i know that the sun is here with me | december catch-all

[terriblepurpose]

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

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[terriblepurpose]

Paul has thought about the stranger in the library on and off since their first collision, wondering with more than idle curiosity how the man had done for himself since. He'd never doubted that Altaïr would survive, but what would he make of the city? How far would he delve into the novel qualities of his blood?

Paul's a little pleased, for no particular reason, that he's gone so far as to evidently make himself familiar with the concept of a Winter Mourning, judging by his calm. It's a good sign of adaptation.

"There's a prophecy on this world about a saviour who comes from beyond the stars." He answers still in Galach, with its hard consonants and complex grammar, and notes the shift in Altaïr's tongue. Not Chakobsa, but perhaps a precursor, carried across millennia to land among its descendents in memory.

"They think that it might be about me." How he would have danced around that fact, once; now, it rolls off the tongue like he never kept it secret at all. "They're wrong. The prophecy is a false one, cultivated by the Missionaria Protectiva to pacify the population along certain lines." He pauses, glancing over to the fenced in pilgrims. "A lie, in fewer words."

[theflyingone]

He had an inkling that Paul's disillusionment would turn to seeking truth for himself. It is the mark of a strong and inquisitive mind. Paul was definitely inquisitive, and that heralds a certain dissatisfaction with things other people take for granted.

Altaïr, for his part, has been a slow student of Paleblood studies. He was mostly preoccupied with exploring the city his usual way, setting up secret caches, and moving his residence more than once to find a place suitably secure and nondescript enough for his and his roommate's needs. It cannot be just any run-down hovel; it must keep them warm in winter.

He's known existing religion twisted and used to gain power, but a widely believed prophecy has weight. It is not so easily or enduringly manufactured without being denounced as heresy and snuffed out. He does not look at the pilgrims; he keeps his sharp eyes on Paul.

"Once, I believed that if people were simply told the truth, they would accept it. But if we were to walk over to them right now and repeat those words, it is likely we would draw nothing but ire."

It is a caution born of experience, but he does not hide the disappointment in his voice.

[terriblepurpose]

"Ire?" Paul's smile is a sickle curve, joyless and bright. "I wouldn't have taken you for an optimist. They'd pull us apart with their bare hands."

An unfair interpretation of Altaïr's words. The man was only attempting to be polite, and Paul should appreciate that. Perhaps it's the sun beating down on them that's fermenting the restlessness in his blood. He looks down at the cuffs of his sleeves, touches the heated silver studs fastening them.

"I wouldn't blame them for it," he says, more quietly. "They've been taught for generations to place all of their dreams for their world into a story of deliverance. Everyone fights for the things they need to believe. Who knows what lies I've been told I hold onto for my survival?"

Justice. Mercy. Truth. A well-trained scion of an empire should know all of them are falsehoods. They are all that has kept Paul breathing and whole, dragged him back from a bloody precipice.

[theflyingone]

Altaïr hears it as an accurate statement and also a dark joke. If he were a more mirthful man (and he is, but only in certain people's company) he would smirk, stretching the scar that cuts a near-vertical line across his lips.

"And they would be right, but not for the reasons they think," he says without a preceding pause, which suggests he knows very well what mobs and fervor can do. Altaïr prefers being straightforward, which is ironic in his line of work. It's not often he can be. The only straightforward thing about infiltrating a place to kill someone is the final drive of his blade into someone's neck.

"Nothing is true. Only trust the evidence of your eyes. Then you will know a lie for what it is."

He saw that Paul wisely turned away from the sun towards the palace. He falls into an easy gait in the same direction, the ground crunching softly under his leather boots. He waves at the courtyard, the pilgrims, and Paul in a vague, low gesture with his right hand.

"What will be done about it?"

It is not in his nature to see things and leave them be. He pierces veils like a sword. He is still of an age just young and foolish enough to hope that if he works hard enough, he believes the Creed will end the conflict in the Holy Land. But this is not his world or his memory.

[terriblepurpose]

Altaïr speaks with the cadence of philosophy. Paul cocks his ear towards it out of habit, still always hungry for another lesson, whatever the source.

"Insightful words. They'd fit in well with the local wisdom." Despite their topic of conversation involving the falsehoods believed by the pilgrims behind them, Paul's compliment is entirely sincere. "They're a practical people. I wouldn't want to misrepresent them."

That matters more than it once did. He has always wanted to be fair to the Fremen, but in one of those incessant ironic twists of fate, the further he's gotten from them the more his idea of what's fair for them has changed. Paternalism is a hard thing to shuck off all at once, but he has been prying it back, one scale at a time.

"And I don't know what will be done about it," Paul says, more quietly, as they cross into the shadow of the palace, which is nearly as stifling as the sunlight courtyard, "I never had the chance to see."

Whether the world has continued without him (with some other him) or if it hangs in some indefinite, impossible suspension - those are unanswerable questions that Paul could only torment himself with, so he rarely entertains them. They come to the heavy doors ahead, which Paul stops in front of, looking up at the weathered, illegible reliefs etched into their exterior.

"What would you do about it, if you had the chance? Consider it a hypothetical." Paul clasps his elbow behind his back. "A destiny falsely set on your shoulders, a world ready to rally to your call. Would you seek to undo it? Would you rise to it? Something else?"

[theflyingone]

Altaïr loves philosophy. He occasionally (often) sounds like his books. But here, only one sentence is quoted, and it comes from no philosopher.

"I cannot choose what phantoms people will follow. It is their right, and I cannot take it. I can only help them see."

The arid heat puts him in mind of the desert. "In my land, there is a custom among the desert tribes. Every man must take turns to ride and walk, from those who lead to those who follow. It is not a law born of a divine command, but one that has arisen from practicality. Reason.

"I speak of reason, not of God," no customary honorific or other worshipful expression follows. This is a candid discussion of various blasphemies. "Therefore, it would become clear that I am not a prophet. If men would follow me when I speak of the honor of fighting to find the truth, then I would urge them to look at the world with their own eyes. You speak of rallying, and I know what it is to live in a land filled with war, to defend oneself against enemies on all sides... I seek peace in all things."

He has been looking at Paul while speaking, but his eyes sharpen with more focus now.

"Enough talking about people," he pivots briskly as his head cants slightly and sharply like a bird's. "Are you allowed to walk among them?"