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His are a dark, dark gray, like storm clouds swirling in the secretive night, and they spark continually with exasperation and entertainment in equal measure. Ferocity and fun, one and the same as the glint of lightning, bare steel, reflects in them. But sometimes, fury alone stirs restlessly in his countenance like thunder, and the gleam is dulled by slick red blood.

Hers are a light and cheerful turquoise, like the precious stone without its darker cracks. No—like the sea on a sunny day, sparkling with gentle majesty, a playful wind skimming its calm and glassy surface; no ships will wreck on her inviting shore. But sometimes, they're no color at all, closed in pain or sorrow as the imperfection of the world envelops her like a wave.

His are a plain and expressive brown, radiating the innocence that befits his age. Wide, filled to the brim with joy and hope, confidence that someday he will forge a new path through the forest and lead the world back to the openness and the light. But sometimes, they're wide in panic instead as he realizes his road leads to a dead end… and that the others aren't following him.

Hers are a soft and fiery green, burning bright with new discoveries or smoldering in indignant rage. Visible thoughts moving faster than a wildfire spreading through dry grass, scorching everything in her way, sending all who oppose her up in flames. But sometimes, her fire flickers and dies, and she remembers how young she is, how fast she's been forced to mature.

His are a pale color that changes constantly, like his allegiance: blue like the ice of winter, or green like trampled grass in spring, or gray like autumn rain, but never the hues of summer. His last embers were extinguished long ago; cold and damp come more easily to him now. And sometimes, he loses track of where in time he is, and wishes the seasons would pass him by more quickly.

Hers are violet like the sky at the edge of the sunset, with a glimmer of blood-red amusement glittering in their depths like the fresh stains on her lance. Light of the evening star glancing off the blade, grace and violence hidden in the crescent of the glowing moon. But sometimes, she loses her grip on the haft, and the sun slips finally below the horizon, along with her hopes.