D U N E
- ☾ -
T
he girl is from a completely different world than him- than just about everyone he knows. Most of Dune’s acquaintances are street rats, beggars, thieves, or a combination of the above. She is clearly none of those… She’s- she’s soft in all the ways Solterran children are not allowed to be. She also is not born of wealth, or if she is it has not yet dimmed the bright charm behind her eyes. He takes her in thoughtfully, intrigued and somewhat bothered by something.There’s something about her that flutters at the edge of his mind, begging to be noticed. On her brow is a heart-shaped marking that reminds him of someone. And those blue eyes, so familiar… he frowns as he glances around the room for a woman with a flower behind the ear, half in excitement and half in dread to see if the girl’s mother is perhaps palomino in color, with the same eyes, the same heart. But Elena is nowhere to be seen, or any mare with a flower for that matter. His attention returns to the chatty filly, who is staring at the golden paint that is smeared and flaking across his body..
At some point in the evening, he had realized the paint on his body served two distinct purposes. The first, which he was aware of, was to elevate his plain, muddy, salt-of-the-earth colors to something more befitting the decadence of the party. But the second- and this was clever- was so that guests who deigned to converse with the server would be so focused on the paint that the conversation would not stray to Dune, the living being.
“Why are you gold? Are you pretending to be a star?” She asks as though this is a perfectly normal thing for someone to do. “No…” he says, biting off “why would I do that?” with a soft snort of laughter. Kids. “It’s just decoration.” Some people painted the walls of their buildings. The Ieshans painted their servants.
And, in fact, their guests… Dune has an idea. He glances toward his left, where the room opens into a vast, sprawling courtyard. There are less horses there, which would be a relief- Less generous strangers with questionable drinks. “They’re painting anyone who wants it, in the courtyard. Want to see?” His smile is brief and tired, but while it lasts it shines warm and bright as the sun.
And what on earth are dreams if not our only way of speaking?
