He hung around those with the aura, waiting, anticipating a soul. Most he would take to the plain lands, people who had neither been kind nor mean, those who had never seen suffering, never experienced the world. Those who's aura were black would resist, their corrupt souls not ready to enter the dark lands, to endure a life of pain. Their aura's were monotone, never having experienced enough in life to be full of colour.

It was rare that one was ever like him.

The boy was young, but he could tell the aura had been on him for a long time. He was frail, clinging onto life by a small thread, but even still his aura was a vibrant radiation of colours, bright enough to show that this little boy had done something great. His aura showed bravery, kindness and selflessness, traits of which were almost unheard of in the being's line of work. It was enough to spark a curiosity within him, of how a boy around 10 could be so full of colour and strength that so many would never have any hope of being.

He swooped down lower, leaving the boy to his fractured life for a moment. The book of lives would tell him about the braveries of such a young folk, tell him about his story. He found the page and was shocked to discover another and another and another. Even the kindest only got two pages at most.

The boy had experienced everything. He had been 5 when the war had taken so many souls, 6 when the bomb over Brisbane had dropped, killing most of the city. He had seen the plague plough people to the ground, their faces permanently etched in sudden realisation. But all his sight had ended in the tsunami of Jazeera. He had picked himself off the floor over and over again, sacrificing his shoes to the homeless, his food to the poor, and his money to the sick. There was only one thing he had never given up; his smile. Charities upon charities had started, and the little boy had donated a coin a day to them all. He had taken care of his sister while his father was forced to work, never even thinking once about what responsibilities had cost him.

In a time of greed and envy, selfishness and regret, he had demonstrated perfection. And yet, at such a young age, the being would have to relieve him of his life.

He swooped back into the bedroom, watching as a little girl sat at his side, holding his gaze as he told her one last bedtime story. The boy had sensed him the moment he swooped in, known that it was time to let go, to make one last sacrifice. He silently thought a single wish, his last wish, that his sister does not see him die. The being granted it and watched in pain as the little girl hugged him and promised to come back the next day.

The door shut, and the boy let himself go, let the fatal plague finally hit his heart. He was ready to leave the world before him, and let out a sigh of relief as his soul exited his body. But he could now see through the beings eyes, and all the being could do was watch as tears ran down the soul of the boy's cheeks as he watched the world around him, the bombs explode, the plague hit its mark.

And, for the first time in all of the millennia, death cried too.