‘The Weeping Warrior’: a story by Betsy Duff
The Weeping Warrior
Out of the darkness, they returned.
The footsteps of 100,000 warriors marched across the ruins of the Capital.
The fight was over.
Wiping the sweat from their brow, one warrior swooped low and scooped up a small stone, a piece of rubble, from the ground, lifting it upwards until they and the stone were about five feet tall.
Rubbing the stone between their index finger and thumb, the warrior examined it with a cat-like fixation, looking for evidence of its former identity, its former powers.
And then, with a dramatic flick of the forearm, the stone was catapulted into the distance, into nothingness. Lost among the debris, this stone bore no significance to the warrior. And remain insignificant it shall. That was the right of the warriors. For the debris had once been the foundations of a ghastly rumour that spread through humankind like a disease.
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