eternalised, objectified | january catch-all

[terriblepurpose]

Who: Paul Atreides, Ortus Nigenad, Mercymorn the First and you
What: January catch-all
When: January
Where: Various
Content warnings: Body transformation, memory alteration

Comments

[hauntedsavior]

Well, that's all the confirmation she needs; Apollonia sends the message, and John will receive it from the username grollschwert, and it will all go perfectly fine. She nods, then, feeling quite casual as she slides her glass over Paul's way.

And it doesn't take more than a couple seconds afterward to mirror the vibe of her companion's pose, if not the pose itself directly. It's relaxed in a way she doesn't allow herself; it's exposed. Her arms aren't crossing over her chest like this. Her brain has calmed as much as she ever allows it, the alcohol as Lethe to the constant chaos of memory. It's dangerous to be like this for too long, she knows, lest someone get the better of her. Lest she lose herself. But in the moment, she truly is not worried about Paul. She is not worried about her God. This will be... cathartic.

"We," she says with a wry look, "Are fucking under attack." There's the echo of something familiar inside Apollonia at that, but this time it's not a mindless reference but one of the many, many phrases considered sacred within the Nine Houses. (She was not there when they were codified, and yet she has lived with them for so long that it would be forgiven to think she had been.)

"I doubt He'll keep us waiting long," she says after another moment. "Now is the time for cold feet."

[unchoose]

He tops Apollonia off and returns her glass, his smile slanted into loose, easy amusement. When she announces they're under attack, his stifled laughter comes with a snort, and he covers his mouth with the back of his hand.

"And walk out on you here? Banish the thought. Exile it - all the way to Tupile." He hitches himself up, palms braced on the table's edge. "I'd tell you that joke would be funny if you knew what Tupile was, but I'd hate to lie to you now."

This is what he's wanted, pent up inside his own mythology. Ease. Amicability. A world of people who don't know him as their messiah, who only see a man with dark, messy hair and a smile that he can allow to cant askew. He's as drunk on it as liquor, or even more so.

How could anyone not want this, once they'd tasted it? How could anyone let it slip from their fingers twice?

"But," he says, collecting himself, "If you've changed your mind..."

(Possibilities ripple. A left-hand path, one sidestep away, diffusing into a myriad of unknowns, but glimpses - startled black eyes, the coronal ring - warm brown hand curled tentatively around a clear glass - apprehension fading from the body, disbelief in the smile - a third player, a different game.)

"This is your dance. I'll follow where you lead."

[hauntedsavior]

"Not on anyone's life," she says, taking her glass and drinking more casually from it. "I've come this far. Backing down now, when all I've ever wanted is finally close enough to grasp... it would be nothing but sheer cowardice."

She will not stop. She knows, she's convinced herself, what it is that will make her happy. What will bring peace to her heart. It's the only thing she needs right now—and yet. And yet. There's more to it, isn't there? Because this blessed communion with her Lord is not the only thing that brings her peace. And pretending otherwise would be a big enough lie on its own to serve as the foundation of a brand new lyctor.

This conversation with this man before her, the one who behaves so naturally, who takes it all so seriously and still allows himself the chance to have fun with it, this eases her burden. She still churns and writhes inside of her own chest to think about everything too long, but she speaks with... she speaks with a human. Someone who knows what she is but is not what she is, someone who knows her Lord but is not bound by fealty to Him, someone who is unerringly direct with his goals whether or not he makes them clear. It is someone who exists outside of the Nine Houses who is willing to set down the Blood of Eden's weapons of eternal war and raise a glass in camaraderie instead. He has the freedom to be his own person, and he chooses to be this. To say that she is not worried is an understatement; to say that she is envious is only somewhat closer.

"Tell me about Tupile, then," she says after that prolonged introspection with her eyes in blurry focus around Paul. "Or wherever among your world is most interesting. If the man of the hour does elect to take his time, we can use it as we wish."

[necrolord]

On the other end, John's face is something to behold. He murmurs a quiet lamentation to no one, that this is really very awkward; he rubs fretfully at his brow; he hits 👍.

It isn't difficult to find them. He can follow the black-hole burn of a Lyctor with his eyes closed, drawn unerringly to the reactor of a swallowed soul. Worse, they're singing drunkenly in a corner.

When John approaches, he looks as he has throughout January: vaguely harried, a nameless weight upon his shoulders, with one of his more rumpled shirts and no sign of cloak or crown. He did not expect Paul. The recognition shows in the slight balk, the way he slows before the table.

[unchoose]

Paul does tell Apollonia about Tupile, that fabled world of exile where fallen Houses might flee under the stewardship of the Spacing Guild, forever exiting the great games of the Landsraad and Empire. One cannot, of course, explain the Spacing Guild without speaking of spice, that mysterious and powerful substance Paul had mixed into his drink, and one cannot speak of spice without speaking of Dune and the Fremen.

Fremen songs come in many forms, the heights of their art so beautiful and moving it can bring even the most jaded sophisticate to tears with yearning for a homeland lost forever in time. That is not the song Paul teaches Apollonia. The one he teaches her, composed in archaic Chakobsa, is a hearty, rhythmic song, its beat held in clapping hands and stomping feet. They get more than a few looks for it, sideways glances that only make Paul laugh like the fool he's becoming in Apollonia's presence.

When he sees John, he lights up, ceasing the song and sitting up straight (straightish) in the booth. He lifts his hand in a jaunty wave, grin crooked and easy.

"Teacher! You made it!"

[hauntedsavior]

And Apollonia, to her credit, attempts to listen and process it. But it's in the bridge there, somewhere among the proper nouns, that she accepts that she won't actually retain most of this. (But if she won't be around for much longer, maybe that's a moot point anyway.) It's when Paul gets to the Fremen songs that she finds herself in a place of unambiguous understanding again, and she's singing along with the alcohol bubbling in her veins and feeling, for the first time in far too long, truly at ease. It's impossible to tell what factors are in play bringing her there, but she knows that the storm in her heart feels unexpectedly calmer like this.

And then the man of the hour arrives, and she stops singing and fixes him with a look. It feels satisfying to watch him stumble like this, and a smile that is far less kind creeps to her face. "John," she says, smooth as a canine tooth. "I'm so very glad you could join us. You know Paul," and she gestures towards her companion. "I would apologize for not telling you he was here, but I simply didn't want to. Besides, John, I do want to talk to you."

She's laying it on thick, but choosing to attribute that to the alcohol. Maybe the real reason she'd never deigned to create a scheme against her Lord was because she was dogshit at scheming. "I've had some time to think things over since the last time we spoke. You remember, with the bookshelves." Apollonia steals a look towards Paul as though she'd brought up the whirlwind of explosions with him in the first place. "Come, won't you join us?"