A/N:
This fic might not make the best sense on earth. But hey, if you can guess the character then you'll be praised and given… Oh I don't know. Kudos, I suppose.***
Harmony is like ripples on water: the peace of a circle and the continuity of its shape. It is written in the movement of fingers grazing against the back of a hand: a hand that has caused much, but remains ungnarled by the passage of time. Beneath the fingers is an image of the path they travel. It is written in black.
Had he an imagination of his own control, the circle's possessor would create lines on his skin, deep ravines and wrinkles where he could file his regrets as experience and his desires as impulse: but his mind has decayed to a singular state in which it can ponder no more or less than bathing the same appendage in blood. In his mind carnage is the only image, and it plays itself repeatedly. A crackled laugh escapes unchanging lips. Even his head runs in loops.
There is a constant itching in his fingers.
He removes the gloves that encase his digits and discards them arbitrarily at the base of a worn, old tree trunk. Empty hands reach and clasp around twin hilts, pulling blades along the air as though it would sprinkle blood on the ground. A grunt emanates from his chest as the sword slices, wishing it could make the atmosphere leak blood and add to the efficiency of the twin blades. Breathing sanguine oxygen along with the twin swords would be a far more proficient method of killing. It would have more plentiful results.
A rustle comes from a bush, and he is so still in his listening that he almost convinces himself that he has been there forever: merely fixture and ornament of the world and less of a man than he would believe himself to be. A smile: curved, deadly and ready scythes across his face. Silently he moves towards the undergrowth. It is not long before his swords meet their mark. There are two swift movements, the fall of a corpse and nothing after but the intense stillness of him.
Fitfully he seats himself at the foot of an oak, grabbing his gloves and sliding them along the blade edges. There is not much blood on the implements, but he is still meticulous enough to halt a corpuscle making its way down to the hilt, towards a nook he would have to spend forever scrubbing in order to catch it.
The compulsive cleaning of his weapons in neither pride in their craftsmanship or the washing of guilt from his conscience. He can always buy or steal a new sword. Harmony has slain his conscience. His reason is to see new blood on silver more sharply: to perceive it with so much lucidity that he is sure of exactly what it is and where it comes from.
Perhaps it is sentimentality, then. Although there is a mass of death in his wake, he wants every face to have a distinct blood. He thinks. Colour would be a way to code it. If he can learn to see red as a rainbow… A smile touches his lips as he is denied his masterpiece's palette. There aren't enough colours.