AND IT LED US TO A KILLING SPREE
“Who are you?” The king asks, and before Dune can say "no one" the Davke are upon them. There is pain, and blood, and the sun’s watchful, laughing warmth. There is broken flesh and battered bones.
And at the very end there is darkness.
Dune opens his eyes as the flush of dawn is just beginning to color the large piece of sky that seeps in through the fallen roof. For a moment his entire body is convinced it is still dying; it holds close the memory of the spear’s kiss, the rip and the tear and, in turn, his body’s warm embrace. When he blinks he still sees the dead tree and the vulture, etched in the swirling shadows behind his eyelids. And he smells the desert- the wild desert, undulled by the tang of the city. The scent of memory.
It all fades, of course- dreams always do. Reality was a force that did not like to be reckoned with. His heartbeat slows and the visions behind his eyes blur beyond distinguishing. The scent of home returns- the dust and bronze and cats of his workshop, the grit and filth of the streets wafting through the little window (and, of course, the fallen roof). Dune sighs, and prepares for another day in his tired little life.
Last night’s dream was not very pleasant. Not only had he died, but the stage had been interwoven with symbolism he had no chance of understanding- and he hated a puzzle he could not solve. A problem he could not fix. Still, if anyone were to ask him: would you rather live endlessly in dreams that always end in death, or trapped here in the real world? He would not hesitate to choose the former. Time after time, dream after dream, no matter how foul, he would always choose that world over this one.
But it was not a choice for Dune to make, so he turns kings and spears and death from his mind. He locks his shop behind him and ambles down the street, onward into the new day.
@Ipomoea <3
