She had not smiled like that in her dream. Or, maybe, Dune did not look at her the way he does now.
When she steps closer with all the certainty of a comet falling to earth, he thinks she might remember. When she drags her teeth down his neck, marking him, he’s sure of it. Then she pulls back, pollen on the tip of her nose quite adorable-- he’d laugh if he was not so concerned by what she’s about to say, the words already written in the puzzled furrow of her brow-- “I don’t know you.”
It's okay. It's fine. His heart sinks and retreats to a safe distance, withdrawn into the chest instead of thump-thumping at his throat.
We'll start at the beginning again. It's better this way.
This time, he'll be better.
It doesn’t matter that she does not know him-- although, he’s quite sure that she does, somewhere deep down. The mind was fond of hiding things from itself, the way the river’s surface could be pleasantly oblivious to its own depths. It doesn’t matter, because he said he would find her (well he didn’t say it, but the intent was there) and he did. He found her, against all odds, against all hope. Against, he blushes to admit, all lack of effort.
Truly, he did not think he would ever see her again-- in flesh or in dream. To even try was futile, not that he had the time and resources for such a luxury. Two weeks ago he had never left Solterra, never even wanted to in his wildest dreams. (and oh, they could be wild) Yet here they stand, reality so very solid around them. Alhough pride and disappointment tells him to turn and walk away, he does not. He will not. He’s here. She is, too. He has this moment.
It is more than he’s ever had before.
Dune is half hysteric with a hundred desires. The long journey to get here, the unexpected delight of finding her and then the disappointment that followed. The restless nights, the frayed nerves. There was only so much a man could take. He leans in close enough to feel the heat of her poll reach across the scant distance to his lips. “You could.”
The bay is speaking freely now, breaking long years of silence; for he’s found it no longer suits him, especially not here surrounded by strangers and dreamers. His voice is quiet-- it will always be quiet-- just above a whisper, plain and simple as red clay; a certain understated richness to its depths. “Where are you going?” He turns so they stand shoulder to shoulder, headlong into the sunset. Daisies, violets, tiger lilies brush gently against her ribs. His intent is clear in the questioning inclination of his head: may I come too?
It is not so bad, being mortal. He could show her.
