If someone, perhaps the fortune teller near the docks, had told him, “tonight, someone will dream of touching you,” he would have laughed bitterly and demanded his coin back.
And, later, as the prophecy came into fruition, he would feel like a complete and utter idiot.
But that isn't something particularly new.
- - -
He hears her first. Not her, but her repercussion. The melody of water, something he’s never put a name to; every drop a hymn captured in a single note; and together, together what a symphony! He finds himself with his eyes closed and smiling, the beauty of the caves overshadowed by the glory of the music that falls from the siren like water.
And then she is there in the flesh, or at least the image of flesh. Too close-- he is immediately a little uncomfortable-- and smelling something wonderful. Keen, is the word he would use to describe her. Almost childish, naive. Practically glowing. Overflowing. Too much of everything; he wants to bundle her up, tell her it’s not safe, the world is not kind-- protect yourself. Hide yourself.
But he does not say anything.
Instead he just looks.
She makes Dune feel old and withered. All the life beaten out of him. He lowers his ears uncertainly. She has a lovely smile, he notes. The kind of smile you get swept up in, nonsensical. It is too lovely-- he suspects it for what it is, an adjustment of dreams, and it causes him to wonder what it looks like in the waking world. What is it she hides with fantasy?
(The irony is: her teeth, in reality, are beyond his imagination)
And then she speaks. Oh what a puzzling creature! The stallion is wary; he takes a step back. But then, despite himself, because he’s in a dream, because her excitement is palpable, fleshy, like some kind of fruit that begs sinking your teeth into, he briefly clears his throat and says “yes.”
Just yes. The sound is foreign to him. It is the first word he’s said in months. It burns in his throat so hot he would not be surprised if it glows red-orange. He turns suddenly to the wall, where he finds he can carve letters into the gentle glowing fungus, because he is curious:
WHAT ARE YOU?
It's easier for him to communicate without speaking, like this. He glances over his shoulder at her, and then draws a strike through WHAT and rephrases the question:
WHO ARE YOU?
And, later, as the prophecy came into fruition, he would feel like a complete and utter idiot.
But that isn't something particularly new.
- - -
He hears her first. Not her, but her repercussion. The melody of water, something he’s never put a name to; every drop a hymn captured in a single note; and together, together what a symphony! He finds himself with his eyes closed and smiling, the beauty of the caves overshadowed by the glory of the music that falls from the siren like water.
And then she is there in the flesh, or at least the image of flesh. Too close-- he is immediately a little uncomfortable-- and smelling something wonderful. Keen, is the word he would use to describe her. Almost childish, naive. Practically glowing. Overflowing. Too much of everything; he wants to bundle her up, tell her it’s not safe, the world is not kind-- protect yourself. Hide yourself.
But he does not say anything.
Instead he just looks.
She makes Dune feel old and withered. All the life beaten out of him. He lowers his ears uncertainly. She has a lovely smile, he notes. The kind of smile you get swept up in, nonsensical. It is too lovely-- he suspects it for what it is, an adjustment of dreams, and it causes him to wonder what it looks like in the waking world. What is it she hides with fantasy?
(The irony is: her teeth, in reality, are beyond his imagination)
And then she speaks. Oh what a puzzling creature! The stallion is wary; he takes a step back. But then, despite himself, because he’s in a dream, because her excitement is palpable, fleshy, like some kind of fruit that begs sinking your teeth into, he briefly clears his throat and says “yes.”
Just yes. The sound is foreign to him. It is the first word he’s said in months. It burns in his throat so hot he would not be surprised if it glows red-orange. He turns suddenly to the wall, where he finds he can carve letters into the gentle glowing fungus, because he is curious:
WHAT ARE YOU?
It's easier for him to communicate without speaking, like this. He glances over his shoulder at her, and then draws a strike through WHAT and rephrases the question:
WHO ARE YOU?
@
