IT DOESN'T CRUSH WHAT'S MISSING
Boys like Dune- desert-born orphans, sand in their teeth- boys like him always loved the light, even if they didn’t always realize it. Nothing else stuck around- mothers and fathers, food and shelter and friendship, everything in this life comes and goes. Only the sun is constant. Cruel at times, beautiful in a devastating way, but constant. Consistency was the closest thing Dune would get to love, and so each day he basked in the heat of the sunlight and he believed: this is as good as it’s gonna get, and that’s alright.
But the light in her eyes is a different kind of light, and like a moth he is captivated. And he wonders what else he might be missing, what else might be assumed to be as far away as the stars but was really right there in front of him, if only he had the eyes to see. He listens deeply as she speaks of love, and to his satisfaction it sounds as annoying as what he’s heard. To know everything and nothing, to be at once full and empty- to Dune it seems like the farthest thing from peace. What was the point?
“I don’t have anything like that to remember.” The admission is offered simply. He did not pity himself, and did not expect anyone else to. Life was one roll of the dice after another, and he happened to be spectacularly unlucky. So it goes. He had a roof over his head each night (or at least three-quarters of one), and a few cats to take care of, and always some random job or another. Life could be far worse. And, oh, he had the dreaming. That was certainly not nothing.
“Do I get a flower now?” She asks with a beguiling smile, and in that moment it is hard to keep his knees from melting. He regards her with his head tilted and eyes earnest. Almost akin to a puppy. “I would give you all the flowers in the world, if I could,” he says with a broad grin. In a way it was easier for him to know she was in love. To know there was nothing to be won or lost here, that even the most ridiculous of statements would simply be rebuffed, like waves on the rugged seaside cliffs.
Then a change comes over her face. He sees the realization pass over, like a cloud, and the way her lips gather in a beautiful little expression as she gasps. “You’re a dream walker, aren’t you?”
He’s never been named before, and his first reaction is silence as he considers the question. Dream walker, she calls him, and it feels like-- like a puzzle piece fitting perfectly into place. He’s heard of shamanic dreamers- a neighbor of his is from a Solterran tribe believes the world was dreamed into existence- and rumors of dream manipulators. Then there were stories of boys who could bring objects out of dreams, which made Dune deeply and unabashedly jealous. But none of these things were him. None of them described exactly what he could do: walk in and out and through dreams. It sounds like a stupidly simple thing, but all this time, he’s stumbled around not knowing quite exactly what he is. And then Elena gives him a name, and he smiles like butterfly wings unfolding to greet the sun.
“Yes.” It doesn’t matter that her voice rings with an accusation. He is named, and he accepts it graciously. “Well, more of a dream... stumbler. It’s a secret.”
Dune remembers that he is working when a stern-looking woman catches his gaze and holds it. Meaningfully. There is a scar on her cheek, fresh and red. She angles her head ever-so-slightly and he sighs heavily. “Ah, I best get back to work. I’ll see you again, Elena,” he says with a certainty he has no right to speak with. Dreams were not his for the choosing, he could not simply appear among them at his choosing like some plain-hewn god.
Before he leaves he pauses, deliberating whether or not to say what comes next. “You should tell him you love him. If you haven’t yet.” He turns and ambles towards the shadows, with one long last look of farewell.
It doesn’t occur to him until later that he never gave Elena his name. It was probably better that way.
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