If you can write me one entire sentence in Ravkan, I'll let you choose.
I can tell you what little I've learned. Any Fjerdan history paints them as righteous. They worship many gods, but Djel is a father to them. He's the Wellspring, connecting the world through His water.
The first of their witch hunters believe Djel anointed them to serve his will, and destroy all offenses to the world Djel created. They honor their dead on pyres so they can join Djel in the afterlife, but Grisha aren't considered people among Fjerdans. And so we're buried in shallow graves in their country, and given no rites.
( the rest is — well. her teasing certainty dampens to shyness, suddenly. )
In a poetic way, I think. You don't agree?
Edited (dont kill me i didnt realize how UGLY and hard to read my formatting was on my phone) 2025-01-22 05:00 (UTC)
( i love you, sweet girl. will you marry me? he's learned the important parts. )
They wouldn't consider you a person? You know, we have tools and tests for questioning the humanity of a person. I have a feeling they aren't so thorough.
Well. My father was Leto, and you are the sun and stag. It does feel circular, but then, I always knew you and I were made for each other, as siblings and more. If we two are twins, I see you as Apollo, and me your Artemis. I think it's powerful, and far better than the stories of my ancestors. Have you read the tale of Agamemnon?
Don't tell me you hit your head and forgot we're already married, umnitsa. That means "good, clever boy" before you ask. What will you choose for your reward?
( she is, genuinely, a little proud — which is a good antidote against the impulse to upheave from withdrawal and the question of grisha humanity, both. )
You won't find many countries that consider Grisha people. To Ravka, we're weapons. To Fjerda, we're abominations. To my mother's country, we're bodies for their experiments. Only Novyi Zem considers us equal. Only the Zemeni treat our power as something pure, something our own.
Why would your world need a test, anyway? Isn't EVERYONE human? Even the ones who pretend otherwise.
( aleksander, especially, but it's been easier to replace the sourness of his name on her tongue with a sweeter life, here. )
Always? You couldn't have always known. You were preoccupied with not getting yourself stabbed. But no, I haven't had the chance to. I could add it to my assignments, Professor Atreides.
You should marry me again, I think. You should marry me once a week. Can I tell you in person?
What is the name of your mother's country? And — would you go to Novyi Zem? If you could?
Long before my lifetime, there was a great uprising of machines who were programmed to do the thinking for humans. To make a really long story short, the Jihad was enacted to exterminate all thinking technology and robots, though the revolt left a lot of deep scar tissue on humanity, who basically adopted this hard anti-computer and machine aspect of the shared religion. So, inheritors of great power get tested to make sure they're still human, and not a robot. I was tested. It was awful, actually.
You act like the stabbing wasn't what initially endeared you to me. It's not a very good story, but Agamemnon is the son of Atreus, which is where our last name comes from.
Wouldn't the novelty wear off for you after the third week? You could, I suppose, even if it's rude manners to keep your wife in suspense.
Shu Han. The other country Ravka is perpetually at war with. It's a homeland ruled by women, for once. I've been to Novyi Zem before, for a time. But I still had to hide. I might be Grisha, but I'm not Well, I'm not Grisha to the others. Not in the same way. Power tends to separate you. And men who would use your power to elevate you — and themselves — above all others don't help matters.
That sounds more like an excuse to use history to punish anyone they fear. They do that for Grisha, too. Test children for power and potential, and then send them away. You're very human to me, Paul Atreides. For what it's worth. I don't need a test to determine that.
Your name comes from an ancient story, and you had the nerve to say mine was better?
No, it wouldn't. I'm just too awkward to put it into words.
You know, sometimes it's hard to remember you're held at this high standard of power, a Grisha and a mighty one at that. A saint. You're just Alina to me. Is it sacrilegious to be married to a saint of a different denomination? Maybe you should convert me.
( you're very human to me, paul atreides. he smiles at his phone. )
Thank you, Alina Atreides. You're human to me, too. Manipulations like that are not above the Bene Gesserit. Plans within plans, always. I probably shouldn't speak of it — somehow my mother will find out and scold me.
Read the story, then decide if it's a good namesake. The other son of Atreus is Menelaus, and that story is even worse.
You'll have to plan each one, then. I'm no good with things like that. It's only me, Paul. Does it help if I promise not to laugh?
You're the only one who lets me forget it. And I'd dare say I've converted you already. Several times over. I think you fall under my dominion, anyway, as the patron saint of orphans and those with undiscovered gifts. 😉
Well, I won't be the one to tattle on you. The Apparat gave me many of my titles. Ravka's so-called "spiritual advisor". He scurries around like a rat. Not a cute one, obviously. One who has fleas, and wants to infect everyone else with his delusions.
I don't need to read it first. I'm not going to change my mind. You gave me the name, therefore it's the better one. But I'll still read it. So I can learn about your (our?) family.
I will plan our weddings. A thousand of them. But then you aren't allowed to complain about any theming I devolve to. I only thought well, maybe I could taste you, again. If you felt like it. I know you aren't feeling well, so I can wait.
Is that so? ( paul when he's under alina's dominion. giggling, kicking his feet. ) What prayers does a loyal follower offer to their favored Ravkan saint?
Ah, I know that type, too. The Bene Gesserit is almost if you imagine a reigning government as having another council behind them pulling their strings, quietly, in the shadows. I don't remember if I've ever told you this, but I was never technically meant to be born. My mother was meant only to have daughters, but she opted to have me, because my father wanted a son. A romantic rebellion of hers. To make a long story short, I inherited much power through the Bene Gesserit's breeding program that I wasn't supposed to. They made me how and why and what I am, the accidental messiah of a prophecy they invented thousands of years ago. The Reverend Mother tested me with a poisoned needle at my throat and my hand in a box that inflicted excruciating, burning pain. The test is meant to determine whether an individual's awareness is stronger than their instincts — and so, I passed, despite the Reverend Mother's scorn at my existence.
Ours, yes. And I've stolen Starkov, because it's pretty.
Now I fear I've given you too much power. You really want to??? That sounds more like a reward for me than you. Especially when I'm this gross.
( see: feverish and flushed and incapable of wearing anything but oversized shirts she inevitably shucks off when they get sticky with sickly sweat, hair tangled and eyes bleary from sickness. not her finest hour, all in all. )
They don't pray, so much as beg. For salvation. For hope. For protection. For an end to their suffering. Are you suffering, Paul?
( created. accidental. inherited. alina wonders, fleetingly, if some part of her isn't the same — the making's mistake, placing power in the wrong vessel. she frowns, a thoughtful pause faltering between her messages, until: )
It's not an easy undertaking, to be born into the burden of so much power. I understand. Does it bother you? To know our children might one day inherit our strangeness.
( does it make you want our future less? she can't bring herself to type. )
I suppose that's fair. I stole you because you're pretty, after all.
Indeed you have, I fear. I'm preparing to become a wedding tyrant. I don't think you're gross. I won't let you come, if that feels like less of a reward for you.
Right now? Suppose I am suffering, because my shirt is a little wet with hot tea, and Kettlewing is crying. Do you think Saint Alina will answer my begging for a new shirt? Or a quieter baby.
( a pause, briefly, because he's stunned he never thought about it before — of course their children would be likely as strange as they are, if they're the byproduct of two oddities. how is it possible he never thought about all they'll inherit from him, the same as he inherited from his mother? well. )
It doesn't bother me. The truth is they could be entirely normal, and still be the most powerful babies in space and time, simply because they'll have you and me in the palms of their hands. That said, following laws of probability, I think any child we have will be strange and perfect, like you or Alia. I'd be lucky if that were the case. I only ever resented my own oddities because I felt like I had no choice in them, like the Bene Gesserit already planned out my life before I was born. But, I'd give our children a choice in their own power. And if their answer was no, they'd still be my children. Actually, my father said that to me once. He was very wise.
( on one hand, her sick horny brain has to give a moment of appreciation to the thought of paul controlling her pleasure. on the other hand, shamelessly, pathetically immediate: )
I didn't say THAT. Let's not put words in my mouth. I hear orgasms are meant to be a natural pain reliever, you know. Very scientific research was involved. Please make me come, Paul Atreides-Starkov. You're the only one who can cure me. :(
I've asked, and if you're nice to her, Sankta Alina says she'll give you anything you want. Sticking your fingers in his mouth should shut him up. That always works when you do it to me.
I think he sounds like he loved you very much. I wish I could have met him. I wish our children could. But I know the best parts of him live on in you, and no one — Bene Gesserit or otherwise — can take those from you. Our children wouldn't just inherit your power. They inherit your father's lessons, and his love. I could never resent what you are, anyway. Your oddness makes my strangeness feel less strange. And less lonely.
Hm. Okay. ( not true!!! but ) But you're prettier.
You'd say a good husband would give you orgasms, then?
Alina, you're going to make me blush.
( """going to""" hahaha )
He would've loved you. He was always very generous with his compassion, always kind when cruelty was easier. He probably would've called you his daughter. ( unlike paul's mother who, at best, tolerates alina. at worst, actively plots to separate them. her christmas gifts are still a sore spot for him. ) And our children will inherit your guile, and your strength, and most importantly, your presence. You know, I could show him to you. A memory of him at least, if you wanted to see what he was like. It might feel a little invasive, though. You can say no.
Alina. Please. That could not be further from true.
I'd say a good wife lets her husband make her come whenever he wants, as often as he wants. You can make em wait for it, if you want. So you can take your time tasting me. I can be patient.
( as if she won't whine and cry in protest, but there's something to be said for the war between her own neediness and her undeservingness. )
Let's hope they don't have any need for guile. That's only a skill you learn when you need it to survive. How invasive? It isn't like
( alia, who had stuck her fingers in alina's brain with all of the innocence of a child swiping frosting from a cake, unaware it would feel like another violation. it feels wrong to say as much, like an immediate condemnation, so: )
It wouldn't be painful, would it? The last few times I had someone in my head, it wasn't a good experience. PS: Sorry you apparently have no eyes or mirrors to see the truth with, but that doesn't make it UNtrue.
Can you? ( x to doubt ) I'd like to see that. It's settled, then.
No, it won't hurt. It'll be more like a movie we watch together, but in your mind where I put it. I won't go digging for anything, I'll just be leaving a little something behind. Maybe I could do something very small, like a picture instead of a memory, and see if it's okay for you? Otherwise, if the Library ever opens back up I'll see if I can get a drawing of him.
( man with ingrained technology trauma forgets pictures are a thing for a second )
PS: The Kwisatz Haderach does see all, including his beautiful wife.
( so. patient by obligation, maybe, and her own big dumb mouth. )
Just a movie? Or do I feel as you feel? It should be okay, I think. As long as you're gentle about it. Warn me, before you do it. You're on my mind all the time already, so ... I'd like to try. I trust you not to take advantage.
PS: As a god in my own right and of my own religion, I'm choosing to overrule the Kwisatz Haderach. From here on out, all of your arguments against my gospel (that Paul Atreides is, in fact, prettiest) will be labeled as heresy to Ravka's religion.
I suppose you'll have to take what I give you, and not come before you're allowed.
( sweating, pausing two seconds to see if he's going to be yelled at, carrying on )
You'll know my thoughts and feelings at that time, but you won't be me in the memory. You'll be watching it from a third perspective. It might feel confusing, but it shouldn't be hard to separate between the two of us. I'll be there to help you. If it is too much, you can tell me and I will end the memory.
PS: What is the punishment for heresy, my goddess?
Yes ( her fingers fumble. paul and husband — tried and true. sir reminds her too vividly of army days, prostrating herself before authority figures. she chews on her blunt fingernails, closing her eyes against her own embarrassment, when she settles on: ) Daddy. I'll try not to be greedy.
( too soon, maybe, in the wake of the past week of her erratic behavior. but it's there in the ether now, alina tiptoeing curiously. )
Knowing you'll be there helps more than you know. I don't mind if it is too much. I'd rather be overwhelmed by a good memory than a poor one.
PS: I've heard it involves a lot of kneeling, begging for mercy, and a test to prove you're very, very sorry for your sins and serious about repenting.
( an easier admittance with the boundary of phone screens between them. it's not the kink part that gives him pause — more, a question left open in the ether, a burgeoning shame, is it okay to enjoy something that has so recently harmed you? if alina is his patron saint, then this is his confessional. he's sure she will steer him right if he's on the wrong path, as any goddess would. )
It will be a good memory, that I can promise. Most of my memories of my father are good.
I like calling you that. ( still, on the heels of perpetual second-guessing: ) It's not strange?
( is anything strange ever too strange for paul atreides? she's beginning to have her doubts. )
Okay. If you loved him, I'm sure I will, too.
PS: Such auspicious timing. 🤔 Surely it must be a coincidence. Do you have any other offenses to confess, Paul? I want to be certain the severity of your punishment matches your trespasses.
No, not to me. You want to know something? I really like you. I think you could call me anything, and I'd answer.
I did. And I do, still.
PS: I'm sure I can come up with something, if my penance is as rewarding as kneeling between your legs.
( he actually types and sends that right outside the door, but waits a few proprietary seconds before letting himself in. so alina can read it firstly, and then a few extra seconds so she doesn't think it strange he didn't just — say it in person. which he might've, if he thought about it.
regardless, he enters in the room, and it becomes apparent why coming back to her took so long — in one hand he has a wrapped bouquet of iris flowers, a tray tucked under his arm. the tray is technically for kettlewing, who is instead making paul look particularly pregnant, tucked into the wide pocket of his hoodie which was the only thing that stopped him crying. in any case, paul drops the flowers on her bedside table, along with his phone, reaching a hand out to push back her sweaty hair, bending to press a kiss on her forehead. )
Hi. ( sitting, he shuffles kettlewing out of his pocket, who looks about ready to start wailing again, before paul presses him carefully to alina's side. he's warm from a recent brew, it might help her cramps if her stomach's hurting. ) He's full of broth right now. No, um. No vegetables or anything.
( because that feels a little gross, but if he said that out loud, the tears would probably start up again. in any case. paul also pulls out a bag of gummy worms from the pocket, and tossing them beside her on the bed. he keeps one hand on her head, thumbing her temple, idly checking her temperature. )
( better now that you're here is a cliche that has no place existing outside of her bodice rippers, but it isn't untrue. bedrest is a return to form alina resents more than the ill shiver that ravages through her, unwelcome nostalgia in staringly forlornly at the ceiling, wishing she was healthy enough for — anything, really. to be a normal girl doing normal-girl things, most of all, and not the sick little orphan who looks one bad gust of wind away from certain death. self-pity and boredom are easy to exile as her familiar bedfellows, with paul to take their space.
fever-bright eyes blink back at him, like big jewels embedded on a dopey, delirious smile. it's infinitely better than keramzin's treatment plan already — no one had ever brought flowers to beautify her bedside, when alina's limbs were too weak to carry her to the meadow. mostly, they'd just let her be, like a soul destined for a tomb. )
A little. ( her head lolls as she nuzzles into his palm, forehead clammy. the thing about sickness, when you're a furnace of warmth — alina's skin is concerningly cool and shivery, as if touched by an invisible draft. his little squak of indignation doesn't stop alina from rectifying it by squirming to curl around kettlewing, forced to play the role of heating pad and stuffed animal alike, as he nests into her stomach. ) I have a very attentive nurse, you see. He's hard at work curing me.
( she inhales deeply, lets the delicate scent of iris stick sweetly in her lungs. her stomach is still a twisting vortex, but alina's hand crinkles the bag of gummy worms under her fingertips, anyway, working at opening it with weak, distracted fingers. her other hand tugs at his sweatshirt, equally pitiful in strength. )
Thank you. ( sweetly, if not a clear delay in remembering proper manners. ) Will you lie with me?
( he smiles at her, ever fond, paul's small and shy smile that he reserves for moments like these — when he heart is full, and alina's being cute, and he has no idea what to do with all the emotion in his chest but flush happily about it. his fingers thread through her hair, a little dirty but still silky smooth, and he pushes it behind her ear, so he can stroke the bend of her jaw, thinking about kissing her everywhere.
a nod of assent then, drawing his hand down her shoulder, comfortingly. )
Yeah. I'll just change.
( the sweater, mostly saved from kettlewing's salty bouillon tears gets left on the foot of the bed in case alina gets the chills. it's shortly followed by his wet, gross shirt, which paul puts in its rightful place in the hamper. he fusses around a little, stealing a mug full of paint water from alina's painting area, dumping and filling it with fresh water, trimming the irises swiftly down to size before setting them inside in an artful display. all in all it takes less than a minute for him to slide into bed beside her, propped up a little higher on the pillows to pull her into his chest, resting her head on his shoulder, an arm down over her back. kettlewing is a hot compress almost smushed between them, but paul doesn't mind, sighing contentedly to his weird, porcelain birdy sounds. )
( abandoned, discarded things don't stay without an owner for very long, in alina's presence. squirmy, she shifts out of paul's embrace for the thirty second struggle of slipping his sweater over her head. there isn't too much of extra, spooling fabric — paul is barely bigger than she is, longer twiggy arms that make it easy for alina to curl her fingers into the inside of a sleeve, huddling into it with the hope of it swallowing her whole. much the same with the blankets she's been hoarding diligently, as her makeshift fortress — keeping her sickness inside, keeping the embarrassing memories and unwanted visitors from intruding on her.
it just so happen that every visitor is an unwanted interloper on the list, except for paul. and, by association: kettlewing, who is making a stream of high-pitched squeaks that either mean he's brewing, or snoring and asleep. both, potentially. )
No. ( yes. ) I still think a hole in the ground would be more comfortable.
( dramatically, she flips back down, strength spent on that one simple task. messily, her hair spills out against paul's shoulder, into his face, with little regard, as she burrows back into his (bony) shoulder. the gummy bears — still tragically unopened — get pressed into paul's chest. husband duties require opening up jars, and stupid plastic bags when your clammy fingers won't cooperate. )
Do mice hibernate for winter? ( nerdy paul atreides will surely know. alina frowns, thoughtful. ) We should do that.
( how rude. paul huffs a laugh, small and genuine, paternally smoothing alina's hair back down her skull, twisting the ends around the knuckles of his first two fingers, braiding it like a ring around him. he wonders what alina's expression would look like, if he asked for a lock of her hair to have on him always — he imagines equal parts wry and endeared, and smiles dumbly at himself, tilting his head down to nose into her hairline.
he also wasn't listening, so it takes a second to play catch-up in the conversation. then, on auto-pilot — )
They don't. Zapodidae do though, and they're a little like the kangaroo mice of Arrakis.
( responsibly, he picks up her offered goodies and tears open the pull tab of the plastic, more than a little amused she couldn't do that much — but also a little warm and soft and humbled he gets to take care of her even in the small, silly ways. he fingers through lesser flavors at the top of the bag and picks out a strawberry pink bear, holding it in front of alina's mouth for her to eat. he gets another one ready for her, whenever she wants it, pinched between his pointer and thumb finger.
and, since he imagines he'll have to be the one to broach the subject, he injects it a little clumsily, )
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no subject
I wish there was a book on drüskelle history I could read. I'll have to hunt for one, and teach myself the language.
Funny in what way?
no subject
I can tell you what little I've learned. Any Fjerdan history paints them as righteous.
They worship many gods, but Djel is a father to them. He's the Wellspring, connecting the world through His water.
The first of their witch hunters believe Djel anointed them to serve his will, and destroy all offenses to the world Djel created. They honor their dead on pyres so they can join Djel in the afterlife, but Grisha aren't considered people among Fjerdans. And so we're buried in shallow graves in their country, and given no rites.
( the rest is — well. her teasing certainty dampens to shyness, suddenly. )
In a poetic way, I think. You don't agree?
no subject
( i love you, sweet girl. will you marry me? he's learned the important parts. )
They wouldn't consider you a person?
You know, we have tools and tests for questioning the humanity of a person. I have a feeling they aren't so thorough.
Well. My father was Leto, and you are the sun and stag. It does feel circular, but then, I always knew you and I were made for each other, as siblings and more. If we two are twins, I see you as Apollo, and me your Artemis.
I think it's powerful, and far better than the stories of my ancestors. Have you read the tale of Agamemnon?
no subject
That means "good, clever boy" before you ask. What will you choose for your reward?
( she is, genuinely, a little proud — which is a good antidote against the impulse to upheave from withdrawal and the question of grisha humanity, both. )
You won't find many countries that consider Grisha people.
To Ravka, we're weapons. To Fjerda, we're abominations. To my mother's country, we're bodies for their experiments.
Only Novyi Zem considers us equal. Only the Zemeni treat our power as something pure, something our own.
Why would your world need a test, anyway? Isn't EVERYONE human? Even the ones who pretend otherwise.
( aleksander, especially, but it's been easier to replace the sourness of his name on her tongue with a sweeter life, here. )
Always? You couldn't have always known. You were preoccupied with not getting yourself stabbed.
But no, I haven't had the chance to. I could add it to my assignments, Professor Atreides.
no subject
Can I tell you in person?
What is the name of your mother's country?
And — would you go to Novyi Zem? If you could?
Long before my lifetime, there was a great uprising of machines who were programmed to do the thinking for humans. To make a really long story short, the Jihad was enacted to exterminate all thinking technology and robots, though the revolt left a lot of deep scar tissue on humanity, who basically adopted this hard anti-computer and machine aspect of the shared religion.
So, inheritors of great power get tested to make sure they're still human, and not a robot. I was tested. It was awful, actually.
You act like the stabbing wasn't what initially endeared you to me.
It's not a very good story, but Agamemnon is the son of Atreus, which is where our last name comes from.
no subject
You could, I suppose, even if it's rude manners to keep your wife in suspense.
Shu Han. The other country Ravka is perpetually at war with. It's a homeland ruled by women, for once.
I've been to Novyi Zem before, for a time. But I still had to hide. I might be Grisha, but I'm not
Well, I'm not Grisha to the others. Not in the same way. Power tends to separate you.
And men who would use your power to elevate you — and themselves — above all others don't help matters.
That sounds more like an excuse to use history to punish anyone they fear.
They do that for Grisha, too. Test children for power and potential, and then send them away.
You're very human to me, Paul Atreides. For what it's worth. I don't need a test to determine that.
Your name comes from an ancient story, and you had the nerve to say mine was better?
no subject
I'm just too awkward to put it into words.
You know, sometimes it's hard to remember you're held at this high standard of power, a Grisha and a mighty one at that. A saint. You're just Alina to me.
Is it sacrilegious to be married to a saint of a different denomination? Maybe you should convert me.
( you're very human to me, paul atreides. he smiles at his phone. )
Thank you, Alina Atreides. You're human to me, too.
Manipulations like that are not above the Bene Gesserit. Plans within plans, always. I probably shouldn't speak of it — somehow my mother will find out and scold me.
Read the story, then decide if it's a good namesake. The other son of Atreus is Menelaus, and that story is even worse.
no subject
It's only me, Paul. Does it help if I promise not to laugh?
You're the only one who lets me forget it. And I'd dare say I've converted you already. Several times over.
I think you fall under my dominion, anyway, as the patron saint of orphans and those with undiscovered gifts. 😉
Well, I won't be the one to tattle on you.
The Apparat gave me many of my titles. Ravka's so-called "spiritual advisor". He scurries around like a rat.
Not a cute one, obviously. One who has fleas, and wants to infect everyone else with his delusions.
I don't need to read it first. I'm not going to change my mind. You gave me the name, therefore it's the better one.
But I'll still read it. So I can learn about your (our?) family.
no subject
I only thought
well, maybe I could taste you, again. If you felt like it. I know you aren't feeling well, so I can wait.
Is that so? ( paul when he's under alina's dominion. giggling, kicking his feet. ) What prayers does a loyal follower offer to their favored Ravkan saint?
Ah, I know that type, too.
The Bene Gesserit is almost if you imagine a reigning government as having another council behind them pulling their strings, quietly, in the shadows. I don't remember if I've ever told you this, but I was never technically meant to be born. My mother was meant only to have daughters, but she opted to have me, because my father wanted a son. A romantic rebellion of hers.
To make a long story short, I inherited much power through the Bene Gesserit's breeding program that I wasn't supposed to. They made me how and why and what I am, the accidental messiah of a prophecy they invented thousands of years ago. The Reverend Mother tested me with a poisoned needle at my throat and my hand in a box that inflicted excruciating, burning pain. The test is meant to determine whether an individual's awareness is stronger than their instincts — and so, I passed, despite the Reverend Mother's scorn at my existence.
Ours, yes.
And I've stolen Starkov, because it's pretty.
no subject
You really want to??? That sounds more like a reward for me than you. Especially when I'm this gross.
( see: feverish and flushed and incapable of wearing anything but oversized shirts she inevitably shucks off when they get sticky with sickly sweat, hair tangled and eyes bleary from sickness. not her finest hour, all in all. )
They don't pray, so much as beg. For salvation. For hope. For protection. For an end to their suffering.
Are you suffering, Paul?
( created. accidental. inherited. alina wonders, fleetingly, if some part of her isn't the same — the making's mistake, placing power in the wrong vessel. she frowns, a thoughtful pause faltering between her messages, until: )
It's not an easy undertaking, to be born into the burden of so much power. I understand.
Does it bother you? To know our children might one day inherit our strangeness.
( does it make you want our future less? she can't bring herself to type. )
I suppose that's fair. I stole you because you're pretty, after all.
no subject
I don't think you're gross. I won't let you come, if that feels like less of a reward for you.
Right now? Suppose I am suffering, because my shirt is a little wet with hot tea, and Kettlewing is crying.
Do you think Saint Alina will answer my begging for a new shirt? Or a quieter baby.
( a pause, briefly, because he's stunned he never thought about it before — of course their children would be likely as strange as they are, if they're the byproduct of two oddities. how is it possible he never thought about all they'll inherit from him, the same as he inherited from his mother? well. )
It doesn't bother me. The truth is they could be entirely normal, and still be the most powerful babies in space and time, simply because they'll have you and me in the palms of their hands.
That said, following laws of probability, I think any child we have will be strange and perfect, like you or Alia. I'd be lucky if that were the case. I only ever resented my own oddities because I felt like I had no choice in them, like the Bene Gesserit already planned out my life before I was born. But, I'd give our children a choice in their own power. And if their answer was no, they'd still be my children.
Actually, my father said that to me once. He was very wise.
( pretty. stop that. )
You're pretty.
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I didn't say THAT. Let's not put words in my mouth.
I hear orgasms are meant to be a natural pain reliever, you know. Very scientific research was involved.
Please make me come, Paul Atreides-Starkov. You're the only one who can cure me. :(
I've asked, and if you're nice to her, Sankta Alina says she'll give you anything you want.
Sticking your fingers in his mouth should shut him up. That always works when you do it to me.
I think he sounds like he loved you very much. I wish I could have met him. I wish our children could.
But I know the best parts of him live on in you, and no one — Bene Gesserit or otherwise — can take those from you.
Our children wouldn't just inherit your power. They inherit your father's lessons, and his love.
I could never resent what you are, anyway. Your oddness makes my strangeness feel less strange. And less lonely.
Hm. Okay. ( not true!!! but ) But you're prettier.
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Alina, you're going to make me blush.
( """going to""" hahaha )
He would've loved you. He was always very generous with his compassion, always kind when cruelty was easier. He probably would've called you his daughter. ( unlike paul's mother who, at best, tolerates alina. at worst, actively plots to separate them. her christmas gifts are still a sore spot for him. ) And our children will inherit your guile, and your strength, and most importantly, your presence.
You know, I could show him to you. A memory of him at least, if you wanted to see what he was like.
It might feel a little invasive, though. You can say no.
Alina. Please. That could not be further from true.
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You can make em wait for it, if you want. So you can take your time tasting me. I can be patient.
( as if she won't whine and cry in protest, but there's something to be said for the war between her own neediness and her undeservingness. )
Let's hope they don't have any need for guile. That's only a skill you learn when you need it to survive.
How invasive? It isn't like
( alia, who had stuck her fingers in alina's brain with all of the innocence of a child swiping frosting from a cake, unaware it would feel like another violation. it feels wrong to say as much, like an immediate condemnation, so: )
It wouldn't be painful, would it? The last few times I had someone in my head, it wasn't a good experience.
PS: Sorry you apparently have no eyes or mirrors to see the truth with, but that doesn't make it UNtrue.
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No, it won't hurt. It'll be more like a movie we watch together, but in your mind where I put it. I won't go digging for anything, I'll just be leaving a little something behind.
Maybe I could do something very small, like a picture instead of a memory, and see if it's okay for you? Otherwise, if the Library ever opens back up I'll see if I can get a drawing of him.
( man with ingrained technology trauma forgets pictures are a thing for a second )
PS: The Kwisatz Haderach does see all, including his beautiful wife.
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( so. patient by obligation, maybe, and her own big dumb mouth. )
Just a movie? Or do I feel as you feel?
It should be okay, I think. As long as you're gentle about it. Warn me, before you do it.
You're on my mind all the time already, so ... I'd like to try. I trust you not to take advantage.
PS: As a god in my own right and of my own religion, I'm choosing to overrule the Kwisatz Haderach. From here on out, all of your arguments against my gospel (that Paul Atreides is, in fact, prettiest) will be labeled as heresy to Ravka's religion.
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( sweating, pausing two seconds to see if he's going to be yelled at, carrying on )
You'll know my thoughts and feelings at that time, but you won't be me in the memory. You'll be watching it from a third perspective. It might feel confusing, but it shouldn't be hard to separate between the two of us. I'll be there to help you.
If it is too much, you can tell me and I will end the memory.
PS: What is the punishment for heresy, my goddess?
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( too soon, maybe, in the wake of the past week of her erratic behavior. but it's there in the ether now, alina tiptoeing curiously. )
Knowing you'll be there helps more than you know. I don't mind if it is too much.
I'd rather be overwhelmed by a good memory than a poor one.
PS: I've heard it involves a lot of kneeling, begging for mercy, and a test to prove you're very, very sorry for your sins and serious about repenting.
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( an easier admittance with the boundary of phone screens between them. it's not the kink part that gives him pause — more, a question left open in the ether, a burgeoning shame, is it okay to enjoy something that has so recently harmed you? if alina is his patron saint, then this is his confessional. he's sure she will steer him right if he's on the wrong path, as any goddess would. )
It will be a good memory, that I can promise. Most of my memories of my father are good.
PS: Unrelated, I am a heretic.
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( is anything strange ever too strange for paul atreides? she's beginning to have her doubts. )
Okay. If you loved him, I'm sure I will, too.
PS: Such auspicious timing. 🤔 Surely it must be a coincidence. Do you have any other offenses to confess, Paul? I want to be certain the severity of your punishment matches your trespasses.
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You want to know something? I really like you. I think you could call me anything, and I'd answer.
I did. And I do, still.
PS: I'm sure I can come up with something, if my penance is as rewarding as kneeling between your legs.
( he actually types and sends that right outside the door, but waits a few proprietary seconds before letting himself in. so alina can read it firstly, and then a few extra seconds so she doesn't think it strange he didn't just — say it in person. which he might've, if he thought about it.
regardless, he enters in the room, and it becomes apparent why coming back to her took so long — in one hand he has a wrapped bouquet of iris flowers, a tray tucked under his arm. the tray is technically for kettlewing, who is instead making paul look particularly pregnant, tucked into the wide pocket of his hoodie which was the only thing that stopped him crying. in any case, paul drops the flowers on her bedside table, along with his phone, reaching a hand out to push back her sweaty hair, bending to press a kiss on her forehead. )
Hi. ( sitting, he shuffles kettlewing out of his pocket, who looks about ready to start wailing again, before paul presses him carefully to alina's side. he's warm from a recent brew, it might help her cramps if her stomach's hurting. ) He's full of broth right now. No, um. No vegetables or anything.
( because that feels a little gross, but if he said that out loud, the tears would probably start up again. in any case. paul also pulls out a bag of gummy worms from the pocket, and tossing them beside her on the bed. he keeps one hand on her head, thumbing her temple, idly checking her temperature. )
How are you feeling? Any better?
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fever-bright eyes blink back at him, like big jewels embedded on a dopey, delirious smile. it's infinitely better than keramzin's treatment plan already — no one had ever brought flowers to beautify her bedside, when alina's limbs were too weak to carry her to the meadow. mostly, they'd just let her be, like a soul destined for a tomb. )
A little. ( her head lolls as she nuzzles into his palm, forehead clammy. the thing about sickness, when you're a furnace of warmth — alina's skin is concerningly cool and shivery, as if touched by an invisible draft. his little squak of indignation doesn't stop alina from rectifying it by squirming to curl around kettlewing, forced to play the role of heating pad and stuffed animal alike, as he nests into her stomach. ) I have a very attentive nurse, you see. He's hard at work curing me.
( she inhales deeply, lets the delicate scent of iris stick sweetly in her lungs. her stomach is still a twisting vortex, but alina's hand crinkles the bag of gummy worms under her fingertips, anyway, working at opening it with weak, distracted fingers. her other hand tugs at his sweatshirt, equally pitiful in strength. )
Thank you. ( sweetly, if not a clear delay in remembering proper manners. ) Will you lie with me?
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a nod of assent then, drawing his hand down her shoulder, comfortingly. )
Yeah. I'll just change.
( the sweater, mostly saved from kettlewing's salty bouillon tears gets left on the foot of the bed in case alina gets the chills. it's shortly followed by his wet, gross shirt, which paul puts in its rightful place in the hamper. he fusses around a little, stealing a mug full of paint water from alina's painting area, dumping and filling it with fresh water, trimming the irises swiftly down to size before setting them inside in an artful display. all in all it takes less than a minute for him to slide into bed beside her, propped up a little higher on the pillows to pull her into his chest, resting her head on his shoulder, an arm down over her back. kettlewing is a hot compress almost smushed between them, but paul doesn't mind, sighing contentedly to his weird, porcelain birdy sounds. )
Comfortable?
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it just so happen that every visitor is an unwanted interloper on the list, except for paul. and, by association: kettlewing, who is making a stream of high-pitched squeaks that either mean he's brewing, or snoring and asleep. both, potentially. )
No. ( yes. ) I still think a hole in the ground would be more comfortable.
( dramatically, she flips back down, strength spent on that one simple task. messily, her hair spills out against paul's shoulder, into his face, with little regard, as she burrows back into his (bony) shoulder. the gummy bears — still tragically unopened — get pressed into paul's chest. husband duties require opening up jars, and stupid plastic bags when your clammy fingers won't cooperate. )
Do mice hibernate for winter? ( nerdy paul atreides will surely know. alina frowns, thoughtful. ) We should do that.
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he also wasn't listening, so it takes a second to play catch-up in the conversation. then, on auto-pilot — )
They don't. Zapodidae do though, and they're a little like the kangaroo mice of Arrakis.
( responsibly, he picks up her offered goodies and tears open the pull tab of the plastic, more than a little amused she couldn't do that much — but also a little warm and soft and humbled he gets to take care of her even in the small, silly ways. he fingers through lesser flavors at the top of the bag and picks out a strawberry pink bear, holding it in front of alina's mouth for her to eat. he gets another one ready for her, whenever she wants it, pinched between his pointer and thumb finger.
and, since he imagines he'll have to be the one to broach the subject, he injects it a little clumsily, )
How do you feel about the memory-share now?
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