[alia hums softly, low in her throat, bemused and soft as she stands between set's gracefully inviting thighs, thinks of the delta, the fertile nile, the world she is many, many generations removed from. his homeland and it's planet died millennia before, but alia can feel it still within her veins, as human as those first peoples had been, living and loving and warring and dying along the river's edge.
it is strange to see him diminished, scarred, blinded -- reminds her too closely of paul's own blinding by the stoneburners, the event that precluded his loss, the last she remembers of arrakis. alia's hands are careful, gentle, those of a healer or a nurse, rather than a goddess, as she presses the damp leaves against set's closed eyes, imagining instead that she's painting kohl knife-sharp, regal, resplendent.
as she works, layering the leaves over the bruises that linger from the monstrous disfigurement, alia huffs agreeably at the joke.] If you did not have plans and plots to fill a thousand tomes, I would worry you had returned to us half-formed, or with another's soul attached, perhaps. [the strip of linen cloth is next, wrapped neatly over the leaves, around set's head, mindful to leave every strand of crimson hair sleek and smooth. alia doesn't tie the cloth, remembering --] They said one of you was blindfolded, when you were killed. [softer, tucking the loose ends of the cloth in on themselves, perhaps less sturdy than a knot, but gentler.] Your mind may not remember, but your body will.
"Seem to have". You doubt your warm reception? [gently chiding, pulling out the jar of still-warm tea and pressing it into set's hands.] These games are different, sayidi. You have had a year's time to win hearts and devotion. The deaths are not of near-strangers, but of lovers, partners, family. [unscrewing the lid of the jar, with a sigh:] Such increased emotions muddy even the cleverest of machinations.
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it is strange to see him diminished, scarred, blinded -- reminds her too closely of paul's own blinding by the stoneburners, the event that precluded his loss, the last she remembers of arrakis. alia's hands are careful, gentle, those of a healer or a nurse, rather than a goddess, as she presses the damp leaves against set's closed eyes, imagining instead that she's painting kohl knife-sharp, regal, resplendent.
as she works, layering the leaves over the bruises that linger from the monstrous disfigurement, alia huffs agreeably at the joke.] If you did not have plans and plots to fill a thousand tomes, I would worry you had returned to us half-formed, or with another's soul attached, perhaps. [the strip of linen cloth is next, wrapped neatly over the leaves, around set's head, mindful to leave every strand of crimson hair sleek and smooth. alia doesn't tie the cloth, remembering --] They said one of you was blindfolded, when you were killed. [softer, tucking the loose ends of the cloth in on themselves, perhaps less sturdy than a knot, but gentler.] Your mind may not remember, but your body will.
"Seem to have". You doubt your warm reception? [gently chiding, pulling out the jar of still-warm tea and pressing it into set's hands.] These games are different, sayidi. You have had a year's time to win hearts and devotion. The deaths are not of near-strangers, but of lovers, partners, family. [unscrewing the lid of the jar, with a sigh:] Such increased emotions muddy even the cleverest of machinations.