Author's Note: So here's my second Nuada x Nuala fanfiction; it's yet another 7-Things Themed set, this time with colors. The first in the series (and it will be a series) was "Seven Secrets"; the next following this one is "Seven Shades". Go look if you haven't already. Aside from that, all the usual rules apply. I don't own, and if you don't like the material, get lost; you have no business critiquing what you willingly subject yourself to, especially if you know from the outset that you're against it.

That aside, please enjoy. I was listening to "Mordred's Lullaby" by: Heather Dale while writing. That may or may not appeal to you. I recommend it though! Lol.

Onward!

"Seven Colors"

Red

From the day they were born, it flowed over them. It was the blood in their veins, that tied them together; the royal scarlet that was in every morning's dress and every evening's cloth. It was her lips, sticky-sweet with strawberry and flower nectar--and on his cheeks, when she kissed him fondly. It was all over her body, when she flushed with passion; it coated his sword when he pulled it from their father's body.

Silver

They take great lengths to ensure they're never caught out together--their parents would be furious. But youth makes them impetuous and willful; the moon's light turns their hair into falling star-shine and their skin into elven-alabaster. Winter in the Scottish highlands was icy--beautiful; with the wild waves of the sea beating the isle on every side, it gave them the sensation, for just a little while, of being suspended in some time away from time. A wonderland of their own.

Blue

She knows how much he likes the color--prefers it, actually--and she goes out of her way to please him. When he returns from a strenuous fortnight-long peace negotiation between two warring factions of cave trolls, his father congratulates him on his work and sends him away. She, however, is standing in the hall just outside the chamber, wearing a flowing gown of heaven's own shade and bearing in hand a silken bath robe. He's so grateful that he's weak with it; she gives him that minute smile that only proves she knows him like no other ever will.

Gold

Even among their own kind, their eyes--the color--draw attention, inspire fear. Some whisper that it's unnatural and eventually, the whispers grow so loud, that Nuala hears of it herself. When he finds her crying those same eyes out over the prejudices of fools, he swears to her that so long as he lived, he'd make sure no one ever made her cry again. His promise is solid. Like the treasures of the earth, molten and hot. He keeps it, until the end.

Green

It was a wicked trick, to sneak away from lessons, but they're nearly grown and adults in their society, not like the infantile children of mortals. He leads her away, to see his secret place in the far-away misty glens. The little pods that spring up there, glowing and so bright with life-energy, are elementals; he tells her so, as he chooses one from the clear pond. He calls it their friend and whispers to it of the miracles of love; she watches in avid fascination. He later tells her, as they're lying in the cool relief of the mystic waters, that elementals are the companions of elves and that they're all bonded. This one's theirs, he says, and he'll keep it with him always. In time, he tells her with a smile, they'll plant him on the edge of a wondrous cliff and sing songs to the heavens. She thinks it's a wondrous dream.

Black

Exile was a terrible experience--for both of them. It ached like a thousand needles pressed into his skull; her hands shook so much in those endless days that she gave up embroidery, lest her fingers be permanently full of pin-holes. They were bound together by so much more than love and blood--but rather more, by destiny, by fate and best of all, by choice. The distance, though, was their biggest enemy. It was long, wide, thick and ever-growing. The void inside themselves--where before they could reach out and be with one another--was yawning and empty. To describe it was impossible. How does one describe the ghost-sensation of fingers when you've lots both hands? The metaphor paled in comparison. Nuala's whimpered cries in the night echoed in his mind; Nuada's agony-filled groans told her he suffered in the blackness. He might have been the one to go into exile, but in the end, weren't they both slipping under?

White

The day before everything began--before the Army, before the exile--was as perfect and beautiful a day as he'd ever seen; in fact, if more exquisite a day had come and passed, he couldn't recall it in the slightest bit. That day, there was only himself, Nuala and the way her hair whipped in the cliff-side zephyrs. Her exuberant laughter rang off like the chiming of a thousand fae-bells, winging out over the ocean in the embrace of the sylphs. His own lips are turned upward in a hopeless affection--in understanding--because he's connected to her in a way that can never be broken. Her joy is his joy; his love is her love. She meets his eyes as the white-doves circle overhead, crying out their blessing. Everything's touched by the sun--their hair, their skin, their eyes. Everything's white and perfect; whole and pure like so few things ever were anymore. Nuada knew tomorrow was war; Nuala knew tomorrow was dangerous. For now, however, everything was pearl-white and brighter than a thousand blazing stars. Everything was good.