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Archived: Skyehawke, LiveJournal, Fictionalley
Draco had always been pale.
Pale, delicate skin, so fair that faint blue veins could be seen underneath, crossing and recrossing the flawless ivory.
Pale, gold-silver hair, shining with an almost ethereal luminescence, covering his head like an aura of pure sunlight, starlight-hard.
Pale, frostlike grey eyes, as cold as hoar-frost coating the trees like peculiar icing, glinting with arctic malice.
Pale, weak soul, hardened and glazed over until it nestled within his body in a white plastic case, inaccessible even to himself.
It was only natural, then, for someone so pale to join with darkness itself.
And as the black, black tattoo burned its way onto the white, white skin, it seemed to Draco that he had finally balanced the dark and the light.
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