#Embrace the Sharing Economy

[kc22invesmentsblog]

Thinking Outside the Piggy Bank: Unconventional Ways to Save Money in Everyday Life

Written by Delvin When it comes to saving money, we often think of traditional methods such as budgeting, cutting expenses, or increasing our income. However, there are numerous unconventional ways to save money in our everyday lives that can add up to substantial savings over time. In this blog post, we will explore some creative and out-of-the-box strategies to help you maximize your savings…

[humming-fly]

Hey All I wanted to share a resource with my US peeps that I was sent recently that I think is really nicely organized!

my local student union put together this great list of folks to call on different funding committees in the House and Senate (originally organized to reach out about federal funding cuts to research, something that’s been effecting me and everyone I work with a ton), so take a look at this list and give everyone from your state a call!

(For those worried about clicking mystery links the lists look like this and goes on for several pages 👍)

Since it lists all of the members in those committees that means that there are multiple representatives per state in most of them, which means that even if you live in a blue area you can find those red seats that you can and should contact within your own state! (You should also be contacting the Dems too! We need that overwhelming public opinion right now)

Bonus scripts and motivational gifs under the cut for those that would like those resources!

If you’re nervous about calling here’s a script sheet (it mostly focuses on public research funding, since this list was made for the National Institute of Health cuts), but the most important thing is just to call, say your name and state/zip code, and a real quick bullet summary of your concerns!

Examples:

I’m worried cuts to the forestry sector will raise fire risk

I’m worried cuts to the aviation industry will make flights unsafe

I’m worried we’re firing people crucial to our national security

I’m concerned that cutting research funding and putting so many people out of a job will stagnate the economy

I think these funding and staff cuts will severely damage the United State’s ability to compete internationally

I’m worried these funding cuts will damage our public health

I’m alarmed at the risk of Medicare being cut

I didn’t vote for Elon Musk and am alarmed he’s moving without congress’ approval

My job has already been impacted by [XYZ] and I need the representative to do something about it

etc. - these examples are mostly just for funding and staff cuts, but you can also bring up more bullet points like calling out Trump’s embrace of Russia/calling himself a King/etc. as constitutional concerns you want this representative you’re calling to address.

Pick any or all of these to list off during the call and then just keep rolling!

And finally some bonus motivational gifs to look at while you work through the list:

[reasonsforhope]

Paywall-Free Version

"Massachusetts’ so-called “millionaires tax” appears primed to actually deliver billions.

State officials said Monday that the voter-approved surtax on high earners has generated more than $1.8 billion in revenue this fiscal year... meaning state officials could have hundreds of millions of surplus dollars to spend on transportation and education initiatives.

The estimated haul is already $800 million more than what Governor Maura Healey and state lawmakers planned to spend from its revenue in fiscal year 2024, the first full year of its implementation. Most of the additional money raised beyond the $1 billion already budgeted would flow to a reserve account, from which state policymakers can pluck money for one-time investments into projects or programs.

The Department of Revenue won’t certify the official amount raised until later this year. But the estimates immediately buoyed supporters’ claims that the surtax would deliver much-needed revenue for the state despite fears it could drive out some of the state’s wealthiest residents.

“Opponents of the Fair Share Amendment claimed that multi-millionaires would flee Massachusetts rather than pay the new tax, and they are being proven wrong every day,” said Andrew Farnitano, a spokesperson for Raise Up Massachusetts, the union-backed group which pushed the 2022 ballot initiative.

"With this money from the ultra-rich, we can do even more to improve our public schools and colleges, invest in roads, bridges, and public transit, and start building an economy that works for everyone,” Farnitano said.

Voters approved the measure in 2022 to levy an additional 4 percent tax on annual earnings over $1 million. At the time, the Massachusetts Budget and Policy Center, a left-leaning think tank, projected it could generate at least $2 billion a year.

State officials last year put their estimates slightly lower at up to $1.7 billion, and lawmakers embraced calls from economists to cap what it initially spends from the surtax, given it may be too volatile to rely upon in its first year.

So far, it’s vastly exceeded those expectations, generating nearly $1.4 billion alone last quarter [aka January to March, 2024 - just three months!], which coincided with a better-than-expected April for tax collections overall...

State Senator Michael Rodrigues, the state’s budget chief, said on the Senate floor Monday that excess revenue from the tax could ultimately come close to $1 billion for this fiscal year. Under language lawmakers passed last year, 85 percent of any “excess” revenue is transferred to an account reserved for one-time projects or spending, such as road maintenance, school building projects, or major public transportation work.

“We will not have any problems identifying those,” Rodrigues said. “As we all know, [transportation and education] are two areas of immense need.”"

-via Boston Globe, May 20, 2024

[gatheringbones]

[“Magnificence in clothes was considered a prerogative of the nobles, who should be identifiable by modes of dress forbidden to others. In the effort to establish this principle as law and prevent “outrageous and excessive apparel of divers people against their estate and degree,” sumptuary laws were repeatedly announced, attempting to fix what kinds of clothes people might wear and how much they might spend.

Proclaimed by criers in the county courts and public assemblies, exact gradations of fabric, color, fur trimming, ornaments, and jewels were laid down for every rank and income level. Bourgeois might be forbidden to own a carriage or wear ermine, and peasants to wear any color but black or brown. Florence allowed doctors and magistrates to share the nobles’ privilege of ermine, but ruled out for merchants’ wives multicolored, striped, and checked gowns, brocades, figured velvets, and fabrics embroidered in silver and gold. In France territorial lords and their ladies with incomes of 6,000 livres or more could order four costumes a year; knights and bannerets with incomes of 3,000 could have three a year, one of which had to be for summer. Boys could have only one a year, and no demoiselle who was not the châtelaine of a castle or did not have an income of 2,000 livres could order more than one costume a year. In England, according to a law of 1363, a merchant worth £1,000 was entitled to the same dress and meals as a knight worth £500, and a merchant worth £200 the same as a knight worth £100. Double wealth in this case equaled nobility.

Efforts were also made to regulate how many dishes could be served at meals, what garments and linens could be accumulated for a trousseau, how many minstrels at a wedding party. In the passion for fixing and stabilizing identity, prostitutes were required to wear stripes, or garments turned inside out. Servants who imitated the long pointed shoes and hanging sleeves of their betters were severely disapproved, more because of their pretensions than because their sleeves slopped into the broth when they waited on table and their fur-trimmed hems trailed in the dirt. “There was so much pride amongst the common people,” wrote the English chronicler Henry Knighton, “in vying with one another in dress and ornaments that it was scarce possible to distinguish the poor from the rich, the servant from the master, or a priest from other men.”

Expenditure of money by commoners pained the nobles not least because they saw it benefiting the merchant class rather than themselves. The clergy considered that this expenditure drained money from the Church, and so condemned it on the moral ground that extravagance and luxury were in themselves wicked and harmful to virtue. In general, the sumptuary laws were favored as a means of curbing extravagance and promoting thrift, in the belief that if people could be made to save money, the King could obtain it when necessary. Economic thinking did not embrace the idea of spending spending as a stimulus to the economy.

The sumptuary laws proved unenforceable; the prerogative of adornment, like the drinking of liquor in a later century, defied prohibition. When Florentine city officials pursued women in the streets to examine their gowns, and entered houses to search their wardrobes, their findings were often spectacular: cloth of white marbled silk embroidered with vine leaves and red grapes, a coat with white and red roses on a pale yellow ground, another coat of “blue cloth with white lilies and white and red stars and compasses and white and yellow stripes across it, lined with red striped cloth,” which almost seemed as if the owner were trying to see how far defiance could go.”]

barbara w. tuchman, from a distant mirror: the calamitous 14th century, 1987

[houseofbrat]

Bernie Would Have Won

By Krystal Ball

There are a million surface-level reasons for Kamala Harris’s loss and systematic underperformance in pretty much every county and among nearly every demographic group. She is part of a deeply unpopular administration. Voters believe the economy is bad and that the country is on the wrong track. She is a woman and we still have some work to do as a nation to overcome long-held biases. 

But the real problems for the Democrats go much deeper and require a dramatic course correction of a sort that, I suspect, Democrats are unlikely to embark upon. The bottom line is this: Democrats are still trying to run a neoliberal campaign in a post-neoliberal era. In other words, 2016 Bernie was right.

Let’s think a little bit about how we got here. The combination of the Iraq War and the housing collapse exposed the failures and rot that were the inevitable result of letting the needs of capital predominate over the needs of human beings. The neoliberal ideology which was haltingly introduced by Jimmy Carter, embraced fully by Ronald Reagan, and solidified across both parties with Bill Clinton embraced a laissez-faire market logic that would supplant market will for national will or human rights, but also raise incomes enough overall and create enough dynamism that the other problems were in theory, worth the trade off. Clinton after all ran with Reagan era tax cutting, social safety net slashing and free trade radicalism with NAFTA being the most prominent example. 

Ultimately, of course, this strategy fueled extreme wealth inequality. But for a while this logic seemed to be working out. The Soviet Union collapsed and the Cold War ended. Incomes did indeed rise and the internet fueled tech advances contributing to a sense of cosmopolitan dynamism. America had a swaggering confidence that these events really did represent a sort of end of history. We believed that our brand of privatization, capitalism, and liberal democracy would take over the world. We confidently wielded institutions like the World Bank, IMF, and WTO to realize this global vision. We gave China most-favored nation trade status.

Underneath the surface, the unchecked market forces we had unleashed were devastating communities in the industrial Midwest and across the country. By the neoliberal definition NAFTA was a roaring success contributing to GDP growth. But if your job was shipped overseas and your town was shoved into economic oblivion, the tradeoff didn’t seem like such a great deal.

The underlying forces of destruction came to a head with two major catastrophes, the Iraq War and the housing collapse/Great Recession. The lie that fueled the Iraq war destroyed confidence in the institutions that were the bedrock of this neoliberal order and in the idea that the U.S. could or should remake the world in our image. Even more devastating, the financial crisis left home owners destitute while banks were bailed out, revealing that there was something deeply unjust in a system that placed capital over people. How could it be that the greedy villains who triggered a global economic calamity were made whole while regular people were left to wither on the vine?

These events sparked social movements on both the right and the left. The Tea Party churned out populist-sounding politicians like Sarah Palin and birtherist conspiracies about Barack Obama, paving the way for the rise of Donald Trump. The Tea Party and Trumpism are not identical, of course, but they share a cast of villains: The corrupt bureaucrats or deep state. The immigrants supposedly changing your community. The cultural elites telling you your beliefs are toxic. Trump’s version of this program is also explicitly authoritarian. This authoritarianism is a feature not a bug for some portion of the Trump coalition which has been persuaded that democracy left to its own devices could pose an existential threat to their way of life. 

On the left, the organic response to the financial crisis was Occupy Wall Street, which directly fueled the Bernie Sanders movement. Here, too, the villains were clear. In the language of Occupy it was the 1% or as Bernie put it the millionaires and billionaires. It was the economic elite and unfettered capitalism that had made it so hard to get by. Turning homes into assets of financial speculation. Wildly profiteering off of every element of our healthcare system. Busting unions so that working people had no collective power. This movement was, in contrast to the right, was explicitly pro-democracy, with a foundational view that in a contest between the 99% and the 1%, the 99% would prevail. And that a win would lead to universal programs like Medicare for All, free college, workplace democracy, and a significant hike in the minimum wage.  

These two movements traveled on separate tracks within their respective party alliances and met wildly different fates. On the Republican side, Donald Trump emerged as a political juggernaut at a time when the party was devastated and rudderless, having lost to Obama twice in a row. This weakened state—and the fact that the Trump alternatives were uncharismatic drips like Jeb Bush—created a path for Trump to successfully execute a hostile takeover of the party.

Plus, right-wing populism embraces capital, and so it posed no real threat to the monied interests that are so influential within the party structures. The uber-rich are not among the villains of the populist right (see: Elon Musk, Bill Ackman, and so on), except in so much as they overlap with cultural leftism. The Republican donor class was not thrilled with Trump’s chaos and lack of decorum but they did not view him as an existential threat to their class interests. This comfort with him was affirmed after he cut their taxes and prioritized union busting and deregulation in his first term in office.

Meanwhile, the Democratic Party put its thumb on the scales and marshaled every bit of power they could, legitimate and illegitimate, to block Bernie Sanders from a similar party takeover. The difference was that Bernie’s party takeover did pose an existential threat—both to party elites who he openly antagonized and to the party’s big money backers. The bottom line of the Wall Street financiers and corporate titans was explicitly threatened. His rise would simply not be allowed. Not in 2016 and not in 2020.

What’s more, Hillary Clinton and her allies launched a propaganda campaign to posture as if they were actually to the left of Bernie by labeling him and his supporters sexist and racist for centering class politics over identity politics. This in turn spawned a hell cycle of woke word-policing and demographic slicing and dicing and antagonism towards working class whites that only made the Democratic party more repugnant to basically everyone.

This identity politics sword has also been wielded within the Democratic Party to crush any possibility of a Bernie-inspired class focused movement in Congress attempted by the Justice Democrats and the Squad in 2018. My colleague Ryan Grim has written an entire book on this subject so I won’t belabor the point here. But suffice it to say, the threat of the Squad to the Democratic Party’s ideology and order has been thoroughly neutralized. The Squad members themselves, perhaps out of ideology and perhaps out of fear of being smeared as racist, leaned into identitarian politics which rendered them non-threatening in terms of national popular appeal. They were also relentlessly attacked from within the party, predominately by pro-Israel groups that an unprecedented tens of millions of dollars in House primaries, which has led to the defeat of several members and has served as a warning and threat to the rest.

That brings us to today where the Democratic Party stands in the ashes of a Republican landslide which will sweep Donald Trumpback into the White House. The path not taken in 2016 looms larger than ever. Bernie’s coalition was filled with the exact type of voters who are now flocking to Donald Trump: Working class voters of all races, young people, and, critically, the much-derided bros. The top contributors to Bernie’s campaign often held jobs at places like Amazon and Walmart. The unions loved him. And—never forget—he earned the coveted Joe Rogan endorsement that Trump also received the day before the election this year. It turns out, the Bernie-to-Trump pipeline is real! While that has always been used as an epithet to smear Bernie and his movement, with the implication that social democracy is just a cover for or gateway drug to right wing authoritarianism, the truth is that this pipeline speaks to the power and appeal of Bernie’s vision as an effective antidote to Trumpism. When these voters had a choice between Trump and Bernie, they chose Bernie. For many of them now that the choice is between Trump and the dried out husk of neoliberalism, they’re going Trump.

I have always believed that Bernie would have defeated Trump in 2016, though of course there is no way to know for sure. What we can say for sure is that the brand of class-first social democracy Bernie ran on in 2016 has proven successful in other countries because of course the crisis of neoliberalism is a global phenomenon. Most notably, Bernie’s basic political ideology was wildly successful electorally with Andrés Manuel López Obrador and now his successor Claudia Sheinbaum in Mexico, Lula Da Silva in Brazil, and Evo Morales in Bolivia. AMLO, in fact, was one of the most popular leaders in the entire world and dramatically improved the livelihoods of a majority of his countrymen. Bernie’s basic ideology was also successful in our own history.

In the end, I got this election dead wrong. I thought between January 6th and the roll back of human rights for women, it would be enough. I thought that the overtly fascist tendencies of Donald Trump and the spectacle of the world’s richest man bankrolling him would be enough strikes against him to overcome the problems of the Democratic Party which I have spoken out about for years now–problems Kamala Harris decided to lean into rather than confront. Elevating Liz Cheney as a top surrogate was not just a slap in the face to all the victims of American imperialism—past and ongoing; it was a broad signal to voters that Democrats were the party of elites, playing directly into right-wing populist tropes. While the media talked about it as a “tack to the center,” author and organizer Jonathan Smucker more aptly described it as “a tack to the top.” And as I write this now, I have zero hope or expectation that Democrats will look at the Bernie bro coalition and realize why they screwed up. Cable news pundits are already blaming the left once again for the failures of a party that has little to do with the actual left and certainly not the populist left. 

Instead, Trump’s victory represents a defeat of social democratic class-first politics in America—not quite final, but not temporary either. The Democrats have successfully smothered the movement, blocked the entranceways, salted the earth. Instead they will, as Bill Clinton did in the ‘90s, embrace the fundamental tenets of the Trumpist worldview. 

They already are, in fact. Democrats have dropped their resistance to Trump’s mass deportation policies and immigrant scapegoating. The most ambitious politician in the Democratic coalition, Gavin Newsom, is making a big show of being tough-on-crime and dehumanizing the homeless. Democrat-leaning billionaires like Jeff Bezos who not only owns Amazon but the Washington Post have already abandoned their resistance.

Maybe I will be just as wrong as I was about the election but it is my sense that with this Trump victory, authoritarian right politics have won the ideological battle for what will replace the neoliberal order in America. And yes, I think it will be ugly, mean, and harmful—because it already is.

[malvoile]

Me and the Devil ; iii

ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ɪꜱ ᴀ ᴘʜᴀɴᴛᴏᴍ ʙʟᴀᴅᴇ ʙᴜʀɪᴇᴅ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʀɪʙꜱ. ᴘᴀᴜʟ ʜᴀꜱ ʙᴇɢᴜɴ ᴛᴏ ʜᴀʀʙᴏʀ ᴏᴅᴅ ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍꜱ.

word count: 14.4k warnings: canon-typical threats, violence - serious bodily harm. graphic injury, blood, light smut, allusions ish to oral (f receiving), fingering, light choking, biting, very very brief dubcon (feyd warning tbh i should just call it this), unprotected PiV, fantasies, fair pulling. food sharing & mentions of hunger, discussion of alcohol, religious/cultural trauma, familiar trauma. freaky dreams, foreshadowing. fluff and some angst too - and a fair amount of politics that i made up lol notes: hiiii guys <3 a long chapter here, there's no good way to cut it up hehe - also i am sorry i didn't edit this after rewriting it so im sorry abt any typos. feedback very much appreciated! previous series masterlist

Concerns Rise Over the Destabilization of Sabberon

In the wake of the unseating of House Bourbon and the resulting power vacuum on the House’s formerly fiefed planet Sabberon, concerns are mounting over potential destabilization within the planet's region. Situated in a crucial sector of the galactic trade route, Sabberon's turmoil could have far-reaching implications, not only for orbital stability, but for the economic prosperity of the Landsraad's main trade economy.

With no governing body to maintain order, rising insurgent groups throughout the planet threaten to plunge Sabberon into chaos. The potential for conflict and upheaval remains a significant concern for the wider galactic community – yet as of today, there has been no comment by the Emperor. 

This all comes to head a month before the Imperium's Annual Referendum, wherein new negotiations on Space Trade routes will be drawn, along with the final Arraignment of the House Bourbon. 

- Collected Galactic News report sent to Duke Leto Atreides, 10191. Caladan. 

Somewhere high upon the northern continent of the planet Sabberon, there is a trail that leads through the forest.

Past the Castle Bourbon, it winds up the slope of a mountaintop – in the short springtime, when the snow thaws and the glaciers spill their icy veins through the woods and ravines, the ground grows spongy with wild grass. 

It is soft below your feet now. 

The highest range of mountains tower in the distance; they dominate your sight, caps bald with such reflected sharpness that you have to squint against the rays. It is warmer in these elevations, and though the path you walk now is thawed and overgrown with alpine flora, those peaks on the horizon never lose their ice – nor the bursting jeweled-veins they hide deep within.

The sun is shy and springlike; it glows upon the skin revealed beneath your dress and glistens off dripping pine needles swaying to the ground in the breeze. Bare feet; cold, toes stained with earthy soil, and the warmth of a weight tugged within your grasped hand. 

Trees rustle and whisper around you as you pass slowly, a breath echoed in the woods – branches smack against your bare arms as you near the secluded clearing ahead. It is small, though venerated; embraced by tall trees, laden with chiffon ribbons of green. Laid within your vision beneath the sinking shade is a pyre lit with candles, in offering and loomed only by the Pine which grows so high that it is swallowed by the breath of clouds high above. 

The breath that falls from your lips is one of peace. 

The sheet laid before the safety of the Pine is welcoming – you lie upon it, strewn with the breeze and the song of birds through the trees; overhead, the sky streaks pink and orange. 

An arm brushes your own – a body lies beside you, and as your eyes flutter shut, you feel the touch trail slowly up the expanse of your side, curling around your arm to soothe the goosebumps which arise. 

A pair of lips find your own, and though you see merely darkness and glimpses of glistening sky high above, the heat consumes you: Slowly and kindly.

A sigh against plush lips, hands searching for the heat of your husband, a soft breath of a chuckle against your cheek. He is bare chested; and his skin burns when he presses against your yearning palms, desiring, willing, hungry. 

His own fingers trace the trail of goosebumps up your thigh and under the hem of the dress; pleasure follows in his wake as your head tilts back, a long-dormant yearning awakening at the sound of his breaths. And in the small noises you emit, a smile presses to your throat, a small hum of satisfaction from your husband above you. Though the sun is warm and orange upon your eyelids, you do not open them - far too caught in the warmth of your husband’s touch. 

A grasp of the plush of your thigh – a soft thing, though intent in their own right; and you turn to receive his waiting body, a line of warmth upon your own as his touch teases over your heat. A long gasp when a warm palm finds your aching desire and teases you, light as the wind in your hair and the birds chirping in the woods.

Your lips find his once more, breath hot as his fingers press, agonizingly slow, into you; a sigh that slips towards a moan in the uptick in singing birds, the rustle of wind through whistling leaves as he hums into your mouth. 

Tingling with anticipation, with desire, you clutch him – and muscles lithe and warm strain underneath your nails, his touch sliding to press against you once more, slowly moving into a rhythm that brings a gasp lodged into your throat. 

A phantom tickle graces across your forehead – hair, though you’re unsure if it’s yours or his – and though he leans forward and grasps the sheet beside your head, his other hand continues its ministrations, stirring arousal from the deepest pits of your being.

In the throes of passion, you throw your head back once more, inhaling deeply in an attempt to conceal any possible hitch in control; though instead of the fresh forest, instead of your husband – you choke on the suddenly tinny air that seems to leak from the sky, which presses into your lungs even as you rock in pleasure.  

A hazy thought meanders through your lapsed consciousness – your husband smells different here, upon the ground of the Sacred Pine; not like the fresh scent of sea-salt soaps and wooded forests; though the the metallic scent washes away as lips trail down your throat, nipping at your heady skin when your head falls back onto the white sheet.

Following the soft moan you let out is a shush from his lips, gentle as the breeze through the needles of the trees; Ecstasy dances through you, lighting a fire of desire that has your legs squirming to close as your husband presses them back open with the palm of his hand.

His presence is warm, eager; and consuming. 

Though his hands push, bunching your dress over your hips; your eyes flutter to glance at the Pine, standing tall above you. From upside-down, it sways rather curiously, licks of heat igniting from high in the branches – and the sky is streaked in a bizarre breath, a strike of unease in your gut that is swallowed by the dip of light below ridged peaks in the distance. 

Though even in the evening light, it seems as though the branches of the Pine are ablaze; and before you move to sit up, perhaps observe closer, your husband’s wanting lips slot against yours once more. 

You melt into the sheet below; a warmth pressed eagerly against your own heat strikes a match within you, your eyes rolling back in pleasure before shutting in bliss. The moan that slips from your lips rings warbled in the clearing, as though fallen through a lake – and your husband nips at your kiss-bitten lips slowly. 

The ridges of his spine tense as your hands slide along – and the length presses against your aching core, his lips grazing your cheek. 

Wind whistles through the trees, ashy and blown. In the quiet of the forest, you whisper softly and your voice is nearly swallowed by faint screams.

“I love you.” 

Barely a breath of words against his lips – and his hands tug your hair gently, exposing your neck to his wanting teeth once more. The Pine above sways again, belying a breath of orange and a scream of heat – but you blink and soon teeth are biting sharply, pain striking you through your spine. 

Chuckles into the open air around you, curling in your mind as a hand slides down your side; though your words were no such thing of humour, your gaze flutters shut and lips press on in search of the more sensitive areas of your neck. 

The chill breeze flutters over your bare skin, goosebumps cascading over every curve of you; though the more your husband bites down, the stronger the foreign smell grows – and in a grunt of discomfort, you shove his mouth away from your throat.

His warmth leaves you, and in an instant, his voice curls into your mind and seeps dread through you. 

“I know, pet.”

A whisper - cold and sinister; you have less than a moment to shift, to scramble away from the huffing chuckle from the shadows of your vision, before it happens. 

A sharp pain punctures through you. 

Blood curdling – the scream you let out tears through the woods, sending a murder of crows to the sky with screams of their own; and your eyes fly open to find your husband’s eyes– 

Though it is not Paul at all.  

Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen smiles cruelly, watching with a hunger in his eyes as he presses;  The pain between your ribs is unbearable, and your hand flies in a choked gasp to cover his own, feeling the sickeningly familiar hilt protruding from you.

In terror, you look down:

A sickeningly pale hand grips your own nameday knife, the exposed part of its blade glinting in the dim light of the ceremonial candles; a lick of flames which were moments ago above you, around you, within you. 

You are struck with paralyzing fear – and Feyd-Rautha’s breath is hot against you as he slowly leans down, lips cold; you feel the hilt twist just as his lips press to your forehead. 

Blood seeps a slow march; over your body, it soaks into the sheet below you, tainting the ritual in crimson – and you remain in your expiring breaths, a small glowing ember carried to the hearth of forgotten gods; lied and lying, taking and taken. 

“You're mine.” And his hand turns the blade deeper, glinting as you scream. “My little wife.” 

Rays of sunlight pierce your vision when you jolt to life. 

A haunt of touch still upon your ribs; and a face hovering before you, staring deep into your racing heartbeat. And so in your delirious panic, you lash out – a fight to get the body off of your own, your fist swings wildly in your blind haze. 

Though a palm of defense catches the brunt of your offense, and you are effectively jerked aside as a gasp floats into the still dust of the room. For a moment as your heart pounds, you consider how many moves it'd take to disarm your attacker – but when you blink yourself into focus, your stomach drops. 

Hestia, cheeks red as she breathes, her round eyes wide; her grip is firm, gentle around your closed fist, but her brows are knit with worry.

"My lady," Her voice is airy, eyes searching your panicked gaze, “You were only dreaming.”

It is ragged, the gasps you take – and you blink in rapid attempt to dispel the lingering tendrils of nightmare that still cling to your consciousness. Dread finds you; regret clasping your ribs in a deadly embrace.

 “Void above,” You whisper, eyes pricking in regret, “I-I'm sorry,” you stammer, the weight of your actions crashing down upon you as you realize what you've done. "Are you okay? Hestia, I didn't mean to–”

Your hand is squeezed gently within her own. “It's alright,” she says, “You were frightened. I woke you while you slept. Anyone would react the same way.”

It is a lie wrapped in a gauzy layer of kindness; and guilt gnaws within you, a lump in your throat. 

“I wouldn't hurt you.”

Though your tone is less than a whisper into the morning beams of light, Hestia's visage remains unwavering and calm. “I know you wouldn’t,” She promises, “And you didn't. I'm just glad you're alright.” 

You are struck with relief at her words and you allow yourself a moment of breath as she takes a step away from your heaving chest to draw further the curtains across the way. The bruises and marks from your old life took several days to fade after your arrival on Caladan; though she, nor the other maids, ever said a thing, let alone stared too long when you’d slipped a tunic over the jagged scar across your ribs each morning– nor when they offered the makeup in the tone of your skin to cover the odd-shaped marks upon your neck of fading teeth – nor when they helped you pull the mourning veil over your face. 

You’ve grown quite fond of them all. Particularly Hestia, in her tenderness and willful amiability; it occurs to you slowly as you watch her gather your clothing that you never found this kind of humanity on Giedi Prime. 

And even after you and Hestia finish your breakfast, she doesn't ask about the dream; And you don't tell her. 

It is certainly not the first of these dreams you've had – such a place has haunted you nearly every night since you begun dreaming again in the wake of the poisonous sun; Those mountains, the hills, the pathway to the open clearing: Each night, it calls to you, singing a song you cannot hear. 

But never, not until now, has there been a man with you. 

Never has Paul, nor Feyd-Rautha, found you in those dreams.

A sharp pain still clings to your breaths – and still lingers that phantom blade, stuck through your ribs; haunted in the shadows by the cold stare of the man you were once promised to forever. 

A haunting thing, to near such a pleasant dream – only to be ripped from it by the ghost of shadows; and you reel anyways in shame from the beginning of the dream – fading at the tips of your fingers, such a warm and hungry thing it’d started out as… 

Paul, your mind reminds you as you swallow the unease in your stomach, it was Paul who was with you in the beginning.

An odd ritual it’d been – one that felt faint yet familiar, as though some ghost long dead had whispered such things to you in your sleep; and you shake off the dusty robes of the past in search of the present, a more tangible and decidedly less salacious thing. 

Dressing is a solemn affair this morning. 

It is slow that you drape yourself in the fineries of a life far left behind; cloth made from the veins of plants alpine and far away – they smell of the ocean now, and you watch the pines in the distant western forest bristle in the breeze. It is not until Hestia brings forth the gifted necklace that you hesitate. 

It glints in the morning rays – precious stone carving the hawk and sigil, a soft thing, but cut sharp with the cerulean green valleys and ridges of the jewel; and though Hestia is slow as a hunter to a startled doe, you still stiffen when he moves to lace it around your neck. 

She's not unused to this; it's been half a week since it was given to you, and each day you have bared your teeth as she clasps it around your neck – though still, beneath the veil, holding the skin above your heart captive, you wear it. 

She is beside you, now, and it is not hard for her to tell where your mind’s gone.

“You said he apologized?” She asks it tentatively, as though you might slit her throat at the mere mention of Paul; though instead you merely huff a humourless laugh. “He did,” You affirm, “Though only after I told his parents.” 

Your agony is received; you sigh once more, “I acted like a child. Perhaps I was in the right, but nevertheless–” You glance out towards the glinting forest and moors beyond, clenching your jaw at the memory of Paul’s sharp eyes and accusatory tongue. “He must hate me more now.” 

The necklace is clasped over your clavicle, and you can feel the incredulous look Hestia sends you; though you merely press your lips, admiring the pendant against your skin in the morning light of the mirror. It does well suit you, much to your chagrin; a fine piece as ever to hold above your head. 

Power always seems so beautiful in the morning light. 

She says your name gently, whispering into the empty bedroom, “He gifted you a family heirloom – look at it! It must be older than the two of us combined.” 

And her irreproachability is as charming as it is unnatural – it is still an adjustment, to take in her joyous nature, the curve of a smile so genuine and spirited. It is still an adjustment, then, to see people so human and to try to return some semblance of that humanity in gratitude; and though she is lighthearted, it does not quell your distress. 

Your teeth worry into your bottom lip as you hum gently, shrugging, though you wish to simply melt into the girlish giddiness that leaks from her and infects the corner of your smile.

 “It's not so simple”

Your eyes cast down, where your bare feet stand against the floor – and for a blink, beneath them lies wild grass, a white sheet; a seep of crimson leaks through the pristine fabric and you snap away, taking a step back and staring skittishly at Hestia. “I think he’d prefer for me to remember who now holds my reins.” 

And if anything, it is a relief to be able to speak so candidly with someone; a trust, knowing it will not leak from your lips through her own and into the ear of the Duke – or his son.  

“Or, it's his way of trying to welcome you into House Atreides?” She suggests with a lifted brow, and the indignant part of you bristles as she continues, “He does not mean ill will, I promise. He's... slow to trust.”

You turn, figure shrouded in the morning light’s beams through your large windows. Your brow lifts, your tone teasing; A foreign thing – one that, out of rusty exercise, delivers more accusatory than intended. “You seem to know Lord Paul quite well, Hestia.” 

And, as expected, she flushes red; you hide your smirk in the palm of your hand as she shakes her head, eager to dispel any perceived accusations. 

 “N-nothing like that, my lady –" And it is rather frantically she rushes to assure you, "My mother is Lady Jessica’s in-waiting,” She explains quickly, fingers fidgeting with the sleeve of your blouse, “And Paul is only a few years older than I - and though I am just a worker, he and I were reared very close.”

You’d figured as such; though she speaks highly of him, there indeed has been no inkling of affection held more than anything platonic in her musings. Though, if there had been, perhaps a part of you could not blame her; for visions of a youthful teen, curly hair and a sharp laugh, green eyes that swim with light and pool with the gentle fountain of dutiful intelligence. Perhaps he is someone you do not know; that odd feeling, that light when you know only a stranger’s shadow – just as you might be to him; his green ghost that haunts these halls. 

You nod gently with a smile that grows in Hestia’s melting embarrassment – and she notices not a few moments after you crack. 

A smile blossoms and it brings warmth into your sullen heart. “You tease me,” She observes with a small grin of her own. 

You laugh only quietly, shaking your head, “I apologize, I couldn’t help it.” You admit, pacing away from the window to gather the garment from her arms.

“So you’ve known Paul for your whole life?” You wonder, unable to bite back the intrigue which laps at the shores of your mind. 

And then comes a sweet kind of existence, one which lives in the early hours between the sun’s rising and the castle’s; Hestia nods, setting to work on your sheets, straightening them as you begin to dress yourself. “I've got no siblings of my own,” She muses lightly, “Though I imagine he is exactly what a brother should be.”

A memory is sharp in the bruise of your heart, and you blink back the vision of the boy falling to the sand, fingers grasping a blade too large for his palm. The numb ache crawls in an eclipse of your pleasant mood and you fight it with a blink.

There is a chip in the boudoir beside you; it glistens against the waxy shine of the sun. Hestia’s warmth, that song of unburdened amity, lulls the dull ache of your heart into a placant thrum. 

“– Kind, thoughtful. He entertains the most foolish subjects and also the most serious –” A pause and a rustle, as if she’s turned to glance at you – you do not return the stare, mind too lost in the Paul that Hestia knows; the Paul you have yet to meet. 

“And, if you’d believe it…” She says it almost conspiratorially, arriving to button the back of your tunic, as you turn from her, listening quietly, “he can be quite funny sometimes."

Funny. You send her a look; this time there is no fooling – she laughs gently at your doubt and nods, “Believe it or don’t,” she muses, “He is good. He will warm up to you.” 

And though she says it in good nature, there is a dejection which leaks into your heart, which pools around the memories of sharp tongue and mistrusting eyes – of a short apology and a pendant wrapped around your throat, binding your wrists. 

 Instead you force a smile, hoping it appears more brilliant than you feel.

She is a sweet girl – a girl not familiar with the burden of family, of how it falls at your feet in a slump of black and pale and gray and death – and so you imagine her as a young girl, hand-in-hand with a young Paul, skipping down hallways and whispering conspiratorial through the doors of the worker’s quarters. 

A melancholia visits you quite suddenly, and your eyes drift to the cobwebs of silk which spin small patterns across the high beams of your ceiling. 

“I always seemed to fight with my siblings.” Your voice is a whisper in a breath; what a distant dream it is now, those nights curled together by the grand hearth, the days running through ornate halls, learning to hunt in the woods. Bows pulled from hair and tied into your own – a hand smaller than yours tugging you into an icy lake – screaming, crying, the thud of young limbs hitting another. Anger, that ferocious thing that is only so well known by that of your own kin; A hard thing it is to remember, when their faces have begun to slip away. 

“I had four of them,” You offer to her – and though she knows just as well as each person within the Imperium knows now of your family and their end, you feel the comfort of choice; the warmth of choosing to reveal such information about your family to a lended ear. Your brows knit – there is a nest of brown twigs and dried mud just below your window. “And we would scream, and hit, and fight, – all the time, when we were young.” A gaggle of young chickadees vie for the worm in their mother’s mouth within the small nest, and you watch on with burning eyelids. Your breath is solemn, and your fingers trace over the healing scars upon your palm. “But they were my favorite people in this entire universe.” 

It is still in the somber moment, though you break your shell with a cleared throat, tearing your eyes from the soft burgeoning feathers of the chicklets in the nest. And after a deep inhale, you smile wistfully, clearing your throat as you slide on the hand jewelry she offers to you; Hestia doesn't say anything, and you're grateful for it. 

She lingers beside you as you slide rings over healed knuckles. Your voice comes once more, and it is stronger. “Family, blood or bond, is a precious thing,” you decide, turning to slip on your shoes and tie your trousers. “I am quite glad you and your mother have found it.” 

And though there lingers some despondent hesitation, Hestia nods in agreement, her own wistful smile playing on her lips. “Indeed, my lady.”

Your hair catches the rays of sun in the mirror before you – tainted with the leaking green of your veil, you place the ferronnière above it; and you are beautiful in this light, yes – beautiful, but miserable. A dog with a collar for the Atreides leash. 

Your gaze leaves yourself to find Hestia watching with a small smile. 

An offer of her arm and a small nod brings forth a balm to the stinging hesitance of leaving your room. 

“Now, let's get you to this War Council.” 

Paul’s sigh is sharp in the empty room. 

An aseptic scent pierces his nostrils, contaminating his brain – distracting him. The castle becomes very sterile, deep in the more secluded chambers; here, where he breathes and feels the world breathe too, the air has a chill to it – sharp with some kind of disinfectant.

“Concentrate, Paul.” 

His mother’s voice is low, though soothing. “Project your will.”

But he can’t bring himself to look up – his mother stands just a few paces away, her eyes boring into him; Focus. He needs to focus.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he hums gently, a twitch of focus in the crook of his neck; but then, flames flicker up the sides of his vision – a large tree, smoke leaking from somewhere above where it pierces through the clouds. His name, sighed gentle as the breeze through the trees, trickling into his mind; hands, threading through the curls at the nape of his neck. His nostrils flare as he shakes his head, letting out a small groan of irritation. Focus.

Within him, an energy builds; something comes, and he knows he must not lose it – but as he begins to speak, a strange sense of trepidation washes over his mind; a nagging suspicion of unease, some dripping chill down the bumps of his spine. He falters in his words for a moment, confidence waning as doubts creep through the cracks in the shadows.

It's silent for a moment, before she sighs from across the room. 

“You’re distracted this morning, Paul.”

He bites back a sharp I know – and instead sighs, a sagging weight in his shoulders as he pushes his hair back with the heel of a palm. “I didn’t sleep well.” He excuses, pacing towards the water pitcher; his mother follows, reaching for the glass he offers. She hums, sipping on the water as he stares into the reflection of his own. 

“Dreams?” 

She reads him so well. 

Paul wills his spine not to tense at her words. With a half a breath, Paul takes another sip of his water – a purchase of time, perhaps. There is a giving degree to which he understands the Bene Gesserit’s plans, and how perhaps he might fall into them; this alone is cause for hesitation. Those years ago – almost two, now – the searing, bone-gnawing pain of that box; the whispers around closed doors, the breath that plumed when the Reverend Mother told his own lady mother that there were two candidates. 

Two candidates – for what, he still doesn't know – and yet Paul may one day be one of them. It is an instinct, perhaps some method of survival written into his very DNA; he accepts the churning sick in his stomach at the thought of what his onslaught of dreams mean. 

“Yes,” he acquiesces – any possible lie he could have thought to fabricate would have been sheared by the blades of her mind, anyway – and he turns to her, guarded but concerned. She is his mother, after all. 

“I've been having dreams,” his voice is slow to regain traction – there is a small scuff on the floor and he traces it with his toe. “Vivid dreams…” He murmurs, chewing upon the skin of his lip, “of Sabberon.” 

And perhaps to an untrained eye, there would be no change; But Paul's eyes are indeed quite trained. 

A flicker of concern passes through her and it serves nothing but to feed the pit of anxiety that grows in Paul’s stomach.

“Sabberon?” She echoes with a wary tilt of the head, “And what do you see in these dreams?” 

The hesitation comes once more, although the memory is still fresh in his mind: For in the beginning, it is that spongy earth, toes imbued with dirt. Soft whispers of his name from voices he cannot see, a caress of the wind in his hair, the glistening mountain peaks that glitter like jewels in the distance, the ribbons tied to trunks and candles lit unyielding even when the sky falls. 

And then there is you; a soft thing, an inevitable one – with the soft skin of your thighs trembling in the wake of his wanting lips. There’s the sigh, hitched and breathy, as his hands hold your hips to the pristine sheet below you; the bunching of a dress, the glint of a blade's silvered and black hilt almost golden in the reddening sun. 

Your gown, thin and blowing in the breeze, the same color as the veil which still hides your face from his wanting gaze; even in the dying light, the streaks of orange and pink in the sky, snow falling weightless from dark clouds above. That fabric, woven from the skin of alpine hemp which grows in clusters around your planet – bunching by your hips, your chest tremoring in the flickering light of ceremonial candles; breath, warm and willing upon his neck – palms teasing and eager alike, crawling in descent towards his own waistband. A soft moan, the smell of ash – 

Paul is drawn back from the glimpses of skin and the flashes of metal, the smell of smoke; he swallows thickly, staring at his mother with the glance of a lamb before the jaws of a wolf – though he shifts, clearing his throat, and the veil lifts. 

“I always…” He chooses carefully the truths he can forgive, “I always see a white blanket on the ground. Above, there’s a… the Great Pine of Sabberon. Visions of…” His brows furrow, swallowing the thick of concern, “of knives, and streaks through the sky; I think they’re… missiles. And we’re there together…she and I.” 

Barely a blink from his mother as she murmurs, “Lady Bourbon?” 

He barely nods, blinking away visions of shining hands and whispers threading through pine needles in the wind. 

“I don’t know why it’s always the same dream,” He pleads to his mother – tell me it’s fine – and though his voice is barely audible, he cannot shake the calling for him, that odd feeling that something importing awaits him on Sabberon. “Maybe I've been reading about Sabberon too much,” He half-shrugs. 

And it is a relief to admit it finally to someone – since your arrival, perhaps even in the days leading up to it, he’s unsure; but his dreams have ebbed and flowed in the brook of consciousness, always floating back to that place. Always there, and now, with you – and after the lessons the other day, he is sure: it's Sabberon. 

He dreams of it burning; he sees it up in flames, and sometimes, you with it. 

His mother does little to quell the concern that brims in his gaze – though she sets down her glass and kisses his brow. “Be cautious with your dreams, Paul,” She chides, “Listen to them, learn from them.”

Her gaze brings no such comfort to him as he watches her gaze flick from the cliffs through the casement and back to him. 

“Dreams are messages from the deep.”

Though it is only late morning, the Strategy Council finds you quite weary.

You sit, toying with your fingers as you drown in a sea of House Atreides; and once again, the only solace in the room is your blade, laid in front of you on the table for all to see. Certainly a warning, this time. 

Nearly everybody you've met of importance during your sojourn is in attendance – the table is large and long, so much so that you know you will have to project your voice to be heard by the dredges of your periphery; and around you sit war masters, strategists, women and men with intense stares and the symbol of house Atreides upon their clothing. 

It is a fight, after Duke Leto sets a brief introduction, to not sound too sharp nor calculating; your gaze skitters over the listeners as you speak, their eyes interested, respectful – it is a shock to your body as you trail off, aware of the respect that brims in the quiet of the room. 

But worse still is the fight to stifle your yawn as the Duke reviews intelligence reports; Gritting your teeth, you sit up straighter – through no hitch of boredom but instead the dreadful absence of rest, now is perhaps the worst time for your body to punish your mind for your lack of sleep.

And beside the Duke this time rests a chilling gaze, one you’ve yet to meet in such a scenario – Paul rests with a straight spine and a stare hooked upon the pendant hanging from your neck, and you fight not to stir with the heat of the green boring through your veil. 

Until now, there's lived a cold silence between the two of you that has not been broken since it befell; that night when you were gifted the necklace – and besides the stiff apology he issued you the morning after, assuring you he was out of line for treating you with disrespect in his father’s study that morning – all that’s grown between you and your betrothed are cordial nods or a tight-lipped smile from him in passing, whenever a house member is around. Nothing more would dare be said between you, lest you pull a blade to his throat. 

If you'd been less indulged in your studies and training – or perhaps he, less prideful – maybe it would not have gone on this long; a stalemate as stubborn as its proprietors. 

But seeing as you've barely been in the same room once since that dreadful dinner several days ago, it's no different. You aren’t to be wed until the end of this year, but you know sometime soon, you will have to learn to live with him. 

Paul does not notice your attention on him for some time as the strategy council rolls on; He is seemingly in his own world, gazing intently at the necklace in a way that gives you a rush of unease – and you, drawn into the world of dreamlike memory: Of hands smooth against skin, of soft breath upon your cheek, of curls tickling your forehead. 

But it’s as if a shock hits him – and suddenly, a green stare finds your own; and though it is near impossible to discern your face unless mere inches away, Paul never fails to find your eyes behind the veil. 

In his stare, your mind convulses; brought forth unbidden and unsolicited, you see them: Curls that kiss your forehead, lips plush and pressed to your neck – a hand snaking up the bareness of your thigh. 

You swallow thickly, shifting in your seat; you’ve grown quite used to the demons which sleep in your mind – of Feyd-Rautha’s shadows curling to grasp your mind when your eyes shut – yet this strange thing, this new thing? 

Now, you're flushing each time you catch your husband-to-be's eyes – like some innocent girl, lovestruck and awake to be put in a corner; catching those very same eyes which regard you as a pawn on the chessboard of his House, no less.

And yes – there is not a part of you so vain as to lie and say Paul is not extremely attractive. A creature made of dark curls, sharp angles, plush lips, that cooled, smooth voice; anybody worth their wits could see his allure –  but even just this innocent observation rings forth a violent urge of resistance. An urge, to rip off the necklace; to scream at him, at the Imperium –  I am not yours to keep.

Though, before you can do much of anything, his gaze is gone from you; Paul breaks the turmoil in your mind with a simple turn of his head. 

Begrudgingly, you try to do the same. 

Though it yields nothing but more trouble: Your eyelids droop as you fight to stare at the Duke, who speaks in what you can only perceive as background noise as your mind soldiers on against your own will.

“Lady Bourbon?”

And with that, your eyes snap up, heart suddenly beating hard under the alarmingly paternal gaze of Duke Leto; In fact, through the silence, you observe that every eye is on you expectantly, including Paul’s. 

It is with ignorance of the concerned look etched upon his countenance that you snap out of your reverie, embarrassment flooding you; Paul's green eyes bore into you even when you turn to address the Duke. 

“Apologies, Duke Leto,” you clear your throat, willing your cheeks to stop flushing from the attention, “I've been having trouble sleeping lately. I've been having some…” You reluctantly admit the burdens of your mind, “…odd dreams. They've been keeping me awake at night.” 

After a beat, you stir, “Could you please repeat yourself?” You wonder with a flushed face and twisting fingers – but there is a quick glance sent from Lady Jessica to her son and your attention is stolen. 

Paul’s own gaze meets his mothers and then casts suddenly downwards, as if deep within his own mind; and it is clear – whatever she delivers within her gaze, he is clearly avoiding – though there is little pause from the rest of the council, and you soon forget the look shared between mother and son. 

From down the table, Thufir Hawat denotes a remedy in the form of an elixir you can take before sleep that should help you; the Duke orders a worker to have it brought to your quarters this evening, and in the expiring embarrassment of your slip-up, your mind rocks from its pulling descent to slumber.

You’re painfully alert after this, and when you are finally called upon to share your thoughts, it is by Gurney Halleck: “My lady, you’ve before mentioned certain endeavors during your time on Giedi Prime.” 

You nod and he takes the affirmation with a nod of his own, “What do you know of their Spice exploits?” 

And eyes once again fall to you from across the room; in a ticking of your jaw, you wish once more to rid yourself of the cursed veil that constricts your vision. Your spine straightens at the question and you choose your words quite carefully. “I do not know much of their spice harvesting,” you begin, “and it must be said that what I know is mostly second-hand; I learned most of what I know through the na-baron Feyd-Rautha.” 

A murmur from the end of the table, one you are quick to squash with a withering look behind the veil: “He is vicious,” You affirm, folding your hands, “but he has his own weaknesses, ones which the other Harkonnens lack.” And though the implications of your words settle in unease around the room – the Lady Jessica’s head turns to you just slightly – you do not drop the Duke’s stare. “I might remind you all that Spice is not their only source of power.”

And in the wash of a renewed power – eyes are hooked upon your cloaked figure, on how the words drip from a mouth so concealed. “They have large petroleum reserves – from refineries around the planet, stored in the bowels of Barony; I've seen them, they're never-ending."

This makes the duke shift in his seat; likewise, Paul's brows furrow in thought. 

Your voice is a beam through a forested canopy of pine and spruce, bursting forth into the sterile room; A perk of interest that bristles through the icy surface of a sleeping scape. “It is true, I was not an agent for my family; though from what I’ve been able to piece together, my family was recording Harkonnen reserves, and monitoring their activity with the Spacing Guild.” Your voice hangs, words heavy with implication. You swallow down the worry that gnaws in you before you continue. “Not just for spice, but petroleum. I was none the wiser until after they were caught.” You spare a glance to Paul, meeting his stare with your own. “–But of course, who is to believe me?” 

Paul’s gaze is promptly cast away, written with some flash of guilt; and you continue once more. “I assumed it is is why the Great Houses likely allowed for me to be brought to Caladan – in hopes that I know something of my family’s findings.”

Your eyes fall to Duke Leto. “Am I right, my Lord?” You wonder; the room is quiet as your words are absorbed, a rainbow of faces all varying degrees of surprise. 

Duke Leto is an honest man. “Yes,” he affirms, “It is one of the reasons I believe the Landraad passed the ordinance for your betrothal to be transitioned.” 

The knowledge does not do much to ease your worry – indeed, just some figure of strategy in a game above your head. 

His words are not unkind, though: “We've been concerned with any acts of retaliation to our house after this ruling, and though it hasn't come yet, we need to be prepared. We must know what you know, my lady.”  

You press your fingers along the blade before you as you nod. “When the betrothal was annulled, they were distraught,” you admit with an open air, catching the guarded surprise of several glances. It is mirthful, the small smirk that sneaks onto your lips as you take in their expressions. “Not for some attachment to me, mind you,” You ease them, “Feyd-Rautha was the worst of them when it came to the dissolution of our engagement – but the truth is…” you offer a half-shrug, shaking your head in some bitter mirth. “Harkonnens don’t like when their toys are taken away from them.” 

It is just as uncomfortable as ever; Paul’s stare is focused down, upon the grain of wood below your fingers, and you do not flinch at the set in his jaw. In the silence, you push forward, “Thufir has been tutoring me on local economics,” You nod to the man down the table, “I understand that the majority of the trading exports from Caladan are agriculture – fine wine and rice?” 

Paul’s voice comes from the depths. “Yes,” he confirms; and you nod, the chain of your headdress chiming slightly as you hold his stare. You wet your lips, “The Baron could easily flood the galactic market with cheap petroleum, garnering almost no externalities for himself.” You tilt your head, “An influx of cheap fuel like that could disrupt the transportation networks – the market for space transport and exportation would be saturated by the Harkonnens within days.” 

Sparse glances of thought and furrowed brows across the table – and after a moment, you hear the thought that has lingered in your mind since the moment you saw the refineries’ stock at Barony. 

“An action like this would highly disrupt our direct trade access from this system to most others without use of the Spacing Guild.” Thufir adds – the Duke still looks at you, urging you to continue. You do.

“What I fear,” You crack your knuckles gently, knee bouncing just slightly under the table, “Is the vacuum that’s been left on Sabberon. There is no governing body now that my family has been eliminated.” It is a blunt, unemotional statement, and you move past it before the ghosts which linger in the corners of your heart come out of the shadows. “If Harkonnen boots hit the ground there, they could rather easily take control of the planet's resources and exports. Their battalions could easily squash the insurgent groups in the North and South.” 

A nod, a sparse murmur – and then, a woman a few seats down from you leans forward to catch your gaze. “Sabberon's industries are commercial fishing, fir, logging.”

Hardly much to worry about, you know – and you turn, nodding. “Yes, they are – but I more mean the glacial deposits within our mountain ranges.” You purse your lips, a secret kept in the confines of Castle Bourbon tilting from your lips. “The highest ranges contain precious minerals and ores whose compounds are quite valuable for industrial applications. It’s how we industrialized so quick in the Turning Age.” You wish to avoid any history lessons – but it is important; and you clear your throat as you set down the pneumatic tubes you'd prepared before the council. 

“I've documented, to the best of my ability, everything that I remember here. Feyd-Rautha knows about the deposits on Sabberon; I believe it is fair to assume the Baron does, too.” 

It is in the lull of the moment, heavy and steeping with thought, that his face comes to you – and a sickly hand around your neck, a black smile: You're mine to keep. There's plenty of life left for you to serve.  

In a blink, you’re back to the grain of the table, tracing along it with your nail. Paul leans forward, brows furrowed. “If the region of Sabberon is destabilized – controlled by Harkonnens or in civil conflict – we could lose almost all of our exports. It’s a crucial line of trade in the system for us.” He echoes your concern, “Giving them access to the resources is dangerous enough, but a near-monopoly on petroleum, Spice, and the Space Trade Route?” 

There is a spark of intrigue at the sharp point of his intelligence – but nonetheless, you merely nod in agreement, pushing away any such girlish thoughts in sacrifice of the matter at hand. 

Gurney Halleck’s voice cuts through your observation of Paul’s hair against the light: “We need to consider this carefully. If the Harkonnens make a move to Sabberon, we must be ready to respond. But acting first could have larger consequences.”  

Duke Leto nods; with a glance to the War Master and back to the others. “Halleck's right. The Referendum is soon – the Landsraad will be redrawing the Trade negotiations then,” His gaze flickers to you, “–and your arraignment is set for the same congress. It seems the best option is to wait.” 

Dread fills you; stuck between a rock and a hard place, you’re left with nothing to do but wait – wait for the impending trade drawings, for the impending arraignment. You’re no fool – the arraignment might leave you with no inheritance, no claim to Sabberon. Your gut coils in anxiety, and it is not soothed by the urgent sense that curbs the meeting: plans are drawn out to set more strategy meetings before the Referendum; you are requested to attend them. 

Fear clubs up the ridges of your spine with each nod you give to passersby – and a panic pulls your eyelids to droop, your brain aching for rest. 

By the time you return to your chambers, you are much too exhausted to seek lunch. 

Instead, you are asleep within minutes. 

Your name calls to you. 

A hum in response as you thread your fingers through locks of curls; in the distance, birds sing. The sun drags streaks flying across the sky in its descent, and flakes flutter gently around you – though it smells not of snowfall. A bonfire crackles somewhere, you can smell the heady cedar embers, see the flames in your blinks.  

Your hair is tugged; in a huff of laughter, you tug the tresses laced between your own fingers – but in another surprising jolt, you’re tugged again and you gasp, catching the flicker in green eyes. “That hurt,” Your floating voice chides, though there is no malice – your words are faint and dancing around the falling flakes – a warm palm grasps your jaw to tilt your head up. 

“I'm very sorry,” he does not even trying to cover the lie, smiling against the dying sun. “Let me ease the pain,” He whispers, gentle and teasing against your jaw. A faint chuckle when he nips down your exposed neck and you breathe out; His hands are quite daring, slipping your dress over your head until you're bare against the sheet, blinking up warmly at the forest. The breeze of springtime is chill and disarming against your flesh; birds sing. His fingers trace you slowly. 

And there is nothing but arousal snaking through you as he sinks lower, lips painting a path back up your thighs, nipping gently at your soft skin; A swat to the top of his head, and a short noise of protest from him in response as you bite back a smile.

“Paul,” you whisper, and it disappears through the trees as if off to find some other world. He hums in a teasing lilt, vibrations rippling from his lips to your warm skin, sending a cascade of goosebumps through you. 

“Come back to me,” you whisper – and he listens, though he usually doesn't; His lips are replaced by his hips and soon, after a small roll, a gentle moan leaks from your lips. It is still slightly cold in the death of spring, but his skin is warm; His lips are warm. 

“I'm here, aren't I?" His eyes are upon yours, and your stomach flutters, “I'm always here.”  

And when he slides into you slowly, his lashes tangle in a kiss of deep brown – and your head tilts back against the sheet, his hand hitting the trunk of the Pine above your head, grasping with a thud; a long whimper is swallowed by his lips, consumed by his warmth, by the deep sensation that sends your back to arch.

And any semblance of chivalry dissipates as Paul begins to move; A palm gliding up from your hip, sliding over your breasts, pinching a pert nipple before rising – and you with a clutch upon his shoulders, grasping the warm skin and revelling in the sweet relief of pleasure. Fingers glide over your heaving chest as hips slide into your own – you’re pushed down against the earthy floor in ecstasy, and his grasp finds it suddenly–

A finger traces over the emblem clasped around your throat: A hawk, cerulean and shining, over your sweat-sheened, thundering chest. 

And before any such disdain can leak from lips so wanting of affection, he’s pulling with a startling force – the necklace breaks under Paul’s grasp and falls apart, stones and pearls rolling over your bare chest and pooling onto the sheet below you.

And it’s a thing of pleasure, the way your hand snakes to press his grasp to your thundering heart; the pendant is thrown far behind you as Paul’s desperation leaks through. 

A groan from his lips as his hand squeezes over your neck just lightly, your own grasping it in a shocking pleasure – it is unlike any sensation you’ve yet experienced, and soon pours his breaths and groans like a river of desire broken for you. A whispered phrase, over and over, spilling from your lips and his alike – lulling you into a state of euphoria as his body rocks with yours, breathing to the earth and feeling it breathe back. 

Hands grasp skin tight and desperate – your nails find the line of his smooth back, clutching to the lithe muscles that move with his hips; and he, tracing each curve of your face and neck with his lips, gasping as the flakes that fall around you begin to burn as embers. Smoke lingers somewhere far off; though you are with your husband and you cling to him, whispering that same phrase over, and over – a jolted gasp of pleasure – and once more; over, and over, and over – 

“I'm yours.” 

Something rouses you from sleep, much quicker this time, and you wake with a start.  

Broad daylight streams through your chamber windows when your eyes open, your heart thundering as you shift on the sheets; A blurry form comes into view, fluffing the untouched pillow beside you on the bed. You do not strike this time, instead swarmed with shame and embarrassment in the wake of such tangible dreams. 

“Bad dream again?” Hestia she sets down a fresh set of clothing; you swallow and wince at your dry throat, heart thudding. Bad dream... You can feel your face flood with embarrassment – you'd rather be caught dead than admit what you'd just dreamt, so instead you push your hair from your face, fanning your cheeks. 

“Yes.” You croak, accepting the glass of water she offers you, “I did not mean to fall asleep.”

The sheets are warm and your spine is lined with sweat; you slide out of your bed with the elegance of a newborn mare, eyes flicking around. 

The sky is sunny, not a single rain cloud; and your chambers are heavy, tight. 

“I need some fresh air.” 

Paul’s shadow dances across the wild grass as the midday sun follows his steps. 

The breeze is much more permanent down by the shore; he brushes stray curls from his eyes, tracing the shoreline below with a lingering absence; It's only a few hours until he should be back in the strategy chambers with his father, helping draw plans for the upcoming Referendum – but the castle has grown stuffy and sterile at the same time, and his stomach growls in hunger. He needs some fresh air. 

Though the sea mists his cheeks, his mind is stuck high above him, spinning in the memory of the Strategy Council meeting. Paul would be struck dead a liar if he were to say you were not one of the most intelligent women he’s met; and after this morning, there is truly nothing much else he has been able to think of – and despite himself, the growing bud of admiration sprouts within his mind, even despite your predisposition to violence and solitude.

Paul almost feels foolish for how blinded he was – if war is really on the horizon, he supposes it’s very lucky that House Atreides took you in; If not for your capabilities and sharp intellect, then for your claim to Sabberon, for your connections with the Ginaz and their Swordsmen; for your intimate knowledge of Harkonnen power. 

It’s now as important as ever that Paul ensures you remain on the Atreides’ side, should this war come – a burden to hold you should you somehow wish to return to the black embrace of Giedi Prime, but one he will have to keep. Because you are too valuable to his House to let you go over trivial things; Politics is all two way streets; you will help them with your insights and they will protect you. And with this, perhaps, comes the truth – that Paul has begun to learn of you, of the you that shines through any small cracks in the armor. 

And over the meadow he walks, he sees that lush green forest again; a woodpecker against bark, your hands sliding into his own as you lean him back against the trunk of a tree – the smell of smoke, an explosion on the horizon; laughter swallowed by the wind, lips pressed to parted lips.

Paul sighs harshly. 

He's not sure if it was the correct decision to tell his mother about these dreams, instead of his father; skepticism is a biting friend as his feet trudge over the cliff and down, closer to the beach. 

Paul loves his mother, but he is indeed not naive to the manipulative nature of the Bene Gesserit; in some dreadful way, he wonders once more which silent partners in the Imperium influenced the decision for the Houses to order his betrothal to you. 

A small whisper in the back of his mind, that sickly voice of the Reverend Mother those years ago: Two candidates... Paul may one day be one of them–

The skittering of a rabbit through the grass calls his attention to the path, his jaw clenched tight. 

The wind is swallowed by the structure under which he ducks; It is a small alcove – one of many below the cliffs which hold a cluster of tidepools, small and large. And this particular one catches his eye, just on the left – a soft smile grows upon weary lips. 

When he was younger, he often played in these very alcoves with the few other children his age in the castle; swimming, playing hide-and-seek, sparring with wooden daggers. 

His feet take him into the alcove without any hesitation – the rock grows slick with seawater and the scent of the brackish pools; it isn't until he's into the shade that he sees the figure seated among the pools.

You wear the same clothing you'd donned at the Strategy Council, your feet bare and dipped into the shallow waters. 

For a moment, he considers turning back to his path towards the beach; but your back grows rigid as you turn to him, and he’s struck with a breath of beauty blowing in the breeze of your veil. 

A thick silence; a silence lived between you, lodged like an unwanted burden – it has been some time since you were last alone. A memory of his shaking hands, the bite in your words as you’d clasped that pendant to your chest - of that sheer veil, of your glistening gaze across the table. 

It is time to leave such hesitancy behind; and so with a tentative swallow, Paul takes a few steps closer.

“I hadn't expected to find you here,” An honest and neutral observation. 

Somewhere beyond that gauzy veil, you stare back at him; and your fingers twitch towards the blade upon your hip before curling once more into a soft fist, cradled in a palm. “Nor I you,” you reply coolly – and in the uneasy silence, Paul sacrifices his pride and endures the agony of discontent. 

He does not ask if you mind if he joins you – he knows that you would; so instead he sits gently, leaving a wide berth of space between you. 

And while you bristle at his arrival, stiffening as he sits across from you and drops the bag from his back beside him, he cannot bring himself to blame you.

It is a peculiar posture you give; a cradling of your hand as you watch the ripples in the tide pool that he slowly dips his feet into – it is soon that he recognizes the gives of pain from your figure. And that very agony it is almost palpable in your silence as he looks down at where you rub the skin of your hand, swollen and red. 

“I assume you met the crabs.”

And the headdress of metal jewelry that adorns the crown of your forehead chimes when you turn to watch him, surprise laced into your posture. 

“I did.” 

Your affirmation is punctuated by an unfurling of your palm, revealing blistered, irritated skin; He winces more for your own sake than in true surprise before letting his eyes roam gently over the near landscape – moss grows in clumps throughout the rocky pools, though he searches for that short, stalky root which grows just outside the reach of the water.

And after spotting one beside you, he reaches; you flinch, though he pays no mind to the hitch in your breath as he gives the stalk a quick tug – and the plant is ripped out, roots and all. 

He hands you the root of the stalk, gesturing for you to take it: “You can use this plant.”

And in your evergreen poise, you grasp the root hesitantly, as if sensing a trap. It dangles limp from your grasp, earthy as the gems upon your jewelry – and you return to your statued posture, watching him, faceless and green as the moss around you. 

He nods after a moment of awkward breath, gesturing to the stalk. “Chew it.” 

You do nothing but breathe at him for a moment – and perhaps if he could see your eyes, he’s sure he would find disbelief; Skepticism. And perhaps if it were any other time, any other person, he’d laugh at the silent incredulity that leaks between you. 

He shifts, feet circling in the pool of water. “It soothes the itch and the pain. You chew it, and spit it onto your palm.” Patience is lost when you do not respond – and perhaps out of the growing blush on his cheeks in your refusal to act, he sighs sharply, “It's not poisonous.”

I'm not trying to kill you, he almost says; but something in him stops the words before they leave his mouth and he instead tilts his head in a short mock of your own.

And he swears in the breeze carries a huff from beneath that gauzy fabric – and then the root disappears rather awkwardly under your veil.

In the glinting light of the cave, he can just nearly make the shape of your lips, hear the small snap of the stalk between your teeth. And in the quiet lap of waves against the shore in the distance, Paul watches expectantly – from years of habit, he is used to the milky taste; but he remembers how unpleasant it can be the first time. 

And those eyes catch his own, some phantom force from behind shades of green – slowly, you spit it out onto your palm, as if questioning if you were doing it right. Paul’s face feels suddenly warm – a trail of saliva falls from lips glistening in the spare ray of sun, alight with a forested green and the milky blood of the root. It is a harsh reminder of the dream he'd woken up from this very morning; and with a sudden sense of panic – as if you might somehow reach into his mind and see such salacious thoughts – he forces the visions away.

The waves lap idly against his feet; you rub the mixture into your palm quietly.

“How did you know to do that?” 

Your voice is curious, and the fingers not matted with the root-paste press against the spongy moss beside your pants. You’re a vision of that first day, when you’d whispered words of interest at the very plant nor beneath your touch; a vision of green and poise, of stoic quiet and twitching fingers. Despite himself, Paul’s lips curl up in a small grin. 

Squinting against the sunshine, the beach in the distance is a warbly thing, foamed and bubbled by the current – and his left shoulder shrugs. “I played here when I was young. I got pinched a lot.” 

You don't necessarily laugh, but there’s an exhalation from your nose that curves his own lips; and when, after a few more minutes, you reach to rinse your hand in the pool before you, the angry skin has returned to its glowing health. 

Waves crash quietly within the cove and Paul warily watches one of the bluecrabs meander across a rock beside you – just when he parts his lips to warn you, your fingers move away, head tracking its path across and towards the smaller pool behind you. 

And in the moment of silence, he hears the unmistakable rumble of your stomach.  

“Are you hungry?” He asks suddenly, clearing his throat; Your hand has taken to drawing idle circles in the tidepool, and you hardly cease the hypnotizing movements as you shrug with a small nod. “I slept through lunch today.” 

A moment of hesitation before he looks over his shoulder at you – unassuming, running your nails across the patch of bare skin awarded by the cuffing of your trouser legs; and slowly, from the bag beside him, he pulls out the food that he'd taken from the kitchen.

Apples, crackers, some imported cheese; sparkling juice from the vineyards south of Cala City, and a foil filled with bits of chocolate.

But through his focus on unwrapping the pack, your voice cracks into the cove, incredulous – almost amused. “This was all for you?” 

Paul bristles defensively, giving you a wide glance, cheeks warm. “I was hungry,” He defends; and with a hard blink, he’s brought back to the week previous, when all that he saw when you were around was red – anger, trepidation, mistrust. 

And though thoughts whirl in his mind quicker than he can catch – of you, your family, your time on Giedi Prime – he finds himself mildly pleased with the stalemate that has come about; a hand reached across an abyss, and a hesitant grasp in return.  

Your voice is light when you speak again. “If I can confess,” your head trails down sheepishly – Paul’s attention follows you. “The veils have never made it easy to enjoy a long supper. They tangle in my hair no matter how it's styled, anyways.” 

And despite himself, he huffs a short laugh; was that a hint of a joke, from you? 

It is not so abnormal, veils – he has known many women in his life to wear them – but never in a custom such as yours; to not remove it in front of anybody for months and months of mourning –  He cannot fathom how bizarre a change it must be, even if it is how you were raised. 

So when your hands raise, he does not expect them to go towards the hem of the fabric.

And he does not expect you to slide it from the crown of your head. 

It is sharply that he whips his head away; in a skipped heartbeat, the glimpse of your hair unfettered by the green gauze haunts his mind – what in the hell are you doing? 

Paul’s heart thunders against his chest, though he cannot find any words to string into a meaningful sentence – he watches a bluecrab crawl into the pool across the way. 

“I don't mean to shock you,” your voice is so very close, now; he swallows down the flutter in his throat at its lilt, “Truth be told, I'm not even sure if I'm supposed to wear these still.” 

Confusion laces through his mind – the rock you sit upon is wetted and dark, clumped with bright emerald moss; and you, as if unknowingly, throw kindle into the fire of nerves in his chest. 

A mirthful tone you bring with your words: “You don't have to look away, you know. I'm still the same beast as before.” 

And he does look, after that. 

Paul cannot help himself: he stares at you – really you – no fabric to cover the slope of your nose, the curve of your chin, the round of your cheeks; the way your brows gather, a canopy above the most expressive eyes he’s ever seen in his life. 

And your hair is loose – let wild and uncovered, swayed gently by the sea breeze; glossy in the glint of sun off the sea in the distance. Paul wonders absently, in some foul derivative of jealousy or hatred, if Feyd-Rautha enjoyed your hair; unique as it surely was on a planet full of hairless beings. 

Paul quickly schools himself – perhaps in another life, he’d be rather ecstatic to see that he has such a beautiful bride-to-be; yet it just serves to wash over another pang in his stomach. Your words of moments ago haunt over his mind as he once more meets your eyes, waiting for him. I'm still the same beast as before.

There is some inevitability to your gaze –  disfavored to him, yes – but perceptive, knowing.

The pull of the tide must be answered by the shore, Dr. Yueh once told him; Perhaps that is true, and perhaps that is why Paul stares at you, the sense of mistrust breaking way to a new sense of dread, of regret. 

You are no beast to me, he should say. But he doesn't; not when he’s unsure if it would be a lie coming from his lips. 

Instead, he can only voice the astonishment in his mind at the sight of your veil held between your hands. “Why did you take it off?” 

You blink; heavens, your lashes are long – they kiss your cheeks against the soft light from the grotto. He swallows thickly, busying himself with the apple and a knife. 

Your voice comes as matter-of-fact as you’d been in the meeting that very morning. “Well, I'm quite hungry.” 

You lean over – your tunic rustles in the movement, and Paul averts his gaze from the glinting necklace upon your chest, the slide of your hair upon the fabric of your back. Slowly, you take to slicing the cheese for you both with your very own blade – and Paul’s confusion has not quelled, but instead grown in the breeze of your nearly casual movements.

It’s as if the veil took with it the cold, calculating dissidence; you sit in front of him a young woman, plain. Pretty, sharp, cunning; but, simpler than that: Hungry. 

A simple thing indeed – one that, as his own stomach rumbles, he knows he relates to. And so he offers you a slice of apple warily, watching you with some lingering shame, as if he's stumbled upon on a shrine long since sacred and wanting. 

“I thought you wore them for nine months,” He states, tilting his head, "The anthropologists in the video said–” 

But you’ve reared to stare at him, blinking in some odd vision of shock: “–Nine months?" You interrupt, voice more animated than he's ever heard; it nearly startles him, the youth in your voice, the life. You nearly bemoan, furrowing your brows as if hoping to recall a long lost memory. “It’s hardly been three weeks and I’ve already begun to fantasize burning them.”

Confusion must paint his expression, for your face changes sheepishly, falling into a solemn line. “Forgive me,” You clear your throat, “It's grown apparent to me as of late that am not well-versed in my own customs.” 

And it is a stony, quick change from your previous cadence; Paul’s brows furrow, though you seem to offer him further elaboration as you take in his countenance. 

“My family did not often uphold many of the old religion's traditions once I got old,” You sigh as you chew on an apple, tilting your head, “I was educated by the Bene Gesserit as my mother wished when I was young - and in many ways, our family adopted their customs in replacement of our heritage culture.”

It is a stone dropped into his stomach at your words, though he lets no emotion betray him – your voice licks with the lilt of trepidation in the mention of the Bene Gesserit; and your eyes, wide and expressive, only pull him in despite the foreboding churn of his stomach. 

This is certainly not what Paul expected – why, then, have you been wearing the veil so devotedly? 

“I have a book,” He says dumbly – and with a cleared throat, he ignores the sudden flush that crawls from the collar of his tunic. “If you– if you want to read more about it.”  

You fix him with a look, and he’s struck by the rawness of your features. “A book?” you echo, and he shifts upon his seat awkwardly.  

“About your family's customs. I j–” he stops himself, combing a stray curl back, “We thought it would be pertinent to know what your courting traditions are, what your customs are. To make you… comfortable,” he reasons gently, guilty that it was not so apparent from the beginning, “If… if we are to marry, it should be honorable. For both of us.”

It's as if his words have seeped into the spongy spin of your mind; your eyes have grown distant as they course over the shoreline across the way, brows settling in a line across the smooth skin of your forehead. Moments pass and the words he left hanging in the air stay; Waves kiss the sand of the cove and Paul toys with the knife in his hands quietly. He’s unsure how he might pull you from those cold depths of your thoughts, and so he sits, watching your lips purse and catch between your pearled teeth gently. 

And after a moment, you come back to him. “Thank you,” You say – and your voice is once again that blank, cold tone – as if a wall had been snapped up suddenly, “I only remember wearing the veils when I was–” You break off for a moment, ripping the skin from a slice of apple. “When my sister died. I wasn’t quite old enough to remember much from it, and… I was eighteen when I left Sabberon. As I got older, our castle was so often full of visitors that we would regularly forgo most customs of my father’s family.” 

It is a melancholy thing when you look back up at him. “If I can be honest, I… suppose I don’t know what I’m doing.” 

Involuntary as it is, Paul cannot help his gaze from darting to the necklace you wear around your neck; and just as quickly he moves to search your visage – looking perhaps for any emotion. He finds none. 

I shall wear it like a dog. 

The breeze catches your hair. Paul’s brows furrow, “The veil wasn’t your choice,” he realizes. Guilt, that drooping, wilting guest, slumps upon the stoop of his heart. 

 And you shrug, glancing at your lap, “True, it’s been a long time since I’ve been able to make choices for myself,” you admit – and it’s an admission far too heavy for the air in the cove, as you swirl your toes in the pool, as his own press to the rock beneath the water, his heart heavy. A hand flickers to the veil that lies with its adorning metal headpiece to your left. “I guess taking it off is one of them.” You clear your throat, nails digging into the earth exposed from where Paul had ripped the root – and your other hand rises, almost as if you endure a sharp pain in your ribs – and you cradle the spot, fingers lingering in a haunting line before falling to the rock below. “Feyd-Rautha would not have let me wear the veil even if I had wanted to. But at least I am making the choice for myself now.” 

And it is a jolting reminder, one of horror – when you had arrived on Caladan, Duncan's arm still bleeding with the result of your fight, Paul had seen a Harkonnen. A dagger wrapped in layers of silk and velvet. 

And perhaps the Caladan air has changed you; but more likely, you have begun to heal yourself – and although you do not look well-rested, there are indeed healing wounds upon your arms; wounds that churn Paul’s stomach, that strike his heart in acrimony, in wrath. A nightmare, you’ve come from – and he knows now that whatever you’ve endured is something that would break many.

Still, you’ve changed in a gradual shift: You are not so fervent or distrusting as you were those first few days – though you remain that ghost haunting the halls, you walk with less wrath, more credence; He knows you speak with your chambermaids freely – you take sparring lessons with Duncan after Paul each day, and tutor in the mornings before he does. Your voice in council this morning: Grown and defrosting, confident; born to take on such a role. 

You sit perched upon the dark rock – the light hits your hair and the slope of your nose, bathing your eyelashes in an ethereal glow. You’re a sharp woman, keen and astute; He watches your straight spine, the slow breaths which grow from a proud chest. 

You will make a good duchess. 

And in a moment, Paul notices – a wide gaze, searching his face; it occurs to him that perhaps this is also the first time you have seen him unobstructed. And so, with an odd feeling in the pit of his stomach, he lets you stare; a secret relish in the silence and its change in demeanor. 

A once excruciating thing, leaking with the sentiment of shared disdain, of mutual mistrust – though now grows a respect, or maybe the roots to it; a slow thing, plotten in frozen soil and hoped to grow despite harsh weathers. 

You finish your half of the apple, and he watches the glint of your necklace as you lean back upon your palms. “Can I…” His voice breaks through as an ocean does a cliff; “Can I ask you something?” 

It is a beautiful collar. I shall wear it like a dog. 

And Paul is so very suddenly tired – fatigued from his lessons, the council, the marriage, the prospect of war with the Harkonnens, of his dreams; his head feels as though it swims, light above the clouds and yet tethered to the ground below.

Your brows dip slightly, as if your hackles rise. “Yes,” you murmur warily, eyes roving over his figure. 

He swallows thickly, willing himself to spit it out. “Do you choose to wear that?” 

He need not gesture to the necklace that hangs around your neck; and you, stilling in the cold wind of truth. When it comes, it is not through words: Your eyes are wide and, if Paul did not know better, they reveal the sting of fear. 

You say nothing, but in time, you shake your head slightly. 

And this does not ease his conscience. 

It is an echo of words bitten through clenched teeth and the onslaught of rain; it is in the weeping willows of that ceremonial dress, in the sliding of shade over your veil that first time he ever met you. 

He’s not sure why he says it, but it comes as a whisper, as wind snuffs out a flame, as fog creeps across the shoreline in the early hours: 

“Threats demand evolution.”

His murmur is swallowed by the breeze in the cove, by the rustle of the veil beside you. 

His words bristle your spine, though you say nothing; and for a long minute, he avoids the burning stare of your gaze against his profile. 

It is only after the food is prepared and spread over the moss between you that you speak; and in the time it takes for Paul to lay out the food, it occurs to Paul that this is the most you and him have spoken without being plagued by tense silences or passive-aggression – or at least without enduring the childish embarrassment of being mediated by his parents as they ask you both questions at the supper table. 

A nail, trimmed and coated in a deep paint, traces the glass bottle that lies half in the bag – the soft clink of your tap brings his gaze from the pools below. “Did you intend on drinking yourself drunk this afternoon?” You wonder – a warmer tone, that inkling of amiability returning so suddenly. 

He hands you a piece of bread and his knife, shaking his head wryly – though the lingering hesitance of unfamiliarity restricts him from jesting in return.  

Having intended to be alone, Paul had not grabbed a glass, let alone two; and so he grasps the bottle by its neck, twisting on the cage atop it to begin to open it. An irritating curl lies across his forehead – and so he flicks his head to jolt it out of the way; your gaze tracks the motion. 

“It's sparkling tea.” 

At his words you hum slowly, glancing at the bottle in his hands.

“That’s a shame.” You muse, hand brushing one of your own strands away, “I've never tried wine.”

Paul's eyes flicker to you in surprise; Had you not been offered wine at supper here? Had you never had it in your youth, as a highborn? 

“Not even when you were young?”

And you shake your head, a wistful smile gracing your lips; your hair is silken, even in the shade – Paul hadn't expected it to be such a shade, but suits you.

“Never,” you confirm, “Where I come from, our preferred drinks are mead or ale, usually served warm. And…” You trail off, shrugging, “On Giedi Prime they favor liquor that is made from anise – you know, the spice?” You inquire, and continue when he nods, “It's much too bitter for my taste,” you continue, your voice tinged with a similar bitterness that you describe, “And even if I did enjoy it, I… tried not to drink there, when I could.” 

Paul looks out to the sea – clouds crawl in an ominous roll towards the shore, the air thick – it’ll rain this evening. 

There is nothing to say; and so, he begins to ease his thumb over the cork, pressure pushing against him. 

“In the South, all that grows are fields and fields of vines,” he explains after the moment passesa dn clouds swallow the sunlight. Dripping sun, wide-reaching hands of vines, drooping with heavy clusters of sweetgrapes in the South. “They make all kinds of fine wine there. Sweet, sparkling, aged.” 

You hum at this, your gaze tracking his own to the sea, tracing the crash of waves against the stark cliffs in the distance. 

Your small lunch passes by in intermediate silence after this: Both you and Paul are insatiably hungry, and in minutes the food is nearly gone – you’re not particularly warm, and neither is he; and it matters not. He is well consumed with his own thoughts to give himself the company you do not provide. 

Though as the sun continues its peak in the sky and you continue to eat quietly – clearly attempting to remain amiable with him – a sense of regret bubbles in his chest. 

“I owe you an apology.” 

And it startles you – his throat is dry, and your jump goes unaddressed, your nails digging into the moss beneath as he refuses to meet your gaze. “I've…” He pushes away the pride that burns at his throat, “I’ve treated you poorly. Acted like a child,” he admits. 

In his peripheral, you turn to him.

His sigh is weary. “I didn't expect for it to happen like this,” and the corner of his mouth lifts mirthlessly – emotionless, as he gazes to the coast. An understatement on his part, and surely yours, too – but it is indeed the truth. 

And perhaps it is not polite to admit to your betrothed that you loathe the idea of marrying them, but he knows the feeling is more than mutual. And he does not blame you for it. 

Paul is admittedly not usually one for so many words with a stranger – but they come forth very easily in the quiet of the cove. “I was… displeased with how this worked out. Shocked. But–” He shakes his head, unwilling to lose his thought, “But that doesn't excuse how I've treated you.”

You don't say anything, but he can feel how tense you've grown – a statue once more in the dying afternoon sunshine. You have every reason to hate the Harkonnens just as much as his family – if not much more; and with a clammy palm, Paul runs his hand over his forehead.

The thunderclouds loom in the horizon; the salt carries thick in the growing wind.

And with the absence of your words – perhaps in a moment of resignation, he says your first name; Never having said it out loud, it comes out as a murmur on his lips, a small hymn that coaxes your gaze to his own. 

 “This path was set for us.” He admits, swallowing thickly, “Though we can–” He turns to watch your eyes, how they swirl with unbridled emotion. “Maybe we can navigate it together.” 

And in the afterbreath of his words, your breathing is heavy with emotion. Paul is not naive enough to believe it is tears, though he averts his gaze all the same. 

“Yeah,” you finally whisper – and though it is dispassionate, withdrawn, it is laced with some small drip of desperation. “Yes.” You mend – though your eyes are far away, tracing the violence in the crashing waves, watching the foamy white caps break in their wake.

“I won't disrespect you again,” he insists, “I swear.”  

You lift your feet from the water, curling them under you as you stir, nodding slowly. “Thank you,” Your eyes are sullen. “But don't make promises you can't keep, Paul.” And though he expected as much, the emptiness of your tone churns his heart and spins his head. “I've had my fill of broken vows.” 

You aren't hostile in your words; instead they are melancholy, a dreary wind whistling through an empty ravine – beneath Paul, another small bluecrab treks across the terrain, rocking in the gentle water tides. 

You’re right – and he's soon filled with the same sense of dread that he's felt after each dream that has haunted him since they began; that same melancholy which envelopes you as you rise, gathering your belongings, preparing to walk back to the castle. 

And Paul walks beside you, little more than a few words escaping either of you as you go; a brush of your shoulder against the crook of his elbow, the hitch of a breath concealed with a glance to the shoreline.

By the time you enter the main gates, fat raindrops have begun to fall on Paul’s face, sticking heavy to his lashes.

You, likewise, shield slightly from the rain, your hair kissed with teardrops from the skies, sliding over your cheeks like the tears you’ll never give. 

The halls are slick with intracked rainfall – workers offer towels, scold him, tease him; and yet they stare, though they try not to – eyes warm his neck, and pierce through the girl who walks at his side. 

But still you walk with your head high, spine straight. Your eyes are guarded, almost insecure at the prying faces who watch your visage as you pass – but even as Paul walks you to your chambers, you don't give in. 

And you don't put the veil back on.

follow @sandpoet for updates & notifications.

[librarycards]

Jenny Odell: I sometimes feel that in an individualistic culture, people get freaked out by the idea of being tied down or responsible for anything. Thinking about a gift economy, they might say, “I want the gift part but not the accountability part.” Lately, I’ve been volunteering in this native plant restoration group, and one of the most surprising parts has been how enlivening it is to help keep something else alive (I’ve never had a garden before). Sometimes I truly can’t tell whether I’m giving or getting. What are some ways that you see participation in a gift economy changing the participant’s sense of herself and her place in a network? In other words, is participation itself part of the gift?

RK: Yes. Exactly. Participation is part of the gift, where giving and getting meld into one another. A garden teaches you that every day. Gifts and responsibilities are always coupled to each other.

Of course, you’re right that given our hyper-individualistic culture, many people are not eager to embrace responsibility. Its often confounded, I think with the notion of “obligation”. Obligation feels to me like an involuntary demand on our time and energy, imposed from outside without the assurance that you’ll benefit in return. I’m sometimes reluctant about that, too. But, responsibility is an invitation to respond to need, an opening to reciprocity in which the benefits flow both ways. The benefits of participation in a gift economy are not only flowing to the gift recipient but the giver as well. Working on your restoration project, or any other gift exchange strengthens your own sense of agency, doesn’t it? It awakens care and compassion, builds relationship and nurtures your own identity as a person of capacity, of having enough abundance in your life that you can share it. I think it contributes to a sense of purpose, which we know is good medicine. It reminds you that you matter, that you’re part of something. That’s a big reward.

I find that some of the times that I feel most fully alive are in experiences of shared physical work in community with others. Like an old-time husking bee or shared planting. We’ve lost so many of the opportunities for that and gift economies provide the opportunity to work in common, to satisfy the need for belonging. And when that work is on the land and the benefits flow into our neighborhood of many species, the benefits are multiplied beyond the boundaries of ourselves.

JO: There is a really beautiful analogy you draw between the economy of nature and the human gift economy. Asking what in the gift economy functions as the “sun”–the constantly replenishing source of energy–you speculate: “Maybe it is love.” Reading this, it occurred to me how love is in essence a surplus, the force that gets things going. Could you speak more to the emotional and practical role that things like love and gratitude play in a gift economy? And how do they change the way we see “resources”?

RK: The fundamental currency of a gift economy, is relationship, not money. I suppose it’s what some people call “social capital”, but I’m not fond of that term. Participation in a gift economy could create a whole continuum of relationships, from the warmth of being cared for or an expanded sense of justice to just plain neighborliness. This can create a sense of security because mutual reliance grows from gift exchange. There is a sense of satisfaction in being able to give, and a sense of kinship in being able to receive, when we share the mutual acknowledgment of human vulnerability. For me, that continuum of relationships includes the possibility of a currency of love and gratitude that motivates the gift exchange, which is the source of the flow, between people and between people and the earth as well.

Gift-giving is a way of saying “I see you.” I see what you need and I see what I have to share. My well-being is tied to yours and yours to mine. It develops a trust that when I am in need, there will be abundance shared with me. The giver and the recipient are honored at the same time. That seems a lot like love to me.

Robin Wall Kimmerer, interviewed by Jenny Odell, Gift Thinking. [emphasis added]

[toxintouch]

Hyperspecific Leander Fluff Headcanons:

sleepy time themed bc I am supposed to be asleep

[They pronouns used.]

He loves to bring his partner breakfast in bed. It honestly might be more for him than for them; he loves it that much.

It's not an every morning thing. (Unless??) There's an element of surprise to it - he will sneak away at some unholy hour of the morning to prepare/obtain everything.

He knows all the best hidden delicacies and can always miraculously get something prepared at odd times of the night/morning. He's just a nice, normal guy doing his part to support his local economy! :)

(He'd be more keen on making breakfast (or other meals) himself if he's cooking with his partner. He'd enjoy the domesticity of helping them cook/bake if that's their hobby, or would love learning alongside them if they showed an interest.)

Breakfast in bed tends to happen more often if he was taking care of Bloodhound business all night and didn't get to sleep ("sleep" - does he ever even sleep?) next to them.

Loves being the one to wake them up in general, even if it's not a breakfast in bed type of morning. :)

Getting to see them all sleepy and unguarded and adorable is priceless for him.

Secretly loves it even more if they are slow to wake or grouchy first thing in the morning because that means he gets to dote on them and/or gently coax them awake with cuddles and kisses all over their face.

(If they are really grouchy: 🥺🥺 Is there anything he could offer that might make them more happy to wake up? 🥺🥺 😏)

On that note, he is completely unfazed by morning breath. It simply doesn't exist to him. They don't want to kiss him because of morning breath?? Invalid argument, he doesn't even know what that is.

(He's a morning person. Also a night owl. Also very active in the afternoon. Seriously, does he ever sleep?)

Even if he's staying up whereas they're going to bed, he always walks them to their room. Will excuse himself from whatever he is talking about with his Bloodhounds just to kiss them goodnight.

If he was away and thus didn't escort them to bed and wish them goodnight himself, he'll ask around regarding when they were seen heading to sleep. That way, he knows when is a good time to wake them up! He can't have them undersleeping, after all. (Man's a hypocrite.)

(Or, if they wake up at the same time every day, he'll adjust his schedule to accommodate.)

Crowds his parter when they are doing their nighttime routine. Always trying to hug them around the waist when they are brushing their teeth, etc. They come up from rinsing their facewash off and he's there behind them like a jumpscare.

Endless chatter while they get ready for bed unless they can quiet him down with some form of affection. Chatter will continue as he tucks them in.

Except... as their relationship progresses, he'll stick around on nights where he's feeling more burnt out needy quiet. He'll go in for an embrace and not let go... then transition into a gentle sway. The two of them end up doing a kind of mindless slow dance, if they allow it. Mentally, he's worn out but physically he's still restless. Hopefully they'll indulge him for a while?

Absolute worst at telling bedtime stories. He's too much of a showman. He'll turn the shortest little fable into a sprawling epic. Will act out the parts like he's in a play and/or make tiny magic illusions. It will be an hour(s) long affair. Worse, they won't even notice time passing because he's such a compelling storyteller. Always manages to put a fresh spin on the tale in question.

Has a great reading voice to fall asleep to. But even when he's supposed to be reading off the page, he editorializes, changes the story where he doesn't like the source material -- more often, changes the story to cater to their tastes specifically -- , finds ways to add in anecdotes about random things/people, bring up shared experiences and inside jokes...

If his partner starts playing with his hair, he'll stumble over his words. Every. Time. If they keep at it, he'll quiet down and just enjoy being in the moment for a while.

You'd think he would want to be the little spoon, but nope. Big spoon so he can smother hold them to his heart's content. ❤️

Okay, maybe sometimes he'll be the little spoon. More specifically, he'll quite happily be the little spoon while they are awake - he loves having their attention - but as soon as they are asleep, he swaps to be the big spoon. He likes the feeling of protecting them while they are asleep. :)

He's impossibly good at removing himself from the bed without waking his partner. Doesn't matter how entangled the two of them were, he manages it.

[n0-n1c]

about to blow that madara-tobi freak out of the water 🧨

📃🏙️📄

as is becoming a habit, more details under cut :)

take a look at this bustling city we can be proud to call our own! in the embrace of waters deep six hundred billion seeds i have sown (all ready to bloom. aren't they pretty?) now comes a time for you to reap (every piece is a piece of me)

the paper collage part was made from a single newspaper in a fit of inspiration

the vaguely heart-like shape in the middle was a pain to make natural while keeping the wings as i wanted them.

i wanted to include a faint rainbow, or rather several color-tinted arches of exploding tags in the reflection. it didn't want to work with the composition.

most of the papers in her wings aren't distorted by the water. wonder what that means

deep dark... deep dark... alluring light at the very bottom...

now to the poem:

amegakure is suspiciously modern. best place to live! except for the war and rain and heavy industry and vaguely threatening leader with a god complex.

if this was the closing verse of something longer, the opening verse would be this: we were made out of stainless steel where others were left out to corrode only the strongest welcome the rain over a pit stop on war road

kishimoto has no idea how numbers work. i usually play with the timeline & ages to get something that makes sense at the moment (even thinking about team minato ages hurts). however 600,000,000,000 is an insane number i'm keeping.

(can't find the original post that first mentioned this but i've already incorporated it into my konan lore:) konan has a plan to take down any member of the akatsuki. very batman-like of her. except every plan involves an incredible number of exploding tags. "konan is the only sane one in the akatsuki"? she is sitting in their meetings while silently making exploding tags somewhere else. every time she lays her eyes on hidan or deidara or madara-tobi she ups the rate of production. i'm scared of big numbers because they overflow on accident or you have to think about what special type to give them & when you mess up an algorithm complexity they want to compute way over the heat death of several universes... (amateur c programmer with math background spotted) (btw in c it's long long int, 64 bits)

konan & flowers! i mean it's literally part of her design so why not indulge when she has created a literal minefield (except the whole field is made of bombs)

madara-tobi goes boom! poor obito finds field imagery around him (hatake, nohara). seems to be a normal japanese thing, but psst, let me enjoy this. mr fan-the-flame is drowned in fire

every piece is a piece of her. first of all, literally. don't tell me she sat down (cloned of course) and did calligraphy on regular paper by hand, and/or ruined the whole economy just for this. talk about putting your heart into something... second, she uses paper butterflies for spying. as in, she turns into hundreds or thousands of pieces (ch371; jiraiya assumes he's arriving in ame suuuper stealthily), all of them presumably directed by one consciousness. solid clones have copies of the original mind, and shadow clones can return memories only when they dispell. i can't imagine all the butterflies with a mind of their own and konan casually integrating such a number when she reforms. if that is the case, she is truly on another level. sidenote: nagato's paths of pain share line of vision. he's literally operating 6+1 bodies at once. you know what? i bow to that. let him enjoy his godhood!

in conclusion: she had the audacity & the 600,000,000,000 plan almost worked! my top 3 female character in naruto

[mswyrr]

wheel of time 1x06: romance and narrative economy

I think this episode is a great example of how to convey a complex and powerful romance in a limited amount of time. True, the episode is just over an hour long, but not even all that time is focused on the romance and yet it hits beautifully.

Their first move is that, since the audience has been introduced to Moiraine, one half of this grand love affair, the story begins with Siuan's origin story - we begin with the home where she grew up, we begin by learning the innermost rooms of her heart.

We see the last time she ever felt wholly safe and loved and free to be herself:

The day we see with her father is also the day Siuan begins to come of age, leaving this place of innocence and total safety - because of how magic is handled in this society, there are limited spaces for her to embrace her power, have the opportunity to learn, and be accepted as a grown woman.

Notable that, in her parting, her father uses these words to connect them, to create a bridge between this home and the life she will build:

Look at me. You're gonna do great things. And if any of them bastards tries to shame you, you show them who you are. Siuan Sanche. Daughter of the river. Clever as a pike. Strong as the tides.

Her father is giving a vision of herself--and the knowledge that he loves her deeply--to her that she can hold close for the rest of her life.

Then we see Moiraine and Siuan as mature women in the Aes Sedai order that has formed their adult selves. We witness the power and burden Siuan carries as the Amyrlin Seat, the masks these lovers must wear to pursue the larger goals they share - but that very sharing separates them. It requires them in different places; it requires that they conceal who they are to each other as well as their true inner selves.

It's after this display of politics and power that we learn that, despite all of this, Siuan and Moiraine trust their inner selves to each other.

Before meeting her lover, Moiraine strips herself down to her own girlish state - no formal, restrictive outfits, no ornate hair, no carefully chosen jewels. Just her.

It's in this exposed state that she approaches the magical portal

And everything comes together! Moiraine walks into Siuan's innermost heart, her childhood home. This is the secret place they share, the place they built together (presumably?) with their magic and where they love each other. Siuan can still be safe and free with someone - she has a family still, and it is Moiraine.

In this place of safety there are echoes of their lives outside, however:

Moiraine: Am I forgiven, Mother?

Siuan: I hate it when you call me that. So much for the Amyrlin Seat remaining neutral, without favorites…. No life. No love of one's own. Nothing but the Seat.

Moiraine: When have we ever followed the rules?

And, of course, there's the deliciousness of Moiraine's "on your knees" and how it interplays with Siuan's earlier command, as the Amyrlin Seat, for Moiraine to kneel before her. In the Tower, one must obey the Seat or face punishment; in love, one obeys because one wishes to, an even stronger compulsion than threats of violence one might argue lol

This play of identities and truths--innermost heart and their political identities, their status and power--culminates in Moiraine turning her political punishment, framed as a command to swear and oath of obedience to the Amyrlin Seat into a personal oath--a wedding vow, if you will--to Siuan herself.

Siuan: You are exiled from this Tower. To ensure your acceptance of this penance, you will swear fealty to the judgment of this Seat on the sacred Oath Rod. Swear your oath, Moiraine Sedai… before your sisters, in this… sacred Hall. The One Power renders it unbreakable and eternally binding. By the Light and my hope of salvation and rebirth… I, Moiraine Sedai, swear to obey the judgment of the Amyrlin Seat and never return till she calls me home, or may the Creator's face turn from me and darkness consume my soul.

Moiraine: By the Light and the hope of my salvation… and rebirth… I, Moiraine Sedai, do swear to honor and obey Siuan Sanche… Daughter of the River… clever as a pike… strong as the tides… and never return until she calls me home. Or may my Creator's face turn from me… and darkness consume my soul.

Moiraine is the only one giving these "wedding vows" and yet we know Siuan commits to her just as much - because Siuan shared her father's parting words--the ones she has kept close to her heart, the core inner self she has protected with those words--with Moiraine alone. By sharing those words Siuan committed to Moraine and now Moiraine is using them to commit herself to Siuan.

Moiraine touches Siuan's true, innermost heart even in this moment of her exile and them being parted by fate for a long period of time. In this moment of farewell she reflects back to Siuan the little girl she was, the woman she has grown into with that love at her heart, the love she shares with Moiraine. She reflects back their shared purpose and love for each other, even though Siuan has to be the one to command this exile.

And once again, tears mark the separation from home/heart and the blessing of giving someone a vision of themselves they can carry with them while you are parted.

It's really gorgeous work all around - but it starts with the writing, which is a master class in depicting a complex romance in a limited period of time.

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

The late 1800s and early 1900s were periods of profound change, with the Industrial Revolution reshaping economies, societies, and lifestyles. Urbanization surged as people migrated from rural areas to cities in search of work and new opportunities. This shift led to the development of infrastructure, such as roads and public transportation systems, that facilitated movement and connected communities like never before. The unpaved street depicted in the photograph represents a transitional moment; while many streets were still unpaved, the burgeoning transportation networks would soon revolutionize travel.

Bicycles played a crucial role in this transformation, becoming symbols of freedom and mobility during the 19th century. With the introduction of the safety bicycle in the 1880s, cycling surged in popularity, providing individuals with an affordable means of transportation. Women, in particular, embraced cycling as it afforded them greater independence and mobility, challenging traditional gender roles in the process. The sight of people riding bikes in the photograph reflects this newfound liberation and the societal shifts that accompanied it.

Hot air balloons, meanwhile, captured the imagination of the public, representing the adventurous spirit of exploration and the quest for flight. The first successful human flight in a hot air balloon took place in 1783, and by the late 19th century, ballooning had evolved into a popular recreational activity. Events like balloon races and exhibitions drew crowds, fostering a sense of wonder about the possibilities of human flight. The presence of a hot air balloon in your photograph serves as a metaphor for the optimistic vision of the future that many people shared during this time. It signified not just technological progress but also the aspiration to transcend earthly limitations.

(Cinematic History)

+

“Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it." (George Santayana)

I've got news for Mr. Santayana: we're doomed to repeat the past no matter what. That's what it is to be alive.” ― Kurt Vonnegut

[videocollectorking]

Turning Stink into Sustainability: The Power of Organic Waste Recycling

🌿 The Smell of Change: Embracing Organic Waste 🌿

Let's face it - organic waste can be a bit... fragrant. But behind that pungent aroma lies a hidden potential: a powerful tool in our fight against climate change and food insecurity.

🌍 Reducing Greenhouse Gases: More Than Just Air Freshening 🌍

When organic waste ends up in landfills, it doesn't just sit there. It decomposes anaerobically (without oxygen), releasing methane, a greenhouse gas more potent than carbon dioxide. By diverting our organic waste - think food scraps, yard trimmings, and more - to recycling initiatives like composting or anaerobic digestion facilities, we can significantly cut down these emissions. This isn't just about making the air smell sweeter; it's about making our planet healthier.

💼 Economic Growth: Jobs That Don't Stink 💼

Recycling organic waste isn't just good for the planet - it's great for the economy too. Composting and anaerobic digestion facilities are not just environmental projects; they're job creators. They stimulate local economies and provide employment opportunities, turning waste management into a win-win situation.

🌱 From Landfills to Local Farms: A Sustainable Cycle 🌱

By recycling organic waste, we also reduce our reliance on fossil fuels and shrink our carbon footprint. Compost returned to the earth enriches soil, reducing the need for chemical fertilizers, and promoting sustainable agriculture. It's a cycle of life that benefits everyone: from the earthworms in the soil to the farmers tilling the land, all the way to our dinner tables.

🍲 Combating Hunger: Less Waste, More Food 🍲

Finally, let's talk about food security. Globally, a staggering amount of food is wasted. By reducing food waste, we're not just saving scraps; we're fighting hunger. Every morsel saved from the trash is a step towards ensuring that everyone has enough to eat. In a world where so many go hungry, can we really afford to throw away perfectly good food?

In conclusion, while organic waste might not smell like roses, its potential benefits are undeniably sweet. From combating climate change to feeding the hungry, the sustainable disposal of organic waste is a crucial step towards a greener, more prosperous future. So the next time you wrinkle your nose at the smell of organic waste, remember: that's the scent of change.

What are your thoughts on organic waste recycling? Share your experiences or ideas in the comments below! 💬✨

# # #ClimateChange #FoodSecurity #EcoFriendly

Remember to like and reblog if you believe in a greener future! 🌱💚

[vague-humanoid]

Ask a New Liberal what they stand for and you will get a broad and occasionally conflicting set of responses. Mortimer, who runs CNL operations from Washington, described the group as “pragmatic Democrats” who want to achieve “progressive goals but without a revolution.” As a disaffected Bernie Sanders supporter, Mortimer underscored that the group might share many of the aspirations of the far left but differ on how to get there. “When you run on revolutionary goals, you can’t then say, ‘Oh, the Senate is not letting me do my revolution,’” he told me. CNL members may use terms such as “moderate” and “centrist” as shorthand, but they take pains to emphasize that they are neither moderates nor centrists. “I always take a little bit of issue with the word ‘moderate,’” Johnson said. “‘Moderate’ kind of implies that you don’t believe in anything, you’re just a weaker, limp-wristed version of somebody else.” On a handful of subjects—housing, trade, and immigration chief among them—it is true that neither his views nor the organization’s are particularly moderate: they want to get rid of zoning that blocks residential construction, increase foreign trade, and overhaul border policy to throw open the nation’s doors to immigrants. “My allegiance, such as it exists, is to the idea of liberalism,” Johnson said.

Yet CNL is full of people who are indeed centrists and moderates and neoliberals. “All we did was change a letter and add a space,” as Mortimer put it. In a 2020 Reddit AMA, he wrote that the word “neoliberal” was “excellent branding” and “a perfect word for our movement,” because of its legacy of being used to “stand against growing populism.” Historically, efforts to rethink liberalism have followed episodes of profound rupture. Quinn Slobodian, a professor at Boston University, traces the origins of neoliberalism to the political and economic vacuum that followed World War I, when the global economy had to be rapidly rebuilt and whole populations adjusted to the new experience of self-government. In the UK, reformist politicians of the 1890s advocated a “new liberalism” that would provide pensions, workers’ compensation, and other labor protections. The liberalism of Franklin D. Roosevelt took shape in the aftermath of the Great Depression; this version of liberalism built something like a welfare state in the US and helped usher in a rash of new economic and political rights for citizens. In the sixties and seventies, a generation of intellectuals pushed for a more muscular liberalism that could provide a compelling alternative to communist power. These “Cold War Liberals,” as the historian Samuel Moyn calls them, abandoned the redistributive and social-minded policies that their predecessors had embraced, replacing them with a far grimmer vision. “Where earlier liberals had come to accept democratization, if cautiously and often grudgingly, Cold War liberals abhorred mass politics—including mass democracy,” he writes in his recent book Liberalism Against Itself. The economic vision that we call “neoliberalism” today was a product of that Cold War moment, its emphasis on globalization and privatization propped up by new international arrangements such as the World Trade Organization, the European Union, the Organization for Economic Cooperation and Development, and the North American Free Trade Agreement. (Two NAFTA stickers are available for purchase in CNL’s online store.) 

[doctornerdington]

The pacing of OFMD s2 is definitely quick. You can feel the compression in comparison to s1, and of course it would have been lovely if they'd been financed for the full 10 episodes, but I didn't actually find it *too* quick. It's economical, for sure, but that just makes it novelistic in the way it requires the viewer to make inferences and fill in background scenes for themselves. And crucially, it always (? I think?) gives us enough information and guidance to do that. I didn't experience any moments of confusion, at least. Nothing was incoherent. We're working within a clear and stable narrative frame -- you just have to make some of the connections for yourself, do a bit of the legwork to flesh things out. The narrative is robust enough that this isn't onerous; its honestly a joy to participate in that imaginative work, and it very cleverly deepens our investment in the story. Because part of it is ours, and our shared ownership is (astonishingly!) fully authorized. This crew is never going to scream "that's not what really happened!" or pull a bad-faith "gotcha." Instead they ask, "what do you think happened? How do you think that conversation went? How do you think that character got from A to B?" The economy of the storytelling requires us to answer. It solicits multiple interpretations and lends authority (author-ity) to a choir of voices instead of any single voice. This feels affirming; it feels so queer; it feels like yet another embrace from this very loving show.

(That said, I really would have loved to revel in a full 60 minutes of nonsense at Calypso's birthday party.)

[miryum]

Foundling Villa- Chapter 10

Royal!Charles Leclerc x Reader. Princess Y/n is arranged to marry Prince Charles. There will be many ups and downs that the author hasn’t planned out yet, but read along to find out more! (Yes, I know that sounds super cheesy) Warnings per chapter. Hope you guys enjoy!

Tag list: @notleclerc @sunsumonner @saturnsrinqs @livster

Warnings: death, funeral 

ao3 link  next chapter>>

King Hervé’s funeral was elegant. That much you could say. Whether it was what he would’ve wanted, you didn’t know. Even though you didn’t know King Hervé well, from the few encounters you had, he had seemed like a compassionate and gentle man. 

Before your wedding, you had read up on the history of Enza, and found that King Hervé had been the one to push Enza into modern times. The economy had grown, the people had prospered, and his family was happy. Suffice to say, the kingdom of Enza had taken a blow with his death. 

Even if you didn’t know the person who died, it was still depressing to be around the people who did. The air of death was prominent and it pulled you down with it. You and Charles had returned to Enza’s palace and Charles quickly found his place within the arms of his mother. You were left to float around the palace, unsure of what to do. You were only Enzan by marriage and Charles only a royal spare, so you didn’t need to be involved in the lengthy meetings that were happening around the clock. Maybe if Charles was first in line you would be pulled in, but alas, you were left alone. 

King Hervé’s passing had brought other monarchs to Enza to express their sorrow, pay tribute at the funeral, and pledge their allegiance to the new King, Lorenzo. Because of the influx of wealthy people, the rooms of Enza were quickly filled up. You and Charles agreed to share a room so more people could come to mourn his father. 

Queen Pascale didn’t tell you that there were more than enough rooms for you and your husband to sleep separately. 

You didn’t remember the funeral; it was more like a grey cloud in your mind. What you remembered was Charles standing next to you, head bowed and eyes full of tears. You remembered Queen Pascale’s black dress and veil and the flowers surrounding the casket. But the priest's words were lost on you. You mumbled the prayers in a resounding mass with everyone else, but you didn’t comprehend the words. Later, you felt guilty, as if you personally offended King Hervé by not embracing the prayers. But you knew that his family had likely done the same. You would look over to see Charles as a still statue, eyes fixated on the casket as if he could raise his father from the dead just by wishing hard enough. 

Once the funeral ended, it was as if a switch had been flipped. Enza needed a king, and fast. Coronation plans were thrust before Lorenzo and you felt bad for the poor boy. The only reminder of King Hervé’s death was Queen Pascale, wandering the halls in her mourning clothes.

One night, after chatting with Este, you went back to yours and Charles’ shared room. You were surprised to find it pitch black. The curtains, which usually allowed in an inkling of light, were tied tightly shut. The fireplace embers had long since died and you couldn’t help but wonder if they died the same time King Hervé did.

You shuffled towards the windows, intent on opening the curtains. Your eyes hadn’t adjusted yet and you were worried about knocking something over. Just as you reached the window, movement caught your eye. 

Charles was wrapped around himself in bed, a mountain of blankets crushing him. It dawned on you that this was his doing; he was the one to shut the curtains and kill the fire. His father’s death was finally catching up to him.

You weren’t sure if you should intervene, but you couldn’t leave him there with his thoughts. Loneliness would only make it worse. "Charles? Can you talk to me? You shouldn't be alone."

The room was dark with the overhang of death in the air. "He can't be gone," you heard Charles mutter. "How can the world keep turning without him?"

"Because there's still more to live for." You sat on the bed and the lump of blankets shifted. Finally, your eyes adjusted to the darkness and you could see Charles gazing up at you, tears blurring his eyes.

"Y/n, I can't." Charles tried to plead with you. The sharp, unbelieving pain had subsided into a deep ache in his gut. It was like sadness consumed him, forcing him to wallow in it forever. The reality that someone could leave you forever had not set in yet. How did people cope? How did people grieve? How could someone go on living while someone else is dead?

"Charles, may I give you a word of advice?"

"Please do. Anything." Charles curled into himself even more, if that was possible.

"A famous poet once said, ‘Not a whit, we defy augury. There is a special providence in the fall of a sparrow. If it be now, 'tis not to come; if it be not to come, it will be now; if it be not now, yet it will come. The readiness is all. Since no man of aught he leaves knows, what is 't to leave betimes? Let be.’” You shifted so you were against the headboard, legs outstretched. Charles lay next to you. He twisted to face you. 

“I’m not ready to let be,” he whispered. 

“That’s okay.” The majority of you screamed not to, but the tiny side prevailed. You let a hand drift down to his hair and started combing through it, drawing circles on his temples and cheeks. 

Charles closed his eyes. “I like it when you call me Charles,” he said. 

You exhaled a laugh. “You told me.” 

“I just thought I should remind you.” 

“Thank you for doing so.”

Charles let himself relax into the bed and your touch. The two of you stayed there for a long time. You felt content, yet terrified. You thought, this shouldn’t feel like home.

**

As a direct opposite to the King’s funeral, Lorenzo’s coronation was a swirl of colours, laughter, and dancing. True to tradition, all the Leclerc brothers wore a dash of black for their deceased father and Queen Pascale still donned her black gown and robe, but you would’ve thought that the party was one of the liveliest had it not been for those factors.

Your own dress fell elegantly to the floor and Este had brushed aside customs to place you in a deep green gown. Este had said, “so many people in Enzan colours. Ah, you have to stand out!” He had then placed a silver tiara on your head, woven into your hair to insure it didn’t fall. 

The feast afterwards, even though it was held in a grand hall, felt suffocating. Dignitaries and royals from all the kingdoms in Formuline joined you that evening. Your own parents stayed far away from you, and for that you were thankful. Charles made sure to always have an eye on you in case anything was to arise. 

As the evening was winding down, you found yourself in the company of a knight, Daniel. He made you laugh like no other and even introduced you to other lords and advisors you recognised as Charles’ confidants. 

“Princess Leclerc?” An accented voice came from behind you and your insides fluttered at your new surname. You twirled around, expecting to find another friend of Charles’. Instead, your smile faltered when Prince Verstappen came into your view.

“Prince Verstappen.” You lowered your head in an informal bow. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I was wondering if the princess would grace me with a dance?” He held a hand out and the aristocrats around you fell silent. Lord Carlos slipped away to find Charles. 

“It would be rude to say no.” You placed your hand in his. 

The dance was awkward at first. You were acutely aware of the eyes on you, including the protective ones of Charles who had quickly located you after Lord Carlos whispered the situation to him. Charles couldn’t simply break up the dance- it would be considered militant and pugnacious. He would have to be content to wait and swoop in the moment the dance ended. 

“Princess Y/n, I’m sure you’ve guessed that I have an ulterior motive for dancing with you,” Prince Verstappen said. His eyes carefully scanned the room, never once looking down at you. 

“Yes, and I would like to know what it is.” Your reply was curt.

“Williams was a close ally to Redull until recent circumstances. My father was always fond of yours, and in turn, I was of you and your siblings. Don’t take this harshly, Princess, but I would… suggest that you take a trip to Aston or Alpine- somewhere far away from Redull and Enza. I encourage you to tell all whom you love to do the same.”

“Prince Verstappen, I’m sorry to say, but I don’t understand.” You shook your head. You wanted to step back and off of the dance floor, but you felt like you had an obligation to hear him out. His words were confusing and worrisome.

“I’m not even supposed to be here,” Prince Verstappen continued. “My father didn’t want anyone from Redull to attend the coronation, much less the pledging.” He was referring to when the other kingdoms pledged allegiance to the new King Lorenzo.

“Oh?” 

“But a total surprise isn’t fair to you, nor Enza’s people. You’ll do the best you can to stay out of the cross-fire, yes?” Prince Verstappen glanced down at you. His eyes were stern. At some point in his life, they probably held happiness and hope, but those times had long passed.

Before you could reply, the music swelled to an end and Charles strode towards you. Your husband placed a hand on your lower back and glowered at Prince Verstappen. “Are you alright, Y/n?” he murmured in your ear. You nodded and turned into him. Prince Verstappen bowed and excused himself. You peered after him. 

There was something he wasn’t telling you, and it didn’t sound good. 

[mariacallous]

As speculation mounts over possible negotiations to end the Russian invasion of Ukraine, it is important to understand the nature of the war unleashed by Vladimir Putin almost three years ago. Crucially, this is not a conventional war for land that can be resolved by offering limited territorial concessions. Putin’s goals are far more ambitious. He is waging the current war in order to undermine the existing international security architecture and replace it with a new world order where a handful of great powers are able to dominate their neighbors.

Since launching the full-scale invasion of Ukraine in February 2022, Putin has repeatedly outlined his vision for a “multipolar world order” that would reverse the verdict of the Cold War and create a world divided into spheres of influence. By challenging the sanctity of borders with his invasion of Ukraine, Putin aims to remove a central pillar of today’s global security system and normalize the use of military force in international affairs. If his efforts are perceived as successful, this will set a disastrous precedent that will embolden authoritarian regimes around the world.

Putin’s dream of establishing a new world order is reflected in his push for bilateral talks with the United States to discuss the fate of Ukraine and Europe without Ukrainian or European participation. He wants to demonstrate that sovereignty is negotiable and convey the message that some nations are more equal than others. The consequences of this approach could be catastrophic for both Ukraine and Europe as a whole.

The world order Putin hopes to usher in would be governed by the laws of the geopolitical jungle and defined by insecurity and aggression. Armed conflicts would proliferate around the world as previously accepted rules of international relations were replaced by the overriding principle that “might is right.” The unprecedented global economic prosperity of the past three decades would also be threatened amid mounting barriers to trade and record levels of defense spending. The only obvious beneficiaries would be nations like Russia that seek to embrace revisionist or expansionist agendas.

The international security situation is now so grave and has escalated to such a level that it can no longer be resolved by appeasing Russia or seeking some kind of compromise peace. Instead, Russia must lose in Ukraine, and must be seen to lose.

At present, that is not the case. On the contrary, Putin is more confident than ever of victory and sees no reason to end the war. He is projecting strength around the world and is successfully building a coalition of fellow authoritarian powers including China, Iran, and North Korea, who all provide support for the war in Ukraine and share Moscow’s objective of overthrowing the current world order.

On the home front, Putin has succeeded in shifting the Russian economy onto a wartime footing, and has found new partners to compensate for the collapse in ties with the West. He is openly preparing for a long war and is counting on a lack of Western resolve to confront him.

In order to stop the war, Putin must be persuaded that continuing the invasion of Ukraine will lead to disaster for Russia. This requires a range of measures designed to weaken Russia’s position both economically and militarily.

Russia’s economic outlook is already worsening as a result of the war and could become far more serious if Western leaders take the necessary steps. There is an obvious need for greater coordination between the United States, UK, EU, and other countries engaged in sanctioning the Russian war effort. Implementation of existing sanctions remains inadequate, while tougher measures are needed to target intermediaries.

Economic hardships alone will not bring Putin to the negotiating table. He must also be forced to confront the prospect of military defeat. This will require a major shift in thinking among Ukraine’s partners. At present, Ukraine finds itself forced to fight a defensive war of attrition with the aim of inflicting unacceptable losses on the invading Russians. However, Putin clearly has a very high tolerance for losses, and can also call upon huge untapped reserves of manpower to replenish the depleted ranks of his army. If the current war of attrition continues, Russia will eventually and inevitably win.

Instead, Ukraine must be equipped to defeat Russia on the battlefield. The Ukrainian military has repeatedly demonstrated its ability to beat Russia, but currently lacks the military capabilities to turn local victories into a war-winning position. This needs to change.

Western fears of escalation mean Kyiv is still being denied a wide range of weapons and faces restrictions on its ability to defend itself. As a result of this overly cautious approach, the Kremlin is able to wage a total war against Ukraine with little fear of major counterattacks inside Russia. Putin also enjoys overwhelming advantages in firepower, including a far larger and more advanced air force. No NATO member state would even consider fighting a war without adequate air power, but that exactly what Ukraine is currently being expected to do.

So far, the West has been arming Ukraine to survive. Putin will not end the invasion until he becomes convinced that Western leaders are determined to arm Ukraine for victory. Ukraine’s military requirements are well known. All that is missing is the requisite political will to act. This means providing fighter jets, long-range missiles, armor, and artillery in large quantities along with dramatically enhanced drone and electronic warfare capabilities.

By supplying Ukraine with sufficient military aid, the West could finally oblige Putin to rethink the current war while also creating a powerful deterrence force capable of preventing further Russian aggression. Anything less will merely create a pause in hostilities that Putin will use to rearm and prepare for the next phase of his war against the West. The price of stopping Russia in Ukraine is high, but it will be dwarfed by the costs of a new authoritarian world order if Putin’s invasion is allowed to succeed.