D U N E
- ☾ -
W
hen Dune opens his eyes, he’s standing in front of a wooden door. It is tall, wide, and carved with intricate patterns. The grain of the walnut has been polished to a deep, rich shine that still smells of a living thing. He finds himself strangely moved with pity for the tree that has been cut, milled, and carved all while it was still alive, still breathing, still reaching down to the earth and up to the sun.He looks around and to his surprise he recognizes where he is. He knows these hallways, though not as intimately as he knows the gardens outside and the well-worn road to and from the dock. It is objectively a perfect place in multiple ways. Perfectly symmetrical, from the balance of arches to the dramatic swoop of the vaulted ceilings, clean (the servants saw to that), and quiet. So quiet! Every door was fitted to perfection, so not a peep would slip through when closed.
Dune hates it all.
A light breeze swirls down the hall, scented of cinnamon and rose. He hates the smell. Before him the door tenses like an animal about to spring into motion. He can feel the rage on the other side of it, and the fear, and the terror. “I don’t want to go in there,” he thinks, “don’t make me go in there,” but his body is not his own. In fact this dream is so oppressive, its truths so definite, he’s not sure it ever was. When he wakes he will blink his eyes, and stretch his limbs, and reassure himself “Yes, this is mine.” But he will wonder, for days to come, if he’s not mistaken...
The door is silently swinging open and his body is proceeding stiffly, step by step, like the limbs of a puppet. Dune’s face is molded into a neutral expression, although his eyes gleam with cow-headed defiance.
The dreamer turns.
It’s Miriam Ieshan. Of course he knows her, although he’s sure most of his “knowledge” is exaggeration or entirely falsified-- he once heard, for example, that she dyed her hair with goat blood.
They’ve crossed paths before, more than once. He’s helped scrub the floors, repair the broken tiles, prune the floral juniper hedges. She wouldn’t remember him, he’s confident of this. If he had any doubts, he would have changed his dream-face... He very much does not want to be recognized by her. When it came to nobles, it was better to flit in and out of their lives unseen and unnoticed, free from the peril of their rage and the corruptive poison of their favor.
“Lady Miriam.” He dips his head in greeting, eyes skimming her precisely beautiful face. A mass of wild, half-tangled hair almost covers the hawklike pierce of her stern eyes. The tangled arms of this nightmare are tugging him into hysteria, and he doesn’t have much will to fight it. All he can think of is how many goats she would have to slaughter to dye all that hair. It takes incredible self control not to burst into laughter, tears streaking down his face.
Dune sees the pile of bones, and he wonders how they weren’t the first thing he noticed. They tremble, as though someone is pacing nearby with a very heavy footfall. But the two inhabitants in the room are so quiet and still that he can hear the gentle rasp of Miriam’s breathing. “Gross,” he says bluntly. He grasps at self-control but it slips out of his reach-
Dune giggles.
dream a little dream of me
