What is the color of a soul? Does it come in a gray-scale — a gradient from white to black? Is it red for a person who is passionate? Green for someone who’s lived a life full of envy? Blue for a wistful dreamer? Does the color change depending on one’s mood, depending on whoever is around oneself?
The woman glides across the bodies strewn across the dirt ground as she turns over these thoughts in her mind. To her, the cracks of bones beneath her leather boots are like the crunch of dry grass on a hot summer day. To her, the groans of the men and women around her are like the cries of cicadas. To her, the iron that hangs heavy in the air is like humidity that comes after rain.
A man crawls across her feet and gives her a look. Not a look of desperation. Not a look of fear. A look of pure hatred. She wonders, as she studies the man’s twisted expression, if his soul is red with anger.
She lifts the blade she holds in her hand to the man’s throat.
“For a cockroach to glare at a human. Really, it’s pitiful.”
With a flick of her wrist, she sends golden light shimmering down out from the hilt of her blade to its tip.
“For someone who serves under the name of peace to only grasp for war, like this. Really, it’s pitiful.”
With another flick of her wrist, she ends the man’s life with a stroke of red.
As she cleans her blade of his blood, she hums and wonders if her soul is the color of gold.