The Heart of Stone

by Ben Galley

He felt heavier than a mountain.

Not even in the darkest hours of a frigid desert night had he felt this type of coldness. It emanated from the ground like a mist.

Those in charge are always fond of guarding the rear.

He let himself flirt with the brink.

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.

Lips whispered encouragement. It was a useless sort of kindness, but one that all soldiers were due when the end is near.

Lessons can’t be passed on by dead men.

The mass of beating hearts, the nervous shiver of countless feet, the crashing of drums and shields… He felt them all, and through them he felt more than just stone.

But at that moment, he prayed like a lifelong sinner at the wrong end of a knife-blade.

Snow capped the mightiest of the crooked peaks. The few plants that found foothold on their charcoal rocks were scrawny and brittle in the Fading cold.

We all walk around pretendin’ we’re not broken in some way. Most spend their lives hiding it. 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.

Lesky shrugged. ‘Mam says that fighters fight and survivors survive, but cowards cower. “You got to do what you are to be what you are”, and I ain’t no coward.’

Alabast brought up the rear. He seemed to be in his element, a blur of starsteel carving out crimson arcs.