Snow.
Blank, white fresh. Many people described it that way, as if it offered something clean, something pure. Zelos wished he could see what they did, see anything other than the hateful crimson red that he felt would bleed through it at any moment, dyeing the whole world the color of death.
He kept his hair long. She had done the same, with both his and her own, brushing the crimson strands painstakingly, washing it until her slender hands were rough.
She'd not wanted him to be born.
He'd killed her.
Zelos kept the hair.