn is what shapes us. Some choose a friendly shape, others somethin’ more jagged and sharp. That is what it means to be human, Task. We can choose.

Much easier than all your soul-searching and stories, than trying to figure out whether there’s a heart amidst all that granite. Which, of course, there is. You’re just too stupid and damaged to realise it. That’s why I’ve made this an easy choice for you. The girl, or your friends.’

Task’s only solace was that these men and women had been driven to fight by lies and habit. There was no honour or duty here, just raw human downfall. It was easier to hate an enemy than to forgive or understand them.

The secret to power was the ability of humans to convince themselves, and eventually others, of their own lies.

‘Freedom has a price, and a high one at that. Paying for it is the struggle of mankind.’

Ideas were living things. They exploded into being, having evolved with time. They could blaze brightly or sour and wither away, like life. Because, like all life, ideas need to be fed to survive.