TRICK

by Twi

Desire keeps finding itself wandering the bloodless veins of its home, lately, too restless for its heart when it isn't out in the mortal world. If Desire had any use for or tendency towards introspection, this would be it; as it is, in these times it does not focus on plans. Loses track of its schemes. Desire may be careless, but it rarely ceases plotting, even when it thinks on nothing else at all.

It frowns to itself, sometimes. It thinks there may be something it's forgotten. It retrieves a cigarette from the pack in its pocket. Desire has smoked since cigarettes were invented; it is, of course, not addicted (and it had known about that little side-effect long before anyone else had, naturally). Just attracted to their glamour. It removes a heart-shaped lighter from the breast pocket of the simple red suit it wears today and sets the cigarette's tip aflame, inhaling slowly. Lets its eyes wander over its own darkened reflection, distorted across the shiny metal surface of the lighter.

It remembers, suddenly, the last time it saw its own face like this, reflected in liquid black. Fumbles the lighter back into its pocket and takes another drag, before suddenly deciding that it's tired of cigarettes for now, flinging it away. It fingers the glittering butterfly pendant dangling from a cord around its neck, a present from its youngest sister, currently formed of delicately-wrought rows of garnets, all a deep, perfect shade of claret. The wings flutter softly at its touch. The butterfly can never seem to remember if it's supposed to be moving or not.

Desire reaches up, hands smoothing across its own shoulders, and rubs the base of its neck, shivering. Remembers the touch of its brother's hands, following the same path, the long white fingers that had moved gently up its neck, up the sides of its face, before clenching hard in its hair.

The woman. It had thought that it had him, with that one, had been so certain it could taste it. The victory would have been so sweet upon its tongue. Decades of planning for that little trick, watching and waiting, and Dream had somehow managed to see through it. It had been delighting in thoughts of how its brother would suffer when he went through with killing the girl to save his world, had run through thoughts of its twin sister's hooks in Dream's heart when he realised what he had done with a smile on its face. He would have welcomed Death's touch, if she had offered it. And now the whole thing was ruined. It had, as was its nature, let itself forget that the realm of dreams had its own forms of trickery, things Desire could neither predict nor control.

A pity, really. Dream could always use to be taken down a few pegs. That aloofness will be the end of him someday, or so it hopes. It recalls the last time it managed to find a chink in Dream's armour, had managed to snare him in a trap of its own making, the African queen's beauty an easier bait than even it would have suspected. It hadn't counted on its brother's coldness then, his utter willingness to trade love for condemnation. That willingness had nearly been enough, this time. Nearly.

It stops for a moment, sitting, cradled in the red smoothness of vein-flesh. It runs its fingers through its hair and feels very strange for a moment, a near-vertigo. As though one of its siblings is calling, though it knows none of them are. It glances at the watch on its wrist, 1:42am, an absurd thing. Time has never held any meaning for the Endless. Desire can remember void, far far back, the massive stretch of darkness when the universe crawled, no created markers to indicate the passing of millennia.

It rubs absently at its neck, at its cheek.

And then it rises, and begins back the way it came, the paths of the Threshold as familiar as the insides of your eyelids. Enough of this, it thinks. It grows tired of thinking. It smiles to itself, forgetting. And it goes, through the soft passageways of its house and avatar, until it reaches the heart again, its true home. It goes, passing the gallery of its brothers and sisters, the doleful empty eyes of the helm staring out at nothing, the ankh gleaming dully in the crimson light. It passes, and does not look.