[She won't know; she can't, perhaps ever, Alia thinks, envying for a minute how easily Paul invokes Jessica. He hasn't learned yet how to hold her at arm's length, how to see that's where he's always been, at the end of an arm, curled into a fist.]
Cinnamon rolls before. Those don't count as breakfast.
( he should say no. sugar makes you sluggish. he's about to say no. definitely. he has it typed out. )
Cinnamon rolls before. Okay.
( he can't tell her "no" about anything. highly inconvenient. )
Of dying? No. ( truthfully, he doesn't imagine alia capable of hurting him, not through any shortcoming of hers, but because her love feels greater than her bloodlust to paul, who's only ever learned how to adore the things that make her alia. on the other hand, she was trained at the tipped blades of stilgar and gurney, of duncan idaho. she was not trained to pull punches. paul, to a certain extent, was. ) Every loss is a lesson learned. I'll beat you eventually. Unless you meant my pride, which is still a no. I think. I'd like to think, I mean. I'm not a good loser. How good are you in the weirding way? And the Voice?
I'm going to learn to make them, so I don't have to depend on them from the kitchen. A man named Richie is going to show me, and Tim too, perhaps.
[It feels -- strange, talking about friends Paul may or may not know, feels like another fragment of herself that she can't share. But -- she can, pressing forth impressions of a discussion about sandwiches, of a beglassed man who'd taken and returned her knife, of odd kindnesses in this place. She can't show him the rest, the future (blood on the sand, a figure in the desert, an empty councilroom)--
The thoughts reel, just for an instant, and Alia wrenches them back. No. Never that, she will give Paul every thought, every breath, but not that agony. He can avoid it, she believes, she prays. She won't show him a future that isn't guaranteed.]
You aren't a good loser, which is fortunate because you do not lose. [To the array of teachers, Alia adds: Paul, twenty years on, taller and bearded and smiling softly as he meets her strikes with uncanny, effortless grace, her most beloved, most adored instructors. He looks like their father.] Not as good as our mother, yet, but enough to make her sweat a bit. The Voice here has been Strange. I've only used it once, but it nearly got away from me. [Somehow the great horror in this has been ignored until just then, until that moment when something, some great and terrible voice arose in the layers of Reverend Mothers and tried to command Tim to harm himself, harm Hawk, unintended and unwished-for.]
( because if not, paul will kill them. plain and simple.
it's an odd feeling, to have his own shoes to fill in. the last thing he wants to be is a disappointment to alia — though he knows the paul she remembers is far different than the boy he is now. by necessity, he knows things have to change. of course, all he ever wants to do is maintain who he is now, someone tangentially good and respectful, but since the baron's attack on the fremen sietch, it hasn't been an option. he is different. he must become different, worse, harder, colder, in order to see this holy war to completion.
it's just hard to remember he is a freak, a terrible person capable of atrocities, when he's here in the summery domestic bliss between alia and alina. )
Strange? I used it once. Twice, actually. ( a gross misuse of it, really. ) It was fine for me. Let's agree not to use it on anyone but each other for now, until we can figure out the problem.
[A strange admittance; Alia doesn't have friends, she has the sietch, she has Paul and the desert and the edge of a knife, she has (had, has) their mother. Here, in this place, she has Alina, she has Paul, and she has an ache like a wound for what is missing, even as she relishes each bright, wet sunlit moment.]
Like Harah was good. [Harah, her Fremen nurse, Jamis's wife, Stilgar's wife, the first one she had ever spoken to aloud. The love of that woman, warmer and brighter than the cool distance Jessica had given her, the love of someone who cared, but could never, never understand what Alia was. Harah never bought into superstition, never considered her charge anything other than another child to nurture and guide.]
Strange. I'm used to having complete control and it slipped a little, like I was still learning. I was maybe out of practice? Only on each other. Can I use it tomorrow morning? I haven't had a chance to really show you what I can do yet.
( harah, supposedly his woman, his responsibility after killing jamis. it's nice to know she found a place within his family, since it wasn't going to be in his bed — nice to know alia thinks so warmly, so fondly of her, like the soft interior of her beloved, gooey cinnamon buns. paul finds himself smiling, stupidly. it's just — it's very charming, to remember he'll one day have a life with alia inside it, her strong older brother, her protector. the god emperor. )
You can. We'll train. Dagger fights and weirding training. We'll do both. Do you think
( he trails off, but the end of the question is obvious to alia. should we try to train alina? and with a snort, not that she'll leave bed that early. )
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no subject
Cinnamon rolls before. Those don't count as breakfast.
No shields here. You scared?
no subject
Cinnamon rolls before. Okay.
( he can't tell her "no" about anything. highly inconvenient. )
Of dying? No. ( truthfully, he doesn't imagine alia capable of hurting him, not through any shortcoming of hers, but because her love feels greater than her bloodlust to paul, who's only ever learned how to adore the things that make her alia. on the other hand, she was trained at the tipped blades of stilgar and gurney, of duncan idaho. she was not trained to pull punches. paul, to a certain extent, was. ) Every loss is a lesson learned. I'll beat you eventually.
Unless you meant my pride, which is still a no. I think. I'd like to think, I mean. I'm not a good loser.
How good are you in the weirding way? And the Voice?
cw: vague self harm mention
[It feels -- strange, talking about friends Paul may or may not know, feels like another fragment of herself that she can't share. But -- she can, pressing forth impressions of a discussion about sandwiches, of a beglassed man who'd taken and returned her knife, of odd kindnesses in this place. She can't show him the rest, the future (blood on the sand, a figure in the desert, an empty councilroom)--
The thoughts reel, just for an instant, and Alia wrenches them back. No. Never that, she will give Paul every thought, every breath, but not that agony. He can avoid it, she believes, she prays. She won't show him a future that isn't guaranteed.]
You aren't a good loser, which is fortunate because you do not lose. [To the array of teachers, Alia adds: Paul, twenty years on, taller and bearded and smiling softly as he meets her strikes with uncanny, effortless grace, her most beloved, most adored instructors. He looks like their father.] Not as good as our mother, yet, but enough to make her sweat a bit. The Voice here has been
Strange.
I've only used it once, but it nearly got away from me. [Somehow the great horror in this has been ignored until just then, until that moment when something, some great and terrible voice arose in the layers of Reverend Mothers and tried to command Tim to harm himself, harm Hawk, unintended and unwished-for.]
no subject
( because if not, paul will kill them. plain and simple.
it's an odd feeling, to have his own shoes to fill in. the last thing he wants to be is a disappointment to alia — though he knows the paul she remembers is far different than the boy he is now. by necessity, he knows things have to change. of course, all he ever wants to do is maintain who he is now, someone tangentially good and respectful, but since the baron's attack on the fremen sietch, it hasn't been an option. he is different. he must become different, worse, harder, colder, in order to see this holy war to completion.
it's just hard to remember he is a freak, a terrible person capable of atrocities, when he's here in the summery domestic bliss between alia and alina. )
Strange?
I used it once. Twice, actually. ( a gross misuse of it, really. ) It was fine for me.
Let's agree not to use it on anyone but each other for now, until we can figure out the problem.
no subject
[A strange admittance; Alia doesn't have friends, she has the sietch, she has Paul and the desert and the edge of a knife, she has (had, has) their mother. Here, in this place, she has Alina, she has Paul, and she has an ache like a wound for what is missing, even as she relishes each bright, wet sunlit moment.]
Like Harah was good. [Harah, her Fremen nurse, Jamis's wife, Stilgar's wife, the first one she had ever spoken to aloud. The love of that woman, warmer and brighter than the cool distance Jessica had given her, the love of someone who cared, but could never, never understand what Alia was. Harah never bought into superstition, never considered her charge anything other than another child to nurture and guide.]
Strange. I'm used to having complete control and it slipped a little, like I was still learning. I was maybe out of practice?
Only on each other. Can I use it tomorrow morning? I haven't had a chance to really show you what I can do yet.
no subject
( harah, supposedly his woman, his responsibility after killing jamis. it's nice to know she found a place within his family, since it wasn't going to be in his bed — nice to know alia thinks so warmly, so fondly of her, like the soft interior of her beloved, gooey cinnamon buns. paul finds himself smiling, stupidly. it's just — it's very charming, to remember he'll one day have a life with alia inside it, her strong older brother, her protector. the god emperor. )
You can. We'll train.
Dagger fights and weirding training. We'll do both. Do you think
( he trails off, but the end of the question is obvious to alia. should we try to train alina? and with a snort, not that she'll leave bed that early. )