A Body Of Stone, A Heart Of...

20250330

Prompt from DailyPrompt.com

How to give a statue a heart?
Riddick paced back and forth across his studio. Wringing his hands behind him. Scratching his chin and smoothing his beard. Fussing with his hair which refused to stay pulled back.
The challenge was absurd. The local lord had appeared at his door with a tattered scroll, its contents claiming to be a spell that could bring life to stone.
“I want you to carve me the perfect wife. I will pay you handsomely.”
With careful politeness Riddick had declined. Explained his unease with such magics and fear of possible consequences. Not voicing his deeper concern, that creating a living being purely to fill a role and use felt… icky.
The lord listened and silently went away. Then when Riddick returned home he found it empty and dishevelled. His wife, his two children, even the three cats and elderly dog, all taken.
On the table was the scroll, and parchment reading “Give me my wife and I won’t have to use yours.”
Riddick had barely slept since, frantically carving from dawn’s first light until his vision crossed and his fingers were too cramped to hold the tools. His neighbours brought him food and materials and wished they could do more.
Finally the statue was ready. A shell based on no woman in particular. Generic beauty unmarred by the quirks which came with life.
But now he had to perform the ritual. And while most of the ingredients had been sourced - thank goodness for Kiera’s ingenuity! - everyone was at a loss what could be meant by “A heart of beating stone”.
Was there some stone which pulsed? The thought was entirely unnatural, but no more so than the rest of this wretched spell. And however hard Cory searched his tomes and Kiera sent messages throughout her network no answer appeared.
Riddick slumped to his knees, hot helpless tears seeping through his cracked and aching fingers and forming clumps in the stone dust which covered him. Another night without his task fulfilled. He dared not imagine what that meant.
“Moira… my love, my pearl, I am so sorry, I… had I only known he would stoop so, I…” His rasping voice faded out.
And what of Aisling? She was such a thoughtful delicate child, how could anyone inflict such fear on her? What if the lord decided she wasn’t a child, her being close to womanhood?
Riddick retched and groaned, slumping into the marble chips layering the floor. Unconcerned by the prospect of splinters, such minor and physical barbs.
Little Darragh was only five, perhaps he could heal from this. But who knew what wounds would be left on that blithe little soul?
“Why? Gods, why?”
Nothing answered his cry.
Until.
Babump
A pulse against his cheek.
Babump
Cold and smooth and rhythmic.
Babump
Riddick slowly lifted his head, eyes wide, and found his tears and despair had coalesced in a cradle of marble.
Babump
A seething, yearning, bitter heart of beating stone.

Prompt was “Write about the heart, focusing on its physicality and actions. Avoid the kind of metaphors and language which are normally associated with the heart's emotional connection.”