You're welco-- ooh! [Alia's sang-out, obnoxious-little-sister response to Paul breaks off in a sharp gasping sound as Alina suddenly goes boneless between them, slipping like a liquid to the ground. She squeaks, squawks, flops onto her stomach and wriggles across the bed so her shoulder isn't wrenched out of it's socket (an exaggeration; Alina isn't nearly heavy enough to cause that).] Ow. [A touch petulant, to Alina, wide eyes sorrowful for an instant, like a beloved pet who's been scolded for the first time in it's life. There's an urge to poke at Paul more, to gain back Alina's favor that way, slinking up to her side and tucking into the warmth of her skin, the place where her neck and shoulder meet smelling sweet and soft, every time she nuzzles there.
But Paul is a raw nerve, standing and catching Alina's hand, kissing her knuckles, and Alia suddenly hates herself for her urges, hates that she hadn't thought to watch the wound, keep it clean and dry. Stilgar would've lectured her, ferociously, about how an open wound is death in the desert, how the sands will flood in and clog the blood, steal the moisture from inside out. They may not be in the desert, but it's Alina's hand split open, worried raw, it's Alina's blood clotted across the heart of her palm. And it's Paul who thinks to comfort her, still, despite being a walking wound himself. The two dearest people in the known and unknown universe, despite their recent savagery towards one another, and she can't seem to be of use to either.
So Alia quiets, resting her chin on her free hand, wide-set eyes fixed on her brother, on the measured way he paces, his energy bright and sparking like a live wire. There's an irrepressible youthfulness to him, like this, and Alia thinks of what she had told Alina, of how she had brought this version of Paul to life, how she had brought him to Alia, specifically. She believes that still, that the unchangeable, brutal destiny of Muad'Dib had been altered by the small, bright-eyed, sharp-tongued girl currently tethered to them both -- a bemused irony, Alina and her connection to each, not seeing how irrevocable, how necessary they are.
Paul, though -- he speaks of Jamis and Alia's eyes widen slightly, thinking of the story she knows, told again and again as evidence of Muad'Dib's greatness, that an outer-worlder could come to Arrakis and defeat an accomplished Fedaykin. Jessica herself had never told the story in any tones but the most hushed, the most holy.] You didn't. [It comes quick, sharp (as a knife, as a needle, as the pinprick of kitten claws, the sharpest Alia can be with Paul).] You never shamed her. Or me. Or --
[Her breath catches and she snatches the gum, pops it in her mouth, chewing ferociously.] You martyr yourself because you think it's what you deserve, you create a world in which you can never be happy, ever, because you don't think you've earned it somehow. Jamis didn't need to stab you, Paul, you wound yourself for wanting. [A shuddery inhale, then a wrench of Alina's arm, shaking it like a doll, leaning forward to seek her eyes.] And you -- I can't even tell you what you do, whether you deny yourself happiness because you fear it or hate it or don't want it, because you told me once to stay out of your mind, your thoughts and I have, for you, when I refused for galaxies and gods and the living and dead, I have. So -- so I don't even know what your deal is, Alina.
[A pause, a moment of heavy breathing, heat and frustration springing to scorch the back of Alia's neck, to push tears to her eyes, becoming less the strange, elusive, fanciful saint and more the angry, hurt, sad girl, tied to people she loves, people she hates, people who make and unmake her. Then she tugs at the knot and sighs, flops full-body back onto the mattress.] Blatant critique is a "no" too. I think the only option remaining is blood sacrifice. [A pause, a pop of the gum, getting stale and stiff from overuse.] Or an orgy.
no subject
But Paul is a raw nerve, standing and catching Alina's hand, kissing her knuckles, and Alia suddenly hates herself for her urges, hates that she hadn't thought to watch the wound, keep it clean and dry. Stilgar would've lectured her, ferociously, about how an open wound is death in the desert, how the sands will flood in and clog the blood, steal the moisture from inside out. They may not be in the desert, but it's Alina's hand split open, worried raw, it's Alina's blood clotted across the heart of her palm. And it's Paul who thinks to comfort her, still, despite being a walking wound himself. The two dearest people in the known and unknown universe, despite their recent savagery towards one another, and she can't seem to be of use to either.
So Alia quiets, resting her chin on her free hand, wide-set eyes fixed on her brother, on the measured way he paces, his energy bright and sparking like a live wire. There's an irrepressible youthfulness to him, like this, and Alia thinks of what she had told Alina, of how she had brought this version of Paul to life, how she had brought him to Alia, specifically. She believes that still, that the unchangeable, brutal destiny of Muad'Dib had been altered by the small, bright-eyed, sharp-tongued girl currently tethered to them both -- a bemused irony, Alina and her connection to each, not seeing how irrevocable, how necessary they are.
Paul, though -- he speaks of Jamis and Alia's eyes widen slightly, thinking of the story she knows, told again and again as evidence of Muad'Dib's greatness, that an outer-worlder could come to Arrakis and defeat an accomplished Fedaykin. Jessica herself had never told the story in any tones but the most hushed, the most holy.] You didn't. [It comes quick, sharp (as a knife, as a needle, as the pinprick of kitten claws, the sharpest Alia can be with Paul).] You never shamed her. Or me. Or --
[Her breath catches and she snatches the gum, pops it in her mouth, chewing ferociously.] You martyr yourself because you think it's what you deserve, you create a world in which you can never be happy, ever, because you don't think you've earned it somehow. Jamis didn't need to stab you, Paul, you wound yourself for wanting. [A shuddery inhale, then a wrench of Alina's arm, shaking it like a doll, leaning forward to seek her eyes.] And you -- I can't even tell you what you do, whether you deny yourself happiness because you fear it or hate it or don't want it, because you told me once to stay out of your mind, your thoughts and I have, for you, when I refused for galaxies and gods and the living and dead, I have. So -- so I don't even know what your deal is, Alina.
[A pause, a moment of heavy breathing, heat and frustration springing to scorch the back of Alia's neck, to push tears to her eyes, becoming less the strange, elusive, fanciful saint and more the angry, hurt, sad girl, tied to people she loves, people she hates, people who make and unmake her. Then she tugs at the knot and sighs, flops full-body back onto the mattress.] Blatant critique is a "no" too. I think the only option remaining is blood sacrifice. [A pause, a pop of the gum, getting stale and stiff from overuse.] Or an orgy.