As four petaled flowers, granite stepping stones bloomed from road to cottage door.
The stepping stones were the starlight of the night forest, rocks with their own inner light.
Each stepping stone was a wizened face of the ages, each with the kind of stoic grace it takes to see eons come and go.
Each as beautiful as the moon, a series of stepping stones took us into heaven's black.
Where there had been no stepping stones a moment before were laid discs of granite that had been there for millennia. Each of them was engraved with the language of the gods, each of them sang of its wisdom as it was touched by the sole.
The true warrior does their best on all levels at all times - for loved ones, self, society and the natural world. For this is how we honour our Creator and ourselves. The path to heaven is hellish. The path to hell becomes hellish to the drivers only when the bridge to heaven is burned. True warriors thus will take precarious stepping stones to vistas unknown because they are smart enough to realise the alternative for all. Where they lead, the intelligent follow.
They were stepping stones to a chance of safety away from a certain hell. She made sure to take with her those she could live without, otherwise she'd surely feel compelled to return for them. This, she told herself, was her last trip into the far lands.
They were less stepping stones than morphing clouds, inviting brave feet, or perhaps those who knew that what lay behind and on all other paths was terrifying enough to take that chance. For such a person is no simply pure of heart, yet intelligent enough to have mapped all options correctly.
The stepping stones were never there until the right feet came. When such a heart, on brave and true, stepped out unto water-top they arrived one at a time and disappeared behind their chosen traveller.
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