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Blood is red; it is always red, no matter what shining angel or mud-bedraggled creature of the night it runs from.
Swords are sword-coloured, clouded wintry mirrors into what lies beyond the veil.
Her shoulder was white. He didn't know what that meant, but thought it might be the colour of death.
Red, white and winter together made the colour of remorse.
What have you done, what have you done?
There was no pain in her crystal-topaz eyes, only great sadness and even greater love.
The blade's point rested a mere breath and a thought from her fluttering heart. "Why?" he asked raggedly.
"Because I could," she answered in words that were more wind than voice, eyes calm and deep and infinitely accusing. "You would never have noticed but by chance."
The colour of truth is also white, like her skin and like the snow outside. It is cold and it does not forgive.
He felt it freeze his anger and shatter it like brittle ice dashed onto stone, and let the pain purify him.
He pulled the blade from her flesh and turned away. Behind him, she rose and dragged her fingers across her chest, trailing the red, red blood of betrayal in their wake. The smell crawled into his face and slithered down into his chest.
"My love," she murmured. "I ask no forgiveness. I know her name."
Then she touched him, and there was yet more blood on both their hands.
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