Prometheus - WhiteCat's Surreal Offering

by WhiteCat

It's a room of multicolored lights. Flashing, brighter than anything mortal eyes could stand. Why, they even wince away from the glare of the sun, which is nothing compared to this. It's a room of souls. A place where those who died and have not yet been reborn are waiting ... waiting for their quiet return to the world of the living. Some are greater than others; mighty heroes who walk restlessly among the humble poor. It's not a place where someone unworthy could ever reach.

Several dance, brighter than most, in the very center of the room. Four, to be precise; and none move in the same pattern, or sing the same song. Deepest blue, fiery red, warm gold and crisp green form in an intricate pattern, one that is nearly impossible to unravel. Perhaps these four were friends when their auras had a body to back them up; maybe they became attached once they reached this place.

It is nothing, really, to enter the memories of one aura. If a mortal could stand the utter beauty of this place, they would only have to reach, to touch ...

A simple touch reveals young man, sitting by a stream, sharpening a sword. His lips pucker in a soft whistle of a song; one that his mother sang to him when he lay on her breast, wide-eyed and innocent. With his soul glowing dark blue against the very colors of life, he seems totally in synch with his surroundings; filled with a peace that few mortals ever have known, or ever will known.

He knows that Death will one day claim him, send him to this room that he doesn't know exists - yet. But he fears it not; after all, why should someone who already is acquainted with Death fear its icy touch? He only worries for his friends; never considering that he himself is vulnerable. To him, he is nothing, and his friends are everything.

He moves slowly to stand, yawning widely; his movements are slow and easy, much like a lazy cat's graceful rise from its sunny napping spot. Blue eyes, pale compared to his aura, twinkle with their own inner light, and have a beauty all of their own; there are faint lines that mar his face, lines that show laughter and sorrow, that write his whole lifestory on his face. He has known suffering, and he has known loss, but he does not allow it to weigh him down.

He has a strength that few possess; even those whose physical strength far surpasses his must bow down to his utter determination and loyalty. Yes, he has suffered, but he has also enjoyed life; lived it to its fullest. He does not fear missing out on anything, for his life has been full of what he chose. His dreams are realized and not pushed away, but chased, sought after like a fine friendship.

And what friendships he has known! It would humble the gods themselves, who feel things more keenly than mortals, to witness and share what he has experienced. There are not many, you know, who would willingly give up their life for a friend, and more than once, at that. Would you do that for your best friend?

Music in the mist; fighter in the sun. All this and more make up a hunter and a true warrior.


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