The pristine blue of her eyes shone, encased in the pale porcelain of her skin. The cold perfection of that skin stretched across her face, broken, only briefly, by her glistening orbs. Yet it was her mouth, those two shimmers of blushing ruby, which drew his gaze.
He had the sudden urge, the compulsion, to reach out and glide his fingers over the tangled auburn of her hair; he felt that if his hand came in full contact with it he would taint it. Even as he thought of this unforgivable sin, his hand reached forward, brushing past the tip of her ear, only to have it retreat; hanging frozen in the air, never touching the glossy temptation.
He grinned at himself, his jade eyes sparkling with bitter mirth. He had known for sometime of his black nature, the stain on his soul. To touch this beauty would be to sully her. It seemed no beauty was immune to his touch, from the purist dove to the darkest storm; each was stained by his sin. His grin slipped suddenly into the half-formed twitch of a well-used smirk, both sensual and dangerous on his shadowed lips.
His hand slipped back, grazing down the silky yellow of her dress. While it was a stunning yellow - one might take it for the essence of a pure sunflower - it was not the hue he would have chosen for this immaculate figure. He felt that blue, the blue of a cloudless sky, would be more suited to rival that of her haunted eyes.
She was, of course, an imperfect specimen. Others in this room could surpass her easily. The beauty behind him, in particular, had eyes a solid green that challenged his own. Her tumbling blonde tresses fell, swiftly twisting, to her waist. She had a milkmaids complexion; cheeks rouged by exhaustion, lips pouting in pink seriousness. Her crimson dress contrasted brilliantly, throwing her pale skin into the forefront, and highlighting those features she commanded with grace.
Yet he felt her no true match to his smirking Madonna. He knew it was not her perfection that he sought, he had achieved that time over, it was the experience that he needed. He had bartered for voice, paid for shape, stolen for personality, for intellect. For this wonderous feeling he would do more, he would travel to the world’s ends.
For he saw before him a new perfection, one that was neither hidden, nor apparent. It was for this new precedent that he would defy all his god’s laws, for this paradise he would kill. Her fierce sapphire orbs, the tangled fire that was her hair, and most of all; the half-defined smirk of blooming ruby that inexplicably drew his gaze. These features that made her, that drew him, defined the utopia that came with sight. He felt that without her he would be blind to the world’s faded beauty and not mourn. He would kill; he would murder for the perfection that was Colour.
