His eyes are dark. That is all, for most. Perhaps, if they are brave enough to linger more than a moment, they will see his eyes reflect the colors around him, tinted red and orange with fire or partaking in the green of the foliage. It is rare that they look so long to notice, however; if the eyes are the windows to the soul, they see at once that his soul is smoke and mirrors, and their gaze flinches away.
I have learned that they are grey. It is a color I can compare to nothing in nature, for it is more somber than steel, more fluid than stone, more solid than shadows. It is neither warm as ash nor cold as deep waters - it simply is, and it is his alone. When I dare to look closely, I can even see the smallest of black flecks around the pupil, and know that this is a secret, a reward for my daring. For me, the smoke clears and the mirrors shatter.
And yet, when I look deeply, then do I see myself.