FATE\Deus Decipit

Chapter 34: Colours Out of Space

Nothing. Darkness.

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Infinity. Or is it?

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Who am I?

Am I alive?

What does it mean-

-To be alive?

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How long have I been here?

What is time?

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Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Who am I?

...

What does it mean?

-To be?

Who am I?

...

Time has passed.

Infinity has come and gone.

Nothing has come and gone.

The inky blackness, the black sludge that once was a 'self' begins to churn. It twists and turns to the movements of an invisible ladle, and an expanse both infinite and nonexistent begins to surge. Out of the black sea, bubbles begin to float to the surface, bursts of colors real and imaginary rise from the depths of infinity, of nothingness, of the forgotten self, and stain the waters like oil paint, a menagerie of colors mixing and separating, coalescing. Some bubbles swallow, others are swallowed, some crawl, some fly, some disappear back into the depths. Colors moving, conquering, being conquered, surrendering, until only the strong and the desired remain.

These strong few, these unconquerable few, become one. They form together in the black sea, and rise, rise and rise as if plucked by God's hand out of the nothing, out of the everything. The colors drip and fall from the dome of imaginary light, forming a picture, a landscape, an ethereal plain of green and blue inside a dome stained purple.

-And she awoke, knowing nothing except that she was, and would continue to be. She had no body, she had no essence, she was shadow, less than shadow, and yet she was. She was unaware of the sea outside, she only knew what she could see, and that she was.

The grove was beautiful. The sun gleamed through the trees in brilliant ribbons of golden light. Dust fell from leaves and branches, shining as they passed, showering over the rainbow of flowers below. The grove was small, the trees were blooming with flowers and fruit, pomegranates and olives. She felt that she must have walked through the gates of Elysium to behold such a sight.

And so she was on the outskirts of this garden, one with the shadows of the trees, existing without being, watching without eyes.

On the edge of the grove, beyond her but between her and the other side, was a young man, sitting, leaning against the trunk of one such pomegranate tree. He was beautiful, as pretty as he was handsome. He had pale, toned skin that was the visage of death, with deep emerald eyes which were both sunken and full of life. His hair was as brilliant a gold as the sun that fell into the garden; near-white, it fell and waved like a waterfall from his head. He wore a rather plain toga, his upper body exposed, and held a gilded lyre in his hands.

He pulled the instrument close, and rested his eyes. His fingers, barely touching the strings, sat still in silent anticipation. For these moments, all the world was quiet, and she couldn't help but feel that her own heart had fallen asleep, and was waiting for the call of his rhythm. It was as if the whole universe were waiting with bated breath for the young man's music.

-And then he began to play.

His fingers danced across the strings like a ballet, each digit a trained professional. Her spirit rose and fell with the music, and even as her existence was ephemeral, it swayed with the trees, and with the very wind that seemed itself to be dancing in time. She rose and fell with bitter-sweetness as he wove a story without speaking, a story of love, of hurt washed away, of fear, of loneliness, and the force which gave these things meaning. She couldn't even be surprised when the birds began to sing along, or when woodland creatures stopped in their passing to hear, and then, ignoring her, approached him, lazing in front of him. The deer, the mice, the birds, they didn't even graze, they were as if asleep, their ears and tails twitching and swaying alongside the tune.