#⠀ ♯ANSWERED ༴ voice from the outer world.

[kwiisatz]

𓏭  no grave can hold my body down, i'll crawl home to you. /⠀/  feyd x ᝰ @draconikia ⨟ accepting .ᐟ  

feyd  -  rautha  is  a  loyal  beast,  that  he  knows  better  than  anyone. some  part  of  him  is  hyperaware  of  the  fact  feyd  is  down,  that  blood  seeps  into  rock  and  soil;  he  begins  in  his  endeavour  to  reach  him  beneath  the  din  of  battle,  shadow  and  dust  sequestering  his  movements.  his  knees  scuff  when  he  slides  toward  him,  cradles  his  head  briefly  to  look  at  him,  smiles  at  such  a  foolish  decree.  paul  doesn't  have  enough  gauze  on  him  to  stop  the  bleeding  fully  but  he  tears  at  his  cloak,  strips  being  used  to  stanch  the  way  vitality  weeps  from  wounds.  "  good  thing  I'm  not  losing  you  today,  then,  "  he  finally  utters,  shifting  to  help  the  warrior  rise  to  his  feet.  around  them  the  world  is  black,  white,  scarlet  ––  he  is  vaguely  aware  of  the  fact  it  had  been  several  shots  that  had  downed  his  blade.  no  knife  could  touch  feyd  -  rautha  .      .      .  he  was  a  ferocious  thing  first  and  foremost;  he  expects  the  shots  had  ricocheted.  they  move  through  halls,  debris  clattering  about  their  feet  and  dust  rains  down  upon  them,  making  paul  blink  it  from  his  lashes.  he  need  only  find  a  corner  to  rest  the  man  in,  to  hide  him  away  a  moment  until  this  battle  is  finished.  deeper  and  deeper  they  go  through  the  palace  until  he  finds  a  level  that  does  not  waver  or  sway  beneath  the  scream  of  artillery.  "  you  stay  here,  alright?  "  I  love  you,  he  desires  saying  and  yet,  fights  the  urge. there  is  no  time  for  the  softness  of  confession;  fate  had  brought  them  together  long  ago  and  their  history  was  laid  askew  about  them.  this  union  was  not  what  was  intended  by  the  bene  gesserit  and  yet,  in  paul's  mind,  it  was  all  he  would  need. may  these  bloodlines  die  with  them,  he  supposed  ––  so  they  may  live  in  the  sanctity  of  their  strange  love.  a  knife  is  slid  into  feyd's  hands,  a  small  smile  being  offered  as  a  way  to  quiet  him  from  the  roaring  inferno  of  his  warrior's  heart;  he  can  see  his  open  dislike  of  being  set  aside,  told  not  to  fight  but  paul  cannot  lose  him.  not  now,  when  they're  so  close.

[kwiisatz]

𓏭  we were born sick. ⠀/⠀/  from alia ᝰ @karmasainted ⨟ accepting .ᐟ  

alia  had  known  him  better  than  he  knew  himself  even  before  she  had  been  born. paul  remembers  a  time  in  which  he  asked  her  to  return  to  the  land  of  unknown,  to  stand  with  their  father  on  that  distant  shore  and  wait  for  him  to  join  them.  he  could  not  fix  this  galaxy  before  she  came  but  she  had  known  that.  alia  had  known  too  much. her  being  pre-born  left  her  standing  on  the  very  edge  of  abomination,  fighting  to  have  her  mind  to  herself  ––  hoping  and  praying  for  some  semblance  of  normalcy.  theirs  was  a  curse  that  no  one  else  could  understand. when  the  world  fell  to  its  knees,  they  would  foresee  it  and  they  would  stand  at  the  precipice  of  destruction  ––  a  penumbra  of  this  holy  war  beneath  a  banner  of  the  atreides'  red  hawk.  but  sweet,  beloved,  broken,  lost  alia  was  born  more  sick  than  he.  paul  had  made  his  choice,  had  dove  into  his  powers  with  the  hope  of  razing  the  universe  with  the  intention  of  leading  his  people  to  their  paradise.  their  alia?  she  had  no  choice.  paul  reaches  over  now,  to  take  the  porcelain  form  of  his  sister's  hand.  he  loved  her,  in  what  way  he  could.  so  much  in  this  life  had  become  hard  to  grasp,  including  the  finer  emotions;  they  are  family,  though  ––  and  paul  would  never  not  love  the  blood  of  caladan. 〝 we  were, ”  he  assures,  finally.  〝 if  I  could've  made  it  so  you  weren't,  alia,  I  would've. ”  and  he  could  definitely  try  harder  to  guide  her  now,  help  her  to  learn  control  of  her  abilities  so  she  doesn't  drown  but  he  fears  he  will  fail  her. a  part  of  him  very  nearly  flinches  from  his  own  words,  though.  what  would  things  have  been  like  if  his  sister  was  born  more  his  father  than  his  mother? if  she  had  the  heart  of  a  true  atreides  woman;  a  fierceness  and  a  need  for  justice  ––  calm,  collected  and  just  a  girl. he would give almost everything to be able to offer her that. 〝 but what would be different if we weren't? in some way, we'd just be easier targets. ”

[kwiisatz]

𓏭 you are going to talk your wild nonsense again. ( from percy lmao ) ᝰ @horiznwlker ⨟ accepting .ᐟ  

paul cannot help the possibilities that flash behind his eyes. his mother is to blame, he expects –– she, one of the moirai; the decider of fate, clotho. viridescent eyes open only partially to acknowledge the man beside him. percy jackson is stronger than he will ever be able to understand but it can be frustrating, as well. he sees all the paths they will walk, all the paths they have walked; every step and choice and mistake that lead them here, to being friends. the sea beckons, a call from home –– leaving him feeling sick to see his father again, their little house on the coast –– and he knows percy feels similarly. 〝 I cannot tell if that is an assumption or you are asking me but either way, yes. ” it is not something he can control. quite frankly forgiveness should be extended for that which he offers with no explanation when he chokes on his prophesies. the world blurs with every blink of his eyes. 〝 I see the sea, percy. and I see gods drowning. ” gods  who  should  not  be  able  to  drown,  their  lungs  filled  with  brine  until  their  nerves  cease  writhing. he exhales a groan, hand raised to rub rough circles against his own sternum. his mother's decisions leave him wondering if she were to ever cease to exist, would he have to take her place? last he saw her, she was some grinning phantom, spinning the fate of some mortal whose life would be too short –– could he ever be that? or will his wild nonsense drive him to madness before then?

[kwiisatz]

𓏭  i trusted you with everything, and this is how you repay me?  hi ᝰ @stupidprophecy ⨟ accepting .ᐟ  

his  shame  is  a  monstrous  thing. paul's  jaw  tightens  as  his  mouth  snaps  closed,  teeth  clicking  together  with  the  force  of  it.  he  stares  at  her,  something  deep  in  his  chest  stirring  with  too  many  sentiments  to  name.  all  at  once,  they  chew  on  his  sinews,  his  bones,  threatening  to  tear  at  vein  and  seam  and  marrow  ––  has  he  betrayed  her  in  her  eyes?  surely  not.  surely  his  heart - of - hearts  would  know  him  better  than  that;  she  would come  to  understand.  he  knows  this,  he  has  seen  it.  a  future  more  vibrant  than  the  rest  ––  she  will  come  to  understand,  to  forgive  .    .    .  even  if  he  may  not  deserve  it. 〝 I  know  you  don't  want  to  hear  it  but  .    .    .  ”  how  could  he  ever  explain  this  in  a  way  that  will  not  further  sever  their  bond?  〝 you  must  understand,  chani  ––  I  had  so  little  choice.  ”  this  universe  was  not  a  kind  one.  they  had  not  been  dealt  an  easy  hand.  none  of  them  but  especially  him.  paul  atreides  had  committed  atrocities,  yes  but  with  the  intention  of  achieving  a  life  he  could  spend  with  her.  what  a  brutal  boy  he  had  become  .    .    .  his  father  would  hardly  recognize  him. 〝  I  did  not  mean  to  trample  your  trust  but  how  else  was  I  supposed  to  protect  us?  ”  besides  following  this  path  and  inevitably  fulfilling  this  prophecy.  all  this  propaganda  .    .    .  his  shoulders  feel  so  heavy,  the  sky  would  be  a  lighter  load.

[kwiisatz]

𓏭 tell me about her. / ghanima ᝰ @roseguided ⨟ accepting .ᐟ  

his daughter's face is a lovely, round thing. paul can see it; even in his blindness, he can see it. he cradles it between his hands, rough and scarred from many years of warfare and survival; the brutality of this universe having taught him well from a young age the truth of existence. he tries to smile, but his sadness has always been a bone deep thing, chewing away at marrow and nerves. he has taken it upon himself to hide it from everyone –– from all who call themselves kin or friend or ally. 〝 where should I start? ” he queries. speaking of chani in any capacity is a pain worse than the spice agony. 〝 I think she was stronger than anyone I've ever known. surely stronger than me. braver, too. and she would've loved you. ” ah, yes –– his beloved, his sihaya. he wanted to welcome death in the moment of her own but he had the duties of a father. in these moments, he remembers his own father who tried his damnedest to steer him from the influence of his mother and the propaganda spread by the bene gesserit. he will never be able to truly honour his memory . . . nor will he be as good a father, but he is determined to try.

loving  someone  so  tremendously  that  it  shapes  and  shatters  the  world  was  never  something  he  had  not anticipated  for  himself  and  yet  ––  chani  had  made  it  easy. now their children wander this world, strange and wise beyond their years; his fingers continue in their endeavour of brushing over her countenance, noting which features were inherited from him and which are chani's. 〝 do you miss her, ghani? ”

[kwiisatz]

𓏭 was ever a being so born to calamity? ( from imogen, cr ) ᝰ @horiznwlker ⨟ accepting .ᐟ  

the clouds above weep, and the lightning reminds him of the markings that decorate her skin. there is blood on his hands, and the deep red that stains the sky emulates the whole world collapsing in on itself. his jaw strains from how hard he clenches it, teeth grinding; his breathing hisses as droplets wash away the vitality on his skin. the  second  calamity   came  with a thunderous roar,  the earth  trembling  beneath  it.  he wonders  if  she  is  as  frightened  as  he  is,  away  from  their  friends.  he  is  simply  a  chronurgist,  and  she,  a  sorceress  drawn  to  the  red  moon  like  a  magnet. his eyes stare at hers, the collision of lilac and emerald almost poetic, if it weren't tense. barely hearing her over the chaos of the world cracking –– though, he knows, fragmentation is the destiny of all things. only a laugh escapes him; the sound so haunted and broken that he can't regard it as his own. a sigh punctuates it, condensation stains the air. their fates were predestined far before they were even born, did she not know? his voice softness,〝 the calamity never stopped, imogen. it was always there. in us. ” no,  there  was  never  a  being  so  born  to  it  but  him;  he  is  the  broken  crowned  heir  of  the  gods  who  fell.  not  evil,  but  cursed  with  despair.  he looks around him, at the bodies of those they had been forced to dispatch; they were all people who had hoped to drag them away, to make them serve –– but he has never bowed to anyone. the souls that haunt would never allow him to do that. and she is too strong to give up.〝 do you think we can finish this? ” but exandria falls apart beneath their feet, eaten by something so horrific they had been forgotten by history. 〝 or should we run and die without a trace? ” they could go  to  where  the  world  cannot  perceive  them,  where  they  can  watch  ruidus'  ruin  and  find  peace  in  their  failure.

[kwiisatz]

𓏭 every time i close my eyes, all i see is the pain you've caused.  - Leto II ᝰ @impercre ⨟ accepting .ᐟ  

they  speak  with  knowledge  far  older  than  the  duration  which  they  have  existed.  paul  has  always  known  his  children  pre-born;  he  had  always  known  they'd  be  like  his  sister,  something  strange  and  on  the  verge  of  being  their  downfall.  paul  tries  to  hide  the  pain  that  ripples  across  his  visage,  the  shock.  it  almost  rattles  his  teeth  in  his  mandible  like  a  slap  to  the  face;  his  jaw  works,  popping  as  he  sets  it  and  grinds  ––  his  youngest's  words  make  him  feel  like  the  world  is  slipping  beneath  his  feet,  quicksand  threatening  to  drag  him  into  oblivion. the  pain  he's  caused?  yes,  it  is  a  staggering  amount,  and  its  exponential  growth  was  unintended  and  yet  ––  he  never  tried  to  halt  it,  not  really.  a  war  in  his  name.  but  is  a  war  truly  terrible  if  it  is  holy?  his  mother  would  laugh  at  him,  tell  him  it  was  a  necessity  but  would  he  have  caused  all  of  this  if  he  knew  the  way  it'd  haunt  his  children?  perhaps  not.  he  would've  found  another  way,  he  thinks  ––  a  way  to  ensure  they're  success  whilst  protecting  the  people  he  loves.  love  has  always  been  his  end,  though. he  has  let  it  dictate  where  his  anger  is  directed;  his  fury  like  a  dragon  asleep  behind  his  sternum.  〝 that  so?  ”  he  lowers  himself  to  look  into  the  bright  eyes  belonging  to  leto  II  the  younger,  and  if  they  gaze  back,  it  is  unseen.  he  knows  their  face;  adores  it,  in  fact.  however,  more  than  anything,  he  knows  their  voice.  a  hand  is  raised  to  gingerly  press  against  the  contour  of  his  child's  cheek.  he  is  an  unsmiling  simulacrum  of  the  man  he  used  to  be;  his  shame  cannot  be  found ––  he  has  buried  it  so  far  beneath  his  sins  that  it'll  never  be  felt  again.  〝   tell  me  about  it,  leto.  am  I  the  sole  source,  I  wonder?  ” of course he isn't but he is predominantly to blame.

[kwiisatz]

𓏭 i could not forget your face. / chani ᝰ @roseguided ⨟ accepting .ᐟ  

chani's  eyes  speak  a  thousand  endearments  at  once.  she  is  a  biting  thing;  warrior  first,  his  woman  second  but  he  knows  her  better  than  he  has  ever  known  anyone  ––  his  mind  a  cacophony  of  data  and  voices.  half  a  myriad  has  passed;  maybe  more.  his  mouth  wants  to  move,  wants  to  speak,  and  yet  his  voice  is  not  found.  there  is  too  much  he  wishes  to  say  .      .      .  he  owes  her  a  great  many  apologies  for  failing  her,  for  looking  away  from  the  suffering  that  befell  her,  for  quieting  her  in  her  concerns,  her  fears.  then  they  had  both  been  lost  to  time,  to  history.  but  she  would  always  be  remembered  as  who  she  was;  his  wife,  his  sihaya,  his  chani.  he  leans  toward  her,  bright  eyes  focused  on  vibrant  counterparts,  searching  for  any  sign  that  this  is  not  what  it  seems  to  see;  he  finds  none.  they  are  themselves  but  not.  though,  their  love  prevailed  beyond  the  perception  of  death.  〝 and  I  could  not  forget  yours. ”   he  missed  it  even  when  his  bones  had  been  forgotten.  hands  raise  to  cup  her  visage  between  his  them;  she  is  taller  than  him  still  and  he  has  to  pivot  onto  his  toes.  〝 my  soul,  how  I've  missed  you. ”

[kwiisatz]

𓏭 i long for the door to open. / irulan ᝰ @roseguided ⨟ accepting .ᐟ  

his laughter is a hollow thing, a mere chuckle; little  more  than  a  phantom  breeze  rattling  drought  -  burdened  branches  of  some  shrub. he knows too well how she longs for him, how she'd give anything for a moment of affection from him, even if it was simply just a glance. his smile is broad, kind to the point of saccharine –– the monster in his chest, the one that writhes and roars –– begins to stretch, stirring with a yawn. 〝 I know, ” he finally says, biting back the venom that is rising on his tongue. 〝 when, I wonder, will you understand the door won't? not for you. not in this life. ” but she is a beautiful, broken thing at best, isn't she?

he strides forward, each step an echo of voices in his mind; they claw and beckon, bestowing him with only vitriol. when he stops, he is a mere few feet from her, tone maintaining its nonchalance, 〝 you wait and wait, and wait –– like some hound left in the cold. it will always hurt you, irulan, to want me. it is closed and you should give up this pathetic hope. ” his visage contorts with pity as he turns away from her finally, striding back to where he had been prior; gaze fixed on what lies beyond his window. 〝 sometimes a door leads only to death, ” he utters, hands clasping behind his back as his spine straightens. it is neither threat nor promise. it  is,  in  its  most  simple  form,  a  truth. paul had thought he made himself infinitely clear when he refused to consummate their marriage; she proves herself most challenging, and most stubborn. such a trait is admirable, somehow, and terribly frustrating for him.

[kwiisatz]

𓏭 give amir a kiss, paul. you know you wanna ᝰ @roseguided ⨟ just homosexual shenanigans .ᐟ  

amir,  in  all  his  fedaykin  glory,  was  quite  a  sight  to  behold.  the  laugh  that  escapes  him  rings  through  paul  like  a  bell,  setting  his  nerves  alight  as  they  sprint  across  the  open  plane  of  sand  to  slide  beneath  the  crawler.  the  rest  is  a  blur,  but  exhilaration  leaves  him  burning.  success  has  always  meant  more  to  the  fremen  than  he  could  understand  ––  them,  driving  away  their  enemies  and  oppressors  with  open  sabotage;  paul  could  not  blame  them  for  it.  it  is  not  until  that  night,  as  he  sits  upon  a  high  dune  and  the  blue  satin  above  clear  but  vivid,  that  amir's  presence  feels  like  it  blankets  him.  his  gaze  shifts  over  at  him,  secure  in  the  lack  of  distance  between  them  even  if  he  desires  it  to  be  closed  further.  his  endearment  to  the  fedaykin  is  horrific;  it  comes  in  waves  that  leave  him  nauseated  and  wanting.  a  gloved  hand  is  raised  to  rest  upon  the  other's  cheek,  to  beckon  him  to  look  up.  muad'dib  is  gentle  with  his  people  in  a  way  that  could  render  him  weak  but  he  is  also  a  hungry  beast  of  a  boy  ––  so  little  is  desired  besides  freedom,  besides  the  realness  of  touch.  he  shifts  across  sand,  to  be  kneeling  beside  amir,  head  tipped  to  the  side.  his  voice  is  too  soft  when  he  speaks,  nearly  inaudible  to  himself,  〝  would  you  hate  it  if  I  kissed  you  with  only  the  hand  of  god  as  our  witness?  ”  surely  it  wouldn't  be  so  horrible;  just  them  and  the  dew  of  night.  his  lips  press  first  against  temple,  cheek,  jaw;  then,  the  corner  of  his  mouth,  pausing  as  his  confidence  withers  with  each  breath  he  inhales  of  spiced  air.  the  initial  kiss  is  a  chaste  press  of  mouths  before  he  once  again  finds  his  courage,  kisses  him  fully.  there  is  a  reverence  in  him;  in  the  way  he  cradles  the  other's  jaw,  sand  shifting  beneath  them  in  his  attempt  to  get  closer.  the  world  swings  out  of  balance,  and  he  fears  the  stars  themselves  might've  gone  supernova  behind  his  eyes. this is all fine, he needn't overthink it in the least, he knows.