( he's bothered her, he can tell — though whether it's from the uptick in her heartbeat or the far more obvious consequence of waking her up, is anyone's guess. paul frowns and sets his nose to her shoulder, moving his head back and forth, nuzzling her. epiphanies don't exactly follow waking hours, and paul hasn't been following them either, recently. his body's clock is out of sync. the stars are out and he's awake with them, half still in his meditative prophecies, toes en pointe though dusting of clouds. sand dunes. memories with alina like veils of gossamer, like beans of sun cutting through the dusty shadows — her face when they each came clean about alia. the offering of a toe. paul's butler admittance of being attracted to alicent. his threats to spike.
shortcomings by the name of paul atreides. alina's hair makes inky curls on the back of her satin pillowcase, and paul curls his fingers through one of them, turning it into a spiral. on one end is paul, and on the other is his heart. tangled, messy. walking the same predestined lines. )
It isn't terrible.
( or maybe it is. paul is terrible. terrible men have the thoughts he does, blood soaked and fire singed, parallel lines of corpses guiding to destiny, to that great green paradise. alina is at the end. freedom is at the end. but the way there is thorny, is burning sand on your bare feet, is bloated harkonnen heads squished free of their water. how do you get off the path? how do you follow where she leads?
languidly, he sits up. she can stay asleep — a hand finds her hip through the cloak of the covers and pats her once, sliding up and down her thigh. paul finds talking to her when she's unconscious soothes him, too. )
I wanted to apologize. To you. So I will. ( there are shapes in the darkness of their room, alina is right about that. paul can see it. thousands of bene gesserit faces, reverend mothers sneering their scorn at him, staring at him. he stares at them, and it looks like he's seeing nothing, when the opposite is true. ) I'm sorry, for how I react to things. I do not want to be that person. I just want to be — your Paul.
no subject
shortcomings by the name of paul atreides. alina's hair makes inky curls on the back of her satin pillowcase, and paul curls his fingers through one of them, turning it into a spiral. on one end is paul, and on the other is his heart. tangled, messy. walking the same predestined lines. )
It isn't terrible.
( or maybe it is. paul is terrible. terrible men have the thoughts he does, blood soaked and fire singed, parallel lines of corpses guiding to destiny, to that great green paradise. alina is at the end. freedom is at the end. but the way there is thorny, is burning sand on your bare feet, is bloated harkonnen heads squished free of their water. how do you get off the path? how do you follow where she leads?
languidly, he sits up. she can stay asleep — a hand finds her hip through the cloak of the covers and pats her once, sliding up and down her thigh. paul finds talking to her when she's unconscious soothes him, too. )
I wanted to apologize. To you. So I will. ( there are shapes in the darkness of their room, alina is right about that. paul can see it. thousands of bene gesserit faces, reverend mothers sneering their scorn at him, staring at him. he stares at them, and it looks like he's seeing nothing, when the opposite is true. ) I'm sorry, for how I react to things. I do not want to be that person. I just want to be — your Paul.