Desire and Despair of the Endless

Desire is of medium height. It is unlikely that
any portrait will ever do Desire justice, since to
see her (or him) is to love him (or her), -
passionately, painfully, to the exclusion of all
else.

Desire smells almost subliminally of summer
peaches, and casts two shadows: one black and
sharp-edged, the other translucent and forever
wavering, like heat haze.

Desire smiles in brief flashes, like
sunlight glinting from a knife-edge. And there is
much else that is knife-like about Desire.

Never a possession, always the possessor, with
skin as pale as smoke, and eyes tawny and
sharp as yellow wine: Desire is everything you
have ever wanted. Whoever you are. Whatever
you are.

Everything.


Despair, Desire's sister and twin, is queen of
her own bleak bourne. It is said that scattered
through Despair's domain are a multitude of tiny
windows, hanging in the void. Each window
looks out onto a different scene, being, in our
world, a mirror. Sometimes you will look into a
mirror and feel the eyes of Despair upon you,
feel her hook catch and snag your heart.

Her skin is cold and clammy; her eyes are the
colour of the sky, on the grey, wet days that leach
the world of colour and meaning; her voice is
little more than a whisper; and while she has no
odour, her shadow smells musky, and pungent,
like the skin of a snake.

Many years gone, a sect in what is now
Afghanistan declared her a goddess, and
proclaimed all empty rooms her sacred places.
The sect, whose members called themselves
The Unforgiven, persisted for two years, until its
last adherent finally killed himself, having
survived the other members by almost seven
months.

Despair says little, and is patient.

-- Neil Gaiman, Season of Mists, THE SANDMAN.