He did not like the color green.

She did.

He did not like it because of what it symbolized. Harmony, growth, life, well-being, spring, positivity, tranquility.

She was those things embodied, so of course she and the color green went hand in hand.

He liked violence. Blood on his hands, the screams of his enemies. He liked to kill, to maim and to hurt. That was what life was to him, the misery and the agony.

She didn't like violence. She liked peace, soothing touch and gentle cooing. She chose to mend, to heal and to give. She would rush to the side of his enemies, lying on the field dying, and press her hands against the wounds in a futile attempt to stop the bleeding.

He would yank her away, and she wouldn't fight him. She would watch the fallen man with remorse, but she would not kick, claw, and scream.

He would take her too, right on the battlefield. He was brutal, violent in his lovings. She was soft, tender in the way she touched him, breathed on him, ran her tongue along the furrows of his crust. She would touch and she would taste, love him, show him the benevolence that didn't exist within him. In return, he'd show her the brutality, the viciousness that she could never possess.

And if she were wearing a green yukata that day, he would rip it to shreds.