( he lets go. would've anyway with the dulling of her powers, but now he does it almost robotically, almost compelled. the moment of high intensity passes and paul steps back with it, falling back into the rhythms of life with a few stumbling steps backwards, bracing on the opposite wall. he has to focus for awhile, force himself to remember — the sure feeling of protectiveness over alina, the knife in his brain, the decaying muscles of his body powering forward with one solid intention protect her, protect her, protect her. a humiliation of death. inconsequential, disgraceful, and yet — not so inconsequential. here he is, alive, the magic of alina's merzost pumping through his body like blood in his veins. it's all significant.
a hand protectively curls around the solder of her handprint on his chest. paul halves himself and turns away, as if to protect her from the sight of it, reaching up his spare hand to map out the length of the scar at the back of his neck. cataloging everything new and strange and different with his body, for a moment so disconnected from its oddity that he doesn't even recognize himself, that it doesn't feel real. his fingertips are cool on the knobbly back of his spine, unearthly so. it's notable enough that even through the fog of resurrection paul spares the time to hold his fingertips aloft in the air, staring at them.
milk dipped, they look like. stained with the purest of white. it doesn't hurt. when he rubs his fingertips together they clink and squeal — not flesh, but something more solid. something unfeeling, something dead.
it's too much to think about, now. again, he turns his attention to alina, not compelled to stay his distance and so he doesn't, stepping forward, his hands curled into fists to block out the stark whiteness of his fingers. )
Alina?
( paul doesn't reach to touch her, too worried his fingers will hurt her somehow. so, a little regally, he sticks out his naked elbow in silent offering, trying to remember anything about the merzost. she'll be tired, probably. above and beyond. she'll need rest before he grills her for information. )
( alina's eyelashes blink in rapid flutters, cleaning the film of moisture over her eyes like — a fond memory of watching paul wipe dust from coating old pages, little speckles flying off into the air. he's clear to read, once she can bring herself to look with new eyes. the outstretched bracket of his elbow, the tightened parentheses of his fists. it's not paul's invitation so much as it's alina's impulse that has her fingers skim the bone of his forearm, a child struggling to sound out the word in front of them, hoping the feel of him under her hands will make him more comprehensible. make her believe what his pulse writes, under her fingertips: paul is here. paul is alive.
with shaking fingertips, she cups his face between her palms, forcing herself to swallow the acidic sting of her rising bile when she touches cold, cold, cold skin. a ripple of nausea has her flinching back, animal skittish, before she rights herself. stubbornly molds her hand to the line of his jaw, searching his eyes for proof of existence. starry and bright with life, and not — the glassy-eyed stare of something already gone, gripping her with dead hands. like she might replace it with her last final look at his husk of a body, where the image is seared into the backs of her eyelids. )
You're cold.
( a small detail, but so significant that alina's voice splinters, miserable from the realization. it isn't fair — to be cold in death, and cold in life. suddenly, it doesn't matter that she has no excess energy to tap into. faint sparks putter at her fingertips, a flash of heat lit by alina's good intentions — before her summoning gives out, a candle smothered beneath the thickness of merzost clogging up her veins, no matter how she claws for it. punishment, then, for what she's toiled with. icarus flying too close to the sun, and paying the price with ruined wings.
unhelpfully, panic hitches her next inhale, guides the desperate need behind her touch — fingertips sliding over his browbone, his chin, his mouth. her own autopsy of paul atreides, to at least rid herself of one pressing fear, proof that her fall from grace has not been for nothing: )
Is this — real? Did I dream you again? ( pained, ) You've been haunting me since you left.
Edited (writing dead instead of death im a dumb bitch) 2024-11-02 14:20 (UTC)
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a hand protectively curls around the solder of her handprint on his chest. paul halves himself and turns away, as if to protect her from the sight of it, reaching up his spare hand to map out the length of the scar at the back of his neck. cataloging everything new and strange and different with his body, for a moment so disconnected from its oddity that he doesn't even recognize himself, that it doesn't feel real. his fingertips are cool on the knobbly back of his spine, unearthly so. it's notable enough that even through the fog of resurrection paul spares the time to hold his fingertips aloft in the air, staring at them.
milk dipped, they look like. stained with the purest of white. it doesn't hurt. when he rubs his fingertips together they clink and squeal — not flesh, but something more solid. something unfeeling, something dead.
it's too much to think about, now. again, he turns his attention to alina, not compelled to stay his distance and so he doesn't, stepping forward, his hands curled into fists to block out the stark whiteness of his fingers. )
Alina?
( paul doesn't reach to touch her, too worried his fingers will hurt her somehow. so, a little regally, he sticks out his naked elbow in silent offering, trying to remember anything about the merzost. she'll be tired, probably. above and beyond. she'll need rest before he grills her for information. )
Lets lay down. I feel a little off.
no subject
with shaking fingertips, she cups his face between her palms, forcing herself to swallow the acidic sting of her rising bile when she touches cold, cold, cold skin. a ripple of nausea has her flinching back, animal skittish, before she rights herself. stubbornly molds her hand to the line of his jaw, searching his eyes for proof of existence. starry and bright with life, and not — the glassy-eyed stare of something already gone, gripping her with dead hands. like she might replace it with her last final look at his husk of a body, where the image is seared into the backs of her eyelids. )
You're cold.
( a small detail, but so significant that alina's voice splinters, miserable from the realization. it isn't fair — to be cold in death, and cold in life. suddenly, it doesn't matter that she has no excess energy to tap into. faint sparks putter at her fingertips, a flash of heat lit by alina's good intentions — before her summoning gives out, a candle smothered beneath the thickness of merzost clogging up her veins, no matter how she claws for it. punishment, then, for what she's toiled with. icarus flying too close to the sun, and paying the price with ruined wings.
unhelpfully, panic hitches her next inhale, guides the desperate need behind her touch — fingertips sliding over his browbone, his chin, his mouth. her own autopsy of paul atreides, to at least rid herself of one pressing fear, proof that her fall from grace has not been for nothing: )
Is this — real? Did I dream you again? ( pained, ) You've been haunting me since you left.