irulean

[irulean]

AN INDEPENDENT WRITING BLOG FOR FEYD-RAUTHA HARKONNEN, BELONGING TO FRANK HERBERT'S DUNE. PRIMARILY BOOK-BASED WITH SELECT MOVIE INFLUENCES. AS WRITTEN BY JOSEPH.

[irulean]

plotting call. would love to write more irulan in generic sci-fi or fantasy verses! we can make whatever work, she slays in any genre

[irulean]

if anyone in this ghastly empire could tolerate being honest with themselves, they would have to confront the fact they live in a rotting carcass. the old guard deteriorates before everyone’s eyes, watching as the heads of the empire fall prey to greed and lust. her father, the baron, the guild, all the old players have run themselves ragged chasing their own tails. the new blood lie in wait, circling the battlefield, sniffing out weakness. the sun is setting on emperor shaddam’s reign, soon night will fall. [more than once, she has woken in a cold sweat, dread like bile on her tongue, horrified by what her unconscious mind has made of the future.] they will have to watch their patriarch's inevitable intertwined downfalls together, feyd and irulan, and then they will fight to tooth and nail to rise out of the night, together. she watches him with a begrudging fascination. geidi prime fostered a culture unlike anything she’s experienced before. inexorable strength and a brute-force reign, any attempts at deception crumpled in an iron grip. the harkonnen's showmanship is direct, clean cut, imposing. in busy halls and crowded formal meetings, her eyes know where to find him in a room. he will be peaking out from behind the formidable shadow of his uncle, eyes sharp and mouth curved, embarking on every conversation as a battle, every interaction as something to be conquered. it is to be a lonely life. companionship is unfathomable, would likely be intolerable. marriage and royalty and the sadistic system she has been birthed into will surely slowly envelop her, push her head further and futher under water. her role is one she must step down into. the two of them, the interconnected heads of the same hydra, have only ever communicated like wild animals: snarling and hissing. something behind her ribcage claws at the sight of him, loathes that the future is falling to place with her trapped amongst the pieces.

at his voice, irulan seeks out his serpentine stare, is not met with anything of the sort. he is the most human she has ever known him to be, his savage teeth sheathed behind his lips, silvery stretch of damaged skin pinched closed, and yet. [...] and yet, he will not meet her gaze. she sees him clearer now: in the dim light of his quarters, close enough to feel the presence of his limbs without needing to touch, he is something else entirely. the warrior withdraws into a shape much more clandestine. his voice without command, hand without weapon. irulan's head tilts minutely, tracking how the difference in position changes the contours of his face. “i didn’t,” she concurs. he has been more deceitful than she had previously realized, playing into the role he's been casted. in this they are alike; doomed to playing the long game. irulan briefly basks in the revelation that this is an equal playing field. she would prefer the reality of a fork-tongued feyd-rautha to a mindless brute. the princess cranes her head downwards, studying where the fine fabric of her dress is painted by his blood. let it be, she thinks. let the obvious metaphor ring true. their ancestors paved their way in blood and someone must be honest about it. [feyd, all the harkonnens, they have been. but this is too big to confront, too large to digest. she needs time to make sense of it.] she has never enjoyed meaningless platitudes, deception for the sake of proving one is smart enough to weave a narrative. there is no reason to skirt around the edges of her curiosity, not when there is nothing to gain from it. "you did not have to spill any blood today. you have more than shown your prowess in combat. why?"

it's different; something in that moment that snags between space and time where the distant echoes of the past fade into nirvana. [maybe all they had grown to be were the products of their makers, sinews stretched taut over bones until they resembled pawns that only their ancestors could possess an approximation of love for. maybe that no longer mattered.] it's seeing, seeing as feyd-rautha had as he took a dutiful knee at the emperor's silent bidding, her at his side; the chainmail coif that kept the princess' face half-hidden from his inquisitive gaze, the garb of a warrior, the whisper of strength and resilience that ghosts between metal shards and promises him resistance at every measure. they were never meant to find themselves at each other's side, and yet; destiny's thread wove anew. now, it was she who saw — the blood that maketh a man, spilling unceremoniously against unusually white skin that plants him in a world unlike her own. feyd-rautha was no god, though the arena would thunder timelessly with deific devotion for their most esteemed warrior, it did not make that statement untrue, and he was sharing the secret of his mortality as though days prior she'd not have wished him dead by her hand [by his own deliberation]. she could twine her fingers into his white flesh and wrench him apart. she doesn't.

‘you didn't have to do that.’ feyd remarks quietly, as he studies the stretch of fresh-sealed skin. nothing feyd-rautha did had ever been quiet, actions booming with elaborate showmanship; but feyd was always measured in the release of his own voice, every word deliberate. he never talked for talking's sake, wielding both the power of speech and the abject nature of silence with equal mastery, the latter speaking far more in its omission than an abundance ever could. [that ability to temper was a gift of foresight, demonstrated clearly a superior intelligence to those that talk-talk-talked, such as the baron who stood in place before him, of whom could not rightfully discern the requirements of when to speak, and when to listen. perhaps himself and irulan were kin in that manner, masters of self-governance of which their mediation between worlds depended upon.] what is pointedly absent from his observation is that this is much below her station; both as a wife, and perhaps more importantly, as a monarch. a woman of her position would not be required to dirty herself in the mud and the blood, dousing her dress-sleeves in the indecencies of the harkonnen men. it was not their custom here, nor would it likely be elsewhere; feyd can only imagine the horror twisting shaddam's face as the princess spoils her skin with his blood, letting it soak and stain her palms in a manner that bleeds possession and ownership [him over her, or her over him?]. the dissonant notes of his voice leave much to be considered, but ultimately express that, as his betrothed and soon-to-be wife, she is not expected to perform such duties, to tend and to care as though her station is somewhere beneath him. he refuses to indulge himself with the idea that this could be an act borne out of own want. what lady would want to interfere in the happenings of warriors? what princess? his mind flickers back to their introduction, the stare fixed to his own expression through metal shutters; unblinking, unyielding. and then, feyd-rautha understands; she was a warrior in her own right, shedding the courtly life that resembled little more than a gilded cage into becoming, the hallmark tradition of sombre refinement left in kaitan like a corpse of a previous self. she was here, soaked in the blood of a new beginning, embracing all it had to offer in spite of the stain it left on her hands.

[irulean]

dune posting on main, somebody get this guy outta here!

[irulean]

a pliant smile, chin tilting down to concede to the unshaken confidence of her commander. "your optimism is noted and appreciated, commander." at this, she turns on her heels, beginning to pace the length of the room. her hands twist together behind her, her mouth opens but her vocal cords do not comply. she was right to hide her face from her doting subject, her closest friend on this wretched planet. she has so few allies on arrakis, is barely tolerated by every inhabitant. irulan is the wife and has commanded less respect than the concubine. there is nowhere to turn, no higher rank to prepare for. she is the disfavored wife of the messiah. she is floundering. the blonde turns back to face her friend. irulan surveys the woman without a sense of urgency, looking for weakness. the soldier has straight posture, a smart warp of a smile, alert eyes. the princess tilts her head. [princess, still princess, forever princess. empress is a sign of respect she may never receive.] she finds nina's flaws in abundance: a near fatalistic penchant for bravery, an inflated ego, rolling waves of emotions that are only ever vaguely kept in check. she notes these pressure points, keeps the information stored away for a later date. a person cannot be without defects, not truly, but they are sorely underprepared if they are not aware of their weaknesses. it is her job to know her people, her duty to keep them at arms length without making it obvious. irulan meets nina's softened look with her own purposefully distant gaze.

"i'm sure it would not surprise you to hear i am unfavorable in the eyes of the fremen. the muad'dib is the guiding star on arrakis. his new wife is insignificant when there is a holy war to be waged." said casually, devoid of emotion. his new wife is insignificant when she is wife only in name. her hand twitches, warding the thought away from her. irulan is not hurt by this fact, she was born to be a bridge between houses. she was born to bear a bloodline that may never come to fruition. "their distaste for me grows. their respect is non-existent." the eye contact is too much, too vulnerable. she brings her attention to a distant wall, but the divergence doesn't last. she worries at the inside of her cheek, intending to bite down hard enough to draw blood, but easing up at the last second. gold-flecked green eyes are drawn back to the commander like a compulsion. "you are loyal to me, nina, and i believe you to be alone in that. i need help with infiltration. i need to you to learn how best to win my citizen's favor."

@irulean, i only care that you can do the job.

Her posture reflects the confidence that has become synonymous with her name across the galaxy. Commander Shepard, in all her glory, stood tall. Her piercing gaze meets Irulan's, unwavering in its intensity as she processes the blunt declaration. The blonde breaks her silence with a measured tone conveying authority and resolve. "Your Highness," she begins, choosing her words with delicate care, "I understand your concerns but rest assured— my commitment to you is unwavering. Not to mention, I've faced challenges that would make most quail." She adds a pointed smile at the end of the sentence, veneers showing ever the slightest.

Gaze softening, a glimmer of respect shines through the sterling steel of the Commander's demeanor. Her resolve seemingly radiates outward, filling the otherwise empty throne room with an almost tangible determination. "The job, though? Consider it done." There's an ease to the blonde's words; they flow like honey from her parted lips, the apples of her cheeks still blossoming from the residual smile.

"What do you need me to take care of?"

[irulean]

the future always seems to build upon remnants of the past, drawing out dormant memories and re-telling old stories with new characters. her mother had once used the scrapes and gashes of her adolescent younger sisters to instruct irulan for the future. bene gesserit are detached in the face of horrors, prepared at the sight of gore. blood, even that of rambunctious children, was never for blood's sake: it had purpose, a lesson, a use. anirul corrino was a better teacher than caretaker, irulan was a better student than daughter. the future builds on the past: stone-white flesh beneath her careful hands, red ochre seeping into the seam of her fingerprints. feyd-rautha [na-baron no more?] has given her an opportunity to be useful from inside this gilded cage, compliant and quiet as she all but forces his torn skin back together. her focus is strict, unwavering, exceedingly vigilant. the mind affects the reality. this is the teachings of the bene gesserit. . . the omnipotent hand at the back of her neck. irulan corrino, dutiful student, watchful protege, the bene gesserit's greatest mediocrity. keen eye, incessantly curious, and presently powerless.

the wound is not deep,  only loud,  spilling profusely.  it's a cosmetic and impatient act to tend to him, ultimately unnecessary for his health; though, every time he had shifted,  the slash re-opened.  the people did not need to see him bleed, irulan had the necessary skills to stop the flow. it's a sensible, necessary mending. the future builds: painting across his abdomen are remnants of previous battles. valleys and gouges in his skin, raised streaks of scar tissue. her eyes sweep over these marks only once, cataloguing, understanding. she is no nurse, nor is she some sort of fanatic. there is no success or tragedy to be found in the angry twist of his former wounds, only a twisted narrative of survival and misplaced glory. her attentions do not linger: irulan is factual, carefully detached. her eyebrows lower in concentration, tongue pressing behind her teeth. the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest ought to be a gauge, a measure of pain, but he has shown no sign of the sort. surely his indifference is a symptom of some sort of conditioning, or perhaps lingering adrenaline dulled his senses to the sensations.

she glances up, considers the careful blankness of his features, blown out pupils fixated on his own skin. even when she looks back down to the task at hand, understanding the look stays at the forefront of her considerations. the hollow of his eyes beneath his brow, light splashing at the curved top of his cupids bow. this is a changing of the tides, feyd's blood staining her hands. [something in her is rattled at the warmth of it against her skin, at the reduction of the great warrior to a bleeding human man.] these are the only concessions they've ever made for eachother: he is still, unarmed, and she does not dig any further into his flesh than needed. his knife within reach and un-wielded, her hand gently prodding just below his ribs. irulan has never known him like this: not so physically bare, the skin which protects vital organs open to whatever potentially violent whim she might have, and not so unguarded. for the first time, there is not a blatant distrust between them; instead a sickening feeling of honesty. [distantly, she wants to drag out further proof of the humanity hidden beneath his serpentine exterior with her teeth.] instead, her hand retreats from the mended muscle, wiping excess paste from her fingertips on a piece of cloth, a faint wash of blood remaining on her skin. "this should not leave a scar."

> @irulean — sender stitches up receiver's wound.

if irulan had never tended to someone like this before, an onlooker would not guess; her fingers moved with a strict precision and knowing dexterity that acted in accordance with how she lived, how she spoke, how she breathed [measured by the atom, conditioned to know it by mere feeling]. it was something that didn't go unnoticed by feyd-rautha, that pompous[?] propriety of outer worlds felt something like a slight on the draconian harkonnen way— a way to darken their image across the galaxy and gesture to their savagery, in a manner that platforms their civility and all-round betterment. among other worlds, feyd-rautha was nothing more than a weapon; a blunt tool without mind nor acumen, who only acted in blood. he feels their underestimation like a dull blade that continues cutting, breaking skin in that slow, malicious manner that demands to be felt. but if anything, feyd-rautha was a performer; concealing his intuition from even the princess until his voice could be heard across the cosmos, their knees would touch the ground in professions of mercy. for now, he was fine to play the savage; giving them everything they expected and more, purging his peripheries of those who dared defy him.

as she sutures the wound with paste, his attention flickers from her dignified hand [its slight golden hue in contrast to his pallor, as though her skin had been dipped in spice and desert sands] up, up towards the ornate detail of her dress sleeves; the florid stitching and beading that created an elaborate web to conceal much of her skin, but progressive enough to allow rays of gold to peek through still. the baron traces these intricacies like a path towards her collarbones, lingering on the hollow of her throat before finally finding the rigid locks that frame her jaw; never a millimetre out of place. feyd doesn't dare venture to touch the harsh lines of her face, unsure of the deception it might bring; she was bene gesserit, he'd had fragments of time stolen from beneath him by one that bore the same beginnings, awoken as that person, whom he did not wholly recognise, stepped out from his bed, an act committed but not remembered. he pushes the piecing of vacant space from his mind, stalls instead by the resplendent ends of fair locks, wondering for a short moment how they would feel between his fingers. [but when she notices him noticing, gaze returns to the self; discerning the paste lodged into his side that promises a blemish-free healing, unlike those that litter his back and sides. this insignificant blunder in battle was not something worth keeping, a mere slice between abdominals that seem to contract with every small touch they exchange. as though indecent, forbidden.] it is the most intimate they had ever been, emotionally and physically; the togetherness in mending, her deft fingers ghosting across his blood-soaked skin is somehow worth something more than had ever been previously shared, as though this moment is as honest as things could be between them. it felt vulnerable, and yet the venomous barbs that drowse beneath his flesh do not stir at this painstaking unfamiliarity, but still as though comforted; the knife at their side glimmered for attention beneath the harsh light of his chambers, but remained untouched.

[irulean]

asoiaf: a dance with dragons starters

❝ i fear i make you uneasy. ❞ ❝ knowledge is a weapon. arm yourself well before you ride forth to battle. ❞ ❝ go on. show your steel. give me cause to do the same. ❞ ❝ fear is what keeps a man alive in this world of treachery and deceit. ❞ ❝ these woods are not as empty as you think. ❞ ❝ promise me that you will never turn against me. i could not bear that. promise me. ❞ ❝ the only time a man can be brave is when he is afraid. ❞ ❝ if i must die, i will die with an axe in my hand and a curse upon my lips. ❞ ❝ tales are told of you. i hear them everywhere. people fear you. ❞ ❝ go too far down that road,  and  mistrust  can  poison  you,  make you sour and fearful. ❞ ❝ you mistake me. that was a command, not an offer. ❞ ❝ sorcery is a sword without a hilt. there is no safe way to grasp it. ❞ ❝ prophecy is like a half-trained mule. it looks like it might be useful, but the moment you trust in it, it kicks you in the head. ❞ ❝ it is not the foes who curse you to your face that you must fear, but those who smile when you are looking and sharpen their knives when you turn your back. ❞ ❝ i rose too high, loved too hard, dared too much. i tried to grasp a star, overreached, and fell. ❞ ❝ they think that this will break my pride, that it will make an end to me, but they are wrong. ❞ ❝ tell me of the things that make you happy, the things that make you giggle, all your sweetest memories. remind me that there is still good in the world. ❞ ❝ one war ends, another begins. there is always someone fighting someone somewhere. ❞ ❝ this is what i was made for. the dance, the sweet steel song, a sword in my hand and a foe before me. ❞ ❝ my enemies have told you i am dead. those tales are false, as you can see. ❞ ❝ not all that a man does is done for gain. ❞ ❝ i know that you believe me weak, frightened, feeble. ❞ ❝ it takes a man to rule. kill the boy, and let the man be born. ❞ ❝ do you mean to spend your whole life running away? ❞ ❝ kingdoms are at hazard here. our lives, our names, our honour. this is no game we’re playing for your amusement. ❞ ❝ however gentle the words, there are always darker motives underneath. i do not trust you. ❞ ❝ a good honest face, but you should smile more. ❞ ❝ my throne is made of burned bones, and it rests on quicksand. ❞ ❝ you are so radiant today i fear to look on you. ❞ ❝ prove yourself more trouble than you are worth, and you can go your own way. ❞ ❝ you need not look so pale, i was only playing with you. ❞ ❝ this is not the day i die, i promise you. ❞ ❝ i wanted you from the first time i saw you. ❞ ❝ was i so blind, or  did  i  close  my  eyes  willingly, so i would not see the price of power? ❞ ❝ men should not go wandering in this place. ❞ ❝ hold your tongue and do as you are told, or you will soon wish you had. ❞ ❝ you won’t try. you will obey. ❞ ❝ kneel and live. or go and die. it’s your choice to make. ❞ ❝ are you so blind, or is it that you do not wish to see? ❞ ❝ that is not a place you want to go to. ❞ ❝ i will not go back without doing what i came for, no matter how hopeless it may seem. ❞ ❝ the fairest woman in this world…i am drunk with the sight of you. ❞ ❝ secrets are worth more than silver and sapphires. ❞ ❝ we have come too far to turn back now. ❞ ❝ what have i done to make you hate me so? ❞ ❝ you meet so few men who value friendship over gold these days. ❞ ❝ it is true, i am a bolder man than most. ❞ ❝ i cannot go home. but i dare not stay here much longer. ❞ ❝ foes and false friends are all around me. ❞ ❝ the fewer folk who will know of this, the better. ❞ ❝ all you have i gave you. remember that. ❞ ❝ will you make me say it twice? go and do as i commanded you. ❞ ❝ love is madness, and lust is poison. ❞ ❝ i feel safe when i’m with you. ❞ ❝ have you no smile for me? am i as fearful as all that? ❞ ❝ why did i ever allow myself to be talked into this farce? ❞ ❝ don’t think i don’t see what you’re doing. ❞ ❝ i will tell you nothing. do me the same favor. ❞ ❝ if i look back i am lost. ❞ ❝ a crown should not sit easy on the head. ❞ ❝ we must show a little trust, you and i. ❞ ❝ trust only your companions, and do your best to avoid attracting notice. ❞ ❝ you’re not going to try to kill me again, i hope. ❞ ❝ if you will forgive me for saying so, you look…weary. are you sleeping? ❞ ❝ your clothes are stained with blood. take them off. ❞ ❝ every fool loves to hear that he’s important. ❞ ❝ my father used to tell me that a man must know his enemies. ❞ ❝ you are a harmless creature, to be sure. as innocent as a lamb. ❞ ❝ till then, let us drink and dream. ❞ ❝ you will be tempted to betray me. to run or fight or join our foes. i’ll not hear you deny it. ❞ ❝ soon enough you may have grave need of me. do not refuse my friendship. ❞ ❝ it is best that no man knows that you are here. ❞ ❝ i kill kings, haven’t you heard? ❞ ❝ should any ill befall you, this world would lose its savor. ❞ ❝ some will look at you and see only another doomed pretender. ❞ ❝ i think life is a jape. yours, mine, everyone’s. ❞ ❝ i will forgive those words…once. but never presume to threaten me again. ❞ ❝ your father would be so proud if he could see you. ❞ ❝ just once you might try to give me an answer that would please me. ❞ ❝ they love me well. none would betray me. ❞ ❝ i have sins enough to answer for; i’ll have no part of this one. ❞ ❝ i mean you no harm, you know. ❞ ❝ i do not trust you, but i need you. ❞ ❝ we’ll both sleep, and dream of sweeter days. close your eyes. ❞ ❝ since you ask so nicely, how can i deny you? ❞ ❝ no wine is half so intoxicating as your beauty. ❞ ❝ why should i beg for what is owed me? ❞ ❝ a lord may love the men he commands, but he cannot be a friend to them. ❞ ❝ let them try and trouble us, we’ll show them what we’re made of. ❞ ❝ a leader should be feared, by friend and foe alike. if men think me cruel, so much the better. ❞ ❝ the enemy of my friend is my enemy. ❞ ❝ a book can be as dangerous as a sword in the right hands. ❞ ❝ i am an old man, grown weary of this world and its treacheries. ❞ ❝ these are desperate days, and like to grow more desperate. ❞ ❝ we need to find shelter before nightfall. ❞ ❝ there are footsteps behind us. we are being followed. ❞ ❝ this is no common fog. it stinks of sorcery. ❞ ❝ i am glad you came to me. it is good to see you again, my friend. ❞ ❝ the man who does nothing also takes a risk. ❞ ❝ the women are the strong ones. ❞ ❝ afraid, are you? i would be if i were you. ❞ ❝ tell me a tale. some tale of valor with a happy ending. ❞ ❝ i’ll have a cup of wine as well. to clear my head. ❞ ❝ we may lose our heads, it’s true…but what if we prevail? ❞ ❝ keep your swords sharp. we’ll have us a real fight soon. ❞ ❝ this is going to end badly. ❞ ❝ what are you doing here? how did you get past my guards? ❞ ❝ it is so hard. to be strong. i don’t always know what i should do. ❞ ❝ let us instead speak of love, of dreams and desire. ❞ ❝ you wound me, wandering off like this. have you grown tired of my hospitality so soon? ❞ ❝ with this sword i defend my subjects and destroy those who menace them. ❞ ❝ it is too late for such misgivings. you made your choice. ❞ ❝ in times as confused as these, even men of honor must wonder where their duty lies. ❞ ❝ why? what did i ever do to you? ❞ ❝ we must be certain that we do not choose the losing side. ❞ ❝ dream sweet dreams. there are no monsters here. ❞ ❝ i know who you are. i know what you are. ❞ ❝ a little honest loathing might be refreshing, like a tart wine after too much sweet. ❞ ❝ a bloody sword is a beautiful thing. ❞ ❝ a ruler belongs to their people, not to themself. ❞ ❝ if the ones i killed come haunt me, i will kill them all again. ❞ ❝ you shine so brightly, you will blind every man who dares look upon you. ❞ ❝ a fair bargain leaves both sides unhappy, i’ve heard it said. ❞ ❝ there’s blood on your hands, aye, same as mine. ❞ ❝ i have done wicked things, i know, but i could not bear for you to hate me. ❞ ❝ it is good to see you smiling again. ❞ ❝ i have doubts enough without you throwing oil on the fire of my fear. ❞ ❝ blood pays for blood, a life for a life. ❞ ❝ go home, if that is what you want. i am staying. ❞ ❝ a man’d think there’s no trust between us. ❞ ❝ i would choose freedom over comfort every time. ❞ ❝ you are even lovelier than i was told. ❞ ❝ stay. i do not wish to be alone. ❞ ❝ treachery on treachery. is there no end to it? ❞ ❝ dreams and prophecies. why must they always be in riddles? ❞ ❝ one wrong word, and this could turn to blood in half a heartbeat. ❞ ❝ you lie. i can see the truth in your eyes. ❞ ❝ throw down your steel and stand aside, and no harm need come to you. ❞ ❝ you are supposed to be my friend. why must you mock my hopes? ❞ ❝ it is better to die with honor than to live without it. ❞ ❝ it does no good to brood on lost battles and roads not taken. ❞ ❝ i see you are deaf to sense. ❞ ❝ you are no better than me. we’re just the same. ❞ ❝ a man should never draw his sword unless he means to use it. ❞ ❝ you kill men for the wrongs they have done, not the wrongs that they may do someday. ❞ ❝ close your eyes. close your ears. turn away. you do not need to see this. ❞ ❝ the sooner we are gone from this place, the better. ❞ ❝ i am sorry my actions have displeased you. i did as i thought best. ❞ ❝ you do not need to trust a man to use him. ❞ ❝ if you cannot do this thing, you need only say so. there is no shame in that. ❞ ❝ never wound a foe when you can kill him. dead men don’t claim vengeance. ❞ ❝ this is what i wanted, what i worked for. so why does it taste so much like defeat? ❞ ❝ honest men should never need to hide their faces. ❞ ❝ i am not the trusting fool you take me for. ❞ ❝ men’s lives have meaning, not their deaths. ❞ ❝ he’s dead. he won’t bite. ❞ ❝ if this is the price for peace, i pay it willingly. ❞ ❝ it makes me wonder whose side you are on. ❞ ❝ dreams and prophecies. why must they always be in riddles? ❞ ❝ i will not say that you are welcome. nor will i deny that i have hoped that you might come. ❞ ❝ you have the eyes of a wolf and a taste for blood. ❞ ❝ men are mad and gods are madder. ❞ ❝ one war ends, another begins. there is always someone fighting someone somewhere. ❞ ❝ not all risks lead to ruin. ❞ ❝ is there some place with fewer eyes and ears? ❞ ❝ i need you now as i have never needed you before. ❞ ❝ tell me, is there any fight left in you? ❞ ❝ it was the wind that you heard screaming. ❞ ❝ crying? i was not crying. why would i cry? ❞ ❝ are you some butcher of the battlefield, hacking down every man who stands in your way? ❞ ❝ rain. a storm is coming. ❞ ❝ that was simple. simpler than i dared hope. simpler than it should have been. ❞ ❝ see that you do not speak of this. i’ll not have this tale spread. ❞ ❝ how could i be so blind for so long? ❞ ❝ you had a bad dream, that was all. ❞ ❝ are you prepared to defend that boast with sword or lance? ❞ ❝ i will do it. i said i would. i will. ❞ ❝ think that. believe that. tell yourself it’s true. ❞ ❝ you have more enemies than you know. ❞ ❝ i have no heart. i only have a hole. ❞ ❝ it has been too long since i’ve killed a man. ❞ ❝ words are wind. words cannot harm me. ❞ ❝ have you forgotten who i am? ❞ ❝ too many good men died that day. ❞ ❝ it is so good to see your face, your sweet face. ❞ ❝ it is still not too late to abandon this folly. ❞ ❝ i will not stay here to be insulted. ❞

[irulean]

GLADIATOR (2000) dir. Ridley Scott DUNE: PART TWO (2024) dir. Denis Villeneuve

[irulean]

joseph says the word irulan to me and i am back. it’s time for my little miserable space princess

[irulean]

DUNE: PART TWO (2024) - dir. Denis Villeneuve

[irulean]

“Without being told it, Paul knew her—Princess Royal, Bene Gesserit-trained, a face that time vision had shown him in many aspects: Irulan.

There’s my key, he thought.”

— DUNE, Frank Herbert

[irulean]

dune - frank herbert // dune part two dir. denis villeneuve

[irulean]

THE GREAT (2020—2023)

[irulean]

to be an heir to a noble lineage is to be built rather than birthed. princess and na-baron alike, each breath is the continued success of the bene gesserit's great plot. one cannot be a stranger to that which runs through them. history has sacrificed to them so much blood, and they pass through vein and artery without a second glance, vindicated to take their place at the throne. the title of empress will one day be hers has she any right to it? the arena shakes with the thrill of the scene before her: the future heir of house harkonnen standing upon a mountain of corpses. the roar of the crowd is deafening, so loud it feels tactile. it seems a miracle geidi prime has not disrupted its own orbit. the match is over, there are no survivors. there has never been survivors. escorts stand and begin their prodding, insistent to keep this visit on schedule. abandoning her seat is abandoning the reach of geidi prime's black sunlight, every hallway drenching her further in darkness. the arena's layout is suffocating, all stairwells and corridors and the drumbeat of her own footsteps. how fitting to make her descend to far to meet him. this trip is a necessary display of good will between the houses. it is an honor to be chosen, it is horrific to be present. princess irulan sits in her disgust like a warm bath, drenched in loathing as a means of ablution, convincing herself moral purity can be achieved through a frown. she spots him before anything else, an unflinching figure of marble in the vacuum of the colosseum's private rooms. "na-baron," her head inclines, civility tasting like iron on her tongue. congratulations are in order.

@rauther, sender spits out a mouthful of blood at receiver's feet.

her jaw comes askew, her heartbeat quickening, the world narrowing down to the inch of ground before her shoes. spit pools at the bottom of his lip, tinged red against the blank canvas of his skin. he lashes out like a child, stamps out life like one might slap at an insect. who will be left to serve him by the time he reaches ascendency? he is spoiled by the routine gladiatorial combat on geidi prime, by the enduring worship of his citizens. feyd-rautha na-baron. psychotic, pampered prince. irulan’s stomach turns. cruelty is so often swept away to the grumbling underbelly of the corrino empire. violence is not her currency--- her flavor of carnage has always been much less literal. surely he knows this. does he wish for someone to finally grant him the gift of their disapproval? all of this thinking, contemplation, paralysis. who loses more than the ones who do not act? the princess corrino falls back on all of which she has been taught by the bene gesserit, next intake of breath measured, eyes locking onto his. tooth meets tooth, tendons flexing with the force she uses to close her open mouth. he will not have the satisfaction of her horror. "it's an honor."

[irulean]

gilded and ostenate, her neck long, eyes sharp. precious metals drench her, jewels paid for in blood sing twinkling melodies beside her ear. the crown empress is drowning in her own adornment. this is a scene, a re-enactment, and she must play her part. irulan hums from the back of her throat, deep interest reduced to a look of quiet understanding, his gaze unbroken as she takes a measured bite. the muad'dib is unreserved this morning. there's a clarity of his tone, a truth to his word. without the presence of his worshippers, his gifts sound no better than a death sentence. for what reason has he decided to divulge when he has previously been so unforthcoming? training has sensitized her ears. one must look for the plot in the plot in the plot. perhaps it a showing of the foolishness the bene gesserit could not beat out of her irulan decides his openness has an easy explanation. his truth weighs heavily upon him.

with fork balanced between her fingers, irulan's eyes catch on an exposed sliver of teeth his teeth, quietly pondering what words died on the tip of his tongue. her father once admiringly showed her a portrait of leto atriedes. he had been the picture of duty, shoulders broad and features dignified, but just the rendering of his eyes betrayed a more emotive nature. the yellow break of morning light illuminates similarities between paul's features and irulan's memory of his father. the princess sees all she will of the true nature of her husband in flashes: glimpses of boyishness, the off-handed amused slant to his voice, private looks meant for eyes other than her own. these moments of humanity are enough to inspire. she must believe there is more to her future than regalia and duty. "you may." quietly bemused, attuned to the ridiculousness of his politeness. has she any choice other than an interrogation at his hands? something in her enjoys that he has the courtesy to ask. irulan smiles, teeth hidden from display. "i fear i am much shrouded in much less mystery than yourself. what do you wish to know?"

@irulean, do you often dream things that happen just as you dreamed them?

glimpses inside of a god's mind are rare, just are glimpses inside of muad'dib's. he is not a man of easy nature, nor is he easy to navigate without a manual. muad'dib, the man worshipped by the masses, and yet glued as shut as an ancient book resting on the shelf. synonymous with the crashing ocean waves of caladan, his mind is often a whirlwind, just as his visions are. some may have questions— how much is the prophet shaping the future to fit the prophecy? the answer, while written in the sands of arrakis, is not clear outside of its dunes. raised by a bene gesserit, muad'dib recognizes the trick up his bride's sleeve. it's a technique he has learned to master himself; making a conversation worth as much as humanly possible. (though without asking too much or giving too little away.) it's a delicate thin rope to balance upon, especially within one another's presences. perhaps it is his warm nature, or his bride has caught him on a good morning, but he gives an honest answer. a rare one. “sometimes. other times, they open a narrow door, giving me a look inside. i know what it's trying to tell me.”

seated at the opposite end of the table, paul glances up from his plate and meets irulan's gaze. “i see clearly now more than ever.” and it's terrifying. but the words can't manage to find their way out of his mouth. they halt in their place, trembling and sent scattering for shelter. that terrible purpose rots inside his mouth. lips still faintly agape, he's quick to close them, focus returning to the plate of food in front of him. his morning appetite has long been lost. “you always ask me questions about myself. may i ask some about you?”

[irulean]

SUCCESSION 3x05 / 3x08 / 4x04 / 4x07

[irulean]

been meditating on my portrayal. having thoughts bc i have been writing irulan as hyperaware and honestly purposefully writing her as anti-capitalist/establishment in ideal. bc i think that is built into her character a little in canon but i want it more explicit for my portrayal. i don’t feel i have gotten to emphasize that she is complacent and not actually standing up to shit. bc she doesn’t. BUT I WANT TOOO i want to show more of her shortcomings when i have more than 3 posts with writing. ALSO. i don’t tend to write characters who are very observant and i have been trying to like… show her awareness of both the people she interacts with and the situation she is in. but i always get nervous about pushing into “my character knows all and your character is stupid” territory. and that is annoying to worry about. essentially would you guys still love me if i were a sandworm