[fic] no uncertain clarity [dune]
Feb. 25th, 2007 06:53 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bantha_fodderNo Uncertain Clarity by Pen.
Children of Dune, Ghanima, G.
This is totally self-indulgent. Chinese New Year #9.
**
She runs, and runs, and runs. Her skin is not her own, and she cannot outrun it, and when she falls to her knees on her sands, the grains run together, muddied by a trickle that becomes a flood when she blinks, and when she cries her tears mix with the melting desert and she sinks beneath the sands.
When she wakes it is with a gasp. Her skin is clammy and hot. She looks past the empty space beside her and across at Leto, seated cross-legged on the floor, softly drumming a beat on an antique drum. The hide stretches across its surface, and her brother smiles at her. She feels the thrumming beneath her skin.
"Once, on Ancient Earth," he begins, a story from their shared memory. "There was a beast who lived beneath the sea. Every twelve months it would rise up, sneak silently into a nearby village, and eat the villagers living within. It was so big, that when it opened its mouth wide it could swallow a man in a single bite. The Nian terrorised the people for many years, until a very old man came to the village and tamed the Nian, riding it into the sunset. Before the old man left, he bade the villagers to hang red decorations on their windows and to loudly bang their drums, to scare away the Nian if it ever tried to return."
She coughs, a deep, hacking cough, and he drowns it out with his drum and the tenor of his voice.
"So every year they would bang their drums, and ring their bells, and hang their red decorations, and the Nian never returned. But it is lurking, waiting for us. Our moons are different and we have no sea, but we sing our songs and we ring our bells to keep the Nian from reaching us."
As his story reaches its conclusion, the sound of the drum beats louder and louder, until all she can hear is the beat echoing through her ears. She cannot hear her brother, but his words are her words and she speaks them aloud with him.
He stops his drumming, and the silence echoes.
"Will you tell that story when I am gone?" she asks him, her chest tight.
"Ghani," he says. "Beloved."
Of course he will.
END
Children of Dune, Ghanima, G.
This is totally self-indulgent. Chinese New Year #9.
**
She runs, and runs, and runs. Her skin is not her own, and she cannot outrun it, and when she falls to her knees on her sands, the grains run together, muddied by a trickle that becomes a flood when she blinks, and when she cries her tears mix with the melting desert and she sinks beneath the sands.
When she wakes it is with a gasp. Her skin is clammy and hot. She looks past the empty space beside her and across at Leto, seated cross-legged on the floor, softly drumming a beat on an antique drum. The hide stretches across its surface, and her brother smiles at her. She feels the thrumming beneath her skin.
"Once, on Ancient Earth," he begins, a story from their shared memory. "There was a beast who lived beneath the sea. Every twelve months it would rise up, sneak silently into a nearby village, and eat the villagers living within. It was so big, that when it opened its mouth wide it could swallow a man in a single bite. The Nian terrorised the people for many years, until a very old man came to the village and tamed the Nian, riding it into the sunset. Before the old man left, he bade the villagers to hang red decorations on their windows and to loudly bang their drums, to scare away the Nian if it ever tried to return."
She coughs, a deep, hacking cough, and he drowns it out with his drum and the tenor of his voice.
"So every year they would bang their drums, and ring their bells, and hang their red decorations, and the Nian never returned. But it is lurking, waiting for us. Our moons are different and we have no sea, but we sing our songs and we ring our bells to keep the Nian from reaching us."
As his story reaches its conclusion, the sound of the drum beats louder and louder, until all she can hear is the beat echoing through her ears. She cannot hear her brother, but his words are her words and she speaks them aloud with him.
He stops his drumming, and the silence echoes.
"Will you tell that story when I am gone?" she asks him, her chest tight.
"Ghani," he says. "Beloved."
Of course he will.
END
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2007-02-25 07:46 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-02-26 11:13 am (UTC)They had to part because of the Golden Path, but how AWESOME would it have been if they could have both walked the path?
(no subject)
Date: 2007-02-26 07:59 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-02-25 07:53 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-02-26 11:23 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-02-27 09:23 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-02-28 12:58 pm (UTC)