His eyes are a garden.
Now, do not misunderstand me. Eyes like his – such a rare colour – do not actually represent any sort of gemstone. Not really.
When I asked him why his eyes were so common in his family (because it was unusual in anyone else), he could only offer a shrug. And, contrary to popular belief, his eyes are not the same as his grandfather's. That weathered gaze has lightened with age and the harsh effects of the sun.
His are still dark, and are safely protected from the sun by those even darker lashes.
Maybe it's because he hasn't seen as much of the world as his grandfather. Maybe the harsh realities of life have not aged his view, debilitating his eyes with cruel facts unto the point of blindness.
But, no. That cannot be the reason.
Though he has not seen what his grandfather has seen, he is by no means innocent of the intents of the world. My other has witnessed life, and by the same token has witnessed death. These mistresses of destiny are no strangers to him, and he handles them as gracefully as I could expect of him.
…
I will be the first to admit that my presence aggrieves him, and brings him undue trouble. Any other person would have broken the Puzzle and tossed the pieces into the ocean once they found out what they were getting into – if they were not greedy for the power I held in the first place. I don't think that anyone else could complete the Puzzle, because of that, but I am grateful regardless.
It's because of this, his sheer willingness to live and let live, that I believe I have found the reason for his eyes.
They are a garden, changing with the seasons.
When he is in agony, they are fresh-bloomed violets, waiting to be plucked and eaten. They are a multitude of colours, then, from a startling blue-violet to a deep purple ringing around his iris. His eyes are absolutely breathtaking, then, though one's heart breaks from the circumstances it derives from.
When he is happy, they are a dusky jacinth. When he smiles, they disappear entirely under that sunny grin of his.
When he is determined – or, oh so rarely, angry – they are the sharp-scented hyssop. There is a fair amount of irony in that, because hyssop is a flower of death in many cultures, but I like to believe it is because it usually involves me dealing with the offending party.
One of my favourites is the mallow of his eyes when he first opens them in the morning. It is a precious sight, and the flower from one of my few memories, more so because mallow is an effective medicine even today. His eyes are like that, I suppose. That drowsy look in the dawning light has eased many of my pains.
The rarest flower in his eyes is the budded crocus, one of the first flowers to emerge from the snow. Only I have seen it, and I selfishly hope that it stays that way after I leave. It is the flower in his eyes when in lust. They darken, imperceptibly, though glow with life in blooming, in finally reaching the life-giving rays of the sun. Even when the crocus has finally bloomed, and lost its dark colour of bundled petals, it is still revered and gently plucked for the delicacies it provides.
Do you see? His eyes could never be a cold, dead gem. They are alive, and that represents far more than any mystical meaning of courage or clear-headedness.
Life will wither his eyes, eventually, but not because it was too cruel. It will be because he has stately decided that his time is done, and must return back to the earth – back home, so that his legacy of life will nourish and nurture future generations.