[Alia is already shifting to accept the warm weight of Quentin in her lap, thinking of the times Paul’s done the same, the heaviness of destiny and fate nestled across her thighs, seeking comfort in her arms, seeking recognition. Only six, he says – in all the world, twice as many as there had been Atreides in Arrakeen (until Jessica’s departure, a thought that pricks like a beesting at Alia’s heart, still). And none of them close enough for him to settle into the safety their sameness provides.
So alone. So lonely. So courageous and determined and warm despite it all. One hand comes to the tangle of dark curls in her lap, and Alia’s carefully-held thoughts spool loose, like golden thread falling in loose, lazy loops around them both, her own magic ancient and unknowable and horrible.]
There are hundreds of my order, but only a few become Reverend Mothers. They undergo the ritual of spice agony, to open their minds to the powers and memories of every Reverend Mother before them. Few survive the pain, the horror of it. [The words are sing-song, like a fairy tale, like a bedtime story.] My mother underwent it when I was unborn, inside her, and so: I underwent it as well. [A fairy tale that ends in tragedy, like so many.]
But Paul is there, he is here, we are together. We shall never be parted. [A pause, her hand stilling on Quentin’s hair, cradling the back of his head gently, tenderly, pressing into his thoughts images of warmth, of safety, of being fully, wholly, completely known, every wonderful possibility, every horrific potential, everything.] And you are here too, landlocked sailor, gifted by the stars. [Echoed in her mind, in his: you can rest, you are safe, you are seen and known and protected, I am a port in a storm, an oasis in the desert, and I will protect you.]
no subject
So alone. So lonely. So courageous and determined and warm despite it all. One hand comes to the tangle of dark curls in her lap, and Alia’s carefully-held thoughts spool loose, like golden thread falling in loose, lazy loops around them both, her own magic ancient and unknowable and horrible.]
There are hundreds of my order, but only a few become Reverend Mothers. They undergo the ritual of spice agony, to open their minds to the powers and memories of every Reverend Mother before them. Few survive the pain, the horror of it. [The words are sing-song, like a fairy tale, like a bedtime story.] My mother underwent it when I was unborn, inside her, and so: I underwent it as well. [A fairy tale that ends in tragedy, like so many.]
But Paul is there, he is here, we are together. We shall never be parted. [A pause, her hand stilling on Quentin’s hair, cradling the back of his head gently, tenderly, pressing into his thoughts images of warmth, of safety, of being fully, wholly, completely known, every wonderful possibility, every horrific potential, everything.] And you are here too, landlocked sailor, gifted by the stars. [Echoed in her mind, in his: you can rest, you are safe, you are seen and known and protected, I am a port in a storm, an oasis in the desert, and I will protect you.]