IT HURTS
Dune is thinking of the shadow shows that popped up on occasion in the busier intersections of the Solterran streets. They were essentially puppet shows, except you did not watch the puppets themselves but the shadows they cast, projected on large white sheets. These shows were exceedingly popular in the low quarter, for the quality of the show was not contingent on wealth... In fact some of the best shows were put on by dirt-poor children with just a few pieces of cloth and sticks. The brilliance of the shadow shows came from imagination and resourcefulness, and while they seemed at passing glance childish, Dune had personally always found them captivating.
He is thinking of this because if he and Warset were just shadows cast on the wall, he imagines the audience would see his heart pounding with such urgency it would leap from his chest, tied to his body with a thin black shadow, before being sucked back into his body, again and again. A comedic thunk-thunk would accompany the movement of the shadow, the sound effect pounded into the dried flesh of a goat skin drum.
thunk-thunk-- a heart-shaped piece of shadow tries to break free-- thunk-thunk-- the blood in his ears almost overcomes the quiet, rosehip-whisper of her name: “I’m Warset.”
Warset.
thunk-thunk.
She’s perfect.
“What is this flower called, Dune?”
It is strange how she leans away like she doesn’t want to. It is strange to hear her say his name. Strangest of all is her question and how he’s never asked it himself. He had never thought to name his creations. Is that what a god does? Metal flower, he almost says. Instead, “yours” slips out.
It becomes almost unbearable every time he must decide what to say. Each word becomes a gamble, a roll of the dice. He doesn’t even know what exactly it is he wants to walk out of here with, and maybe that’s the most dangerous part of this game. Every small victory (a smile from her, a word, a flutter of the lashes) emboldens him to dare to dream of more.
Dune is not an idiot. He knows there are things he does not understand. He feels them bristling in the air, hiding behind the horizon he and Warset sway towards. When he blinks, in that split second of darkness there is a sense of desperation. Like he is trying to hold up the sand in an hourglass but it overflows and spills through his grasp.
The inevitable looms. Someplace in that squishy magical mind he knows this. But that does not mean he understands. Maybe being mortal means grasping at things you can never hold on to. Maybe it means hope persists, the dream lives on, despite knowing it cannot last forever. It is a beautiful kind of lunacy. Dune burns with it.
He makes a choice, takes a deep breath, and stops counting his words.
“Look, this is going to sound weird, but we’ve met before. In a dream. And you…” You flew with me across stars beyond imagining, and you wove me a crown, and when you cried your tears were silver, are they really silver? “You were kind to me and I want to... do something for you, but I don’t know what. Help you or, I don’t know. Make you laugh. What can I do for you?” He looks at her with wide dark eyes, helplessly on display. He doesn’t know any other way to be but himself.
“I promise I’m not crazy,” he adds belatedly, glancing around with sudden self-consciousness for isn’t that something only a crazy person says? A few passersby, having overheard the statement, are looking at him strangely. But they don’t matter right now. Warset is the only one that matters.
@Warset <3
