( shakily, her palm closes over the ring with greedy, venus flytrap quickness, too starved to even consider taking the risk of hesitating, of giving alia and paul's fingers the chance wriggle in and set it free. the other part of her doesn't want to look at it in the open blossom of her hand, knowing what she'll find. blood on its polish, dirt in its carved edges, lowering the value of a priceless heirloom just by letting her filthy hands touch it. she wonders if his father would think the same of her as queen tatiana had, watching alina tote about her gaudy lantsov emerald — little orphan playing dress-up in a role that could never suit her, silly for injecting herself into dynasties and lineages that would never welcome her nobody bloodline, a disgrace to the legacies they had worked tirelessly to cultivate. not good enough to be inducted as an atreides, a rotten apple on the family tree. not good enough to love his only son, to watch over his only daughter.
her throat becomes water-clogged with helpless moisture just imagining it. alina clears her throat, dislodging a lumpy build-up of tears. briefly, eyes slowly flicker over alia, understanding, wondering — if she's thinking of that night, too. of her blue in alina's bed, the color of life, the color of water, that alina had unknowingly chosen for her to wear. curiously, her own fingers travel up to the dark pigtails in her hair, fingering the silky bows of the ribbons there, like she can confirm it's true — hidden, cryptic messages hidden between the lines of book pages.
her throat bobs, hand dropping back into her lap, fingertips brushing along the edges of paul's. )
That's not the kind of marriage I want. And I don't believe you want that for us, either. ( a brittleness to her voice, a thousand emotions slicing her throat like swallowing jagged glass, when her stare locks to alia's — her bitter, poisoned alia, looking down on any union of love like a death sentence. alia, who would still make a finer wife to paul than alina would, in spite of it. ) I don't want to be with someone who knows how to hurt me better than they know how to love me.
( even if she wonders, sometimes, if that's the only kind of marriage there is. if this is what she is, what she deserves — a love that cannibalizes, a love with victors and defeats, a love that twists the knife. she heaves a breath, unfolding the five-points of her fingers to peer down at the ring tucked there, its hawk wings nesting in her hand. too big for her in size and symbolism both. she traces a finger, delicate, over its carved corners, then draws her hand back as if afraid she'll ruin it. clumsy alina starkov, who kills and destroys everything she touches, who will one day put a knife through the first boy she ever loved, the first boy who had vowed to marry her one day. )
You're giving this to the wrong person, ( she whispers miserably, a pointed, lingering stare on alia before her round, dewy eyes find paul. ) Your family would never want me to have something so important. It means something to be an Atreides, Paul. It doesn't mean anything to be a Starkov.
( a fist squeezes around her heart, chest spasming. you would yourself for wanting, alia had said of paul. alina wonders if that's true of her, too — if it's possible to lose herself, with how she aches for the chance to be accepted as one of their own. and if not accepted as one of their own, then — to have the comfort of no longer sitting solitary on the starkov branch, with paul to join her, clinging to one of the only pieces of her family she has left. her father's name. her mother's eyes. )
I'm not Fremen, or Atreides, or special. ( she blinks, ignoring the splash of wet she feels speckle her cheek as she claws uselessly at the collar locked to her throat, futilely knowing there's no piece of it to break free to gift him. nothing that he would want, tainted as it is, anyway. her chin wobbles, forlorn — even as her fingers clutch tighter to the ring, wanting nothing more than to keep it for herself. selfish, always selfish. ) I'm no one, with nothing to give you. How could you want that?
no subject
her throat becomes water-clogged with helpless moisture just imagining it. alina clears her throat, dislodging a lumpy build-up of tears. briefly, eyes slowly flicker over alia, understanding, wondering — if she's thinking of that night, too. of her blue in alina's bed, the color of life, the color of water, that alina had unknowingly chosen for her to wear. curiously, her own fingers travel up to the dark pigtails in her hair, fingering the silky bows of the ribbons there, like she can confirm it's true — hidden, cryptic messages hidden between the lines of book pages.
her throat bobs, hand dropping back into her lap, fingertips brushing along the edges of paul's. )
That's not the kind of marriage I want. And I don't believe you want that for us, either. ( a brittleness to her voice, a thousand emotions slicing her throat like swallowing jagged glass, when her stare locks to alia's — her bitter, poisoned alia, looking down on any union of love like a death sentence. alia, who would still make a finer wife to paul than alina would, in spite of it. ) I don't want to be with someone who knows how to hurt me better than they know how to love me.
( even if she wonders, sometimes, if that's the only kind of marriage there is. if this is what she is, what she deserves — a love that cannibalizes, a love with victors and defeats, a love that twists the knife. she heaves a breath, unfolding the five-points of her fingers to peer down at the ring tucked there, its hawk wings nesting in her hand. too big for her in size and symbolism both. she traces a finger, delicate, over its carved corners, then draws her hand back as if afraid she'll ruin it. clumsy alina starkov, who kills and destroys everything she touches, who will one day put a knife through the first boy she ever loved, the first boy who had vowed to marry her one day. )
You're giving this to the wrong person, ( she whispers miserably, a pointed, lingering stare on alia before her round, dewy eyes find paul. ) Your family would never want me to have something so important. It means something to be an Atreides, Paul. It doesn't mean anything to be a Starkov.
( a fist squeezes around her heart, chest spasming. you would yourself for wanting, alia had said of paul. alina wonders if that's true of her, too — if it's possible to lose herself, with how she aches for the chance to be accepted as one of their own. and if not accepted as one of their own, then — to have the comfort of no longer sitting solitary on the starkov branch, with paul to join her, clinging to one of the only pieces of her family she has left. her father's name. her mother's eyes. )
I'm not Fremen, or Atreides, or special. ( she blinks, ignoring the splash of wet she feels speckle her cheek as she claws uselessly at the collar locked to her throat, futilely knowing there's no piece of it to break free to gift him. nothing that he would want, tainted as it is, anyway. her chin wobbles, forlorn — even as her fingers clutch tighter to the ring, wanting nothing more than to keep it for herself. selfish, always selfish. ) I'm no one, with nothing to give you. How could you want that?