babies | SALTBURNT INBOX.

Participate next time or don't come.
Don't need an audience.

No? That's small-minded of you.

( not presented as an insult, but simple fact. )

Any decent instructor should know a demonstration is a perfectly suitable method for learning.

[ Thankfully, Furiosa is beyond insult. Iron-clad confidence. ]

Call me small-minded then.
A wall full of watchers defeats the purpose.

Sending inept fighters into battle against one another equally defeats the purpose.
What do you expect them to learn?

Edited 2024-11-21 03:28 (UTC)

[ God Jessica you sound like one of her MOTHERS. ]

I'm not drafting an army.

( a high compliment, thank u furiosa )

Then you're wasting their time.
Those girls came to learn. Show them the path to survive.

Lot of talk for someone who still learns by observing.

( insults only land their mark when there's pride to target. jessica's tickled by it, instead, like watching a cub pounce for the first time — misunderstanding the death of her pride means so little. an easy cost to pay, to feed the impression furiosa wants to keep of her. )

I don't need to wave the banner of my experience for all to see.
Take the wisdon, or don't. It's only your pupils that will suffer for it.

You are Alia's mother, aren't you?

( is she?

alia had been no more than a nameless speck of conception in her belly, the last jessica had known. no bigger than a grain of sand, small in the face of endless desert dune. there had been no celebration of love, in that pregnancy — just the final remains of duke leto atreides, as though she had been carrying his will and testament inside of her womb. to my concubine, i leave the daughter we were meant to have. an ancestral token to remember him by, her child born from death.

unconsciously, jessica's hand slides to her stomach, sensing no stirring. whoever alia atreides is, jessica cannot call herself mother to a girl she has not yet birthed, named, raised, loved. )

I'm Paul's mother.

Alia once told me of her mother.
A complex woman who gave her an impossible gift and tremendous power.
I would have liked to meet her.

( a foolish girl, with so little discretion. jessica's mouth narrows into pencil-thin disapproval, to see her children so weakened by a single drop of kindness. how easy it is to poison them into freely giving up their secrets to strangers. were she my daughter, she would have a greater sense of caution, jessica does not commit to text. i would have not taught her to be so guileless. the thought that passes by as quickly as her irritation. )

I am not who she speaks of.
I've born no daughter. My second child has months to grow before she'll be ready to enter our world.

Do you know who I am?

[It's a silly question, in light of how Alia has known Jessica's presence in this house since the instant she arrived, like an eclipse blotting out the sun, like the moon cracking in the sky. She feels it in every breath, every movement, the presence of her mother more all-consuming, even, than Paul's presence -- if only because she has never existed without Paul's. Jessica's, though...

Do you know you bore me, birthed me, raised me, left me, unable to bear the sight of what you'd done, the daughter you were charged to bear, born into a world without Leto, a mirror of you only, your miniature? You had matching veils made until I was seven, mother. You kept me close until you could bear me no longer, and then you left for the stars and I watched our son, our brother, our messiah wander into the desert to die alone. Do you know me?]

( a fremen word. jessica doesn't have to scan the directory of their devices to divine the answer, murky as the meaning is — as strange to her as a stranger with her daughter's blood, atreides blood. existing somewhere in the nebulous, cosmic space between known and unknown to her. )

They call you my daughter.

[If there had been any doubt before, that it was truly Jessica --]

I am. Alia. Born in the waning months of 10191 AG, after the death of Duke Leto Atreides, after God-Emperor Paul Atreides ascended the throne of the Known Universe. You are from the same time as Paul here, then?

I don't require a lesson in history.

( who are you to speak of my duke's death? i have lived it. jessica allows herself the same prickliness of a thorn — embedded in a palm, yes, but quickly removed. a brief sting easily forgotten. if paul rests upon the throne, not all must be lost for their house. )

The year is 10191 AG.
My daughter has yet to be born.

Edited 2024-11-23 14:34 (UTC)

[That sharpness, a constant guide, a nudge to be better, more, greater, to harness her power -- it's more familiar than a tender word or touch would've been. It stings and comforts, at once.]

10210, now, for me. Have we taken the Water?

You will drink nothing.

( we. forever the folly of lady jessica, committed to the belief she can protect her children from the path set upon her. paul, made a man from the soft tissue of a boy, and now — alia, who speaks of her to their guests as a curse-bearer and gift-bringer both. who gave her an impossible gift and tremendous power, furiosa had said. jessica banishes the uneasy churning in her stomach where her daughter, unborn and safe, should remain. )

And you will not speak of our secrets to outsiders again.

[For a moment, jarring and unsettling, Alia reckons with the fact that Jessica, all-knowing, all-powerful, present most in her absence, does not know what is to come. Thinks her word, her voice will be enough to undo what has already happened. And she pities and she envies her for that.]

It is already done. It was done before I drew breath. Our secrets are mythos now. The Fremen write hymns with our whispers as the chorus. The known galaxy knows what we are, mother. Why should I fear one house?

Will you invite the knife to your neck next?

You show our enemies where to aim. Only a child would think of themselves as so invincible.

( or, what jessica refrains from spitting: the bene gesserit did not spend eons toiling in the shadows for one foolish, incautious girl to lay ruin to it. )

My daughter would have better command over her loose tongue.

My mother did not teach me to be a diplomat.

[Accusation and explanation, both.]

Twenty years can change much, Lady Jessica. Our enemies already knew where to aim, before I came here. Do not speak to me of knives; I have seen their damage wrought to our house. It matters not; the path is secured. Nothing I do here can change it, now.

You did not care to hear the lesson.

( accusation for accusation, pointed as any blade. )

If you are so well-educated in our ways, have you studied their weakness?
Do you know where their strength lies? What they intend for you?
Have you made designs of your own?

( another flurry of strikes, relentless, if only because she knows the answer long before alia can provide it. )

You do not. You have not.
You think because you have lived through our known enemies that you will live through our unknown enemies.
Your unearned pride endangers my son.

[A flare of childish indignation -- she hasn't lived it yet, she doesn't know. Alia knows the only advantage she has now is knowledge, and she should hold her insight close to her chest, but she lets it slip:] Difficult to teach from off-world. Irulan did her best, I suppose, but it was hardly sufficient, with her other distrations. Nothing endangers Paul. A mosquito could sooner endanger a sandworm, than this place cause any harm to a god.

[A lie, a blatant one, one that will be seen through instantaneously, should Jessica learn of October's events. Still, better to fail her mother now, early on, rather than entertain any idea that it could be different, here.]

Irulan knows her duties. You might learn well from following her example.

( duties, not distractions. for all that jessica shares no love for house corrino, the emperor's daughters are as beautiful as they are deadly as they are diligent. filial, above all else. )

He is a boy, and your youthful arrogance does nothing to save or serve him.

And yet, she has wrought the greatest harm to our house. Interesting, isn't it.

[Her machinations leading to Chani's death, her death to Paul's despair, to his refusal to defy Fremen tradition. To the weight of his children in Alia's arms -- hers, not Jessica's. Not Duncan's or Gurney's or even Stilgar's. Alia's.]

He is a man. His boyhood ended the day his father died. You cannot protect him, and you cannot force him to forgive you. I remember, mother. I inherited your memories along with all the rest.

( she would be a poor bene gesserit if she couldn't detect bait when it's presented to her: a circular argument that acts as quicksand, once you've stepped into it. distracting. a pointless expenditure of energy better directed elsewhere.

she says nothing, though the lack of acknowledgment seems to weigh heavy with finality, rather than concession. an unspoken as i said, princess irulan understands her duty. loyalty to house corrino above all others, no matter the cost. )

It isn't a mother's place to seek forgiveness from her children. For a girl who claims to know so much, you understand so little.

( not because there is nothing to absolve her of — paul will always believe his birth was jessica's greatest crime, and jessica will always believe it was her greatest gift — but because his hatred is a sacrifice a mother must learn to withstand. what she must live with, if it means his survival. )

Another's guilt does not lessen yours. Don't call me mother if you don't intend to heed me as one.

Edited (sry i thought of better phrasing at 2 in the morning and edited it 50000000000 times i'm going 2 bed now) 2024-11-25 07:13 (UTC)

Do you claim me, then? I would Ask your counsel.

[Sudden, changeable, that's Alia at her core -- soft one moment, ferocious the next. Despite the brittle prickle of anger and loss and grief, the events of the previous month (and what they revealed to her) weigh heavily on her mind. As do the events in her past, her mother's future. She cannot imagine a world where Jessica does not know of her son's fate, yet here it is, for Alia to speak at last.

Or not. Paul would learn of it soon after. Alia does not want the news of it from Jessica. Only from her own tongue.]

I have not been so idle as you accuse. I am aware of our house's enemies, in this place. I have done as Paul directs, in my alliances.

Speak them.

( their enemies, their allies, paul's directives, the counsel alia intends to seek from her — jessica does not fail to specify, so much as deliberately leaves it to alia's interpretation. an open-ended question is limitless in its potential, for what alia might feel compelled to reveal, without the narrowing of jessica's guidance.

more revealing, too, for what she might refuse to disclose. )

Not in writing. We do not know who else reads these.

[It's both what Alia craves and fears, letting Jessica see her face to face, watch the inevitable disappointment when she seeks Leto in her daughter's face and finds only herself. Besides that, a Reverend Mother is difficult to hide from.

But Alia had taken the Water too, whether Jessica accepts it or not. She is Reverend Mother too.]

( a fair point, much as jessica dislikes the concession; any interruption to the momentum allows alia the time to consider her answers, ready herself for a barrage. no wise strategist alerts an enemy of the time and date they intend to ambush them, if they have any hope of victory. )

The training room. You will meet me there.

( it can't be mistaken for a request — there's a knowing to it, assured alia will obey, whether she wishes to or otherwise, a magnet beholden to its nature and gravity. thoughtfully, jessica adds: )

Promptly, daughter. I like to be obeyed when I ask for something.

( if she intends to carry on the petulant attitude to spite her, for slights jessica has not yet lived long enough to commit, punished for her future. whenever alia should arrive, timely or otherwise, she'll find jessica — perhaps younger than she would remember, but no less dignified, spine straightened, hands clasped before her. ever prideful, garbed in practical, dark atheisure stolen from a more conservative collection in her closet. )

[Daughter, she says, and Alia hates herself for the rush of warm, satisfied giddiness that races through her, like she hasn’t heard it a thousand times before, like the missives from offworld don’t address her as such again and again. Jessica’s concession, her one allowance to the connection of blood and bone that binds her to her mistake of a child, conceived in preemptive despair, nurtured in mourning, born in war. If Paul had been Leto’s joy, Alia was his eulogy.

There’s a thought to arrive in the state she’s become accustomed to – light, airy clothes, unsuited for the sun or snow, the clothes of the frivolous, carefree girl she’s never been, not since that first shattering awareness inside Jessica’s body. Alia had worn a veil since near-infancy, had taken her first tottering steps in a Sisterhood cowl, had studied histories she already knew swathed in layers and layers of silk. The carnal fervor of her temples had come later, when Jessica was back on Caladan, paying tribute to Leto’s bones.

But she eventually chooses something in the middle, an unconscious echo of Jessica’s own clothes – dark, long-sleeved, close-fitting, her hair in a neat braid. Alia can’t veil the wideness of her eyes, the soft shape of her mouth (Paul’s mouth), the way she stops inside the doorway and adjusts to the quiet thrum of Jessica’s presence, in the same room as hers for the first time in years. It’s like a heartbeat she forgot she had. It’s like a nightmare she’s had every night.

Alia waits by the door, waits to be summoned closer, face expressionless, arms crossed over the papers she’s brought – accounts of the allies Paul has made, writ emotionless and spare, none of the emotion or warmth that had made such alliances, none of the tenderness either sibling feels for those listed. These feelings Alia pushes away, locks tighttighttight into the vault of her chest, and prays her mother will not sniff out.]

( there is nothing of leto in this child. she inspects alia as one would an urn — an unfamiliar shape, meant to hold the ashes of the man she had loved above all, a vessel intended to contain him. whether she's satisfied or disappointed by her findings (the likeness of herself sculpted into this strange girl, just off-kilter, as though an artist warped her features), it's a quick assessment. a flickering shift of her eyes, and no more, kept so seemingly brief.

it hurts to stare for long, in truth. hurts the same as it had staring into the devouring flames of the siege of arrakeen, blinding and bright, eating away at the remnants of house atreides. jessica shifts, angling herself away, toward the matted flooring laid out. )

Come.

( it's more command than invitation, lacking the warmth that comes with opening a door to a home. stretching the limber sinew of her muscle is an unnecessary function, for a body capable of readying itself for combat, as primed as any well-oiled machine — jessica moves through forms, regardless. graceful. meaningful. a means of lowering the threshold for alia's suspicion, if she thinks her too occupied to analyze the wrinkles and creases in her expression.

she is less willing to grant the illusion of mercy to alia's writ list. a simple name put to a page is a detachment — a deliberate disconnect, jessica suspects. like flaying supple flesh from bone, she orders, neutral: ) Their names. Read them to me.

Edited 2024-12-24 04:14 (UTC)

[I must not fear. Fear is the mindkiller. It’s Jessica’s voice in her head, Jessica’s words commanding her obedience, Jessica’s teachings echoed like a stone dropped in a well, tumbling through darkness before hitting still water. Her mother tests her, but her mother taught her, therefore Alia herself is scarcely involved. She is a vessel for Lady Jessica, Reverend Mother, beloved and longed for and loathed at once, a letter from Caladan, a life’s memories implanted in her psyche like a wound, like a parasite, like a warning.

The page is folded, the crease of it drawn between two fingernails, slowly, the movement buying time to pinpoint the exercise – a warm-up, the same ones Paul does every morning, Bene Gesserit taught with a touch of Fremen tradition, though Jessica’s forms lack this latter flavor. Paul moves like the desert, Alia even more so as she shakes back her hair and begins her own forms, reciting the names in a calm, near-monotone.] Alicent Hightower and her sons Aemond and Aegon Targaryen count our house as allies. Jacaerys Targaryen, though tenuous, owes us a debt, as does his mother, Rhaenyra and her husband, Daemon. They all come from one world, one planet, with a contested throne.

[Alia’s forms are closer to Paul’s, closer to the dancelike movements of sandwalking, stilling often to test her endurance, her ability to wait in the shadow of a sietch and watch the horizon for wormsign or enemies. She half-expects Jessica to correct her as she continues.] Lauralae is a gifted, deadly witch and shapechanger. Hawkins Fuller is a keen politician, who I owe a debt of honor to. Alina Starkov has experience with war and tactics, and she runs a shop where Paul works. [Alia lets that sink in, allying the name with Paul’s directly, Paul’s preferences, Paul’s love named before her own.

But then, straightening, calmly:] She is dear to us both. [An understatement, one she knows Jessica will read in the flush of her cheeks, the heightened pulse, the spark of endorphins that rushes through her body. Alia had considered denying the attachment, but – Paul wouldn’t. Paul would be open, honest, transparent as water. Alia will not undermine this. And she won’t harm Alina, even in absentia, even in her thoughts.]

( dear to us, alia says, and jessica's insides recoil in shame, an underground parasite flinching from searing light. from the moment he had been conceived, paul had always carried too much of her softness within him, an infection passed from her bloodstream to his. his mother's son, to the bitter end. watchful, jessica's eyes trace alia's slithering form in the mirror, silently frightened to find her heir to the same weakness. a mother's devotion can only shield them from so many blades, when they so recklessly welcome it against their flesh. )

Even children understand the purpose a beloved toy serves.

( knife-tongued as ever — cutting, in its dismissiveness, to spare them from greater wounds. she can trust her own to aim with precision; the same cannot be said for a nothing girl with ambition and the folly of her sentimental children, prone to end in nicked arteries. alia is young, paul moreso, beholden to the follies of youth — once the shine has dulled and teenage hormones have faded, they'll come to understand any toy, no matter how adored, has limited uses.

none of which bring them armies, protects their lineage, saves their house. jessica's lips thin into a taut, disapproving line. )

Your stance is too loose. ( her own remain fluid, undistracted in focus, not a step missed, despite the sharp correction. ) Have you been vigilant with your training?

[You would know, unspoken, but throbbing on Alia’s tongue, ready to be volleyed back towards her mother’s sharp disdain. Whatever they are now – cold allies, shared flesh, an imperfect echo with all the weaknesses Jessica pretends she doesn’t have – Alia can recall the moment of her conception through her mother’s eyes, and knows it was done with adoration that burns similar to her own. If it were possible in this place, Alina would’ve been as Jessica was: cherished, protected, standing beside Paul and carrying his heir, Alia’s heir, conceived in nothing but love.

That is their legacy, that of a beloved, useful toy who turned against it’s maker, it’s master, who became wife and widow in all but name to a doomed duke. For all their power, Paul and Alia can not disentangle the thread of their parent’s love from their veins, cannot scourge it from their bones. How strange, to know her mother’s love, to taste it in her mouth, and to see none of it in her face.

Outwardly, though, Alia’s mouth twitches only once as she moves through her loose stances, fluid to the point of carelessness, disdain. She knows it irks Jessica, can feel it in the terse note in her voice, and counts this as a victory – were she actually in a fight, her body would conform to that of her mother’s, would invoke the Way to defend herself.

Now, though, spoiled and indifferent child is a safer role. Perhaps Jessica will grow impatient and dismiss her, write her off as useless. Perhaps her freedom lies along the same path it had on Arrakis: fail her mother often enough to make her disregard Alia entirely.] I’ve been preoccupied. [Careless, sighing.] The house has it’s myriad diversions. Have you not partaken?

( jessica's eyes move placidly as a bottomless lake, a depth of blue without a ripple of emotion. alia's triumph lies in the wrinkles of jessica's irritation — she will grant her no such thing. the sounder strategy is for pampered pets is to starve them of their petulance than reward its disobedience with scraps of attention. in this, she sends a message: alia may fashion herself a reverend mother, but she lacks the proper mind for it, if she thinks herself so skilled at eroding jessica's practiced patience.

as if she did not, presumably, learn at jessica's knee. as if she is not an incubator for jessica's terrible weaknesses. )

I haven't been a child ruled by hormones for some time.

( the implication, hidden inside jessica's words like a dagger slipped inside a sleeve: not as her daughter is. distracting herself, endangering their house, for impulsive whimsy. it's cold in its steel, a distraction from the anger she does not allow herself, the privacy of a heart alia is not entitled to see: how the mere question of it disrespects her father's memory, tarnishes jessica's love for him.

much of her heart died with her duke. the rest, unwelcome as it is, belongs with paul. how cruel a girl she must've raised, to look into the eye of jessica's grief, and suggest pleasures of the flesh to soothe it.

a knot in her neck unravels with a swan-like stretch to its side. then, jessica straightens, projecting nothing — before she strikes her leg out, serpent-certain, to twine around alia's ankle and sweep her toward the soft, mat-lined floor. if alia won't take her efforts seriously, then she'll be made to do so, as beasts chased into corners must. )

Do you believe I'll coddle you, because you've deigned your training beneath you? ( she leaves no breath for an answer as she half-steps back — less a measure of mercy than predicting the punitive rise of alia's juvenile anger. ) Rise.

[There’s a soft huff of annoyance, at the thought that Alia’s hormones have pushed her anywhere – forgetting the training room, clad only in her own sweat and droplets of water from the bath, forgetting the close thopter cockpit, shoulder-to-shoulder with the ghola, with the man-who-wasn’t-a-man, the way both situations (eyes on her, eyes on her body, her back, her thighs, her chest) made her blood grow hotter, her pulse thrum like a beast. Choosing not to think of nights in Paul and Alina’s bed, the glue between them, squirming into the warm, close space in her flowing nightgowns, finding the sticky sleep-hot crook of Paul’s neck to nuzzle, feeling Alina’s soft curves mould to her back like a second blanket.

Those thoughts stay locked away, far from Jessica’s prying eyes – let her think infatuation and hormones and youthful blood responsible. Do not expose the inner, bleeding core of who you are, Alia, for the disdain and disapproval of your mother. Do not reveal that your heart is promised, claimed, as much as Leto had claimed Jessica’s own heart. She learned love before her birth, drank it along with the bile in her womb, fed on it like a wobbly-kneed calf on it’s mother’s milk. Love for Leto, love for Paul, love (she imagined, she lied to herself) for her. Love and love and love. She would never purge herself of it, and sometimes – sometimes Alia wishes she’d been raised on poison instead. She would never long for poison the way she does for love.

She opens her mouth to retort, to say something snide about the strategic advantages of coital alliances when there’s a sweep of Jessica’s foot, and Alia is tumbling onto the mat, breath leaving her in a rush, wide eyes staring at the ceiling. Her mouth parts – to yell, to retort, to let loose her indignation, but instead. Instead she laughs, props herself up on her elbows, shakes her head, hair coming loose from her braid already.]

You’ve never coddled me. [Huffy, fond, aching, everything she is writ across her face for an instant – lonely and wild and snarling and wanting, always wanting, always scouring the missives from Caladan for some sign, some clue that she’s been forgiven for her crimes of existence, of birth.] And I expect nothing from you. [Alia rises, slowly, makes a show of brushing her clothes off.]

( she tips an eyebrow, silently accusatory, aiming attention at the falsehood in the room with them. jessica doesn't need to listen to the rushing tide in alia's blood to pinpoint the lie — her presence is a testament to familial obligation, her resentment proof of a grudge born and belonging to a mother that is and isn't jessica. it would be a greater truth, jessica believes, if alia were to claim she has come in search of something inexplicable, something even she cannot name, under the guise of counsel — love, or punishment.

girl that she still is, it seems she hasn't yet learned love and punishment are one and the same. thorns, by any other name. )

Then behave like it.

( instead of this image of a creature alia has presented: petulant with a golden spoon in her mouth, all of the childish temperament her son had learned to let pass over him as a wave, despite his youth. all of the girlishness jessica and her sisters had never permitted themselves to entertain. she doesn't waste time allowing alia's performance continue — seconds into alia returning to her feet, she latches onto alia's hand — and uses the leverage to try to toss her back, pinned down by jessica's knee to her stomach. unrelenting, unsympathetic. repetition, until the lesson sinks in, until her frustration lends itself to something productive.

her knee presses harder. strands of swept hair dangle into jessica's vision, a stare that bears down into alia, the color of electrified thunder. love and punishment. one and the same. )

Such weighted words you spoke before, daughter. ( do not speak to me of knives. i have not been idle. jessica's gaze says, prove it. ) I expected more from this showing.

Edited 2025-01-07 04:57 (UTC)

I fear this message has come quite late, but I wished to convey my gratitude to you for quite the sporting match of chess during the faire. Hopefully, should the house (and your interest) allow it, we may indulge in a rematch soon.

The opportunity to outwit a worthy opponent is not to be missed.

I would be more than honored to test myself against your skill a second time, should your circumstances and time permit. It would appear there are few other challenges worth my pursuit within the walls of this estate.

The honor would be mine, Lady Jessica.

Indeed, the scope of activities is rather limited. Idle — nigh indulgent — pursuits or else the application of one's mind, perhaps futilely, toward uncovering the secrets this place seeks to keep hidden.

Perhaps tomorrow afternoon, in the little library in the west wing?

The pursuits of caged mice.

( watched and observed, like rudimentary and undignified experiments. she had thought she had taught her children to avoid such obvious trappings, a mental fortitude developed beyond the tricks of this manor — evidently, no such hope. )

Your terms are suitable. ( then: ) Do you intend to play for victory, or the pleasure of the challenge?

[ Caged mice is perhaps a little harsh as far as assessments go, but Emmrich's willing to let it go for the moment. ]

The two do not have to be mutually exclusive, though the question suggests you may seek the former. Or is that too bold an assumption?

[Only the day itself marks this deposit outside Jessica's door as anything more than a sudden, spontaneous overture of alliance. In Alia's scrawling hand, written on lined notebook paper: an account of the political maneuvers and notable galactic battles over the last twenty years, with a timeline of Muad'Dib's supremacy of the known universe. It ends with:

The Holy War ended when I was seventeen. Your task is finished.

- Alia Atreides

Most notable of all, though: the account is written in an extinct code of the Sisterhood, only still in existence through the shared consciousness of Reverend Mothers. Jessica may deny the fact of what she had done, what she had turned her daughter into, but Alia will show it, again and again.

There is also a business card for Sol and Scroll, because promoting your gf's small business is a full-time job.]

( by comparison, alina and alia were almost simple to shop for — what does one get their extremely pragmatic, dignified mother, on a holiday essentially built for excess, luxury, and unnecessary things? none of the knickknacks at the market seem suitable. jessica is almost entirely bereft of sentimentality, or at least she urges to seem so in homage to the mothers and sisters before her. the entire bene gesserit sisterhood is seemingly built of the presumption that your mind is your greatest weapon — what do you give to a woman, who needs little else than her body to survive? who thinks only in terms of survival, and not in terms of living?

it is not benefited by the fact paul is cross with her. it is also not exceedingly relevant — he'll love his mother to the bitter, burning end, until the last star in space obliterates itself, until paul himself is dust and dirt. jessica is the mountain by which paul's entire life centralizes, ever looking for that crossing point to reach the peak. it is also not benefited by the fact paul knows she is cross with him, too — he wants to do a good job, find the gift that redeems him in her eye, that makes her accept alina and alia as they are, in what they mean to paul.

what he knows about pragmatism: lady jessica is always intentional, always cunning about the image she strikes. bene gesserit by training, fashionable by her own beauty. on caladan it was always pale, bright blues and waspy fabrics like waves. on arrakis, before they were shrouded in yawning necessity, it was yellows, oranges, head dress. the lady jessica always makes a striking first impression — and what does the impression of saltburnt demand? paul thinks about the zebra print mini dresses he's seen on rosie balfour at times, and cringes. that's not it, not for his mother. he can't even think of a singular color, really, at the heart of it. his mother has an eye for these things, he does not. what he does have, is an affinity for research, and a son's deliberate intention to make mommy proud. in a day, he's a fashion expert up to the early 2000s of england, and can at least check that box, if not the one of his mother's personal taste.

nobleman dignity means he doesn't ignore the meeting face to face. paul would leave it at her doorstop if the motion of it didn't rankle him, as if he has something to hide from his mother — as if he's too anxious to face her and her scrutiny head on. it's the day before christmas that he knocks on her door, expression lined with his perpetual brand of seriousness, a reflection of jessica in that particular way. he gives her a nod. )

Mom. Merry Christmas.

( in his hands (still gloved around her), he hands off three wrapped packages. in the first is a dress, with matching earrings in the second. as for the other gift, it's smaller than the rest and less grand, hiding a vial necklace, sealed permanently shut. inside is a vague watery substance, but jessica will be able to sense the twisting double helix of dna inside — paul's dna, the water from his body, specifically the sweat from his brow. a short collection after daily sparring rounds with alia, paul's life force in the physical sense, the evidence of hardwork. proffered to his mother: i have not gone soft. )

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delivery; christmas eve 12/24

🎁 delivery.