D U N E
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A
s a boy, Dune had a magpie’s eye. Anything shining, shimmering, golden drew him in, wide-eyed and wanting. It often got him in trouble. As he grew up, he became more discerning, and he learned to see the hidden value in things. A small cart, even one worn and ragged, could be purchased on the cheap and used to haul water to the gardens, or deliver goods from the docks to the noble’s houses. Thus its value continued to grow, while baubles and jewelry and other shiny things would only tarnish with time. (More importantly, it was far safer to be interested in carts and tools than earrings and scarfs and other things which had to be tactfully pried from their owners.)
As a young stallion, Dune had taken his magpie’s eye and turned it into an artist’s eye. It helped to relieve the tedium of his life’s toil. When working in the gardens he had a knack for artfully arranging the rows of flowers, and laying the tiled walkways in lovely patterns. Even loading boats at the docks, he arranged the goods and packages in stacks that made the most efficient use of space- meanwhile others piled the wares with little thought (and even less joy) behind each placement. This creative streak spilled over into his free time, when he repaired broken trinkets or put together discarded things to make something new.
Despite all this, Dune had never painted before. (He once applied limewash to walls, but that was all rote motion, not something he would consider painting). His creativity had always been channeled toward fixing or improving upon something that was already there. Not creation. So when the girl passes him a paintbrush, he stares at her a moment like he doesn’t know what to do with it. Then he shrugs, obligingly, and turns his gaze to the empty canvas of her shoulder. “You can paint whatever you wish,” he says, "even if it makes me look like a star." His smile is laughing. He was only going to wash it all off as soon as he left, anyway- it seemed unwise to show up for work gilded in paint from the night before.
He had not noticed the moon marking before, but as soon as he does he knows what he will paint. Every moon needs a sky. He begins simply enough- stars, pinpricks of bright paint all across her shoulder. “What’s your name?” He asks as he works. Although he finds this activity childish and inconsequential, he takes the act of creation very seriously. A small frown juts across his lips, and his brow furrows in concentration. “I’m Dune.” He begins to paint billowing clouds, kissed by moonlight, swirled in shades of silver. Her skin is velvety smooth, a perfect canvas. He imagines his own is lumpy with scars and muscle that would distort whatever image she attempted to paint on him. Not that he had very high expectations of the little girl's artistic abilities.
And what on earth are dreams if not our only way of speaking?
