The sea is always warmer in dreams and memories. Dune knows this, yet every time he is surprised. The waves lap at his chest, more comforting that daunting, and as he plunges into the warmth of the sea it does not occur to him to be afraid.
It never does.
Down they sink, swim, dream, cradled in a sphere of cold white light that bursts from the bay’s forehead, a light undecided between ethereal and antiseptic. At its edges there are shadows slinking ominously, just out of sight.
Eventually, hooves silently settle into the silt of the sea floor and Dune looks to the dreamer. The sun king; of course the orphan recognizes him. But Dune had not, in his own wildest dreams, imagined the sovereign to be so… haunted. Weak. Did Solis know, when he chose the gilded stallion to lead his court? Dune thinks with derision, of course he didn’t.
It doesn’t matter, not here. There is no king of dreams, and if there were it would be Dune. Dune with the light cradled on his brow and the eyes that drill deep. Dune with no family, no friends, not much of anything tangible at all except this.
“There is an altar here.” A smile darts across his face quick and silver as herring. Of course there is. Kings and their gods, men and their rituals. Has Orestes ever worried about when his next meal would be? No, Dune thinks for the second time, of course he hasn’t. This didn’t feel like the dream of someone who never had anything to lose.
Hbegins to walk toward the altar. He does not know where it is, but if they move he figures the dream will bring it to them… but then the king is speaking again, “I’m supposed to die again, just one more time...” and Dune stops. His ears flick backwards in annoyance, a gesture he would never dare show in the waking world.
Death. The living were obsessed with it. It haunted their dreams, lurked in the cobwebs of the mind. Dune, feeling restless, agitated, finds it so…
boring.
Dune turns around and the light grows brighter. It casts extravagant shadows across his face, drawing out his cheeks and jaw. The light breaks into whiplike tendrils that reach above his head and form the letters:
“WHY”
Why was the dreamer supposed to die again? Why did he bring that here? He paws at the bottom of the sea with one hoof; silt billows and drifts away in a lazy current. The letters of light reform, briefly, to shape the word “KING.” Dune’s expression seems mocking. He’s vaguely aware it is cruel, to act this way to a dreamer so clearly tormented. Somewhere in the waking world, he cringes with shame.
But what would you do, you who has nothing, if you found yourself face to face with a king in a place without repercussion?
The letters above his head swirl back to their first shape, where they pulse insistently: “W H Y”
It never does.
Down they sink, swim, dream, cradled in a sphere of cold white light that bursts from the bay’s forehead, a light undecided between ethereal and antiseptic. At its edges there are shadows slinking ominously, just out of sight.
Eventually, hooves silently settle into the silt of the sea floor and Dune looks to the dreamer. The sun king; of course the orphan recognizes him. But Dune had not, in his own wildest dreams, imagined the sovereign to be so… haunted. Weak. Did Solis know, when he chose the gilded stallion to lead his court? Dune thinks with derision, of course he didn’t.
It doesn’t matter, not here. There is no king of dreams, and if there were it would be Dune. Dune with the light cradled on his brow and the eyes that drill deep. Dune with no family, no friends, not much of anything tangible at all except this.
“There is an altar here.” A smile darts across his face quick and silver as herring. Of course there is. Kings and their gods, men and their rituals. Has Orestes ever worried about when his next meal would be? No, Dune thinks for the second time, of course he hasn’t. This didn’t feel like the dream of someone who never had anything to lose.
Hbegins to walk toward the altar. He does not know where it is, but if they move he figures the dream will bring it to them… but then the king is speaking again, “I’m supposed to die again, just one more time...” and Dune stops. His ears flick backwards in annoyance, a gesture he would never dare show in the waking world.
Death. The living were obsessed with it. It haunted their dreams, lurked in the cobwebs of the mind. Dune, feeling restless, agitated, finds it so…
boring.
Dune turns around and the light grows brighter. It casts extravagant shadows across his face, drawing out his cheeks and jaw. The light breaks into whiplike tendrils that reach above his head and form the letters:
“WHY”
Why was the dreamer supposed to die again? Why did he bring that here? He paws at the bottom of the sea with one hoof; silt billows and drifts away in a lazy current. The letters of light reform, briefly, to shape the word “KING.” Dune’s expression seems mocking. He’s vaguely aware it is cruel, to act this way to a dreamer so clearly tormented. Somewhere in the waking world, he cringes with shame.
But what would you do, you who has nothing, if you found yourself face to face with a king in a place without repercussion?
The letters above his head swirl back to their first shape, where they pulse insistently: “W H Y”
@Orestes
