MERCURIAL ( paul atreides.. )

005. Poignancy of Forlorn Futures..

Tenebrosity hallowed the room with quiet transmogrify and metamorphosis; everything changed while plunged in darkness, from colors to dimensions and time, so all of a sudden, Paul felt his room had gotten engorged, Mercury's hair had turned into his color and time itself slowed down, breathing in reverse. 

Was there any air left in his lungs or have they been filled with the blessing of Mercury's scent instead, therefore embracing the quiet little death of asphyxiation? He'd die happily in that bed after the days which followed his moment of weak desperation, kneeling him in the training room not under the threat of a blade he could grasp, but under the cutting edge of separation, a looming void at the back of his mind. They were heavenly days with specks of bitterness, but like blood corrupting a white sheet, those stains stood out. 

They've appeared shortly after Paul laid his heart at rest with the certainty he was never going to lose Mercury, that he will always be able to count on her and the existence of her love for him. Oh, and how lucky he felt to be the subject of her desires, or her hopes and dreams. And yet, that very night, though she remained in his bed, to hide from the storm breaking loose in a vengeful warning roars, she turned her back on him. 

Pain startled him to an undeniable state of pondering, making him loose sleep; Paul had descended his mind down the spiral of thinking and by the time the sun even threatened to think of shining over the horizon he was a wide awake mess, left behind by a clutching realization: did she know? 

Did she know the sweet taste of the weakness she forged of his chest? Did she know her smile created waves of shivers, peppering his skin in astral kisses he had wished, in secrecy, it would have come from her? Did she realize just how dependent he was of her, how she had become his air and bones and blood, and there was no more future in Paul's mind which did not play her presence, that wicked smile? Paul was drenched in desperation: did she even know, as clearly as he did now, that he would never leave her either? That if the world demanded it, he'd pay the price in blood just to remain by her side? That he would fight off all that is dark and evil, so no pain could ever come close to touching her skin...? Oh, her skin, the skin he yearned to worship like a pilgrim prays to his shrine, not by mastery, but by the ancient ways of a calling. 

Did Mercury know she was that call for Paul?

If she did not, then Paul would curse himself for being a fool all along. But he'd nevertheless take no chances no more. Now but a single sunrise away from departure, he played back the memories as a mantra for what laid ahead of him, unaware their existence was a chant bringing forth visions and dreams he has been keeping at bay.

We are all just memories of the future... Then let the future remember what I have done, so he may learn better ways to speak the language of love, to become an outlet of devotion and master the tender softness of passion.

The morning after it has been revealed to him that she'd forsake everything and everyone to follow him to Arrakis, Paul was awake from a night of no sleep and carrying the heaviness of darker eyes, otherwise, a little more sagacious too. His left hand had lifted with the sunrise and, turned on his right side he inhaled sharply to breathe out the mindless courage of doing exactly what he would have required to sleep too: touch her. Only there was no requirement for sleep left flaring signals in his body; he was solely concentrated and dedicated to dragging just the tips of his fingers across her left arm at first. He ghosted shyly and ashamed the spot which now was bruised, another mistake he would not rest about as easily as her. 

He had not aimed to wake her up with that touch, for after a while, when he ceased simply holding his breath, he begun threading his fingers through her hair instead. Paul kept a fearful boundary -fear was his mind's killer, his heart's oldest friend- into this game of caress and affectionate little proofs that there was adoration in his eyes. Now he recalled too vividly still the exact nuance of bright yellow which purged his room through fences and curtains, making it look like the intoxicating insides of a bottle of pale wine, birthed in the orchards of his family and occasionally seated on their most important tables.