Plinth the Uneven took in the scene. A girl, pebble-young in white, eyes lowered, nervy; a woman, nicely strata’ed, also in white, talking softly. Sodding devotees, that’s what they are, he thought. A novitiate and her minder. She’ll want to light the bloody candle, too and that wax always played havoc with his fissures, sticking the planes together when they should be easing – gloriously, inevitably – apart as the rain permeated his corporeal magnificence. If it wasn’t for all the wax that had dripped down his flanks over the centuries, he’d be gravel by now, washed to the river and out to sea; by that point he’d be completely granulated, and at peace, in the swish-swosh-swirly currents.
He’d had millennia to ask why. Why him? Why had those stupid, simple minded druids chosen him? He was just an ordinary stone; not exactly a Sarsen, but big enough to stand pretty proud. All the others, granite and grit alike, admired his smooth sides. Back then, the alluvia ground at each other, hoping he’d flake in their direction.
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