[ A slender thread of awareness, knowledge welling like the rising of blood from a wound. He traces his thumb over the brushstrokes of Alina's painting, remembering the afternoons he sat for her, reclaiming something unnameable and precious for himself he had long thought forgotten. Remembering the boy he guided, whose pale thighs he once parted with gentle hands, whose corpse he strung from a butcher's roof. ]
Alia. [ Soft, soft. As one might speak in a holy place, to a figure of holiness. Worshipful, but not fearful. An offering. ]
[in a cobblestone square, alia seeks justice. in fire and ash and smoke, she receives it. the scales are balanced by the reverence for brush, for blush, for the two lodestars of alia’s soul, now silent, now beyond her reach.
so: she doesn’t recoil from armand’s presence in her mind, armand’s worship, his offering of a bent knee, a bowed head. had he been arrogant, brash, posturing, would she have allowed his presence to stay within her? likely no, but alia atreides is a fickle, capricious creature, as we all know. perhaps.
but: he genuflects, he humbles his keen, deadly edge. alia responds to his thoughts with sun, sand, wind filled with spice, a faraway desert world where paul sits crowned in glory with alina at his side. an impossible possibility, but in a place where all worlds are simultaneous: why not?]
The Voice from the Outer World was never mine to grasp for long. It is not written that we would live our days together. This place gave me time, Armand. More time that I had in our life together.
[ As he has, on occasion, knelt between her thighs to spend hours tasting her wet pleasure, he stays careful within her mind, attentive to the shifting sands of her own memories. Her fantasies, unspooling in front of him. Hot and flickering thoughts. The vague awareness of her body, somewhere else in the manor. ]
Yes.
[ He'd been given time with Daniel. Time to fall in love, time to save him from death -- time to give him more time. And then to let him be taken from him, like a toy snatched from a child's clutching hands. ]
[alia herself always a less pious goddess to worship – she does not have paul’s solemnity, alina’s control, she is laughing and bright and squirming beneath armand’s attentive supplication, his untiring tongue lapping, pleasuring, delighting her, make a fountain of sacred water between her spread thighs. she would pull at his hair, caress his face, giggle with teeth bared whenever alina commanded him to go quicker, deeper.
between then and now: paul, dead, again. two years in a row of deaths alia did not have to avenge. hawk did, in the first games, fire in the second. justice restored, harmony in the shifting sands of alia’s mind. order was restored, a life for a life.
so: she welcomes, sprawls her warm body out upon her messy, tousled bedsheets, wearing a shirt that still smells of paul. her arms spread wide, up towards the ceiling, the sky, the watching eye of armand.]
I fight, I make love, I sate myself on delicacies and drink wine from the bottle itself. I chase a wild thing down in the woods, barefoot and breathless, feel it in my hands, my arms, my mouth. I live thricefold, for all of us.
[ Strong as he is now, he can find her heartbeat among the many heartbeats in the manor, the space between the beats that thrums with that thricefold life, red and wet and salted with her spirit. Welcomed, he can sink into it, into her body and her mind, layering himself over her thoughts and her memories like one photo negative laid upon another. A flickering; he's outside her window. Inside the room, standing and watching her. There and not there. If he were there, what would he do? Climb onto the bed, weight sinking down the mattress just so. Gentle hands pushing up the hem of her shirt to bare her hips, her soft belly, so he can press his mouth there, just below her navel. Soft, tender kisses. ]
Diana, goddess of the hunt. [ Fingers hooked into her panties, encouraging her to lift her hips. ] Lay thy bow of pearl apart, and thy crystal-shining quiver; give unto the flying hart space to breathe, how short soever: thou that mak'st a day of night. Goddess excellently bright.
[there and not there, physical and shadow, morphing betwixt the two, a ghost, a phantom, nosferatu at the throat of the girl, carmilla embracing her beloved, story after story has been told just-so about such visits, and armand is dracula, he is the phantom and the opera and the song and the pen, he is poet and poetry and he finds the ache of alia’s soul and kisses there, kisses the blood of her heart’s wound and the soft shiver of her stomach and her hands reach out to card through his dark curls, imagines them upon her pillow, imagines her predator, sneaking, uninvited force through his window.
someday, someday, perhaps – her grief is her gift, her touch the welcome mat, and her hips lift, spun-gold curls damp and glistening between her pale thighs, stroking armand’s hair back and thinking of braiding it, weaving wildflowers and brambles and berries into the dark locks, thinking of crowning him queen, king, whichever, both of the may. spring will come again, the winter of her devastated grief will end, but for now summer is armand’s mouth on her, his poetry plucked like harpstrings in her mind.]
Contemporary of Shakespeare, Benjamin Jonson. “Witches Song” [a tug to his hair, a spread of her legs, the fount of sleek and wet and slick offered for libation.] ”The moon it is red,and the stars are fled, And all the sky is a-burning.” Is it, votary-mine, penitent, benediction? Tell me, is the sky a-burning, or is it only me?
[ Summer, by the lake, the grass giving up in fragrant death as it was crushed by her body. The warmth of the sun on skin, pale and dark, not caring who sees -- enjoying it, the performance they put on together, the sight of their mutual pleasure their gift to lesser mortals. A good summer, a sweet summer.
He licks sunshine over her skin, drinks lake water from the curls of her public hair, from the spring of her cunt. The beat of her blood in her thighs, precious rivers and tidal surges flowing through her body. He brings his hand to his own mouth, bites off the sharp tips of his nails so he can stroke two of them over her, parting her soft folds, pressing them into heat and shivering tightness. A long summer, full of ripe fruit, and time to be together. Oasis in the desert, a resting time. ]
It burns for you, goddess. The stars fall to leave us in darkness.
[ He rises up a little to set his mouth back on the tiny precious bud of her clit, tonguing it back and forth, sucking lightly while his hand moves within her, in and out. Mischievous, Puckish, his service. A fey creature lingering in her grace. ]
"There sleeps Titania sometime of the night, lulled in these flowers with dances and delight." Let it burn, my Titania.
[the water laps against the mud, soaking the loamy places where alia will seek out crawling, creeping creatures, where she will coax them free of their hidey-holes, cradle them in her muddied palms, bring them back to show him, to make him smile with all his teeth. and alia arches her back, the perk of her tits pointing sunward, stomach tensing, clenching, rocks her downy cunt towards armand’s mouth.]
What angel wakes me from my flowery bed? [titania, beloved of the wayward sweet bully bottom, enchanted fairy queen, deceived and bewitched – no, no, she doesn’t like that part. alia will be titania earlier, at the beginning of the tale, when she delights in her sweet changeling, her stolen boy with dark curls and soft eyes.
armand has these, them both, and he has a tender, sweet mouth and long clever fingers and he delves them within her like her mind seeks out his, ancient and unknowable, millennia of presence and prescience humming like a hive in her mind. alia wiggles her hips, reaches down to pet and pet his hair, lets the coil of grief and the coil of want twine together, build sweet and slick in the fount of her cunt.]
A pleasing sacrifice, a worthy offering. [tender, her knuckles to his forehead, little-sister-sweet and sour, knocking lightly.] Never had so sweet a changeling, knight of my train, to trace the forests wild.
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telepathy
Alia. [ Soft, soft. As one might speak in a holy place, to a figure of holiness. Worshipful, but not fearful. An offering. ]
no subject
so: she doesn’t recoil from armand’s presence in her mind, armand’s worship, his offering of a bent knee, a bowed head. had he been arrogant, brash, posturing, would she have allowed his presence to stay within her? likely no, but alia atreides is a fickle, capricious creature, as we all know. perhaps.
but: he genuflects, he humbles his keen, deadly edge. alia responds to his thoughts with sun, sand, wind filled with spice, a faraway desert world where paul sits crowned in glory with alina at his side. an impossible possibility, but in a place where all worlds are simultaneous: why not?]
The Voice from the Outer World was never mine to grasp for long. It is not written that we would live our days together. This place gave me time, Armand. More time that I had in our life together.
A thing to celebrate, yes?
no subject
Yes.
[ He'd been given time with Daniel. Time to fall in love, time to save him from death -- time to give him more time. And then to let him be taken from him, like a toy snatched from a child's clutching hands. ]
How do you celebrate, little dove?
no subject
between then and now: paul, dead, again. two years in a row of deaths alia did not have to avenge. hawk did, in the first games, fire in the second. justice restored, harmony in the shifting sands of alia’s mind. order was restored, a life for a life.
so: she welcomes, sprawls her warm body out upon her messy, tousled bedsheets, wearing a shirt that still smells of paul. her arms spread wide, up towards the ceiling, the sky, the watching eye of armand.]
I fight, I make love, I sate myself on delicacies and drink wine from the bottle itself. I chase a wild thing down in the woods, barefoot and breathless, feel it in my hands, my arms, my mouth. I live thricefold, for all of us.
no subject
Diana, goddess of the hunt. [ Fingers hooked into her panties, encouraging her to lift her hips. ] Lay thy bow of pearl apart, and thy crystal-shining quiver; give unto the flying hart space to breathe, how short soever: thou that mak'st a day of night. Goddess excellently bright.
no subject
someday, someday, perhaps – her grief is her gift, her touch the welcome mat, and her hips lift, spun-gold curls damp and glistening between her pale thighs, stroking armand’s hair back and thinking of braiding it, weaving wildflowers and brambles and berries into the dark locks, thinking of crowning him queen, king, whichever, both of the may. spring will come again, the winter of her devastated grief will end, but for now summer is armand’s mouth on her, his poetry plucked like harpstrings in her mind.]
Contemporary of Shakespeare, Benjamin Jonson. “Witches Song” [a tug to his hair, a spread of her legs, the fount of sleek and wet and slick offered for libation.] ”The moon it is red,and the stars are fled, And all the sky is a-burning.” Is it, votary-mine, penitent, benediction? Tell me, is the sky a-burning, or is it only me?
no subject
He licks sunshine over her skin, drinks lake water from the curls of her public hair, from the spring of her cunt. The beat of her blood in her thighs, precious rivers and tidal surges flowing through her body. He brings his hand to his own mouth, bites off the sharp tips of his nails so he can stroke two of them over her, parting her soft folds, pressing them into heat and shivering tightness. A long summer, full of ripe fruit, and time to be together. Oasis in the desert, a resting time. ]
It burns for you, goddess. The stars fall to leave us in darkness.
[ He rises up a little to set his mouth back on the tiny precious bud of her clit, tonguing it back and forth, sucking lightly while his hand moves within her, in and out. Mischievous, Puckish, his service. A fey creature lingering in her grace. ]
"There sleeps Titania sometime of the night, lulled in these flowers with dances and delight." Let it burn, my Titania.
no subject
What angel wakes me from my flowery bed? [titania, beloved of the wayward sweet bully bottom, enchanted fairy queen, deceived and bewitched – no, no, she doesn’t like that part. alia will be titania earlier, at the beginning of the tale, when she delights in her sweet changeling, her stolen boy with dark curls and soft eyes.
armand has these, them both, and he has a tender, sweet mouth and long clever fingers and he delves them within her like her mind seeks out his, ancient and unknowable, millennia of presence and prescience humming like a hive in her mind. alia wiggles her hips, reaches down to pet and pet his hair, lets the coil of grief and the coil of want twine together, build sweet and slick in the fount of her cunt.]
A pleasing sacrifice, a worthy offering. [tender, her knuckles to his forehead, little-sister-sweet and sour, knocking lightly.] Never had so sweet a changeling, knight of my train, to trace the forests wild.