His colours are the colours of the sky: the darkness of midnight lingers on his robes, the purple of towering thunderheads in the folds of his kesa. A memory of midsummer noon glistens in the rings of his staff, and his eyes hold the indigo of the sky when the sun has only just faded for the day.
His faces, too, reflect the many tempers of the heavens; it seems fitting, for he is a man sworn to the gods. Angered, he is the storm-wind that he bears wrapped in his hand; it is a sharp counterpoint to his usually serene nature. His words, spoken soft and alluring, are mist and breeze, ephemerae that coax and tease and charm.
But when he laughs, when those sky-hued eyes look at her and connect and hold, she thinks of the rain.
Rain that nourishes even as it falls, rain that creeps into the earth to rouse it to life once again. It is an honest thing, tumbling straight and true from the celestial halls of the kami. There is no deception in the rain.
He laughs rarely.
Sango leans her head back into the flow of water as it weaves her hair into a nest of silken ropes; droplets trickle down the contours of her face in a mercurial caress. Her soaked clothes matter not, for the rain is warm on her skin, its embrace a balm on a troubled heart.
Sometimes, she wonders if the earth could breathe and blossom without the rain; and every time, she is forced to decide that no, it could not. She knows too much to the contrary.
He laughs rarely, but to her his laughter is precious, dearer than the life-giving waters of the sky.