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Trickery does not chase Death- they merely ponder the concept of it- thrilling and easily malleable in the palms of the sharp claws they call hands.
Trickery entertains the lingering thought of calling upon Death, enshrouded in their ideal entanglement of blooming petals, bloodshed moons, purple stars and eyebags sunken at the split of light- homebody, homebody. Death swallows solitude until the time comes they must make the land of the living their muse- paint them a new life stretched on the canvas of sea Ocean has long since abandoned. Obligations build up until they are once again ferrying souls that have now wilted, just as the precious flowers adorning their silk laced attire have.
It is known that Death does not fray from duty, scythe held like a weightless protector over their figure- a curve reminiscent of the looming moon that drips liquid light onto the fields of the afterlife. Death does not stop on their path, not to glance at such moons, to mourn for the departed and gaze at the garden of life. That garden that holds the fruit of day, the vegetation yet to blossom that they so adore- speckled with spores of vitality- they instead choose to ferry in the crude, crude excuses themselves. Of hands being too cold to cradle something so inexplicably precious, of brightness the darkest of gods should not sully.
To Death, the land of the living is a contradiction, a place home to all else, uncharted territory to them. They would rather reside here, dragon breath warm and sleepy by their side, small company they are grateful for instead.
A quiet symphony, weaved in wonder and a selfish sense of imagination sings in their cold, golden blood. If the flowers could bloom, if their body never felt too light to live in on the longer days of duty-bound action. If Death could waltz into the realm of ochre glee, of touches to feel, of hands to hold.
The petals they had forgotten they were collecting scattered from their hands and led to the quiet sea. To a boat, a paddle, and the oceans waves hymning Death's thoughts back to them. Trickery watches, perched up on a large tree, and thinks - “It must be lonely, down there.”
~
(“would it kill you to live a little?” cipher insists, what should be blood rushing to her head- (it could be a head, it could very well be a slightly disheveled cat's head at this moment, too. castorice cannot tell from the snouty nose and the squinted eyes, and almost intrusively, she thinks she's thankful that trickery can provide such amusement to fulfill herself, over and over again…) - when she flips gravity's obsolete laws with the curl of her claws and dangles off a golden laced branch. grown from roots of the same tree where castorice shelters herself and her tired body, where she takes pleasure in losing herself to hardback covers filled with pages of fancy. on more than one occasion, cipher has visited her like this- a pointless question of what she's reading, a nudge followed by a smirk characterised by rebellion, a click of tongue when asked the purpose of her visits. ‘too bored, no fun, wanted to chat a little with you.’
wanted to visit the world of death, just to speak with you.
so castorice humours her, finding the company almost (indulgently) pleasant, the constant of new disguises unfurled by ciphers powers befitting of a new, interesting character being introduced to castorice’s play of life each day. something she aspires to write, and never has the time for. but humouring teeters on the edge of rejection,
“i'm sure you of all people know, lord cipher… that i-”
cant. undeniably cant ‘live a little’. you know that, don’t you…?
trickery doesn’t, and the correct phrase to follow should be, ‘irritatingly enough,’ but with quill in gloved hand and mauve hair pooled out on a slab on stone she calls her makeshift table, head heavy with an overload of prose she can't be bothered to write, castorice rewords it. ink scratches on paper, cursive and small.
'trickery doesn’t, stubbornly enough.')
~
Death is almost envious of Trickery’s antics. Playfully dangerous, wildly stealthy, passively deceitful. It's in the twitch of a feline ear and the wagging of the tail, a never-ending movement that makes Death think they deny the idea of ever calling a place home. The spontaneity that suggests duty is too burdensome and heavy on the shoulders, and instead of succumbing to the weight of responsibilities on one side, they let dereliction fall to the other.
It comes in the form of loose legs prowling around- around the land of the dead, accompanied by a rigid upper half. A golden butterfly that accompanies them swatted away because that kind of fleeting is only applicable to the architecture of Trickery specifically. Fast footed and swift, but if the world around them starts slipping beyond their control - it’s an angrily clenched fist and the furrowed brow that tells of an imprudent desire for things to stay the same.
Never changing, in a world presided over by dripping ichor and rehearsed plays and golden apples that weep with sunlight when raised to the skies - one bite, and it's another millennium slipping into evanescence. There was once golden thread that guided them on their path- but now that's gone. They still yearn for it, in spite of themselves.
So, swallowing up setback, Trickery decides to let the world move faster, run not away from- but run beside it. Collecting the golden apples slathered in accidentally spilled ambrosia, coins rustling in their pouch, and weaving together what they desire, what they have - the almost childish penchant for staying stubborn.
It's good that Trickery’s forte is forgetting pretences to forge the world they want. Death sometimes thinks- I want that, too.
~
(they meet again in the land of the dead, cipher with a flickering body, with a raise of an eyebrow from castorice. the subtle curiosity of this new disguise- where trickery seems almost gaunt, tentative, yet the natural liveliness seeps through the click of the tongue, the wagging of the tail.
“take my hand.” her voice sounds calmer, not spilled with the heavy lilt of mischief and the breathy enunciation. cipher holds out a paw (hand?), golden polish shining off the claws. “go on, come on.”
it’s a taunt, the phrase.
trickery's body is fading and death almost thinks she is asking her to take her life. have her join the domain she never wished for her to cross entirely, bloom the flowers into her hand and have cipher clutch them to her chest and use her skills of trickery to pretend as if they were spores of life sprouting into her.
but death- no- castorice knows cipher. the wickedness etched on her face, slightly rugged from the countless disguises ran through in the span of a few days, weeks, months. the sway of her hips, the swipe of her tongue over dry lips. the impatient foot that taps, taps, taps against the humming archipelago of petals laid perfectly between them, a crushing of nature, a defiance for challenging romance and her grandiose gestures.
castorice rarely allows herself to feel conflicted, these days- but with cipher- she finds confliction divvies into a strange, strange relief.
reason leaves her, batting its rational, one eye at her and looking the other way. something else- it soothes the dull aching in her chest and replaces it with heavy metal twang of a coin, of a cat catching the cream, of a thoughtful frown painted over her countenance until reason prickles at her mind and then leaves again.
and so she takes her hand. the touch is not cold- it's warm.
and so comes trickery’s first, tenth, or even hundredth lie she's told since that entry hour- that death can be cheated. that the untouchable- can be felt. that trickery is the only one who can prance around death’s domain-
and take hold of her hand.)
~
“Let’s make the universe our plaything-“ Trickery tells Death, running through ragged stars and false skies with the stupendous ability to keep herself upright. Death is less experienced- tumbling over clouds, yelping over small flies- and Trickery’s raucous laughter and guiding hands clutch and engrave themselves into the nape of Death's neck. Into the palms of Death's hands- the quiet marking of gold embroidery in the shape of a feline, impish and impossible.
In the land of the living- of the stone trodden on that they call Earth- there are beautiful skies, coloured with rainbows and light with hue that radiates the Sky’s gentle nature. The bustling flocks of people who clasp their hands together- praying to Gods currently wiping nectar off their lips and giggling at the grandiose buildings and sights life has to offer. Sunlight shines down on gods and Trickery is quick to point out, “You know, Princess Homebody, you look good like this. All radiant! And out of your… echo chamber of bodies and souls.”
“Hehe…” Death wants to reply bashfully, but the sound is stuck in her throat when the people of Amphoreus pronounce their prayers, long and devout, sweet and unwinding off their tongues like a practiced word- a lullaby to the quietness of Death's ears. And Trickery lets her trail off, oh, she lets her, cheek resting on the palm of her hand instead and a smirk that cries of almost uncharacteristically patient scrutiny of the woman beside her.
In the land of the living- there are orchards of Romance herself. Trickery is averse to the idea of constant care- “I haven’t pruned these guys in ages, usually it's the |—-------| who does that, blegh, she's so meticulous…” but she finds the heart to grab a copper watering can and sprinkle water over the blooming life anyway. Death is lured by the sweet fragrance of petals, vines that curl and unfurl before her eyes. “If possible- I’d like to take care of them.” Death chirps in, looking at Trickery with the expectant look in her eyes that makes the other woman pause and jut an eyebrow, stilling the hand flailing about while she was rambling about her annoyances with Romance herself.
With silken gloves, Death caters to the garlands of life, Trickery’s running mouth and uniquely gentle guidance falling by her side. “That arrangement looks good,” she comments, lightly, when Death turns around and offers her a shy smile.
In the land of the living- there are great heists. Chests that overflow with coins and riches that mortal thieves could only read of in abandoned ancient texts. Trickery is speed herself when she thwarts the Vault of the Titan’s security, lax and faulty with the flick of a finger that turns copper to dust. Manipulates Passages bearings and twists them to her liking. Its exciting, to lead Death along with her into the realm of the hunt.
Shiny jewels, iridescent garnets, cluttered pearls, chests with locks malleable to the tip of her nail and beaming with treasure. “Look- haha-! Look at how beautiful it all is!” Death cries out, bouncing herself up in pure joy and sparkles twinkling from the slits of her eyes. Hands that have no and all business to be tucking such riches into the endless inventory she calls her pouch, and Death watches her with hushed laughs, shy smiles and clumsy hands that offer to stuff in the remainder of Trickery’s perfect loot box.
(death’s amusement mirrors trickery’s own glee - yet death wonders. is that why she had invited her, then? to pluck those spidery, duty-bound petals one by one and call them useless, taking her hand and making the planet their palace of riches instead?)
Perhaps the most valuable find of all- is Law’s scale. A perfectly placed bishop chess piece in one pan, a conch of some sort echoing rhythms of vast sea in the other. “This is dangerous,” Death warns Trickery, eyes darting around the gaps of sunlight peeking through the stained glass windows, dying Trickery in their warm, warm glow. The same warmth from when Death could touch, could feel from a mere hour earlier, but to ruminate is to not live for the moment, Trickery had earlier scolded her in such a manner.
“This is fun.” Trickery combats, the daring squint of her eye and upturn of her lip enough to suggest trouble that not even Strife can combat. “Old Cery is busy anyway- she has no use for such heavy things… let’s take some weight off her shoulders, yeah?”
Death doesn’t know if there’s a thrill in breaking the rules, in rewriting every law of Amphoreus the same way Trickery does- complaining, noticing, flipping a coin till it overturns such stringent laws and is written into the script of your new, very own kingdom. But there is the clasp of Trickery’s hand, the sheen of sweat dripping down Death's pale cheekbones, and the knowing of stealing something so precious that now invigorates Death, perhaps to Law’s dismay. It makes her move her legs faster until she is all laughter and yelling with Trickery of all demigods, sprinting not behind but beside Trickery of all demigods- a blooming warmth tight in Death's chest that makes her think she’s swallowed petals somewhere between their visit to the gardens and their rush to the vaults meant to play with her gaps of her ribcage the same way Trickery is currently playing with her.
Trickery’s unfiltered, raw smile- when her hair is tossed over, wind slicing through the strands. Ears perked up and fluffed with the knowledge of dragging Death beside her of all demigods, slashing through skies together and chasing the butterflies Death has never seen- tarnishing their colourful hues just to amuse her a little - blue, green, a fleeting red. Fluttering the same way their ragged gowns have by now, invigorated with the adrenaline of an adventure and the lingering idea of ever, ever being caught.
“Having fun?” Trickery would taunt- no- not taunt- ask. Ask with a mouth full of grapes spilling juice down her chin that they had stolen from Ocean’s forgotten banquet, bags heavy with the weight of possessions now shared between two titans, eyebrow upturned with daring question of telling the truth, Reason embedding itself into Trickery’s embroidery- how ironic.
And yet-
Death can do nothing but laugh, sink into the feeling of warmth on their cheeks, laugh some more, then Trickery’s smirk turns into a grin and the pretence of opposing worlds around them is long forgotten. Forgotten when Death releases the transient butterfly from her once cold grasp and sends it off to the Netherrealm to fulfill her duties for her. Hundreds of doubts coil in her chest- but for every one of them, it’s another broken laugh, another curl of nails into her skin, another shoulder to shoulder dive away from the changing sky and its delirium of beauty.
I have duty- Death wants to spill from her lips, when Trickery grabs her close and tucks Death into the crook of her neck to stifle laughter- I can’t stay here forever- Death wants to whisper, when Trickery holds her close to protect her from the blooming darkness of the canvas around them, Sky’s gentle rays of light fading into Worldbearing’s implementation of night, the gradual trip into the Curtain Fall Hour. She has duties- too- the Thief Star must be sent any moment now. Cipher, we have to part- but it’s never in Trickery’s hands, the weight of responsibility and the weight of running away- so it should never be in Death's, either.
So Death accepts Trickery’s lies, the way Trickery spins her around until she's nose to nose with Death, letting the whispered, “You’re right, but I already stole you,” breathe into the depths of her once slow heart and weave its lie into her skin.
Trickery holds her tighter, and Death lets deceit be her downfall- if it means finally walking among the garden of life that comes in the form of a jester pulling her away.
~
There are tales, strewn across Amphoreus’ history and pinpointed by scholars who debate the ethics of gods meddling around with the kingdoms they've sown. Some tales are befitting for creatures of golden blood, absurd in approach, mythological in retelling. Some tales lose themselves to the ravages of time and Time heeds them no salvage, interpreted upon until the end inference is something more ludicrous than its start, more presumptuous of how the gods spend their days- indulgent and drunken on nectar from Oceans grand banquets.
Perhaps one of the most curious of them all- was Trickery’s alleged entanglement with Death.