He is completely devoid of color.
Moon stone white; a waxy, unshining ivory-- outside and inside out.
Dry and peeling, caked in a conglomeration of every unwanted bone or butterfly. Like soap, but unclean. Like snow, but not soft.
Like nobody, for that is precisely what and who he is.
He was not born, and to no one. He is no one's, as nothing and no one is his. He is nowhere, nor is he trapped in the tidal wash of time as you are. Just standing there, while everything priveleged to existence passes idly by. He is nothing, can be nothing, as long as his heart is stifled by sleep.
With the Oathkeeper in his hand,
he keeps his promise to himself while no one watches.
'Look.' It's a whisper, but no one listens.
Her steely, luminescent edge digs deeper; her smooth, tiny teeth sink softly into the white of a blank and dampened page.
In his thin and silent voice, he suffers the verge of hysteria because, that is one of the infinite things he is not. 'No blood.'
He's so, so pretty.
By the time he is discovered, half his arm is only chalky pieces on the white linoleum, limp and shredded bits of nothingness. His bones are as white as the rest of him, as white as he predicted. 'No blood,' he says again, but he's smiling now. Grinning. Grinding small, white rows of calcium phosphorous and little white eyes under snowy lashes. So Snow White and sleepy-beautiful, with his mangled arm and crumbling fingers and half held key-to-my-heart