the sun is orange and red warmth on his face. although he can’t see the colors he can feel them through that glare. the lids of his eyes are closed, covering what might be a horrifying sight for his - his what? his friend? a friend of the man he had been. paul the emperor, the murderer, the god. he feels the tall shadow pass over him, blocking out the glare. there’s a small touch of moisture there in his mouth now. he’s glad for it. he’s glad for the desert all around him, the sands soft under their feet, the threat of the worms, the comfort of a sietch.
he can make out the shape of rand standing there, tall, looming, and perhaps even a little comforting here in the quiet of this small sietch. he had known that he would come. but what it would mean for them was something he did not want to think on. perhaps death, perhaps confusion, perhaps a return to the golden lion throne that had left such an unsettling feeling inside of him. he’s not interested in going back or in the death of his friend. or was it his own that glared brightly and hotly in every vision. he’s been out of it, feverish, and on the high of the spice. “did you come to find me or hear the preacher talk?” he asks what he hadn’t asked when rand had stumbled on him a few days ago. they had been focusing on wandering through the sands to another sietch. they hadn’t had the time. but they had time now, surrounded still by the fremen who had not forgotten the old ways. and he was at home.
@caracarnn