When he took this job, he was rather surprised to discover that the human soul is small enough to fit into a jar.
Well, not exactly a jar as human beings reckon it, but a very small and transparent and quite fragile little container. A soul could fit in one of those. He has handled many since taking up his position -- some no bigger than the size of his closed fist, or even, for the especially withered ones, no bigger than the tip of his thumb. Even the greatest of them are no bigger than the number of pebbles he could scoop up in both hands.
And yet one tiny container holds all the essence and spirit, loves and hatreds and passions of an entire human being inside it. You cannot precisely speak to a soul, but he feels as though he's had so many conversations since becoming Death. Expanded his social circle by thousands. For every soul he takes in his hands and touches, he is touched in turn; they offer up their secrets, their faces, their lives. He sees who they were and who they will be. In a way he loves each and every one of them.
His own soul, though -- he's never before had reason to touch his own soul.
Somehow, even as there are many of him existing in this strange little dimension, their souls are connected as one. Siblings, perhaps. The soul he feels in his hands is precisely the same one that burned inside his breast when he was a living man, the same one that gives him consciousness now. And yet here he is, holding in his palm, separate from himself. It's like looking into a mirror.
Souls come in many different kinds, of course. Little children have the biggest and brightest ones, full of hopes and dreams and fairytales. The souls of the elderly -- the lucky ones, anyway -- are soft golden and calm with the knowledge of a life well-lived behind them. The souls of the melancholy and the destitute are faded, tired and weak with their hardships. The cruel and the greedy, the murderers and the sadists and sinners, have cracked and withered souls shrunk nearly to nothing.
If he's honest with himself, he was a little afraid to look, but--
What he sees in his hands is small and shimmering, not golden yet, but with a platinum sheen. There are worn spots in places, little tears in others. It looks as though it's been patched up a time or two. There's a mark down the middle, where surely it had nearly cracked in half once, but -- someone's filled it in with kindness, pasted the edges back together with laughter. He touches it, and it touches him in turn, this man who he is and isn't, who he was and will be. It's a little beaten-up, but... it doesn't really look all that different from any other he's ever met.
He thinks that somehow he can find it in himself to love this soul, too.
Well, not exactly a jar as human beings reckon it, but a very small and transparent and quite fragile little container. A soul could fit in one of those. He has handled many since taking up his position -- some no bigger than the size of his closed fist, or even, for the especially withered ones, no bigger than the tip of his thumb. Even the greatest of them are no bigger than the number of pebbles he could scoop up in both hands.
And yet one tiny container holds all the essence and spirit, loves and hatreds and passions of an entire human being inside it. You cannot precisely speak to a soul, but he feels as though he's had so many conversations since becoming Death. Expanded his social circle by thousands. For every soul he takes in his hands and touches, he is touched in turn; they offer up their secrets, their faces, their lives. He sees who they were and who they will be. In a way he loves each and every one of them.
His own soul, though -- he's never before had reason to touch his own soul.
Somehow, even as there are many of him existing in this strange little dimension, their souls are connected as one. Siblings, perhaps. The soul he feels in his hands is precisely the same one that burned inside his breast when he was a living man, the same one that gives him consciousness now. And yet here he is, holding in his palm, separate from himself. It's like looking into a mirror.
Souls come in many different kinds, of course. Little children have the biggest and brightest ones, full of hopes and dreams and fairytales. The souls of the elderly -- the lucky ones, anyway -- are soft golden and calm with the knowledge of a life well-lived behind them. The souls of the melancholy and the destitute are faded, tired and weak with their hardships. The cruel and the greedy, the murderers and the sadists and sinners, have cracked and withered souls shrunk nearly to nothing.
If he's honest with himself, he was a little afraid to look, but--
What he sees in his hands is small and shimmering, not golden yet, but with a platinum sheen. There are worn spots in places, little tears in others. It looks as though it's been patched up a time or two. There's a mark down the middle, where surely it had nearly cracked in half once, but -- someone's filled it in with kindness, pasted the edges back together with laughter. He touches it, and it touches him in turn, this man who he is and isn't, who he was and will be. It's a little beaten-up, but... it doesn't really look all that different from any other he's ever met.
He thinks that somehow he can find it in himself to love this soul, too.
