The prompt for today from Hive account@mariannewest was "motorcade".

Here is what came from the prompt:

He knew it was an image of himself that had prompted the motorcade forward, lurching daemonically after varied pauses as though to imitate the verdant soul it transported. Octavio watched as the hearse made its way through the unyielding traffic. His expression turned to mourning before he looked at me, the glittering iridescence of spirited, spirit tears in his eyes. I could see his mental gears trying to grind beyond some inconsistency. None of it made sense: none of it was what I promised.

What I had promised was mythic. Divine. Of course he could not understand this. Perhaps his misunderstanding, or non-understanding, was the lie in my claim of gold. He was a mortal, and of course no mortal man could be the thing of myth.

But it was as I watched him listening in on my thoughts that he began to understand. He understood his death and why he had to bring it about. He understood the sacrifice he had made: never again to brush Gunnar’s cheek with the softness of the back of his hand, never again to listen to Virgil as he tried to choke words through smoke, never again fly from Sylvia in fear that her namesake was more than mere coincidence and she was just waiting to commit some arsonous act. There was no morality in messiah, no humanity in it, only sacrifice.

His skin glowed with reverie.