Orange Black


She rose up, her black hair in stark contrast to the shimmering pure white of her robe. The acceptance of sacrifice ready to stain her crystal heart, a flash of fire to shatter her essense of life. Facing the end, a silent goodbye, the reluctance of silver tears, the breaking of perfection.

A shock of bright orange, sweeping through as a wind parting the sea. Blood shed in return for hers, strength spent to grasp her, existence kept to prolong hers.

And a whisper in the rain, "I'm not going to let go."


A quiet routine of black circles, a heart sealed behind black curtains, a black-winged strand of death. Disguised as a butterfly, she descended upon his world, a solid dressed in black and framed with black wisps of hair.

Like a fuming firebolt, he blazed into hers, shocking her out of pitch black oblivion. His thundering fury, earth-shaking determination, trembling innocence spinning her out of line. Inviting her into his reality of flames, she came, and he showed her how to live.

To start again.


With power comes sacrifice.

He gave his freedom. His life.

She gave her duty. Her soul.

Sacrifice plunged though his heart, unsealing his power. His blood on her blade marked a pact between two universes. Two vastly different individuals.

Orange into black. Black into orange.


Quiet and unpredictable. She was weighed down by past mistakes and long-lasting pain; a mist of weary experience and burdened knowledge. Her presence was stationary in the line of time. She had learnt too much, experienced too many mistakes. She wanted to go back, erase all that regret. End the monotonous run. Death was black, and she was exhausted with life.

Then she stepped into a puddle of orange.


He was ignorant to her world, and she to his. But then again, ignorance is bliss.

The way he popped that mod soul into a modern stuffed toy was exceedingly stupid, yet clever at the same time.

And she was entirely clueless as to how to open a drink packet, yet learned so fast she wanted to drink from it everyday.

He didn't ask about the man before him, the one that resembled him so much. Maybe he preferred not knowing.

She let him take his time before opening his doors to her. She knew he would one day, and she rather wait than push in and dirty his welcome mat.

So it was alright that neither of them knew more than half of each other's world. They knew what the other didn't, anyway.

And after all, two halves make one whole.


He had a lot of colours in his world. Yellow, green, brown, violet, even another shade of orange. Then she drifted in, a delicate patch of colour he had never seen before. A pale, fading, billowing flavour. She opened a new palette to him, and he encountered new, striking bright colours.

One day she vanished. Erased from his rough parchment.

But that lingering, bittersweet taste tickled his tongue, unwilling to keep out. He held it tightly, washing over it, learning and feeling.

It matched his orange tune, a hovering but nevertheless vital companion piece. They produced a queer sound, merging yet unbalanced. Each surfacing over the other, pulling and lifting, slipping only to rise again, in one note.

She felt like white, he decided. Then again, he had been wrong about her before.

His feet clattering on the wooden suspension, his desperate mission to snatch her soul, his eyes finally meeting hers over fear and shocked hope; he privately thought that black was more her colour than that bland slip of white cloth.

Perfection Comes In Black And White

And imperfection is orange and black.

But who needs perfection anyway?