Who: Paul Atreides, Ortus Nigenad, and you What: December catch-all, open and closed prompts When: December Where: Various Content warnings: Grief over loss of a parent, eugenics, psychological horror, child abuse, child death
This time, instead of the beach, Kiriona finds herself in a clearing. She can still smell the sea from here, though. It's as nice as she remembered it.
The problem is that Gideon belongs in a place like this. Gideon was able to help, to fit in here. The memory of Paul's father's hand on her shoulder is a weight. Kiriona wraps her arms around her fine coat and shudders, even though she can't, strictly speaking, feel cold anymore.
(That's not quite true. It's just that she's cold all the time, now, and used to it.)
The seagulls cry, and Kiriona thinks it might be nice if they went for her eyes, this time.
"Okay," Kiriona whispers, like she's back at the Ninth, hiding. "Should I be your bodyguard, again?"
This is the closest they've been since the ill-fated reunion on the lawn, and it isn't even real. Her body is somewhere inside the walls of a house he can't go back to. His is curled up next to a mirror coated in icy seawater.
He doesn't want to look up at her. If he looks at her, she'll disappear.
"No." Paul puts his stick aside, again. He straightens up. He flicks a needle into his palm from his sleeve and sets it against a fingertip, but doesn't pierce. He only lets it test the pressure of his skin, a tiny divot of shadow and silver.
"I think we're past that." He's not whispering, but it's close. A murmur that matches the rush of wind in the pines. "I'll talk. You don't have to."
Kiriona nods, even though Paul can't see her do so. It's almost like a vow of silence. This place reminds her of Canaan House, all shrouded by old plants yet close enough to hear the crash of the ocean. It's a place where you can pretend to be something other than a corpse. A cavalier. A son. A bodyguard. A sister.
Kiriona sits on the other end of Paul's log, careful not to touch him. If he can't see her and can't feel her, he won't be disgusted by her. If he's not disgusted by her, she won't get thrown out of the memory. She'll be able to pretend a little while longer.
She doesn't say anything. Instead, she takes one of the tree-needles that have fallen to the ground, bends it until it snaps, and then throws it into the fire. She's curious to see what happens. Unsurprisingly, it burns, but the whole process is new enough to Kiriona that she watches it with a certain degree of reverence. It's not like there were any bonfires on the Ninth.
After that, all that's left to do is adjust her jacket, to ensure Paul's father never sees the gash across her neck, and wait.
These trees are rich with flammable sap. The needle burns brightly, with a satisfying fizzle, before it vanishes into the rest of the ash.
With the quiet between them, it doesn't take long for the sound of boots in the woods to reach their ears. Paul's father is taking special care to ensure he's heard, walking towards a sort of confrontation he's not accustomed to having with his dutiful son. He doesn't want Paul to be taken off-guard and pushed into defensiveness.
He always thought about things like that, so seemingly effortlessly that anyone not fixed to his father like a polar star might not have noticed that these things were choices, not instincts. But Paul knew.
He pierces himself with the metal needle and smears moon-silvered blood between forefinger and thumb, then paints a minor sigil on the air in front of him as if on paper. It aches the eyes to look at, feverishly oscillating, before he cups both his hands around it and breathes into the chamber they form. When there come away, there's nothing left of the mark.
The Duke Leto Atreides arrives. He hardly looks different than when Kiriona saw him for the first time, except for a touch less grey in his beard. He halts at the boundary of the clearing and looks between the pair of them, his son and a stranger, and adjusts the strap of the bag over his shoulder.
"Well," he says, mildly, "I didn't know we were expecting guests. Who do we have the pleasure of entertaining?"
"This is Crown Prince Kiriona Gaia, heir to the Empire of the Nine Houses," Paul says, with silver and salt on his tongue, "Sworn to House Atreides as Gideon Nav."
Paul looks at her. He takes her in, from the dull pallor of her dead complexion to the sunken hunch of her strong shoulders, her jacket secure over all the ruin that lies underneath it. The firelight shines across his eyes until there's no colour left in them but light.
"My sister."
The Duke Leto Atreides takes this in with his head very slightly tilted to one side, expression placid and unchanged. He nods, the once, and goes to sit on a log perpendicular to the one Paul and Kiriona sit on, closer to her than he is to his son.
"Welcome to House Atreides," he says, unfastening the clasps on his bag, as if this is the most natural thing to say in the world, "Although it seems I'm a bit late to the reception."
Paul says she doesn't have to talk, so Kiriona remains silent. Instead, she stares. It'd be cliche to say she's looking at the Duke Atreides like she's seeing a ghost, except he is a ghost, because expressions that gentle don't last. (It's easier not to think of Magnus, this time. By now, Kiriona has had practice.)
He's younger, this time, so it makes sens that he doesn't recognize her. The lack of recognition doesn't even hurt. It's a relief, Kiriona tells herself. This way, he won't be horrified, like all the rest of them.
Kiriona holds herself perfectly still, as if necromancy itself fixes her in place. She does not startle when Paul begins to speak, or when he calls her Kiriona Gaia, or Gideon Nav. At sister, though, her murky golden eyes grow wide, and when the Duke welcomes her, she slides her hands into her pockets, playing with the fabric so that she doesn't squirm too much, or stand up, or run away.
The Duke Leto Atreides is the dead head of a household. He is Paul's father, but not hers. Not even close.
"Thank you," she manages, barely remembering how formality works. Or talking. He's sitting so close. Kiriona does not dare scoot away. Instead she bows her head, focusing on a very fascinatingly-shaped rock. "It was, uh. Somewhere else. Not even that close to here, so don't even worry about it --" (she still remembers what Paul told her to call him, months ago) "-- my lord."
Duke Leto pulls his gloves off with his teeth as Kiriona speaks, for all appearances oblivious to her stilted fumbling over her words. He is genuinely oblivious to her physical condition, even this close, thanks to the patina of magic Paul breathed into this memory to keep it on an even keel. Paul watches him with nearly painful apprehension even knowing what he's done, as if he can't turn this memory back on itself with a few words and a twist of his fingers.
(He doesn't want to. Anything he does to change the memory only reminds him it's not real.)
The ancestral signet ring of House Atreides glitters on Leto's finger as he opens up his packet of fish and wire. The fish are gutted but whole, and he feeds them onto the wire from mouth to tail with expert ease.
"That's gracious of you, your Imperial Highness," he says, with only the faintest glimmer of friendly amusement in his dark eyes, "Still. I can't help but feel I should make it up to you. Have you ever had fresh caught skoumpri before?"
Kiriona isn't quite as wide-eyed as she was when she first visited Caladan, but the richness of Paul's homeworld is still something that manages to capture her. She's taken her eyes off the ground and fixed them on the fish, which is probably a little less rude.
"Uh -- no, I haven't. I do know about ten different ways to cook an onion, though." It's unclear if Kiriona will even be able to eat the fish, given that there's no necromancer here to kickstart her digestion. But even so, Kiriona isn't going to just show up to Paul's dad's house and turn down his food.
"And, um, you don't have to call me your Imperial Highness, unless you really want to. Only the Cohort calls me that." She steals a look at Paul, wanting, for some reason, to make sure he's still there before continuing. "Just Gideon is fine. Thanks for the fish."
"Gideon the Just?" Leto says, eyebrows lifted in consideration as he extends the end of one skewer over to Gideon. "An excellent epithet."
Paul could nearly choke. It's a coincidence - it's the kind of joke that his father would make - it's too close to a real thing for comfort, and he realizes how sharply his tension has ratcheted up that even this spooks him. Paul meets Gideon's gaze glancingly, his eyes nearly as wide and uncertain as hers, before they snap back to his father.
"It's Gideon, dad." The undertone of don't embarrass me is palpable as he takes his own skewer and suspends it above the fire, demonstrating the appropriate speed and height of rotation by rote. "She's - new to the court."
(And she wants his father to call her Gideon.)
"So that's why she knows how to cook." Leto spins his own fish, untroubled. "I'd been wondering if there'd been a change in fashion."
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deercountry2022-12-08 11:40 am
no subject
The problem is that Gideon belongs in a place like this. Gideon was able to help, to fit in here. The memory of Paul's father's hand on her shoulder is a weight. Kiriona wraps her arms around her fine coat and shudders, even though she can't, strictly speaking, feel cold anymore.
(That's not quite true. It's just that she's cold all the time, now, and used to it.)
The seagulls cry, and Kiriona thinks it might be nice if they went for her eyes, this time.
"Okay," Kiriona whispers, like she's back at the Ninth, hiding. "Should I be your bodyguard, again?"
no subject
He doesn't want to look up at her. If he looks at her, she'll disappear.
"No." Paul puts his stick aside, again. He straightens up. He flicks a needle into his palm from his sleeve and sets it against a fingertip, but doesn't pierce. He only lets it test the pressure of his skin, a tiny divot of shadow and silver.
"I think we're past that." He's not whispering, but it's close. A murmur that matches the rush of wind in the pines. "I'll talk. You don't have to."
no subject
Kiriona sits on the other end of Paul's log, careful not to touch him. If he can't see her and can't feel her, he won't be disgusted by her. If he's not disgusted by her, she won't get thrown out of the memory. She'll be able to pretend a little while longer.
She doesn't say anything. Instead, she takes one of the tree-needles that have fallen to the ground, bends it until it snaps, and then throws it into the fire. She's curious to see what happens. Unsurprisingly, it burns, but the whole process is new enough to Kiriona that she watches it with a certain degree of reverence. It's not like there were any bonfires on the Ninth.
After that, all that's left to do is adjust her jacket, to ensure Paul's father never sees the gash across her neck, and wait.
no subject
With the quiet between them, it doesn't take long for the sound of boots in the woods to reach their ears. Paul's father is taking special care to ensure he's heard, walking towards a sort of confrontation he's not accustomed to having with his dutiful son. He doesn't want Paul to be taken off-guard and pushed into defensiveness.
He always thought about things like that, so seemingly effortlessly that anyone not fixed to his father like a polar star might not have noticed that these things were choices, not instincts. But Paul knew.
He pierces himself with the metal needle and smears moon-silvered blood between forefinger and thumb, then paints a minor sigil on the air in front of him as if on paper. It aches the eyes to look at, feverishly oscillating, before he cups both his hands around it and breathes into the chamber they form. When there come away, there's nothing left of the mark.
The Duke Leto Atreides arrives. He hardly looks different than when Kiriona saw him for the first time, except for a touch less grey in his beard. He halts at the boundary of the clearing and looks between the pair of them, his son and a stranger, and adjusts the strap of the bag over his shoulder.
"Well," he says, mildly, "I didn't know we were expecting guests. Who do we have the pleasure of entertaining?"
"This is Crown Prince Kiriona Gaia, heir to the Empire of the Nine Houses," Paul says, with silver and salt on his tongue, "Sworn to House Atreides as Gideon Nav."
Paul looks at her. He takes her in, from the dull pallor of her dead complexion to the sunken hunch of her strong shoulders, her jacket secure over all the ruin that lies underneath it. The firelight shines across his eyes until there's no colour left in them but light.
"My sister."
The Duke Leto Atreides takes this in with his head very slightly tilted to one side, expression placid and unchanged. He nods, the once, and goes to sit on a log perpendicular to the one Paul and Kiriona sit on, closer to her than he is to his son.
"Welcome to House Atreides," he says, unfastening the clasps on his bag, as if this is the most natural thing to say in the world, "Although it seems I'm a bit late to the reception."
no subject
He's younger, this time, so it makes sens that he doesn't recognize her. The lack of recognition doesn't even hurt. It's a relief, Kiriona tells herself. This way, he won't be horrified, like all the rest of them.
Kiriona holds herself perfectly still, as if necromancy itself fixes her in place. She does not startle when Paul begins to speak, or when he calls her Kiriona Gaia, or Gideon Nav. At sister, though, her murky golden eyes grow wide, and when the Duke welcomes her, she slides her hands into her pockets, playing with the fabric so that she doesn't squirm too much, or stand up, or run away.
The Duke Leto Atreides is the dead head of a household. He is Paul's father, but not hers. Not even close.
"Thank you," she manages, barely remembering how formality works. Or talking. He's sitting so close. Kiriona does not dare scoot away. Instead she bows her head, focusing on a very fascinatingly-shaped rock. "It was, uh. Somewhere else. Not even that close to here, so don't even worry about it --" (she still remembers what Paul told her to call him, months ago) "-- my lord."
no subject
(He doesn't want to. Anything he does to change the memory only reminds him it's not real.)
The ancestral signet ring of House Atreides glitters on Leto's finger as he opens up his packet of fish and wire. The fish are gutted but whole, and he feeds them onto the wire from mouth to tail with expert ease.
"That's gracious of you, your Imperial Highness," he says, with only the faintest glimmer of friendly amusement in his dark eyes, "Still. I can't help but feel I should make it up to you. Have you ever had fresh caught skoumpri before?"
no subject
"Uh -- no, I haven't. I do know about ten different ways to cook an onion, though." It's unclear if Kiriona will even be able to eat the fish, given that there's no necromancer here to kickstart her digestion. But even so, Kiriona isn't going to just show up to Paul's dad's house and turn down his food.
"And, um, you don't have to call me your Imperial Highness, unless you really want to. Only the Cohort calls me that." She steals a look at Paul, wanting, for some reason, to make sure he's still there before continuing. "Just Gideon is fine. Thanks for the fish."
no subject
Paul could nearly choke. It's a coincidence - it's the kind of joke that his father would make - it's too close to a real thing for comfort, and he realizes how sharply his tension has ratcheted up that even this spooks him. Paul meets Gideon's gaze glancingly, his eyes nearly as wide and uncertain as hers, before they snap back to his father.
"It's Gideon, dad." The undertone of don't embarrass me is palpable as he takes his own skewer and suspends it above the fire, demonstrating the appropriate speed and height of rotation by rote. "She's - new to the court."
(And she wants his father to call her Gideon.)
"So that's why she knows how to cook." Leto spins his own fish, untroubled. "I'd been wondering if there'd been a change in fashion."