He'd forgotten beauty. He'd forgotten art. The playing piano in the hidden room was his nightmare. The beautiful sound still rang in his ear, more horrendous than any torture, than any pain. More terrifying than any year of war.
A machine could not play, it could not dance and it could not write. Because it couldn't relate, understand what it was creating. Words became empty syllables, a machine wouldn't understand a song and get the timing wrong. A machine could not dance because it couldn't feel it move within its own heart, within every inch of its body, vibrating in anticipation. In dancing the emotion had to control, because that's what it was took, to transform the simple to the divine.
A machine could not dance, because it could not love.
The graceful creature that moved before his eyes, in secret, scared him. How could a creature without soul, understand the concept of music? Appreciate art? How could this killing machine, who knew nothing more than targets and missions, move like an angel? How could beauty create such evil? How could she move like she was filled with the grace of God when she was made by the hands of men?
He couldn't understand. But what he saw terrified him.
Was it human, after all? Was there any stroke of humanity lingering beneath that metal skeleton? Was there any stroke of compassion? And if there were, how could she have let it happen?
How could she have let them go to war?
The End.