the desert is either beast or womb or both; a boy was swallowed and something else walked out of the hungry, dark mouth of destiny.  this is a metaphor for rebirth,   𝖇𝖚𝖙 𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖘 𝖎𝖘 𝖆𝖑𝖘𝖔 𝖆 𝖈𝖆𝖚𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓𝖆𝖗𝖞 𝖙𝖆𝖑𝖊 :   there are dangerous man-shaped things in the desert. & they are waiting.

a private & highly selective roleplaying blog for  𝐩𝐚𝐮𝐥 𝐦𝐮𝐚𝐝'𝐝𝐢𝐛 𝐚𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐬 ( strictly based on the books ), a character from the dune saga written by frank herbert / now interpreted by amanda.  𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖘 𝖎𝖘 𝖓𝖔𝖙 𝖆 𝖘𝖙𝖚𝖉𝖞, 𝖇𝖚𝖙 𝖆 𝖜𝖆𝖗𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖌 : beware the messianic leader.  make no gods out of them.

his great-grandfather lives in him:  in the the heavy shade of his nose, curved like a hawk, so similar to his father's it breaks his heart. these elongated fingers had once been his mother's, these are elegant hands, even now when they became desert-touched, and still, equally efficient in either exigence of empathy or execution. he has the same upturned eyes a woman from the 18th century used to look so reverently at the woman she loved, his large mouth is that of the grandfather he hated. this is the same dark hair his ancestors have been carrying from the beginning of this story, like dark wool, the very memory of softness. he is a museum. he feels liminal and distant.

his body is a hollow patchwork. there are many rooms, most of them empty, & he wanders from one to the other, an introspective nomad, the only ghost in the cathedral of this body; with countless eyes watching from behind the windows. there is only a dreadful, weighted silence that drags behind him, it is not grief, not anger, but the apathy that comes only with boredom, only with self-serving tragedy, which is not tragedy, just pity, like a dog curled in on itself, licking an old wound. 

& these same ancient ghosts stare back at him from the child in front of him, he needs not his eyes to see them. they exist as permanent images, selves within selves, they cling to a face that could have been his own — but the hair, the ears, chani exists there, the last remnants of her hanging at the edge of a young boy’s face. ah, to inherit the sickness of the atreides is the knife in the back and then the disembodied laughter at the funeral and the peripheral silhouette of a ghost... the past, much like the future, is an inescapable animal. 

in this version of the story, he is a child — he sees it clearly, grievously too, the small boy he had been not yet properly buried. he walks the wastelands of his body, alone, two small, upturned hands reaching out for his mother. the memory of it comes unbidden, such a tender love he had felt then, he had forgotten he had been capable of it. what has happened to it ? the absence of it throbs like a wounded organ. the memory of jessica, so young, & him, younger, feels like a foreign body, a lodged bullet. this is his childhood: he mourns the constant hurting of it, but it is his, he will leave it to cicatrize at his side, like any other wound.

in this story, a mother is god to a child. where else would love begin if not in the womb ?  the boy-paul accepts her denyal easily, moves at the sound of her voice too, an extension of jessica — a child is a cemetery:  i am my mother, my father, i am the mothers and fathers before them, i am the extension of their grief, i am the instrument of their anger, & what is coming will come... — muad’dib blinks away the future and looks inward again, to the place where the pasts exists untarnished. a boy sitting before his mother and seeing only this, his hands placed upon his own legs in the image of her, and the child-like face falling in the carefully composed expression he had learned at her feet. he knows, by the memories of her that exist simultaneously in him, that this pleased her; not the efficiency of her training, but how he looked so much her child then, the same lips, the same eyes. 

his memory brings the smell of fresh rain from the high window behind jessica. the pale light of a misty morning makes a saintly halo around her and he thinks now what he had thought then at three years old: his mother is beautiful. he knows this by the name of love. he and jessica had been so close then. he has not seen his mother in 10 years. both truths exist within him like scar tissue. her absence itches inside of him. 

light stirs under a single, black-tinted cloud ... muad’dib’s miracle of multiplication & although the scale of it is smaller, religion sustains itself in symbolism rather than mathematics. it will not rain; there will be years still until this other miracle, but shadow and moisture will suit for now. it is a day for it. his grief both shrinks and widens, an atrophied organ which pulsates insistently and angrily — the wound of it is familiar: the shape of the father collapsed, the name of the mother left unspoken, & him in the middle of it, dragon-like, a hoarder of memories. but the desert, like any god, always asks for more. the body which is broken apart, flesh to meat to the mouth of god and god is open-mouthed, waiting for you to fall in.  

see now the glass of the high window and the wounds upon it, the disguised violence of sand and wind and dust that incessantly go against it, wave which is not wave: rhythmically and repetitively, the sea which is not the sea; here it comes again and the dunes beyond move... the scratches upon the glass like translucent veins, an artificial novelty of progress, imported stone upon imported stone, his palace like a wound forced on the land; & the desert resists it. here comes the wind again and the sand and the dust… rhythmically and repetitively, like the sea which is not sea. caladan’s ghost, the first mother, calls him from a place within the places of his mind.

she will be coming now, he thinks. he understands it; muad’dib is both the window and the wind that goes against it. & he remembers: muad’dib had been paul once and the boy had been a creature of water — the water lingers still.  & like the water, he endures. 

[ THE SCENE NOW :  enters @mahdinate​. a body by the door, one by the window, a thread of shadow between them, body to body, sister to brother, & the line which ties them — you would call it grief. you would also call it anger. ]

how  sharp  does  his  knife  twist  into  the  one  he  calls  sihaya!    and  how  dull  do  his  words  fall  when  so  often  do  they  sweeten.    there  is  nothing  to  do  for  her  ache,    that  blood  -  shaped  loss  in  the  belly  of  her.    it  looks  like  prophetic  dreams  of  bowls  filled  with  blood  spilled  over,    the  moon  sapped  of  light,    swollen  buds  bearing  no  fruit;    and  it  all  tastes  sour  like  curdled  water,    like  shed  life,    pouring  from  between  her  legs  emptily.    his  chani  looks  at  him  just  as  barren.    just  as  empty  -  handed.

❝    do  you  speak  to  me  now  as  a  god  or  as  a  lover?    ❞  for  he  is  neither  to  chani  lately.    grief  tastes  as  much  as  loss  as  it  tastes  of  betrayal.    muad’dib  twists  the  knife  deeper,    no  amount  of  gentle  could  lessen  the  blow.    she  looks  away  from  him  now,    perhaps  a  betrayal  in  return  for  how  it  forces  her  cheek  from  his  palm.    he  feels  cold  to  her.    chani  touches  her  own  hands  to  her  face,    dew  to  her  fingertips  looking  as  shame.    ❝    do  not  come  to  me  now  with  your  platitudes.    are  they  not  too  late?    ❞

❝ i am the father of your child and your mate. this is the authority in which i speak. ❞    outside, the sky will be darkening around the edges as if bruising — poetry is often like that, simultaneously obvious and precise to the point of being tasteless. the world will be quiet too, a coincidence of self-possessed beauty to match chani's own self-contained silence. the world has a thirstiness for irony  /  muad'dib appreciates little parlour tricks like this, that the wild animal of the desert will lie still tonight and she will mourn at peace. it is more than he can offer her now.   ❝  the authority of love. ❞

Q :  DO YOU REMEMBER THE BEGINNING OF THIS STORY ? 

Q : WHERE WAS YOUR GRIEF THEN ?  WHERE IS IT NOW ? 

grief is a vacant space now, food left cold — grief is as colorless & unappealing now as it had been before. it serves little purpose, so he leaves it behind  /  but the eye of his mind sees the red water of a red body on holy ground of a holy sietch  /  a human-shaped space left behind in memory /  flesh of his flesh, a murdered son to match a murdered father... he blinks, looks away from the underside of his body, where the vision still lingers.  muad'dib exists in rhythmic efficiency :     in between the coldness of the knife and the hunger of the worm. 

the first memory of water :       the blood of the mother  /  the tears of the son as he is cut from her. & he does not know , & he does not see , if the vision is his past or his future,  cyclical, repetitive and addictive :       a green-eyed boy staring through the window with droplets of rainwater scattered throughout the glass like stars, the dunes grey and dull beyond it. a man and his blue-within-blue eyes under rain in the desert. the water dark and thick upon the sand, looks much like blood. but muad’dib knows that water is this :     the transparent shape of loss. there is a distant sadness that fills the room like a bad smell. & @sihayni, who is his chani stands in the middle of it , nursing the wound-broken animal of her grief, the only thing left that makes her a mother.  what is grief translated into ?  grief cannot be translated. it exists. 

here is the blue taste of spice in the air and that other so human taste of salt upon the skin; not the water of sweat, but the memory of it. & here alia atreides, as @mahdinate​, says :     ❝  there was no mercy where there could be no stopping.  ❞      & muad’dib answers :   mercy is not a word for the desert — where the dark belly of the world births bodies of animal hunger and animal violence — the worm that self-cannibalizes does not die, but comes back as something else, remodeled, & redeemed, & reborn. there are blessings in destructiveness  /  the cultivation of saints requires a little blood and sacrifice. the inside of a worm might not be such a terrible tomb... better to be devoured now than to get to the end of this story. this slaughter is a little mercy in itself. mercy that in vulgar ancient languages had once meant god's forgiveness :         the only god in the desert is the knife and the hand which wields it. the body of the enemy is given to the sand, & the water of it is given to the tribe :       in this, war has been practical and ritualistic.  ferevered figments of fractured futures follow fortune / forgive the alliteration; a thousand moments wait in a single one. muad’dib understands what we do not.  

WHEN  THEY  SPEAK  OF  US,   THEY’LL  REMARK  ON  THE  GREATNESS OF  OUR  PATH,     and  much  will  be  argued  on  what  was  the  error  in  our  ways.  the  fault  in  our  fate,  a  tapestry  woven  with  blind  eyes,  never  in question,   never  of  our  volition.   except  his,  she  knows,  it’s  all  his  choosing,  as  far  as  he  can  will  something  into  reality— self  proclaimed  architect  of  all—   he  will.

he  himself  draws  the  distance  he  so  rigidly  keeps  between  them,  he  himself  writes  the  scenes  where  suddenly  all  barriers  seem  to  fall  only  to  conjure  themselves  out  of  thin  air  when  he  yells  cut.  only  she  is  left  with  the  bleeding.   he  tells  her  he  does  not  mean  to  be  cruel,   this  is  all  accidental   /   she  is  all  too  sentimental.   it  bleeds  into  her  writing  in painful  ways,  every  turning  of  the  page  slices  at  her  from  all  the  way  across  the  room.   his  silence  a  vow  she  pressed  him  into  making,  which  @muahdi breaks  :      ❝     time has made liars and cheats of us all .   ❞   

she  winces  noticeably,   a  steely  demeanor    (  his  creation,  too  )   taking  over  .   a  story  well  told  has  to  be  cut  around  the  sharper  edges.❝      is  that  a  critique?   the  great  muad’dib  cannot  be  a liar  or  a  cheater,  not  unless  i  want  to  be  burned  at  the  stake.    ❞  what  a  pretty  picture  she  paints  of  herself,  silent  historian,  the  perfect  witness—  and  he,  the  hero.  

𝐠𝐨𝐝𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐬 , 𝐲𝐞𝐬 , 𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐢𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝 :  what is faith if not politics , what are politics if not people in a room , staring at each other until someone else blinks ?   now  irulan  dances  in  the  carefully,  meticulously  crafted  metaphor  of  his  gravitational  pull ,  𝐣𝐮𝐱𝐭𝐚𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐝  𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐞𝐭  &  𝐰𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧 ,  body  or  metaphor ,  a  natural  satellite  that  cyclically , repeatedly ,  orbits  him.   everything  bends  to  the  constant  pull  of  his  gravity ;   there is no escape.  the  beauty  of  it  is  that  it  seems  a  choice — a trick of light — it  isn’t. 

❛  think of it as a suggestion.  ❜   ,  here  is  the  linear  mark  of  his  linear  voice ,  which  is  to  say  he  sounds  almost  bored ,  which  is  to  say  all  the  burn-marks  of  hostility  are  missing ,  like  the  would  be  pressure  of  his  palm  against  her  waist.  he  barely  touches  her ,  the  space  between  them,  despite  such  proximity ,  reeks  of  indifference.

                   ᶦ    𝗲𝘅𝗶𝘀𝘁    ᴰᵁᴿᴵᴺᴳ   times   ᵒᶠ     𝐆𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐓     𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇,     ᵂᴴᴱᴿᴱ     ᴬ      𝒗𝒐𝒊𝒄𝒆    ᶜᵘᵗˢ     ᴸᴵᴳᴴᵀᴺᴵᴺᴳ   ᵗʰʳᵒᵘᵍʰ    𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐀𝐊𝐈𝐒 ’    ˢᵐᵒᵏᵉ     ᶜᵒᵐᵐᶦⁿᵘᵗᵉᵈ    SKY    ᴬᴺᴰ     ʳᵃᶻᵉˢ     ᵀᴴᴱ     ᴳᴿᴼᵁᴺᴰ     𝙴𝚃𝙴𝚁𝙽𝙰𝙻,    milk-teeth     ˢʰᵃᵗᵗᵉʳᵉᵈ   ᵒᶠ   ᵇᵒʸʰᵒᵒᵈ      𝐜𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐦𝐬      ᵇˡᵉᵉᵈ     ʳᵘⁿⁿʸ     ᵍᵘᵐˢ     ˢᵗᵉʳᶦˡᵉ     ᵃᵗ     𝘁𝗵𝗲     ʳᵒᵒᵗ     and     ᶦ     ᶠᵉᵉˡ      𝐓𝐇𝐄     𝐓𝐀𝐑     of      ᵗʰᶦˢ     ᵉˣᶦˢᵗᵉⁿᶜᵉ     RAIN     ᵒᵛᵉʳ     ᵐᵉ     ᶦⁿ      ᵃ     𝗟𝗢𝗦𝗦   ᵒᶠ   INNOCENCE.

𝐒͟𝐔͟𝐅͟𝐅͟𝐄͟𝐑͟𝐈͟𝐍͟𝐆.              [    real martyrdom is bone-crushing,          flesh grafting          agonizing.    ]         ❝      it’s coming,      ❞             plum-reds   and fractured bones loiter the still-dark world around,          unrighteous cleansings & burning cinders,   make the grain underneath plump with irreverent meat;         offered like hangman sacrifices.         𝒎𝒚 𝒂𝒓𝒓𝒊𝒗𝒂𝒍 𝒊𝒔 𝒂 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒅𝒇𝒊𝒓𝒆,       𝐀 𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐎𝐅 𝐀 𝐅𝐋𝐀𝐌𝐄:     ( smoldering bodies, bloated graves  ——   all unmarked. )    &    this deteriorated architecture of a messianic body harbors seven limp heads,        drooling the cherry dew of the redeemer’s bloodied lambs.      ‘   𝐭𝐡𝐞  𝐯𝐨𝐢𝐜𝐞  𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦  𝐭𝐡𝐞  𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐞𝐫  𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝!  ’         destiny twists her fingers like deft instruments—      in another time,      my eyes roll over.

       ᴾᴬᵁᴸ ,   𝐇𝐄𝐈𝐑  𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐓  ᵒᶠ                                    𝗛𝗢𝗨𝗦𝗘  𝗔𝗧𝗥𝗘𝗜𝗗𝗘𝗦:                                        ——        —             ❝   ᵗʰᶦˢ   𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗥𝗜𝗕𝗟𝗘     ᵖᵘʳᵖᵒˢᵉ.  ❞

BEYOND—            he stares beyond all the damned realities and bleeding timelines to the skylight,      dispassionately out of his grasp.     ❛❛       i’m a  killer,     v͟i͟l͟e.    𝘪 𝘥𝘪𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴,         -͟-͟-͟       i’ll do this.      ❟❟       everything stutters in   𝒕𝒆𝒎𝒑𝒐   after that,      it’s a harsh vivisection of crimson smeared gauze and flesh reeking of rust and melancholia sewn to plaster and whitewash.       ❝      death, death …      ❞

𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭  𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐫  𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐬  𝐮𝐬  𝐢𝐬  𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭  𝐠𝐨𝐝𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐝  𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐬  𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡  𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 :   furious  figments  of  false  prophets  in  fragile  frames ,  fortune  exists  fragmented  &  inside  him  &  through  him  &  beyond him , the fall , the flood , the frenzy.  he  almost  wants  to  say  all  of  the  future  is  an  echo  of  his  feet  upon  the  sand ,  that  a  boy  turned  man  turned    𝐁𝐀𝐃 𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐍   is  an  accusation  of  violence.   now  the  old ,  scratched  landscape  of  his  hands  needs  no  knife  to  kill.  the  future  awaits  to  accommodate  you ,  he  thinks  not  without  certain  bitterness ,  which  is  amusement  in  its  own  right.  

he  will  not  deny  it  —  he  watches  himself  with  disturbingly  clinical  eyes ,  fascinated  and  yet  dissociated ,  half-seen  and  then  half-understood.

𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐯𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 :   a  cup  raised  to  the  atreidae ,  already  destroyed  before  water  turns  to  wine ;  here  is  a  cup  raised  to  premature  betrayal ,  the  mourning  that  comes  when  death  has  not  yet  ocurred.  the  future  comes  unannounced ,  young  atreides ,  it  comes ,  it  gets  closer ,  it  awaits  by  the  threshold.  𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐯𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐠𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐧 :   the  screaming ,  the  wound ,  the  blood... it  is  not  his ,  and  yet  it  is.  everything  is  his  when  inside  his  own head ,  something  halfway  through  dream  and  memory ,  where  the  voices  raise  in  darkness  until  they  make  light  and  the  bodies  are  burning  and  he  burns  with  them.   the  future  is  claustrophobic ;  but  he  does  not  pity  the  child.  they  endure. 

He does not have other-memory or any prescience beyond the razor sharp intuition that is one of a Fremen’s birthrights. So to Otheym this is a thing that exists only in the moment it happens. He is chosen to share the Lisan Al-Gaib’s stiltent. To him it feels like an honor, fresh water after a long trek in the deep desert. 

There are logistical reasons for it of course, the other Fedaykin who’ve accompanied them out on razzia are paired off according to friendships and other such ties leaving only the two of them. Otheym was also still unmarked his hand unscarred according to the ritual Paul Muad’Dib has chosen to consecrate his followers. 

He lay out his hand for his prophet, for his messiah to mark. He was born to these deserts and had felt sharper pains since boyhood. But it’s his god’s hands on his that causes his body to feel flushed, the space of this stiltent to become unbelievably small. As if the universe had been reduced to a single mote and that mote contained only the space where their hands met and the blade penetrated his skin. Otheym was a good Fremen, he did not cry out.

Until god pressed his lips to his hand and Otheym felt the moisture and heat of his breath as he opened his mouth and drank of his water. Only then did he cry out. Though none of it was from the pain.

Once as a boy he and the other children had been gathered into the small garden of Sietch Gara Kulon to watch a flower bloom. It had been a slow, delicate and wondrous thing. He felt now his hand was the flower as it bloomed, as he was cut, opening himself to the mouth of god. His hand was a flower but he could explain that sensation no further other than it was.

Nor could he explain the sound he made as Paul pulled away from his hand only to reach for his own blade. He wanted to pull him back into him but was also willing to spill forth and give him everything. He ached so much that the wind howling outside felt like an extension of what he felt in his own soul and body. 

When Paul Muad’Dib, the Lisan Al-Gaib, Mahdi, and Otheym’s own personal god held out his hand which seemed to pour out more water than any Fremens’ wound he cradled his palm in his own. “May my water be so mingled with your water that when the day of judgement comes it cannot be said what was mine and what was yours.” He pressed his mouth to his god’s hand, his lips parted, and he drank.

𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐚𝐲  ?  there  is  little  tenderness  here.  the  iron-taste  of  blood  sharpens  his  tongue.  paul  feels  as  if  suspended  in  time ,  a  moment  multiplied  by  a  thousands ,  a  stillness  in  the  dark ,  where  the  moons  cannot  reach  their  bodies ,  flesh  made  by  light  now  trembling  in  darkness. 

this  is  a  haunted  room ,  this  is  a  space  waiting  to  be  filled  with  fragments  upon  fragments  of  an  unbodied  future.    𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐡𝐲𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐝 𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞 :   sometimes  time  stops  so  two  men  may  kiss  in  impassioned  kiss ,  the  red  of open mouths  against  the  red  of  blood.   but  sometimes  time  flowers  rather  violently , moves  faster  and  faster  so  all  images  become  one  image ,  until  a  kiss  ends  so  fast  it  is  memory ,  a  word  half-left  in  history.

&  through  half-lidded  eyes ,  he  watches  his  blood  upon  the  lips ,  the  cheeks  of  otheym  —  the  vision  persists.  the  future  spreads  under  his  ribs ,  a  blackness  as  black  as  the  mouth  of  a  worm.  ah , the future , the future...  paul  closes  his  eyes.  there  is  to  be  a  war ,  and  he  wants  it ,  there  is  to  be  death ,  and  he  ignores  it. 

𝐝𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐞 : @impercre​​

𝐢𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐚𝐬 𝐚 𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐲, 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐚𝐬 𝐡𝐮n𝐠𝐞𝐫.   the  image  is  simple  enough : sacrificed  youths ,  anthropophagic  gods ,  hunger ,  more  hunger ,  a  grace  which  comes  through  violence.  rapture  and  sex  and  prayer ,  a  thing  which  blends  into  another ,  everything  means  anything  if  you  are  creative  enough.  there  is  otheym  on his  knees ,  overlapping  the  memory  of  altar  boys  in  holy  communion ,  christ’s  disciples  in  prayer ,  a  convict  receiving  the  last  rites  before  the  execution ,  crysknife  or  axe ,  any  blade  will  do.   &  here  is  otheym’s  wounded  palm  like  a  cracked  rosary.

the  crysknife , tool of holy crimes , lies  between  them ,  rather  mundane  in  itself.  a   knife  is  only  sacred  through  circumstance.  &  the  cut  too  lies  between  them ,  the  wound  which  births  upon  otheym’s  hands  so  that  the  gentle  darkness  of  the  stilltent  bleeds  into  it ,  and  it  soothes  the  burning  of  it ,  in  kiss  which  is  no  kiss ,  shadow  against  black-red  wetness ,  until  a  mouth  finds  it  in  the dark  to  kiss  the  opening  of  flesh ,  to  drink  the  water  which  is  not  water.

𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐮𝐭𝐬 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐮𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐢𝐭, 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐥𝐭 𝐦𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐬 𝐰𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫 :  the  mouth  of  muad’dib  tastes  the  desert ,  finds  it  sates  a  kind  of  hunger  for  which  he  had  no  name.  &  the  blood  satiates  it ,  and  the  kiss  enables  it ,  lips  to  palm  to  finger  to  mouth  again ,  so  that  he  drinks  the water  that  is  a  metaphor  for  other  things.

𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚜𝚊𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 :  a  boy  goes  to  the  underworld ,  the  belly  of  the  earth ,  the  sietch — hollowed ,  hallowed  places  that  know  darkness  as  a  metaphor  for  the  womb.  &  a  man  walks  out  of  primordial  darkness ,  only  a  man  is  not  a  man , &  darkness  walks  out  with  him.  𝚐𝚘𝚍 𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚊 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍 —  not everyone has a taste for it.   𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚜𝚊𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 :   if he looks within , he will find more than himself.   a  man  is  a  mirror   /   a  mirror is a  trick  of  light ,  &  light  is  a  vision  which  is  memory.   everything  bends  to  the  constant   pull  of  his  own  gravity.  𝚐𝚘𝚍 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚒𝚋𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚣𝚎𝚜 𝚑𝚒𝚖𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏. 

muad'dib  lives  in  a  moment  that  fractures  into  a  thousand : futures intertwined in futures , the past falling back into the past , 𝚊 𝚟𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚌𝚢𝚌𝚕𝚎 ,  a  memory  from  something  that  is  yet  to  happen.  &  through  memory ,  his  self  extends  past   his  body ,  the  long-limbed  spider  of  him  now  fragmented ... a  body  might  as  well  be  a  prison  cell  which  views  into  the  world.  

&  in  his  mind  there  is  the  internalized  landscape  of  inherited  myths. 

                           𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚢.  𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚊𝚞𝚕.

childhood  feels  like  an  extinct  animal.  childhood  had  known  only  itself : soft  and  softer  even  in  loneliness  /  caladan  had  been  green  on  green , light  which  was  only  gentle.  now  the  brutal  metamorphosis  of  the  divine  stares  back  into  the  eyes  of  a boy.  molten  eyes ,  like  a  heartattack  which  begins  again  as  it  ends ,  and  green  ones ,  eyes  which  only  now  he  remembers. 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚘𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔𝚜, 𝚢𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚢, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚛. 

a bitterness had sprung up inside her,  growing like a weed to fill the hole left in her mother’s absence.  what a stupid thing,  she thought.  she wasn’t a child  …  she had no need for a mother  —  she was her mother,  her mother’s mother,  her mother before that,  and so on.  why,  then,  do i ache like this?  she was restless.  angry.  of course the lady jessica would’ve wanted to leave arrakis.  the desert planet was never her home,  not really  —  not in the way it was paul’s,  and most certainly not in the way it was alia’s own.  still,  it stung like betrayal.  she couldn’t help but feel she was the cause.  𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚜𝚘 𝚏𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚍.  she was the holy priestess,  a monster born of messianic genes.  Abomination.  did she flee because of me?

@muahdi hadn’t announced his presence,  but sibling empathy told her he was there.  she was glad for it.  

❛  I MISS HER.  ❜  it was an admission of guilt.  for one simultaneously brief and eternal moment,  she wanted to cry out.  to scream,  to fall at her brother’s feet in anguish and beg for solace.  𝚊 𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚛.  (  her eyes closed as a single tear fell.  water not for the dead,  but for the living.  ) 

but if she was a monster,  so was he.  ONE CREATURE,  BACK TO BACK  :  the sun god and his huntress sister.  pillars in the harsh sands of Time,  helpless against its folding and warping.  their names would be a chant upon the people’s tongues for millennia to come, but the cost would be  [ … ]  everything.  alia,  a sacrifice at her own altar.  though she wouldn’t know that yet.

kinder  stories  would  tell  of  gentler  brothers,  of  intertwined  hands ,  skin  to  soft  skin.  perhaps  there  could  be  the  phantom  memory  of  the  mother   who  is  jessica ,  and  alia ,  and  paul :   selves  within  selves  interlinked  and  now  excruciatingly  close ,  juxtaposed  afterimages ,  as  if  memory  alone  is  enough  comfort.  but this is not a story of kindness.  &  there's  only  paul — the luminescent awareness , the imperceptible eye which is not an eye ,  which  pulls  him  towards  alia ,  with  the  last  crumbs  of  empathy  in  his  heart.  this  much  he  understands :   loneliness.

the story began with it :   solitude  that  hungers  for  the  end  of  itself ,  swallowed  in  mouthfuls.  he  remembers  a  childhood  of  touching  the  water ―  and  not  being  touched  back.  &  the  story  goes  on  and  lonesomeness  follows  it.  muad’dib  understands  the  state  of  being  apart.  there  is  no  name  for  this ,  for  this  constant  tug  of  absence ,  the  body  left  wanting ,  and  bared  open  like  an  autopsy.  loneliness  is  claustrophobic. 

the  nebulous  light  of  the  moons  crosses  the  window ,  two  bottomless  eyes  that  do  not  meet  their  stare.  there  is  the  pale ,  strange  path  painted  by  light  that  is  not  light ,  only  the  memory  of  it ,  between  himself  and  his  sister.  had alia always been so small ?   he  thinks  of  the  only  story   they  know ,  which  unfolds  to  the  end  of  the  universe ,  towards  darkness  beyond  darkness.  who  else  can  understand  this ?   he  reaches  for  alia , her  little  body  framed  by  shadow ,  as  her  face  softens  and  his  follows.  his  hand ,  like  an  altar ,  remains.  upturned ,  abstained  from  light ,  and  refusing  the  abandonment  of  it ,  as  he waits  for  alia  to  take  it.    ❛  i know. ❜