Advice to the Lovelorn
"Still trying to make it real, are we, deathborn?" asked the god softly, looking at me sideways. His gold and silver headdress rattled and gleamed. He leaned over me, and his half-smile vanished. His eyes were cold blue lights.
"You need not worry -- yet," he said. "You couldn't do it if you held the intention steadily for all of your paltry seventy years." He giggled suddenly. "You, who can't hold an intention for five minutes!"
He laid his bright hand lightly on my arm, and smoke rose from under his fingers as they seared my skin. "My dear little fool. You think you know what desire is? You think you know what suffering is? Try it when you can't die, little one."
His breath hung around me, the faint scent of daphne blossom. He leaned back again, and his jewelled necklaces glittered as a scarf coiled slowly around his shoulder. He looked past me a moment, and the ghostly half-smile reappeared. "If I were you," he remarked, "I think I would start learning how to leave off trying to make it real. You got lucky this time." His eyes widened slightly, and a tremor ran through the room. "Next time, maybe you will be able to make it real. And then you will have to live with it."