The shrapnel prostrates itself on the sand when God sits. The orbital rings of light around Paul avert themselves in deference. The ratcheted tension in Paul's spine eases back by degrees, one softening vertebrae at a time.
"I always tell this one wrong," he says, softly, "I'll try to get it right, this time."
He stays with those gravity wells a while longer, searching. There's no fear in his examination, or reverence. If there's anything at all, past those lights, it's a bruised wistfulness. Then he turns away, back towards the black sea.
"It starts like this," Paul begins, in the gentle cadence of a bedtime story, "I wake up. I have a knife in my hand. There's ash on the sand, and the world is already over."
"But I'm still there." Paul sets the barbed tooth against the horizon in his line of sight, held horizontal and steady. "And the desert opens at my back. When I turn, I see the path laid out. It's not meant for me, but I take it. I take the prophecy, and the people who follow it. They take my name, and give me new ones, and I make them mine, my knives and my words. They dream of water. I teach them how to dream of storms."
"There's still ash on the sand, but I have the desert, and I close my hands around its throat until the great bronze rivers run dry, and the sails hang lifeless between the stars, and my names are as smoke in my enemy's halls."
"They come to destroy me and my people. They imagine themselves cruel, and they inflict -" a catch in his breath, at last "- cruelties."
"So I bring them revelation," he says, every voice empty, "I bring them the pillars of fire. I turn them to salt. I swallow them in the eyes of the universe. I give them mercy like ash."
Paul falls silent. He tilts the tooth in his hand, one way, then the other. The calm that lies over him is like an emptied shoreline, the hush of fleeing birds.
"You like jokes," he observes, mildly, "Do you want to hear one?"
no subject
"I always tell this one wrong," he says, softly, "I'll try to get it right, this time."
He stays with those gravity wells a while longer, searching. There's no fear in his examination, or reverence. If there's anything at all, past those lights, it's a bruised wistfulness. Then he turns away, back towards the black sea.
"It starts like this," Paul begins, in the gentle cadence of a bedtime story, "I wake up. I have a knife in my hand. There's ash on the sand, and the world is already over."
"But I'm still there." Paul sets the barbed tooth against the horizon in his line of sight, held horizontal and steady. "And the desert opens at my back. When I turn, I see the path laid out. It's not meant for me, but I take it. I take the prophecy, and the people who follow it. They take my name, and give me new ones, and I make them mine, my knives and my words. They dream of water. I teach them how to dream of storms."
"There's still ash on the sand, but I have the desert, and I close my hands around its throat until the great bronze rivers run dry, and the sails hang lifeless between the stars, and my names are as smoke in my enemy's halls."
"They come to destroy me and my people. They imagine themselves cruel, and they inflict -" a catch in his breath, at last "- cruelties."
"So I bring them revelation," he says, every voice empty, "I bring them the pillars of fire. I turn them to salt. I swallow them in the eyes of the universe. I give them mercy like ash."
Paul falls silent. He tilts the tooth in his hand, one way, then the other. The calm that lies over him is like an emptied shoreline, the hush of fleeing birds.
"You like jokes," he observes, mildly, "Do you want to hear one?"