[ CW ] Describe a colour without ever using the name of it .

Ashes fell from the sky like rain behind him. A forest fire, slowly dying out. Somewhere in the distance, sirens ceased their wailing. Micah no longer had any business there. He turned, and found himself on a cool green hill. 
 
 A white mist hung over the hills, but below the city was nearly drowned in the dense fog. Micah reached down to pat the side of his pale horse. *Do you hear it too? * 
 
 The beast whinnied, shaking a colorless mane with an eerie lack of vigor. Micah felt nearly as apathetic as his steed. The girl's face still flickered in his mind. 
 
 They began their slow descent, the man and his horse. The saddle had been worn in so many patches that it had no sheen left, and was once again a single shade. He imagined that his heart, should he still have one, would be the same muddled hue. 
 
 He'd hurt her, he knew. He'd treated her unfairly. Yet he could n't bring himself to care, except in a distant sort of way. The same regret one might feel for a pet whose tail they'd stepped on once, a few weeks ago. 
 
 It was n't that he had no feeling. He did, of course. It's just that his feeling had been... muted, somehow, by the long, dull shadow of time. 
 
 Nearing the smog-filled city, he regretted her a bit more. The single spot of color in a long, colorless life. Like the buildings here, blending together in their sameness. Something was lacking. Originality, perhaps. Modern, yes, and clean, but without a soul. Even what passed for modern'art' was lacking personality. 
 
 Micah shook off the thought as he tied his four-legged companion to a parking meter in front of his destination. 
 
 Once, this had been a grand hotel, rich with life and color and emotion. Sturdy doors of golden oak engraved with cherubs had swung open, grasped by bowing, red-coated doormen in gold tasseled hats. 
 
 The lobby, a social proving-ground, had been filled with laughing, chattering women in bright gowns and jolly men vying for their attention. Chandeliers had spilled orange light on pink tile. A man in crushed blue velvet played the pianoforte in one corner, while in the other, a solemn clerk waited behind his gleaming mahogany counter. 
 
 Now it was nothing more than another metal and glass monstrosity amid a million others. Bah. Micah wished he could see it now as it had been, thinking perhaps that would lift his spirit. The vague prayer went, as most prayers tend to do, unanswered. 
 
 The new monochrome lobby was filled with faceless drones in off-black suits and white oxford collars, working away the best years of their lives in careers which enriched neither their minds nor their bodies. 
 
 He made the elevator, and the soulless music did nothing to ease his despair. *Is it all gone? * he wondered. *Everything that once made life worth living? * 
 
 From one of the rooms he could hear the happy calls of children. A woman was reading to them. 
 
 Perhaps all was not lost, then. 
 
 `` Toto,'' she was saying. `` I do n't think we're in Kansas anymore.'' 
 
 A man's voice broke in. `` Ca n't you keep them quiet? Here, play with one of these apps, that's what they're there for.'' 
 
... Or perhaps it was. 
 
 When he entered the suite across the hall, another faceless drone turned to greet him. 
 
 `` Wrong room, buddy,'' the drone said. 
 
 `` No,'' said Micah. `` I'm afraid not.'' 
 
 The man turned toward the bed, going, Micah supposed, for the phone on the bedside table. Instead, he stiffened, and turned back to Micah. 
 
 `` No,'' he said. `` Please. I have a wife. Two girls. They're back in Keokuk, waiting for me.'' 
 
 Micah eyed him curiously. Not very original. Not that he'd expected anything. 
 
 `` Please,'' the drone said again. `` I love them.'' 
 
 The smell of a woman's perfume oozed from his collar. `` Of course you do,'' Micah said. He struggled to keep the sigh from his voice. One must remain professional, after all. He made his slow, steady way across the room. 
 
 `` Stop,'' the drone wept. `` My family. My wife. Have n't you ever been in love?'' 
 
 `` Many times,'' Micah said. It was true. He'd loved many, each in their own way. Still, when he had a job to do, he did it. 
 
 Her face flashed through his mind again. Not the most beautiful face in the world, but when she smiled that shy smile, and her green eyes met his own cold, dead ones... 
 
 `` I can give you money!'' 
 
 Micah shook his head. He reached out a cold hand and touched the man with a single finger. The drone vanished, leaving only a bloated lump of flesh on the bed across the room. 
 
 No need for dramatic cloaks and intimidating scythes. The job itself was enough. 
 
 *She* had n't offered money. She'd been original. She'd seen his sorrow. `` Wait,'' she'd said. `` While I tell you a story.'' 
 
 He'd laughed, then. For the first time in centuries. `` And play Shahryar to your Scheherazade?'' 
 
 Rather than deny it was a ploy, she'd winked at him. `` Are you asking me to marry you, my king?'' 
 
 And so he had let her spin her tale, and as in the old fable, she'd stretched it on for 1,001 nights. He listened. He grew to love her. But in the end, he could not spare her. His job was more important than any king's. 
 
 He was death. And he rode his pale horse, in a colorless world. 
 
 And he rode alone. 
 
 
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 I did n't see any other replies as full stories. Sorry if it's not allowed, and I hope you can figure out the color!: ) 

