( everything i touch turns to death, she had warned alicent. it feels like her absolution, to nurture a heartbeat back to life, instead — mother nature giving birth to seedlings where only dry desert rot exists. she can sense the moment where paul's dehydrated, congealed insides give way to new water — every chamber and ventricle replaced with an oasis of light. what she imagines his arrakis must be, every inch commanded by the baked heat of a ruinous sun.
for a moment, it's — beautiful to her, this miracle of life. his heartbeat drums faintly in her belly, as though she had conceived him herself, ever the loving mother, no part of herself kept from her beloved child, her terrible creation. the warning pains of her own body are a distant thing, forgettable, forgivable — the sacrifices made to carry a creature to term, through dizzy spells of vertigo and cramping nausea twisting her guts. the universe narrows down to a singular purpose: to give and give and give so that paul can live, because she can. because it's her right. because it's what's demanded from the duality of a saint — holy fire, or holy mother, destroying and recreating in equal measure.
and then — loss. the coldness of a son's rejection as the threads of power slip from her hands, unspooling. the air pushes out of alina's lungs in a rush as her skull cracks against the wall in all of her frantic writhing, barely able to form the anguished whimper that ekes free. sweat beads on her drawn complexion, wisps of baby hairs plastered to her temples, the aftermath of her labor pains, as she tries — in vain — to reach for what he's denied her. clawing fingers scrape along his forearms, before they shove against the bare plane of his chest, morgue naked — too lost to realize it's worked. that he's here, with her. here, alive. here, for her, because of her. the greatest miracle sankta alina will ever make. )
No.
( it's half unbelieving rasp, half desperate sob-scream as she beats her hand into his sternum, again. lets the heat from her palm burn a fresh scar, handprint-sized, into the (alive, alive, alive with vibrant color) skin. )
Get off — ( hysterical, now — an echo of desperate rage at the unfairness of it all when mal had wrenched her away from a crumbling chapel, the destruction she had needed to make of herself. she grits her teeth, a feral snarl, for the frail and feverish thing she is in his grip. ) Get off of me!
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for a moment, it's — beautiful to her, this miracle of life. his heartbeat drums faintly in her belly, as though she had conceived him herself, ever the loving mother, no part of herself kept from her beloved child, her terrible creation. the warning pains of her own body are a distant thing, forgettable, forgivable — the sacrifices made to carry a creature to term, through dizzy spells of vertigo and cramping nausea twisting her guts. the universe narrows down to a singular purpose: to give and give and give so that paul can live, because she can. because it's her right. because it's what's demanded from the duality of a saint — holy fire, or holy mother, destroying and recreating in equal measure.
and then — loss. the coldness of a son's rejection as the threads of power slip from her hands, unspooling. the air pushes out of alina's lungs in a rush as her skull cracks against the wall in all of her frantic writhing, barely able to form the anguished whimper that ekes free. sweat beads on her drawn complexion, wisps of baby hairs plastered to her temples, the aftermath of her labor pains, as she tries — in vain — to reach for what he's denied her. clawing fingers scrape along his forearms, before they shove against the bare plane of his chest, morgue naked — too lost to realize it's worked. that he's here, with her. here, alive. here, for her, because of her. the greatest miracle sankta alina will ever make. )
No.
( it's half unbelieving rasp, half desperate sob-scream as she beats her hand into his sternum, again. lets the heat from her palm burn a fresh scar, handprint-sized, into the (alive, alive, alive with vibrant color) skin. )
Get off — ( hysterical, now — an echo of desperate rage at the unfairness of it all when mal had wrenched her away from a crumbling chapel, the destruction she had needed to make of herself. she grits her teeth, a feral snarl, for the frail and feverish thing she is in his grip. ) Get off of me!