Disclaimer: It all belongs to the wonderful Gregory Maguire
A/N: This is probably the first serious thing I've written for both my fandoms. If anyone is wondering why this is so different from my usual stuff, it's because this was an English project.

Life is colour.

Life is scarlet. It is blood red and pulsating with an energy that must eventually dwindle into nothingness. Blood red energy is borrowed, not made. Crimson lips beg to be kissed. Vivid red is the colour of love; at least that's what he's been told.

Life is amber. It's about drive and passion and a fire in the belly. Without it, a man cannot survive; a hunter cannot survive. It consumes all. It is emotion and at the same time, it is a detachment from it.

Life is sunshine. It is vibrant and merry. It is laughter and childishness. It is bright and hopeful. It outshines every small thing, every dark colour. There is always life and life must continue, no matter the way in which you chose to live it. He needs to believe this, now more than ever.

Life is cerise. It is difficult to stomach and it certainly requires a taste for it. It is adored and treasured, enjoyed even, or it is despised and wasted. Fuchsia is his old life; everything so pink and seen through rose-tinted lenses; lenses that did not appear to function for him.

Life is azure. It is electric. It courses through him, a love of it, life and the colour. It is deep and royal, the colour of his blood if such myths are to be believed. Sapphire skies will be the only colour he feels safe under now. Sapphire skies will hide them. Sapphire is surety and safety. It is midnight and bewitching, not in the least bit black.

Life is russet. It takes a moment to adjust to it and when one first experiences it, one feels the urge to cry, to scream for its drabness despite such promise. Life is fawn, timid and monotonous. How he hated life when it was fawn and now, what would he pay for a day of chocolate and bronze and sepia?

Life is aubergine. It appears dark, perhaps even gloomy but there is enough light to give it promise. It can be lilac. It is bright, detestably so in some cases, and cheerful. Indigo days were often late summer, appreciated but not awaited; like death. It would mean an end, the end of summer and the end of life. He knew it would come and yet, if it could be avoided then he would be grateful.

Life is ebony. It is sometimes pitch black and hopeless. It is welcomed now. It means burying his face in her hair, knowing she is hidden and safe. Ebony is relief. Ebony is life itself when he is scared and ebony is usually the reason he is so fearful.

He looks over at her sleeping form, feeling the weight of her in his arms and thinks of nothing more than the small fact that his life is no longer a myriad of colours. His life is shades of one colour and it always has been.

Life is real. Life is earthy. Life is desired. Life is precious. Life is underestimated.

Life is emerald.