#LOTS of chakobsa

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Woken from prophetic nightmares in the middle of the night, Paul slips away from his room in search of Feyd-Rautha.

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Priestess | Sayyadina

Faith is falling in Sietch Tabr. Reverend Mother Ramallo has a solution– marrying Naib Stilgar to one of the Sayyadina, in order to greater connect the people and the spiritual way, and enable Lisan Al Gaib’s journey to freedom, when he appears. This is your story as the chosen priestess.

Genre: arranged marriage to lovers, fluff, smut, (oral, piv, 18+) angst, lots of sci-fi Dune book references

Word count: 9.8k

Fremen Dictionary:

Sayyadina: Lower ranking priestess(es) who have not yet drank the Water of Life

Naib: Leader of a Sietch

Sietch: Cave/place of assembly by the Fremen

Sahar: Reader’s Sietch Name

Biet: Reader’s Fremen Name

Stilgar climbs up the rocky terrain, his fingers adeptly finding well-known grooves in the stone as he lifts himself to the absolute top of the cliff.

He needs some time to think over his conversation with Ramallo, Sietch Tabr’s Reverend Mother, before he heads back to the Sietch. Stilgar is not one to stay away from his people, his community— but for once in his life, it’s too close for comfort.

As Naib, there will be too many people coming to him at once, asking for his advice and input on things he is normally capable of answering. Friends and family will approach him closely, knowing too much about him to tell there’s something on his mind, and expecting him to be transparent as he typically is.

For this moment, though, he needs his head to be clear. He cannot be as jovial as he might’ve been in the past.

What Ramallo offered him is a subject matter he does not take lightly. 

The sun is setting as Stilgar remembers their conversation from the previous hour.

/

“As Sayyadina, as Reverend Mother, my honest recommendation is that the Northern Fremen need to replenish their numbers.” Ramallo speaks in hushed tones of Chakobsa, the native Fremen language.

Stilgar is slightly confused. The concept of child bearing is not one that he has to be concerned with, as he, despite his older age, has not been married yet.

Something he admonishes himself for.

“There are many of us, but we could always expand. I have already suggested to the South that they could send some of their people here, if they would like to be.” Stilgar frowns. “So many Fremen in the south, densely packed, is an easy way to be attacked. We could spread out more.”

“Save your war-speak for later, Stilgar.” Ramallo tuts, and then sighs a long, languid sigh that has Stilgar feeling much younger than he really is. “I don’t mean simply bringing people here.”

He’s never sure what the Reverend Mother wants, but he always gives her his full attention. Something about staying in his faith for so long has kept him here, grounded, seated in front of Ramallo, ready to do what needs to be done. Not just for the Mahdi, as he is often teased about, but so he doesn’t lose himself.   

“Please. Tell me.” He asks, kneeling his head down in a solemn movement, and Ramallo knows he’s ready for this.

“The youth of Sietch Tabr don’t believe in our faith anymore, do they?” Ramallo wraps a gnarled finger around her wrist, feeling a minor form of trepidation she is sure real Bene Gesserit have never felt. “They laugh when we speak of Lisan al Gaib.” 

“They have not read the prophecy.” Stilgar swallows, unsure if he can really speak on this, when he regards himself as a humble follower. “They laugh because they do not believe in the Mahdi to free us.”

Stilgar thinks of his niece, Chani, who suggests that a Fremen could be the Mahdi. He knows this can’t be true, because he believes his people are fed-up— it should have happened by now if one of them was truly possessed with that capability.

“Sietch Tabr is too worldly now. I worry that if we lose our faith, we cannot usher in Lisan al Gaib as he should be, and our promise to freedom.” Ramallo fixes her cold, foggy pupils on Stilgar, the cloudy whites making the typical Fremen-blue appear more teal. He shivers at the idea. 

“I want you, as Naib, our political leader, to take one of the Sayyadina as your wife. One of the lower priestesses.” 

Stilgar nearly protests instantly, feeling embarrassed to even think of desecrating a Sayyadina like this, but the old Reverend Mother knows what he thinks of this. 

“It would be a marriage between our religion and our people, a symbolic union. I believe our spirituality will be renewed.” Ramallo taps his hand. “I’m an old woman now. I cannot make as much as a difference as my younger sisters— and you and I both know it is written that we must keep bearing children.” 

Stilgar swallows. He only vaguely knows of the Bene Gesserit, but he can guess Ramallo was deeply inspired by their way, marrying into families, keeping a physical bloodline going. The only thing that troubles him, is that he’s unsure of what this has to do with having children with a Sayyadina in particular. 

“If you have children, especially with a Sayyadina, they are more likely to be faithful. Perhaps we cannot convert the others,” Ramallo grits her teeth. “But I believe we can start anew.”

/

Stilgar knows he cannot force himself on any of the Sayyadina. It’s bad enough that they cannot say no to the Reverend Mother’s command, especially with that shocking, unnerving Voice she uses, so he would much rather let one of them pick him. Yes, that’s what he’ll do— walk into the temple, and let them approach him.

He just hopes he’s not too old, too ugly, too entwined with his role as Naib. He wonders if that’s why women haven’t necessarily been interested in him— what with his constant vigilance to keep Sietch Tabr safe and with a good allocation of resources, which makes him rather unapproachable, not as dashing as a typical Feydakin.

He knows how Lady Jessica looked at him with reproach when he offered himself to her, to protect her and her son, Paul. Yes, even the name Paul suggests something more to him— he still thinks he could be Lisan al Gaib. But either way, Lady Jessica did not want to be connected to him like that— so Stilgar feels that he must admire how marriage exists in that intrinsic bond between two people, from afar.

On the other hand, he feels the slightest tinge of hope when he remembers that a Sayyadina would surely be impressed with his devotion. In fact, Stilgar feels a slight grin on his face, as he climbs down from his cliff, thinking of a veiled Fremen priestess, eyes of Ibad even bluer than his own, marking her commitment to the faith. Holy, but his, to see like no one else would, and to be devoutly loyal to.

Almost like a personal representation, an extension of their faith together. And suddenly Stilgar feels understanding to what the Reverend Mother said, as he walks through the night, back to his quarters, that there would be power in this.

/

You’re chewing on your bottom lip, knowing that it’s a needless thing to do— a waste of water, now, that a drop of blood has been drawn from where you have accidentally split your lip— and you can’t help yourself.

Reverend Mother Ramallo grasped you and your sisters’ hands during prayer this morning, and told you that Stilgar would choose one of you as his wife.

It’s a bit surprising. As a Sayyadina directly under a Reverend Mother, you simply expected to be on your own, until she died and one of you would have to take her place. Other Sayyadina marry, yes— but you’ve always studied under Ramallo and assumed that you would not have to.

You know the Bene Gesserit— as far away as they are to you— form alliances like this with men, and it’s an honourable thing, typically, to produce a child from a union and continue on a legacy of people. It’s with that line of thinking that you asked Ramallo if this is what you were meant to follow.

“Sahar.” Ramallo used your Sietch name, the one that is only known among your sisters for the most part, as most Sayyadina consider their Sietch name to be their sacred name. “Smarter than I sometimes give you credit for. Yes, like our fellow priestesses, we too can create children for the sacred purpose of replacement.”

You smiled, but Ramallo had a slightly weary look in her eyes.

“I don’t want you girls to forget the sacred duty. Continue the faith. Do not let others forget our long wait for the Lisan al Gaib. Pass this onto your children, if you have them.”

You nodded, and whispered a silent prayer that hopefully soon he would be found, and that in itself would be enough to push people.

/   

So now you wait. You know Stilgar— you’ve conversed with him before, in lunch circles, at the deathstill. He was kind enough— he always bowed when he greeted you, and you liked that, liked that he acknowledged your importance in your role here, however small it may be to you. And he always had a careful, leaning inwards glance, where he would be intently listening to whatever you had to say, even if you simply wished him well and hoped that the Maker would bless him and his passage.

It also significantly helped that he was so handsome to look at, too. You’ve heard women murmur about their surprise on his lack of a wife, and how they’d be grateful to take him, if they got the chance. You don’t disagree– you know you’ve spent many a moment glancing too much at him.

But Stilgar seems intensely busy, and you do not be the one to pull him away from his duties. You have had the privilege of being unaware of fighting, of battles and duels, and now to be potentially married to him, it feels like you’ll simply not fit into his life.

And, on the other hand, as you glumly sit on your bedding, rolling a pebble on the stone floor, you think about how you’ve had little-to-no experience with men.

It’s not that it wasn’t allowed, you’ve always been preoccupied with your faith. With the Reverend Mother.

You know how Fremen men, especially warrior men like Stilgar would be. They have appetites— your fellow Sayyadina sister Nezua tells you about all her crazy endeavours, while you listen somewhat enviously. There’s a reason why Fremen men take so many wives.

Your stomach lurches a little at that. Although multiple wives are common, to continue to reproduce as efficiently as possible, you dislike the notion for some reason— but you feel selfish and wonder if it is because, as a priestess, you’ve had special treatment until now.

Nezua walks into your quarters, and taps your shoulder. 

“Yes?”

“He’s outside.” She takes your hand. “Don’t worry, Sahar. I am sure he will not pick one of us— he will probably pick Ranira. She barely wants to be Sayyadina.”

“But isn’t that against the point?” You squeeze your hands together. “For a union between faith and people—” 

“C’mon, Sahar. Don’t tell me you really believe that.” She rolls her eyes. “Whoever ends up being Stilgar’s wife will probably be in his house most of the time, ‘praying’, but really just dutifully waiting for him.” 

“I suppose…” You don’t want to tell Nezua that she’s wrong. That Stilgar is more devout than she thinks, that he’s not a cheat looking for a free wife to use while pretending to care about the faith. 

Stilgar has always come to the temple to pray, even when it is not necessary for a man of his standing to do so— as he often speaks of needing to continue his worship towards the Maker, the One God, and Ramallo is always pleased to let him in. She wouldn’t do that if he had some sort of ulterior motive, as other less honourable men have in the past.

It’s with a jolt that you realize you already care for him on some level. At the very least, you think highly of him.

Nezua pulls you up off your bedding, and you adjust your veil before going off into the main prayer hall with her.

Upon seeing the arrival of all six Sayyadina sisters— the current number of high priestesses directly under Ramallo— Stilgar pushes himself into a deep, reverent bow, and as he arises again, his gaze seems to linger on you before coming across your sisters.

You feel both excited to potentially be picked, and terrified to leave the temple where you have lived your whole life.

/

Stilgar can’t help but have his eyes drawn towards to you. Not just because you’re beautiful— you are, though, with the eyes of Ibad, deep blue pupils, a wise, judicial expression upon your face— and he wonders why.

Not out of disrespect, but Stilgar often sees the Sayyadina as being sort of withdrawn, within themselves, perhaps solemn in the religious vows they have taken. Even now, your sisters don’t meet his glance as often as you do.

Stilgar thinks you may be defiant. Maybe a troublemaker of sorts. His heart has a sudden thrill at the idea, but his mind knows this isn’t what’s necessary for this arrangement.

“Hello, sisters.” He smiles in a firm, thin line, meant to be placating to those around him. “I believe you know why I’m here. I hope this will not be an uncomfortable process for us all.”

He takes another look at you. No, you’re simply… you’re taking him in. And Stilgar decides that’s overall better than being defiant. Closer to the values of a leader, not even in just a spiritual way as the Reverend Mother had suggested to him. 

You’re gauging his reactions, trying to read if he’s more of a rascal than he lets on— but he meets your previous idea of him, a reverent, kind man trying not to do harm, and your mouth settles into a assured, small smile.

Stilgar feels comforted, pleased even by your expression, and he knows he’s going to pick you.

”Sayyadina—” He points to you so there’s no confusion, and your sisters appear as neutral as they can, while you read micro-expressions of either relief or disappointment. “I would like to speak to you on this matter.”

You shuffle in silence as you leave with him to a different, quieter corridor, and as you turn and fix your veil, Nezua flashes a grin at you.

So your feelings were that obvious, you think.

/

Stilgar is a great deal taller than you. You have to peer upwards to really look at him, and you think he likes that— there’s a slight twinge in his eyes that makes you feel easily drawn to him.

“Why me, Naib?” You ask, and Stilgar stares at you for a moment longer, before tearing his eyes away to stare at the architecture of the temple. 

“You have a knowing look in your eyes, Sayyadina.” He responds in turn to your use of Naib— a term denoting him as Leader of the Sietch. You use it so not to be overly familiar with him, but you understand you both respect each other.

“So you picked the most shrewd of us, is that it?” You wrinkle your nose in a slight laugh, but then actually grin as Stilgar laughs.

“One could call it shrewdness. I simply see that you are not afraid, you look for what you know you must find. Only great leaders make the approach.” He explains this so clearly, you were not even entirely aware that you were doing such a thing. 

“It only makes sense to do so, Naib. I could not just stand there and allow you to do all the decision making.” You admit with tact, so not to drive him away.

He nods. “That is why you will be a great one.”

Stilgar seems comfortable with you already, and yet his expression takes a pained look for a moment. 

“It's for that reason I do not want to force you into this… uh, arrangement.” He admits, and you are taken aback for just a moment, just a slight gasp.

“What makes you think I don’t want to be your wife?” You speak too soon, maybe too boldly but Stilgar likes that. Despite not even being betrothed yet, you are so forward with him, so ready to be claimed by him.

And he's just as willing a participant to be claimed by you, so he smiles, watching you turn a little flustered, but you let your feelings for him stay apparent for a moment.

It's not like there's room for privacy in a marriage, you think.

An arranged marriage, you admonish yourself. He’s here only in the most professional of terms. Don’t complicate this with your idiotic feelings, you still have a job to do.

“I just meant that– it would be an honour to be associated with you, Naib.” You keep your head tilted downwards, trying your best to be the reverent Sayyadina you’re known as.

“Of course.” He swallows, unsure if you’ve suddenly become shy, or that you’ve decided to be more cunning– something he admires anyways. He thinks not many women would actually be attracted to him, what of the mug he calls a face, and so he decides to just be glad that you’re willing to be with him.

“Okay, Sayyadina. If you’ll have me as your husband, then,” He grasps your hands in both of his, and he has the kindest look in his eyes, and you look back up at him, feelings simmering on the inside as you maintain a peaceful facade. “We will have our engagement arranged soon.”

Then, ever so gently, he pushes back a part of your veil, wanting to see your face better.

/

You visit him more often after that. Usually in the hall, where there are other people, and you do this so people don’t think you’re too in love with him already– visiting him secretly would only prove that, suggest some sort of affair of a human connotation.

By being around the others, people feel that things are coming into place– religion and leaders are creating a strong, united front that will lead the Fremen to peace. More believers for the Lisan Al Gaib. And you are glad to already be pushing people along the path that Ramallo set out for you.

Stilgar has a stronger look at you, now. Not just the polite glances of before. With every conversation, he takes you in, drawing more and more conclusions. And with every moment, he learns more about you, and he likes what he learns, too.

He sees that you like your food spicy, as does he. And you especially enjoy tabara– the soft sweet cake made of tabaroot, honey, and spice, rich and sweet in flavour, adorned with fruit. It’s a rarity in Arrakis, since a few of the fruit come from offworld traders– so he gives you his portion and you two argue over this, before Stilgar eventually puts his foot down as Naib.

“You should accept. Extra portions go towards those who need it, not me.” Stilgar says, ever the humble one as you’ve come to know him.

“Except this isn’t an extra portion, is it? Sayyadina aren’t supposed to indulge so much, leaders like you may deserve it as you do such hard work.” You taunt him, knowing that you’re both so similar– you could argue forever with Stilgar because you’re equally as willing to sacrifice things for each other.

Great leaders, indeed.

“Sayyadina, don’t make me remind you how important your creed is.” He tuts, and you find yourself simmering with attraction to him– you are beginning to look forward to these conversations more and more everyday. “Your work is just as important– don’t do a disservice to your life just for me, okay?”

The people around you shift in their spots on the floor, to listen more closely, and you recognize that although you and Stilgar grow closer– the intended effect is taking place. People are supportive either way.

Maybe you don’t have to be distant, overly religious, to win support. Maybe, like what Ramallo said, they need to see how spirituality can touch people, and how you’re just a person as well.

He places the piece of cake in your bowl again. “Accept it as a gift, Sayyadina.”

You smile up at him, squeeze his hand without thinking. “Okay, Naib. Thank you.”

/

Stilgar cannot stop thinking of you, even when he is training Usul to fight in the Fremen way.

He remembers your last meeting, a few weeks after your initial one– and then how you said in two days time, after your faithful prayer that the Shai-Hulud would allow your union to be peaceful, you could begin the engagement ceremony. And Stilgar focused on how serious you were– how holy this approach was, how you seemed to glow from within, with some otherworldly energy, and even now he could tell he was enamoured with you. With that strong gaze, eyebrows tensed and purposeful in their thought.

Usul– Paul, at this moment, with his lack of focus– cannot stop staring at Chani while she practices sparring with her friend.

“Usul. Usul.” Stilgar shakes his shoulder, and Paul finally tears his gaze away. “You’re too distracted, my friend.”

“I’m sorry, Stilgar.” Ever the charming, young lad, Paul smiles placatingly towards Stilgar, and even he is too struck by his charisma to avoid it. “I’m here. I’m ready.”

“Please, tell me what bothers you.” Stilgar knows, already, as Paul stares down at his hands, that the boy has eyes for his overly tenacious niece. “Is it a matter of the heart?”

“Yes.” Paul exhales. “It’s not important right now. How did you know?”

Stilgar smiles reproachfully. “I… I suppose I should tell you honestly, before the others get to know.”

It strikes Paul that the Fremen trust him so readily– even Chani, with her misgivings about the prophecy, seems to be swayed towards him, and he does not know if he enjoys the attention, the privilege this grants him. Again, he is struck with that terrible purpose– that he will use these people for his own benefit.

Stilgar interrupts his line of thought. “Soon, I am to be married to one of the priestesses.”

Paul grins. “Ah, Stilgar, you rogue. You’re distracted, too.”

“Yes.” Stilgar admits, and he thinks of you with your deep blue eyes, your careful-yet-understanding glance, and he longs to see you again. To get to know you better. Yes, Stilgar may not truly know you, but he feels he has been on your side this whole time. Every glance at the temple, every cursory conversation at the deathstill, it has all been building up to something– perhaps not what he had imagined it to be, but he would never consider himself unlucky for this, or that Ramallo could ever be wrong about her plans.

As Naib, though, he still has his duties, and he tuts and tells Paul to get back on it. And Paul, strong young man wanting to prove himself, uses his Bene Gesserit training to imbue a level of focus that no woman could possibly break.

/

The engagement ceremony day is finally here.

You're excited, yet nervous to be known as Stilgar's wife. It feels more real with every approaching moment– it’s not just a silly, girlish fantasy, it’s something that everyone will see and know as a tangible union.

You haven't got any time to see him– Stilgar has been away with other Feydakin, no doubt unleashing hell on Harkonnen troops– and so you wait for his return.

The first of many waiting periods, you know that. You always knew this was going to be more of a political marriage– more in meaning for Sietch Tabr than really having to be around each other.

But you miss him, anyways. You like him, and despite your attempts to focus on praying to the Maker that he will be okay, you search for him on the sandy horizon every minute of this auspicious morning, the sun blearing into your eyes.

“You know he hasn’t come this far without his own talent.” Nezua reminds you, as she watches you peer up, blinking in the sunlight. “He’s not Naib for no reason, Sahar.”

All priestesses– both low and high– and other religious Fremen crowd around the outskirts of Sietch Tabr, hidden under cliffs in order to stay in the shade. Yet you reach outwards to look at the sun, risking your sweat even as you know you’re supposed to reserve it.

Lady Jessica, part of the sacred mother-and-son duo from the outer world, watches you with a gaze you cannot place. You know it is not simple curiosity– there is something new and malicious in her stare that has only heightened after Stilgar had asked to be betrothed to you.

A sudden gust of wind blows sand around you two, and Nezua tightens her veil, firmly jutting her jaw in a way that tells you she must be right, that you worry about nothing. 

Ten minutes later, after praying and hoping, Stilgar returns over the sunrise, victorious in battle, and you feel he looks exhausted– yet his face breaks into a smile when he sees you.

He is greeted by many Fremen, fellow family members, but Stilgar pushes them aside, making his way directly towards you.

And you let yourself be pulled upwards by him, as he grasps your hands.

There’s something sweet and endearing here– almost innocent in how he looks at you, as if he’s been waiting to see you again just as long as you have. But you quickly remind yourself that this moment is not just yours– it would be considered somewhat heartless by other Fremen if Stilgar did not appear to like you, and by extension, the whole marriage’s point would fail.

“Sayyadina–” He holds up the Water Rings, the metallic counters representing the volume of water a Fremen could release into the deathstill. Here, they mean that you will be tied to Stilgar, as you are now betrothed to him. “I ask you to be married to me, by nightfall.”

“So soon?” You ask, wondering why he would want to do it so early.

“It cannot wait much longer. Reverend Mother Ramallo is not well.” He tells you, and your heart sinks, wondering why your dear reverend mother has not told you about this.

You’ve seen the signs– she struggles with fine motor skills and often her cataracts make it difficult to see anything– but you are still surprised.

“Okay.” You swallow, and then smile up at him, and he squeezes your cheek in a fond gesture that makes you feel heat rise there.   

“We will be wed tonight.” He calls out in Chakobsa, and the Fremen around you rally with glee, and you feel that whatever this is, even if Ramallo does not live to watch it play out– it’s working.

/

The unmarried women of the tribe fix your hair with the rings Stilgar presented to you, and you feel ever the part of the blushing bride. You know it’s not wrong to genuinely have feelings in this arrangement– you just hope Stilgar feels the same way.

Chani grins at you. You know her well– you’re around the same age, you’ve grown up somewhat together– and you wonder if she feels odd about her uncle marrying you.

“No, if it means I can call you Auntie, I’m happy.” She jokes, and you shove her as she laughs.

Chani rarely laughs like this as of late. She’s always so hard on herself– she thinks she has to be because of how indoctrinated so many Fremen are to the faith. And despite your life as a Sayyadina, Chani has never let your conflicting beliefs stop her love for you.

You only wish she’d be more careful as a warrior. As a freedom fighter, Chani sometimes lacks restraint– so you’re grateful to see her happy.

“Well, maybe some day you’ll be married, too.” You squeeze her hand. “To a great warrior.”

“I don’t know, Biet.” Chani calls you your Fremen name, not your Sietch one, which will be used tonight at the wedding. “Let us focus on you for now.”

“I just… I don’t know if he feels the way I do.” You suddenly admit, and the fear that you’re still going to be lonely crops up. 

Chani shakes her head, that hard, tough scowl on her face back again. “If there’s one thing I know about my uncle, it’s that he’s not an idiot.” 

She presses her cheek to yours. “Don’t you understand how important you are, Biet? How special you are, not just to me and everyone here, but to him especially. Stilgar has not stopped speaking of you for the last couple of weeks.”

You smile softly at that, thinking of how ardently Stilgar looks at you now, how you’ve gotten to know each other over the last few weeks of basic conversation. More close than ever, and yet just far enough that you keep wondering. Is it admiration, gratitude that you’re willing to serve a greater purpose, or something more? You know it’s selfish, but you want him to like you. To love you. 

“Everybody knows, even Muad’Dib.”

At the mention of Muad’Dib, you can’t ignore the slight tension in your spine. Both you and Stilgar have discussed your belief in his abilities, his potential to be the one– but you know that Chani does not share that.

Still, you hear a slight shift in Chani’s tone as she says his name, and you give her a glance.

“You like him, I think.” You tease, and she tells you to shut up in Chakobsa.

You wonder if Muad’Dib was the one who shared this information to his mother, which would make her dislike of you understandable. You get the sense she’s power-hungry, terrifying– she would’ve been a greater candidate for this marriage, an otherworldly mother that fits the prophecy, representing not just the union of politics and religion, but with the power of the Bene Gesserit– and you find that you resist her, anyways. Resist the idea that everything must be for this one purpose.

You want to keep Stilgar to yourself, and it almost frightens you that you might be going against something that you’ve been taught to believe from a young age.

You’re no Chani.

/

The dark of the night spreads across Arrakis.

Stilgar begins the trek up the dune, where you wait, bathed in the moonlight– you’re wearing a different outfit, a dress with intricate beading marking your place as a bride, and instead of a veil, you are wearing a much thinner, transparent shawl that allows Stilgar to make out your silhouette. Your hair is interwoven with his Water Rings.

Stilgar has always known you are beautiful, but especially now of all times, with your blue eyes reflecting him in the silver moonlight as he meets you at the top of the hill– and it’s not a distraction, because he’s meant to be here with you.

He likes you a lot– there’s a taut feeling in his throat, as he realizes he’s watched countless friends and family members get married, but never thought of himself as one of them– and in the past, Stilgar had always felt there was something wrong with him for not marrying sooner. But now, he’s so thankful he waited, because it’s you. His holy, veiled priestess.

You share his faith, after all– but over the last few weeks he’s seen that you share his judgement, too. He only hopes that his feelings will be returned some day and that he won’t scare you off– Stilgar knows he can sometimes be too much.

Reverend Mother Ramallo approaches you two from the other side of the dune. She speaks in Ancient Chakobsa– old marriage passages from the faith, hymns that are sacred in their meaning– and the unmarried women below, begin their chanting and agreement with the hymns. They dance.

Then, Ramallo asks Stilgar in Chakobsa, if he is willing to take care of you, to entirely claim you in every way as the Fremen faith dictates– to not leave you behind. You know she cares for you so deeply, as she’s watched you grow up from a young girl, and you hear a slight twitch in her voice, giving her away as someone who will miss you.

Stilgar responds without hesitation that yes, he will always be there for you. And you believe him. You don’t hear a hint of irony or lying in his tone.

Maybe this isn’t just a marriage of political nature.

Ramallo yells in Chakobsa, using the Voice: “It is finished!”

/

Celebrations are loud, jovial, necessary after the Fremen endured hardship from the Harkonnen. People are dancing, eating, congratulating you.

You’re happy to receive their blessings, and give them back if they wish to hear it from you. You’re still a Sayyadina, and today of all days, you bring especially good luck to them.

Paul Atreides walks forward after Nezua dips– she’s kissed you on your cheek and solemnly stated she’ll miss you at the temple bedrooms– and you’re intrigued, as you’ve never spoken to him before.

“Muad’dib!” Stilgar is next to you, and he shakes his hands, clapping his shoulder, and Paul hugs him.

“Stilgar, Biet–” Paul’s eyes cross towards you, and you don’t sense the same plotting look his mother has. “Congratulations. It’s so interesting to witness a Fremen marriage. I feel like I’ve learned so much just watching. I did not know Sayyadina could use the Voice, as well. Impressive.”

You think he’s rather compassionate, but there’s no telling if it’s an act. You ignore that– you’re meant to be happy now.

“Thank you.” You gently squeeze his hand. “I don’t use it often– I believe it should necessitate a purpose.”

“As do I.” Paul agrees, and you are blown away by how casually he reveals that he can use it. Another sign, perhaps, that he is who you and Stilgar think he is.

“In coming times, maybe you too will marry in our way.” You make as an offhand comment, so not to overtly reveal your surprise.

Paul is mildly surprised by this, but he doesn’t look displeased with that. “Maybe. I think many women here are quite beautiful, they could probably pick a noble Feydakin than someone like me.”

“In time, Muad’dib, you may be a Feydakin too. You have the strength to be one.” Stilgar corrects him, and you like that your husband is so forthcoming, a true mentor that supports everyone.

“Besides, you’ll need to be one if you want to impress Chani.” You input, and Stilgar looks a little taken aback by this development, while Paul looks more interested.

“Really? You think Chani and I…” Paul swallows down whatever he’s going to say, looking suddenly a bit darker and worried. “I would be lucky if she considered me.”

Paul bids you two goodbye, while Stilgar laughs. “A humble one, isn’t he?”

“Better that than overly boastful.” You hum. “Either way, I hope he is not perpetuating a false image.”

Stilgar agrees. 

As the party dies down, he takes your hand, and together, you walk back to Stilgar’s quarters.

/

He’s rather quiet as he sits on his bedding, cracking his knuckles.

Stilgar is not afraid of you, exactly– he’s afraid of what your relationship should or should not be. He does not know the boundaries in which you two operate, and he’s afraid once he opens that conversation up, of your potential rejection. 

Other men would tell him that as your wife, there should be no confusion– that he should be able to bridge the gap, and you would accept it, no questions asked.

But Stilgar had not come this far by simply guessing at things. He knows as Naib, the general context you two have– and he needs to know if you feel the same way, if you don’t just want this marriage to be symbolic in nature.

“Sayyadina,” He calls you, and you sit next to him on his bedding, staying a short distance away, just for respect.

You laugh at that internally. You’re his wife, and you still call on some level of respect. Maybe because you’re afraid of acting on these feelings you have– a hunger for closeness– and you would rather use the excuse of respect instead of pushing him towards you.

Stilgar says Sayyadina with fondness in his tone, though. A formal, spiritual term has never sounded more husky, more inappropriately close than ever– you let yourself hope.

“I’ll ask you this once, and make your answer clear, so I do not bother you otherwise.” Stilgar pauses, wanting to be sensitive about this subject. He doesn’t know exactly what you’re comfortable with. “I want to know if you want to be more than wife in name, or if your heart is drawn to being within your faith.”

“Who says I can’t be both, Stilgar?” You bite your lip, and Stilgar’s face stiffens. “There’s nothing in our faith that says a priestess can’t have both.”

“That’s not what I meant.” He pauses, grappling with what to say.

“I don’t want to be a burden to you.” He says, and you laugh, for real this time, a louder laugh than he’s heard before, and he grins, liking the twinkling sound of it, but then frowns. “I’m being serious. You should not have to lie with me just for everyone else’s benefit. The marriage has brought people to greater spirits, already.”

“What if it’s for my benefit?” You speak in a hushed tone, but Stilgar listens to every word, inching closer to you. “What if I feel more spiritual when I’m next to you? I feel the Maker’s way flow through me whenever we speak, I feel like I can understand and interpret so much more because I know we are supposed to be with each other, not just metaphorically, but in all ways.”

Stilgar is taken aback by your boldness, and so are you to some degree, but you continue. “I’ve been ignoring this the last few weeks, but I think that’s what love is. What is faith without love? I think I love you, because you make me understand what I’ve been missing…” You smile up at him. “You’re my greater context, Stilgar.”

Ah, He thinks. This woman is too sweet to me. She understands.

“Sayyadina…” He sighs, a deep shuddering sigh revealing so much emotion; relief, really. You’ve never seen Stilgar like this, but it gives you a sense of how much he represses. “You feel like the missing piece I’ve been waiting for. You… you don’t know how long I’ve been waiting for a woman that understands me.”

“I never thought I could have the chance to love anyone,” He admits with some reservation. “My appearance tends to ward women away.”

“But you’re beautiful.” You whisper, smiling up at him, and Stilgar feels your hands trace around his face, and he closes his eyes, listening to the sweetness of your voice. “You’re only intimidating because of who you are, Stilgar, but I promise, you’re beautiful. I’m not the only woman who thinks that.”

Before he can respond in turn, that you’re more beautiful than him, the stubbornness that you two share– you let that unspoken urge inside you, the one you’ve never acted on before, overtake you. And you pull his face downwards in a searing kiss, one where he can still taste the spice on your lips after what you ingested at your wedding dinner.

He honestly has not touched a woman in years– not out of some purposeful celibacy, but more because he has been so focused on maintaining Sietch Tabr. And whatever memories he has of that time, right now is easily trumping them.

You part your lips as Stilgar does, kissing him with abandon, again and again as your lips move with his, and he squeezes your waist before pulling you onto his lap.

He groans. There’s a hard bulge in his pants that you’re sitting squarely upon, you know what that is– you’re not entirely uncultured about this.

You experimentally roll your hips over his crotch, finding a sudden pleasure in your lower half as you do so, and he stutters, suddenly, pulling your face away from his, breaking the kiss.

“Sayyadina– wait, slow down.” He holds your wrists in his hands firmly, the heat of the moment causing both of you to sweat. The night air seeps through Stilgar’s window– hot and humid.

You’ve never wanted to be closer to him.

“I’m a little inexperienced. I don’t want to hurt you.” He explains, and you scoff.

“So am I.” You tell him. “Actually, I’ve never…”

“Oh.” Stilgar takes on a very judicial look, one that you’re determined to stop before he rejects you for the “greater good” or something like that. “I would’ve never guessed that. You gave me the impression of expertise.”

“Then let me gain it.” You proclaim, and you cut him off before he says what you know he will. “You’re not forcing me into anything. I want to do this, just like I wanted to marry you.”

He scoffs, now, but Stilgar likes the sound of that and he kisses you again, pulling your shawl off, feeling you wrap around his torso with your legs– he feels you moan and shudder when he squeezes your thighs. He loves this, and when he starts removing your dress– you don’t stop him.

He pulls it down and under you, and you’re bare underneath. Stilgar examines your breasts with admiration– they’re the perfect size, they fit you well– and he immediately takes to one of your nipples with his teeth, causing you to cry out.

As he continues these bites over your chest, squeezing your breasts and your behind, suckling on your neck, feeding off of your sweat, you feel yourself slicken, wetness catching on Stilgar’s pants– so much quicker than you’re used to, when you used to touch yourself in your room at the temple. A waste of water, maybe, but it was worth the relief occasionally.

Stilgar notices, and he wordlessly lays you across his bed, spreading your legs open, looking down at your pussy.

You’re not completely sure what he’s doing, and you feel slightly vulnerable like this– entirely on display for him.

“Let me drink from you, Sayyadina. I would be honoured by this blessing– I thirst, and it would not be a waste.” He says in hushed tones, as he kneels in front of you, and you feel yourself slicken more if that’s possible. The sacred overtones of worship are not lost on you, practically becoming a kink for you as he speaks.

You nod, and he grasps your thighs tightly, practically pushing down on them so you’ll stay with open legs for him– he strokes them a few times, and then dives in with his tongue, lapping and licking slowly upwards to your clitoris, then quickly a few times to taste you faster, which causes you to seize as feelings of warmth and white-hot sensitivity overtake you, and with your fluids, and his saliva, you’re quickly reaching the point of finishing. His beard tickles, and you squirm a little, and start writhing and sweating, moans ebbing out of your throat, but that only makes Stilgar pull you in closer, tighter, pushing his tongue closer, almost inside, refusing your escape.

You don’t want that, anyways. And you finish in his mouth with a flourish as Stilgar laps up what you’ve given him– a drink from a Sayyadina.

You think he’s done, but you lean back with another sigh– a near scream, really– as Stilgar begins to lick at your clitoris, suckling on it, until you’re wet and aching again– and then he uses his fingers to spread your pussy open, and begins to fuck you with his tongue. It’s amazing, wet and writhing and and filthy– it feels nothing like your own fingers and entirely more adept at getting you to another orgasm. The speed at which his tongue languishes inside you should be considered unholy, all things considered– but you feel high, you feel like you’re closer to the Maker than ever– and he suckles at you, his lips closing around your entrance as you moan again and orgasm directly into his mouth.

Stilgar groans. He’s in love with your taste– he thinks he might wake you up every morning like this, if you’ll let him. He’s also painfully hard now– his cock strains against his pants, and he quickly starts undressing.  

“Sorry. I needed a second taste.” Stilgar apologizes, standing up, but he’s not sheepish about anything as he continues to rub you, to stroke your pussy to keep you wet. Up, down, up, down, Stilgar could get addicted to this sensation around his fingers– you’re so warm, soft, wet– he needs to be in you.

You’re beginning to feel overstimulated– you’re covered in sweat, and in between your thighs you’re soaked, practically dripping all over Stilgar’s hand as he continues to work you– and you twitch as you sit up, Stilgar’s fingers prodding inside you.

His cock bobs upwards, shiny with pre-cum, and the tip, hard and redder, while the rest is a flattering tan brown. Although this is your first time viewing the male genitalia, you’re drawn to it. You like how he looks partially naked– vulnerable like you, but warmer, soft and hard in different places– and you reach to take his shirt off, letting his full self be unsheathed.

And you like this– you feel an animalistic draw to his body, his chest hair, the broad muscles under them, and he moans loudly when your finger prods at the tip of his cock. Stilgar lifts you up, wrapping your legs around his waist, and spreads your ass, his cock nudging inside your pussy slowly, groaning as it does, gritting his teeth as every centimetre feels like another added pleasure of wetness, the bounds of which he does not know, but he is excited to be familiar with and do this again and again. 

You sink around him easily– you moan against his neck as you do– and Stilgar bottoms out, feeling you grip and tighten around him.  

After what feels like an eternity– both of you drunk on just being intertwined in such a way– he lifts you up again, thrusting outwards, and then back in, pushing you down on his cock, slamming into you. Stilgar’s warrior strength comes into play here– he fucks you relentlessly, and grips you so tightly you think you might be melting onto him. He begins to pound into you, your ass and thighs jiggling with the force of it all, and a severely perverted squelching and slapping sound builds up over time, over and over, his thighs and balls slapping against your thighs and ass, the sound of which you are sure is extremely loud.

You don’t care. You moan loudly, almost yelling as Stilgar’s cock twitches and catches inside you in a place so deep, you’ve never touched it yourself. 

You shake and twitch, barely holding onto him as you do, feeling an immense pressure build inside you, almost painfully, but with pleasure. Stilgar claims your mouth as he thrusts, kissing you, slipping his tongue inside as he drinks from you there– and he loves feeling you moan against his mouth as he does so.

He presses you against him tightly, rutting upwards, and then together he tips the both of you onto his bed again, him on top of you, this time using his fingers to play with your clitoris as you clench around his thrusting. You cum again, this time your fluids adding to Stilgar’s pleasure, and you moan as Stilgar’s hands tighten around your waist. The slap of his skin against yours is laden with sweat and your cum, but Stilgar is insatiable, and he thrusts harder.

You feel him inhale, moan, bite at your neck, and you feel his cock twitch again as he cums inside you, pulling out in a hazy stream, and you writhe against him, feeling the heat of the moment conjoining with the cooler air of the night.

He sighs, satisfied with what has happened, lying down next to you. “May Shai-Hulud allow us to do this again.”

/

Stilgar has to leave again, the next morning, as more Fremen are involved in fighting Harkonnen harvesters, and he wants to oversee this.

“I’m sorry, Sayyadina…” He swallows. He doesn’t want to leave you behind– if he could take you along on his back, he would. 

“Sahar.” You tell him.

“What was that?” He asks, and you wrap your arms around him and his stillsuit, dressed in your traditional Sayyadina dressings again.

“Sahar is my Sietch name. My sacred name, only for my sisters to know.” You explain, although you’re sure Stilgar knows this. He only knows your Fremen name, after all. “Since we’re married– I thought you should know my true name.”

“Sahar is a wonderful name… meaning morning.” Stilgar looks out the window with a slight smile. “But you outdo any of Arrakis’ sunrises, my dear.”

You laugh at that, as Stilgar knew you would. 

“You will still be Sayyadina to me, no matter what name you have.” He says, and there’s a warm feeling in your heart when you hear this, that he has a special name for you. You take his hands, and press your palm to his forehead.

“Oh Shai-Hulud… keep Stilgar safe from unwarranted danger today.” You whisper in Chakobsa, closing your eyes, and Stilgar closes his eyes too. “Do not risk his life.”

Your harsh, suddenly grating tone from using the Voice has Stilgar opening his eyes again. He has never heard you use it before.

“Thank you.” He pulls you up for a soft, parting kiss– and then after memories of last night echo inside his mind– he gives you a firmer, lingering kiss, laden with love for you.

/

Stilgar finds that despite his obvious devotion in his commitment to you– the women are more interested in him than ever.

And if he was a lesser man, perhaps he would act on this. But Stilgar has not forgotten the plan, and he certainly hasn’t forgotten you, not so soon. He knows you two are two sides of the same coin– meant to be.

This was not meant to be an outcome. He sees Feydakin women smiling at him, maybe a little too much– or maybe he has not noticed until now.

You said he was beautiful, and he had thought maybe that was just according to you. But seeing how Lady Jessica greets him, not impolitely but just with more… vulnerability, especially after her duke was killed, he thinks maybe you’re right. Maybe he has something.

Jessica stares at the deathstill, trembling over what Stilgar has told her. She must drink the Water of Life, she must take the place of a Reverend Mother– and she does not want this. She wants nothing more than to be comforted at this moment, because of what a tribulation this new order shall be on her.

Or at least, that’s the image she’s conveying, she hopes, and she believes she has Stilgar wrapped around her finger, her coying, Bene Gesserit way meant to coax people closer to her, and by extension, her wishes.

And Jessica can tell she’s done it right when Stilgar leans over, wipes away her tear, and licks it. Perhaps she can secure more support through playing the part of a sad widow.

/

It’s Nezua who saw what happened.

She interrupts your prayer, your first prayer after returning to the temple, sanctimonious as it is.

“Sahar, please don’t be upset. Just hear me out.” She pulls you into the main hall, where your sisters and Ramallo are reading ancient texts.

“What is it? What’s happened?” You look around wildly. 

Nezua’s deep blue eyes blink, as she wonders what to tell you, how to say it gracefully.

“I saw him. Naib. Standing close to that woman, to Lady Jessica– she cried about becoming a Reverend Mother– he stroked her face, licking a tear away.” Nezua admits, and you instantly blink back sudden tears.

“But he–”

“Men can be rascals, Sahar.” Nezua reprimands you, and you swallow, knowing you don’t know as much as her.

You do know about Jessica, though.

“She has been eyeing him for a while… I’ve watched it happen. She’s got her Bene Gesserit tactics, we know that. She wants to be a Mother, no matter what farce she applies in this moment to gain approval.” You shake your head. “He wouldn’t do that for no reason– she’s very convincing. And Stilgar supports everyone, why would he doubt her?”

Nezua calms down a bit.

“But if he wanted to marry her?” Ramallo suddenly chimes in, and you and your sisters watch as she speaks, suddenly convinced of something. “Would it not be the ultimate culmination of what we seek? The mother of the Lisan Al Gaib, integrated into our society… nothing could compare to how many Fremen this would convert. How many people would choose our way.”

“Great Mother, you picked me for that purpose.” You speak up, almost immediately, without fear. You don’t care if you’re speaking out of turn– you do not want to share Stilgar, lose him to some other woman– and here it seems everyone else is okay with it.

“Yes, and you’ve done well, but you of all people should want us to do better.” She remarks, not without a bit of bite in her tone. You hate that it has to be this way, that you stand in the way of something you used to wholeheartedly believe.

Just this once, you want to be selfish. You have faith that Paul will be Lisan Al Gaib, anyways, so why can’t it just be you and Stilgar?

“Once Jessica drinks the Water of Life, she will be a powerful Reverend Mother– all of Arrakis may be swayed by her.” Ramallo peers at your expression. “Don’t tell me you feel something as foolish as love, Sahar.”

“And if I do?” You state, blatantly.

“Then you must be loving enough to see that this would improve Stilgar’s life by far. Men may take multiple wives, you know that.” Ramallo tuts. “Perhaps you’re not as clever as I once thought.”

“He won’t do it. He knows that his love helps me, and as long as that’s in his priorities…” Your voice dies down, feeling like everything is falling apart as you speak.

“Yes, and how long will he care for a lower priestess when he can have a Reverend Mother? Especially one as faithful as him.” Ramallo shakes her head at your ignorance.

“Shut up! You’ve never felt love, you unspeakable witch–” You scream in Chakobsa, using the Voice, the full power of which seems to shake the temple.

Ramallo slaps you, hard enough that you fall back against the floor. Your skin hums with the stinging feel of a new bruise, sure to make it’s mark on your cheek– and she hisses at you.

“Insolent child. It was I that brought you here. It was I that even gave you the chance to be with Naib Stilgar. He would have never looked at you otherwise.” She mutters, and you feel your eyes glisten with tears.

She and your sisters leave, and you hold your breath, trying not to cry. Nezua strokes your arm.

“Perhaps, if he marries Jessica, it will only be a marriage in name.” She tries, but you shake your head. “You would be the one he really loves, Sahar.”

“Or I would be like a concubine– there to produce children, nothing more.” You think of how quickly you leapt into Stilgar’s waiting arms yesterday, and wonder if you were wrong. If his only intent was to have someone he could fuck on a ready basis.

You shake your head. “I need to speak to him.”

/

You sit on the ground of his quarters, stating a small prayer to stay calm, and when Stilgar walks in, he sounds pleased to see you.

“Sayyadina, I did not expect you back so soon.” He touches your hand, but based on how you draw yourself back, he knows something is wrong. “What is it?”

“You want Jessica. Right? To be your wife?” You say, and he shakes his head.

“We discussed it once–” and your stomach drops at that. “But it would have only been a marriage of convenience to protect her, long ago. Nothing more.”

“Then what happened today, in the deathstill?” You ask, and Stilgar furrows his brows.

“I only relayed Ramallo’s message to her. And she was a bit sad, so I comforted her, that’s all. She almost wasted some water by crying, so I drank it.” Stilgar sits down on the ground next to you. “I promise you, I do not want her.”

“Even if she’s a reverend mother? Closer to your faith? Easier to perpetuate our–” Here you stutter. “The mission?”

“Whoa, whoa.” He softens visibly. “Sayyadina, if you cannot see now that I love you, tell me how to right that wrong.”

“Tell me why you believe you’ll stick with me–” You tear up again and wipe it away. “Tell me you won’t leave me.” 

“I have no interest in Jessica– she is a conniving one, but whatever she thinks may happen, it will not.” He shrugs. “I don’t believe she loves me or wants me in that way, either– she still mourns her duke.”

Of course, you think. She might have only been staring at me that one time because she remembered when she used to be in love. Maybe she was even jealous… Jessica was a concubine.

You suddenly feel much more at peace. You don’t think you would’ve ever left Stilgar even if he had married Jessica– but you’re suddenly more understanding of her pain, to be the one not known in any collected record despite being loved.

“I only did anything I could to make her feel more comfortable with her new role.” Stilgar grins. “And if she succeeds– the faith will have more people interested in it, and there will be less pressure on us.”

“That’s true.” You finally tear your gaze from the floor to look at him, and he smiles at you before frowning at the bruise on your cheek.

“What’s this?” Stilgar gently touches you, and he gets angry hearing you hiss.

“Nothing, just a silly altercation.” You explain, but he’s not satisfied with that.

“With who?”

“Ah… Ramallo slapped me after I said she would never understand love.” Suddenly you’re ashamed, and you feel as if Stilgar would be disappointed in you. “She said the best thing would be if you married Jessica– and I guess I… I didn’t want to lose you, so I used the Voice on her.” “You did?” Stilgar raises his eyebrows, in surprise that you’d do such a thing, make a rash judgement like that against your elder. “I’m sorry you’re hurt.”

You lean into his touch, feeling better that he’s not angry at you.

“But I am sorry I wasn’t there to see you take ownership of me.” He laughs quietly. “You really love me that much? Then I’m only yours.”

You smile so hard at that– massive relief flowing through your nerves– and Stilgar kisses your bruise, before kissing your lips and making you feel whole again.

[cassie48]

Dark! Paul atreides x sweet! Crybaby! Pregnant! Reader

𝘙𝘌𝘝𝘌𝘕𝘎𝘌

Pairing : Paul atreides x Naive! Pregnant!reader

Summary : Paul is obsessed with reader, reader gets harmed, Paul goes crazy, paul gets his revenge. Less focus on plot more on relationship

…………………………………………………………………………….

Paul had brought you with him when he drank the water of life. He knew you’d have to do it with him to not see him as insane.

As soon as you saw his eyes go blue, you’d panicked. But paul calmed you down “Our baby must see, he must see the truth when he enters this world” he had told you.

After that night, the two of you had changed. Paul became 𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘬𝘦𝘳. If anyone dared touch you or upset you, they would die.

The two of you spoke in Chakobsa, even forgetting you once spoke English. Your life was amazing. Paul had taken the emperors throne, killing him and his daughter, making you empress.

He doted on you 24/7, as cold as he was he never treated you any differently. On this particular morning, Paul woke, looking down at you, in your pretty white nightdress, your stomach round, and clearly sticking out. You were now seven months into your pregnancy.

Two months ago a doctor confirmed your baby was to be a boy, which pleased Paul, an heir. You however didnt care what the gender was, and deep down you knew Paul didn’t either.

Paul sat up, in your large bed, and climbed out of the covers, resting his hand on your bump, smiling as you sighed in your sleep.

He leant down to your bump, whispering to his unborn son “When you grow older, you must protect your mother” he said in Chakobsa.

After a moment he sat up, placing a kiss on you cheek, and getting dressed and leaving you, knowing he had lots of work to complete that day.

Around an hour later, you woke up peacefully, looking over to see Paul’s spot empty, you sighed sadly wishing your husband could be there.

Suddenly your large doors swung open, revealing a man, you quickly jumped pulling the covers completely over yourself, knowing Paul never wanted any other man to see you in such a state.

“My lady, excuse me, I’m here to attend to your needs” the man spoke, holding back a smirk.

“W-Where are my maids?” You stuttered, still shocked by the man’s sudden entrance.

Paul had a rule where no man was allowed enter your room when he was not there.

“Oh they are…busy. His lordship sent me himself, he said you need to prepare for the day.

“Oh em…we’ll I guess if Paul thinks it’s fine” you said reluctantly getting out of the bed, your white nightgown covering you, but your seven month bump on show.

“Allow me to brush your hair” he said, gesturing her to sit down.

At this point you felt extremely uncomfortable, something felt wrong, surely Paul would have helped you himself if your maids were unavailable.

Reluctantly, you sat in your chair, and the man picked up the big brush. He began to brush your hair, and the silence was thick.

“W-Where exactly is Paul?” You asked nervously.

“What lovely hair you have my lady” the man said, ignoring your question.

You gulped, and prepared to question him once more, when he roughly pulled down on the brush hard, making you cry out. You had a very low pain tolerance.

“Ouch” you whispered, your eye’s already pooling with tears.

The man did not however ease your nerves, as he continued to roughly pull your hair.

“That’s hurts!” You said, tears now falling.

“Stop!” You said, trying to stand up, but he grabbed your throat roughly.

“Shh, your stuck with me, all alone, me and the empress” the man sneered, making you feel sick.

Your cries worsened when he placed his hand on your almost exposed breast, you squirmed, and prepared for the worst.

Suddenly, his hand dropped from around you throat, allowing you to breathe once more, relief entering your body.

Yet you screamed once more, seeing the man’s throat being slit, and when he fell to the ground, your husband stood, a fierce expression written on his features.

Paul kicked the man’s body away from you, before moving over and taking you in his arms, lifting you up and sitting on the chair, you in his lap.

“Shh, I’m here” he said rocking you gently.

Your cries didn’t die down, and you felt sick from crying this hard. “He, he touched me Paul! I’m sorry! H-He said you sent him, I should ha-have said no” you explained crying as you did.

“It is only his fault” he said, his voice laced with pure anger.

He gently lifted you up and climbed into your bed, laying your head down on his chest. “Sleep my love, I’m not going anywhere” he whispered, caressing your bump gently as you tucked your head into his chest, your tears beginning to dry.

After a few minutes you drifted back to sleep, your husband holding you protectively. He was a possessive man, whoever dared touch his wife would die.

………………………………………………………………………..

Ok I know this is like so bad and short but I just wanted to write something….

[dedalvs]

Just saw the Dune: Part 2. What do you think of the empire and fremen languages seen on screen?

I wish they would have let us do something ourselves for the Harkonnens (we could've created a badass Harkonnen language), but we certainly can't complain, given how much screen time our Fremen language got. We translated and delivered over 500 lines of dialogue for Dune: Part Two, and MOST of it ended up on screen. That is absolutely astonishing for a film. I invite you to go through the dialogue for previous films I've worked on—including Dune: Part One—and add up all the lines we've translated, and then see how much of it ended up on screen:

There's more Castithan in Defiance than language work in all the other movies I've worked on combined. For films, in general, they ask for little and use less, and err on the side of not subtitling where possible. Dune: Part Two is extraordinary in the amount of conlang dialogue that actually appears on screen. The only thing to compare it to, honestly, is Avatar (the first one, not the second, where they decided everyone should just speak English most of the time, which is lame).

So, yeah, Jessie and I were very pleased.

Oh, and by the way, those who follow my Tumblr may remember how disappointed we were that only I was credited on Pixar's Elemental, despite the fact that my wife Jessie and I worked together to create that language. Not so with Dune: Part Two! We are both credited. Furthermore, they really treated us right—especially Jessie, as she didn't work on the first film with me. I'd understand if they were a bit hesitant, given the fact she wasn't there for part one, but they welcomed her, treated her as part of the team, credited us both, and even credited her as Jessie Peterson, despite the fact that she hadn't yet changed her name (we were engaged but not married when the credit roll was locked).

And, let me tell you, Jessie was responsible for most of the brilliant semantic work that went into translation for this second film. We've done a lot of press of late, and we often get asked what are interesting words/idioms we've come up with, and every time we find one, invariably, it was Jessie who came up with it. I may have come up with the flesh and bones of Chakobsa, but Jessie gave it the heart that pumps its blood.

[the-poets-might-disagree]

how Denis Villeneuve built Paul and Chani's love story in Dune Part Two – from beginning to end

In their first romantic scene together Chani goes after Paul into the desert because she knows he won’t last on his own. By this point in time she already starts to fear for him- she knows he is brave and a good fighter, but she also knows it’s not enough. „You sandwalk like a drunk lizard!” We see her teaching him the sandwalk. This is when their melody is first played in the movie, this time it's quiet yet, merely an introduction. He is proud enough to say he knows how to sandwalk, but wise enough to admit he has a lot to learn from her. So he listens.

And listens and listens, earning her trust little by little. „You know I’m the only one who believes you’re gonna make it ’till the summer”. There is a scene here when you can’t even hear what she is saying. Instead it’s their melody playing still, while we see Paul’s (all smitten) face watching her, just explaining things to him.

Second important scene is when during the first fight, Chani’s life is in danger, and Paul jumps on her without a doubt in a split second, to protect her life with his own. They share a quick meaningful look before they get up from the ground. There are no questions left in her after this.

Third. In the tent after he was named Usul and Muad’Dib. Paul speaks chakobsa, with a proud look written on his face, and there are many people present, but it's all for her. He wants to be one of her people so badly, he does everything he can. And it's working, Chani is watching him speak as if he invented it. When Stilgar invites Paul to join him, he looks at her. Chani is nodding and so he gets up. It’s always her approval he is looking for. Everyone is hugging Paul and it’s Chani’s turn. We see their faces slowly touching, her lingering there for a moment.

The fourth one is when she gives in. We see them sitting together, watching the sunset. Her telling him about her name in the prophecy. „Your blood comes from dukes and great houses. We are not like that. Here, we are equal.” „I’d very much like to be equal to you.” She is smiling back at him „Maybe I’ll show you the way.”. Their first kiss- the melody returns for the second time. A little later she is shown leaning on him, literally. He has earned not only her trust, but her love, too.

This is when his nightmares start to kick in. He knows he can’t go south. At this point she starts to wear blue, which in the fremen culture (in the books) means a woman is pregnant – was changed in the movie to be the symbol of being in love or being taken.

We see their only love making scene. They are just laying there on each other, but she cannot turn her thoughts off. „There will be trouble.” „What are you talking about?” „The way they are looking at you. They worship you now.” She fears what is to come for him, but he reassures her. „I’m no messiah”. She then warms him about the stories his mother is spreading. During this scene their melody returns for the third time, programming our ears and brains to connect it to their intimacy and bond.

When Gurney appears, Chani thinks he is not to be trusted. Paul says "he is family" and as soon as he does she gets up to help him. It's the small things that tell you at this point that she will do anything for him, as long as it is the right thing to do.

Paul telling her about the Atreides atomic arsenal in the tent. How it could change everything. This is when we first see him being slightly intrigued by power. "You promised me you didn't want power". Paul switching it back on her with "no matter what I do, you still don't trust me". He is offended and tells her that he is fighting for her people, no matter what.

When they visit the arsenal you can see how scared she is. Paul is confused, but proud of his legacy- even if it is one that is big enough to destroy their planet. Their differences keep growing. He keeps having nightmares about losing her.

The final conflict in him is people pressuring him to go south, but he says he cannot, because he is afraid of the fundamentalists. Chani is the moral compass still, and she emphasizes he is right to be afraid of them.

"The world has made choices for us." Sounds like the beginning of a goodbye. We watch their last intimate scene together before it all changes irreversibly. "If I go south, I might lose you." "You will never lose me, not as long as you stay who you are". Tears rolling down his face. He knows already how much he is about to give up. She has no idea. "I will do what must be done". We see their goodbye kiss.

He drinks the water of life. She is furious but she runs to his rescue. She refuses to do so, but compelled by the voice, she saves his life- as it was written in the prophecy. When he wakes up she makes sure first that he is feeling well, then she slaps him and leaves. He emerges with a facial expression that is pure evil. At this point we know he is innocent no more and has switched to his dark side, the one that gives into power.

"She'll come to understand. I've seen it." He is so sure he can do whatever, and he'll still have her by his side... But when he arrives to speak at the gathering, Chani is the only one who doesn't kneel in front of him. He is still her equal in her head.

"I'm pointing the way!" as he shouts we can also see a switch in her. He's losing her. She's not looking at him lovingly at all anymore as she realizes it's her worst fear becoming reality in front of her eyes, and he is not the person she fell in love with anymore. She's angry, she loses hope, she's disappointed. Is about to give up on him.

When they go into battle, she still wears the blue scarf, not on her head anymore but on her arm. Still there with her, but barely.

The final scene. Everyone's gathering. He orders Gourney to bring the prisoners and then stops for one last moment before it's all about to go down. He looks behind his back. Chani's standing there, keep looking at him while he is about to walk up to her. Her facial expressions are childlike, showing how devastated and afraid she is, but she says "this isn't over yet" as if she was still hanging onto something. "I want you to know..." he says but he is looking at the ground, afraid to look her in the eye "...I will love you as long as I breathe". They lock eyes. It's his final moment to confess his everlasting love for her. Pain is written in his eyes. He knows it is goodbye, but she still has no idea what's about to happen. She sighs and swallows, furrowing her brows. No answer.

The prisoners arrive. Chani lifts her head up, trying to collect herself and stand proud. When he tells the emperor he is about to take his daughter's hand in marriage, we see Chani's face immediately. Her jaw drops. When he says "we will rule together", she is literally breathless, her eyes darting. She bites her lip before she looks up in disbelief. Straightening her pose once again, wanting to maintain her dignity.

Before Paul and Feyd-Rautha start their fight, Paul sneaks one last look at her to gather his strength. The music stops. We can only hear the knives and breaths during the fight. When he's on the ground, he can't help himself and looks for her. "She's your pet?" asks Feyd-Rautha. Chani shakes her head, visibly disgusted. Feyd-Rautha starts walking towards her, so Paul gets up immediately. This is when he knows he is going to end this man. But he gets stabbed and looks for her with fear in his eyes. Chani holds her breath in disbelief and her eyes widen.

He can barely breathe anymore, but he wins the fight. Chani is relieved, and gasps for air herself. Paul turns back to her, before he talks to the emperor. Her face lights up, showing how special he makes her feel in this exact moment, but in a second, her gestures return to the childlike frown that shows how betrayed she feels. Paul demands the emperor to kiss his father's ring. He does, the music starts again and the whole room gets on their knees.

Princess Irulan, Paul and Chani are the only ones left standing in the room. We hear their melody return, and build into something that is a lot bigger than them, and it's meant to break our hearts with the bittersweet sound. It was all about them leading up to this moment, and now they are no more. Irulan takes a look at the two of them, and realizes it all. Chani is shattered. Paul is not facing the Princess, but watches Chani leave (this is the last scene she is wearing blue), refusing to be a fool like everyone else. He shuts his eyes. He's never been in this much pain before, but he cannot show it. With her, Paul's last pieces of humanity leave, too.

[rosiesthehat]

how much sand can a hand hold?

_ Chapter 2, "Oasis"

Pairing: Lady Jessica X Reader

Word Count: 5.7k

Tags: hurt/comfort, lots and lots of tears, mixing the book events with the movie!

Summary: You mend jessica's heart, and in the late night, she discovers a gift that you may share.

Author’s Note: I wrote most of this at about four in the morning, so i do hope it's not a mess. It's been proofread in the light of day, so I do know it's legible! This is also on my AO3!

<3

Here’s the little dictionary of the Chakobsa that i totally just made up… :

hayatii _ "my life"

jamil jdan bial’nisbat li, rouhii _ "so beautiful just for me, my soul."

It’s been just under an hour.

Your bags have finally arrived at your door, and though your excitement to unpack, to run your fingers over your beautiful new garments, is overwhelming, your worry for your lady trumps all enjoyment you may feel. You haven’t heard her voice since the duke came with his complaints. It’s been silence. Silence, and you’re not sure if she’s even still in the room, but if she is, her silence is extremely concerning.

Jessica’s emotional delicateness was a poor match for the Bene Gesserit desire to hide all sentiments the body may feel. She is, to her core, a destroyed woman, a woman you yearned to build back up, to heal of the wounds to her heart. It would take time, and you know she’ll always be that motherless child left out in the rain, but you’d find a way to give your Jessica all the affection she’s owed.

When you can’t take it anymore, can’t house the beating heart or the racing thoughts any longer, you stand to rap against the door that connects your bedrooms. You knock the specific rhythm that Jessica had taught you once, one that she promised would not be easily replicated, so that she would always know of your presence behind a door. She’d devised several plans to ensure your rendezvouses remained in total secrecy, and they’d never once failed.

“My lady?” Your voice is low against the door, and you crack it open a hair once you feel enough time has passed. You’re given no response, but you can feel the heaviness of Jessica’s presence in the room, so you push the door all the way open.

She’s sitting on the floor, curled into herself, wedged into the corner of the room. The corner furthest from the door where the duke had so loudly made himself known. She’s fallen into a state that you’ve seen her in far too many times, her head in her hands, tears still pouring from her eyes, but the uncontrollable shaking of her shoulders has long since ceased.

The sight nearly brings you to tears of your own, and though you can feel the water pricking at your lashes, you force it back down. A skill that will be useful in a coming livelihood on the desert planet, you think. You drop to your knees in front of your lady, forcing her hands away from her face and replacing them with your own. Her eyes are alert, not yet glazed over as they do when she forces control over her body, though you can tell she’s mere moments away from such control.

“Jessica…” You hum, pushing hair out of her face, wiping her ever-flowing tears as they drip down freckled cheeks. She looks impossibly beautiful when she cries, it’s simply unfair that a woman may look so lovely while in such a miserable condition. Her large eyes sparkle with wetness as they look up at you for guidance, like a lost child searching for their mother.

She’s nonverbal, tired hands making their way to hold onto you as you settle beside her, laying gentle kisses to her cheeks as her tears continue to glide down the curves of her face. Her grip is weak against you, but impactful enough that you know how much it means to her that you’ve come to check in on her. You would have come sooner, had you known what was behind the closed door, but you fear the duke just as much as Jessica does, so you kept to yourself for too long.

“I’m so sorry.” You offer her a reassuring smile, though it feels wrong to smile when she’s in such a joyless state. What you’d like to do is march to the house’s west wing yourself and give the duke a piece of your mind. You’d also like to keep your life, so such a thing would have to exist only in your mind. “He’s awful to you. You’ve done nothing to deserve this.”

The universe has been so cruel to your Jessica. Since her birth, she’s known nothing but sorrow. You know it can’t be karma, for the woman in front of you would never do anything deserving of what she’s received. She’s a punching bag for God’s most evil creations to put their anger towards. You long to put a shield around her, to protect her from the cruelty of those around her. You don’t understand how anyone could look upon such a sweet face and feel anger in their heart.

“He’s… awful.” She echoes, lifting her hands to cover your own, her consciousness seemingly returning to her. She sits upright, sniffling back tears that don’t cease. “Why is he so awful?” She begs, looking into your eyes like you may have the answers to all the questions in the universe. But you don’t. The question she’s asked is impossible to answer. Why could a man be so horrid to his bound woman? To a woman so devoid of love in her life, why would he force her into subservience and never reward her with even the smallest bit of softness?  

You’d never understand the male mind. Though it’s not only men who are wicked, you think, brain returning to days when Jessica would befall a similar fate to this one after a visit from her Bene Gesserit sistren.

“That I cannot answer.” You hum in response, sitting so that you can fully accept Jessica’s frail form in your arms, holding her tight against your chest. “I wish I could take you away from him. You should never have to feel the weight of his wrath again.” Your words were only the ramblings of someone with too much imagination. There would never exist a timeline in which Jessica would leave her child, in which Duke Leto would allow her to disappear.

“If only we could return to Caladan.” She hums, her voice thick from built-up moisture in her throat. A sigh escapes her lips, her body’s weight relying entirely on you now. Jessica holds your hand to her chest, and you feel how slowly it’s beating. She’s calming, but the beat in your own chest is doing quite the opposite. “We’d take the castle for ourselves, and have nothing to do but dance in our rain and count the stars while drinking the oldest wine in the cellar.”

A smile raises to your lips, which then press to your lady’s forehead. You swallow a lump that’s formed in your throat, trying to force back the sadness that creeps out of your tear ducts. You want nothing more than the life she’s laid out for you, and though it is sure to fill your dreams for the rest of your life, your rem cycle is the only place such a wish may exist.

“We’d wear our black dresses and let our skin go pale.” You say in return, a small giggle in your voice. You play with Jessica’s lithe fingers, pressing small kisses to her knuckles. “And we’d never see the duke or his precious desert power ever again. Our only worries would ever be rotten fruit and knots in our hair.” You curl into the woman lying in your lap, sharing her slow breath as you press your head into the crook of her neck, eyes closing. You picture your beloved courtyard on Caladan, where you’d once sat similarly to your current position, deep into the night, not a care towards the warmth of the morning’s sun.

“A perfect life.” Jessica sighs, gently lifting your head so that she may press a deep, longing kiss to your lips. Her lips are salty, a sensation you’ve grown quite used to when kissing your lover. It’s become her flavor, and has taken you over so much that when you eat anything with a high salt concentration, you think of Jessica. “Hayat mith’alia” She translates. You’ve grown so impressed by how little effort it takes Jessica to conjure Chakobsa, how wonderfully familiar it sounds on her lips.

You sit on the floor for another quarter hour, continuing to share your little fantasies about a life on another planet, trying to push away all of your sadness into the pit of your stomach, where it can rest until you can no longer feel the pain. You pet Jessica’s hair, and it’s when you her eyes meet you without shining their magnificent green-blue that you realize how late it has gotten. Your lack of movement must have triggered the suspensor light in the room to dim, leaving only the light from the twin moons to shine into your room.

“You should get changed for bed, my love.” You whisper softly to the woman that’s nearly fallen asleep in your lap, still dressed in her hanging yellow fabric. Jessica huffs a bit, begrudgingly removing herself from your arms to stand, and you quickly follow. She stretches, back bending much like that of a feline. You smile towards her, sneaking another chaste kiss to her cheek before unzipping her robe, letting it fall to the floor.

“I miss our bed.” She hums, voice dejected as she stares at the sad excuse for a bed in front of her. You rummage through her bags, seeking anything you can find, and eventually find what you believe to be a nightgown. At least a very soft stretch material that you hope will suit Jessica in slumber.

“As do I.” You smirk softly, teasing as you help the older woman into her dress, wrapping your arms around her. You inhale, taking in her sent, nose greedy for the smells of Caladan that still cling to the clothes. “It’s a nice canopy, at least.” You try your best to sound genuine, though you’ve already found it hard enough to find anything enjoyable in this place. You can, at the very least, appreciate the architecture, but your initial rose-colored glasses have been swiftly removed from your nose.

“I suppose.” Jessica shrugs before crawling into bed, patting the space beside her so that you may join her. You do so immediately, crawling under the soft fabric and up into Jessica’s arms. You appreciate, at least, that whoever has set this room for you spared no expense when it came to importing the bedspread. Though it doesn’t hold a candle to the large, circular bed of Jessica’s room on Caladan, you imagine it will fit your bodies well enough. It’s not like you take up much space anyway, limbs entangled together as you fall asleep for your first night on the desert planet.

♱

“Wake up, my love.”

The voice is hushed, yet carries a lilt of fervor and eagerness that is unlike your Jessica. You startle awake, your hair tussled, and the corner of your lips wet from heavy slumber. You’re impossibly tired, recovering from your time spent consoling Jessica’s wounded heart.

“Wha…” You mumble, sitting straight up in bed, rubbing the tiredness from your eyes. When they finally blink open, you’re met with Jessica’s freckled face wearing the most elated smile that you’ve ever seen on her lips. It’s very refreshing, considering how miserable you’d seen her earlier this night… it’s still night. Or very early morning, judging by the light green tint to the star-covered sky.

“I’ve found something.” She says, voice low, like she hopes to keep this something hidden from the rest of the members of the house. “It’s… You have to see it.”

Jessica takes your hand, a franticness to her actions that makes you a bit wary about what her found thing is, but if it has caused that most perfect smile that so rarely graces the lady’s lips, you’re sure it must be magical. You sleepily follow the woman, yawning a few times, worrying when she leads you out into the corridor.

“Jessica, I—” You begin, looking down at your nightclothes, the thin fabric of the nightgown clinging to your skin. You stumble in your tracks, constantly looking over your shoulder, fearful for what may happen if a guard, or worse, the duke, were to find you like this. But Jessica is full steam ahead, her steps unwavering as she leads you down the hall, until you reach the end, standing at the bottom of a spiral staircase. “Jessica, I really should change. What if—”

Your hypotheticals do not deter her, and your lady only shoots you another wide grin before she pulls you up the stairs, maneuvering her palm against the oval door at its peak before you’re thrust into a small chamber.

“An airlock?” You question quietly, your heartrate rising as you feel the air secure all around you. You don’t fear what Jessica is leading you towards, you know she’ll always keep you safe. What you do fear, however, is that someone has corrupted your lady in your slumber, that the sealed door in front of you is hiding dozens of Harkonnens. No, that’s the most ridiculous thought any brain could conjure. Your lady would never fall victim to such a silly scheme.

All of your suspicions fall apart when Jessica swings the heavy door open, revealing to you a grand room of jungle leaves and blossoming flowers. A breath escapes your lips as you step through the hatch, the sudden moisture thickness of the air making your already frizzy hair gain more curls.

“I…” You mutter, taking in the room that lays before you in all of its glory. “It’s….” You try again, but your words fail you. Jessica snakes her arms around you from behind, and for the first time since your arrival on Arrakis, you feel like you’re back home.

“It’s wonderful, isn’t it?” Jessica hums, holding your body tight against her chest. You quickly nod in response, reaching out a hand to caress a pink rose, grinning at the memories it brings to your mind. On Caladan, you developed a habit of always buying flowers for your lady when you went to market. Though the duke always kept a minimalist, masculine theme to his interior design, Jessica managed to keep a few flower vases around the castle. Though no one else in the house knew their meaning, you did, and that was enough.

Now, just as you once did, you and your lady shared a botanic secret, and it filled your sand-withered heart with glee.

“It’s… wonderful.” You whisper back, stepping away from her to lap around the room. You smile down to the flowering sondagi plants, hands collecting moisture from the leaves of hanging akarso. You giggle softly when a light mist paints your cheeks in water droplets, but your delight in the feeling turns to shock when you register what the mist implies.

“How is this possible?” You ask, turning back to return to Jessica’s arms; you adore the feeling of your shared wetness, the clothes clinging to skin like they once did under your beloved rain. “This much water, to keep such a climate sustained… where does the water come from?”

Jessica smiles, places a kiss to your nose. “That I do not know, hayatii.” She purrs, the petname making your legs turn to jelly, her kisses trailing down to your jaw. “All I know is that it is completely safe. A past lady of the house, the Lady Fenring, left a note. She’s left it here for my eyes alone. For us.” You sense the bitterness in her voice when she says the name of another lady, hear the jealousy she holds that one of her sisters was married to the man she was dedicated to.

You sigh into her, hands wrapping around her head, holding her close. The mist continues to wash over you, the yellow sun filter glass casting a warmth across your intwined bodies. Jessica continues her gentle kisses to your throat, her hands bunching up your soaked-through nightgown.

“I wish I could marry you.” You whisper, the words earnest, yet you wish you hadn’t said them. You don’t want to hurt her heart any more, especially after the night she’s had.

You’d never make a good partner for her. You have nothing to give, she has nothing to gain from your hand. She couldn’t secure your bloodline, not that you came from a mighty line of warriors or genius Mentats in the first place. You could only offer her love, and in the Bene Gesserit mindset, love was worth less that death.

Jessica is silent, her kisses pausing, her head falling to lay against your chest. You feel a sob shake her shoulders, her grasp on you growing tighter. You sigh, head dropping to meet her own, your own hands draping over her back, gently caressing her protruding spine.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.” You whisper, voice drowned out by the noise of rhythmic running water and the buzz of a few insects kept to pollinate the flowers. “I... I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry.”

Jessica’s still silent, but she eventually lifts her head to gaze up at you. Her earlier excitement has disappeared, and is replaced by tired eyes and the frown of a woman underloved. She’s always told you not to apologize, especially when you were only using the word sorry to make someone feel better. It was an awfully hard habit to rid yourself of.

“I want nothing more than to be your wife.” She whispers softly, voice laced with tears as she lifts her hands to cradle your face. You lift your own to wipe her cheeks, initially worried about the water she’s losing, but then realizing that lost water has no price while standing in a room such as this one.

“Then, as long as we stand in this room, my wife you shall be.” You smile at her, hating to see her in tears for a second time in a day, though she is so breathtaking when she cries, that you feel a bit guilty in wanting her to continue on.

A smile breaks on her lips, and in less than a beat of your heart they are attached to your own, the saltiness of her tears pressing against your thirsty lips. You tug her in by the heavy fabric of her dress, until she’s pressing you against a tree trunk, the rough bark scratching your back, though you’d never be upset by it. The sensation of live flora against your skin is something to be cherished on this planet so devoid of life.

The word wife has always had a profound effect on Jessica, and while it is so typically a negative one, your use of the term has turned the woman into a mess of desire. She’s so longed to be tied to such a word, that now that she is, even if it’s only between the two of you, it’s kickstarted a tickle at the back of her brain that’s running her body into overdrive.

She’s laying into you with such fervor that you can’t help but chuckle softly between her heavy kisses, and as dearly as you accept the feeling of her warm lips against your own, you have to force her off so that you may breathe for a moment.

“I love you.” You whisper softly, pushing your face forward an inch so that you may teasingly nudge Jessica’s nose with your own. “But this hurts!” You giggle gently, gesturing to the tree behind you.

Jessica only nods, her eyes glassy with lust, and takes a miraculously short time to lead you to the secluded bench that sits at the back of the room, near a small pond of water decorated by lilies. You want to take a moment to ogle the sight of such a mass of liquid, but you have no time to, because Jessica has situated herself at your feet. A far more attractive sign to gaze upon. Her hands swiftly push your dress aside, her sloppy kisses covering your thighs in her tingling warmth. You groan softly, hands rushing to tangle in her hair, tugging in her sleep-tousled locks. You pull her closer, begging her kisses to stray higher on your thighs, but she is steadfast against the soft flesh of your legs.

You’ll not persuade a Bene Gesserit into rushing.

You are growing impatient from Jessica’s relentless teasing, her teeth scaping against the skin that hasn’t ever seen the sun. You growl her name a few times until she finally relents, her nose teasing against your clothed cunt before pulling the fabric to the side.

“Jamil jdan bial’nisbat li, rouhii.” She purrs, the low tone of her voice sending a vibration through your body as she offers a few more delicate kisses to your skin. You adore how she reverts to the battle language while her brain is so drunk on your taste.

The feeling of her tongue against your flesh causes a shake in your weak knees, but when you fling your head back and open your eyes, you notice the shake isn’t solely in your desperate body. The leaves above your head are shaking, and when you look down to the small pond below you, you’re met with ripples in the water.

“Jessica…” You mumble, sitting upright, eliciting an annoyed grunt from the woman on her knees below you. “Jessica, really. Something’s wrong.”

“Nothing is wrong, my love. Nothing can hurt us.” She hums, but sits up anyway. Jessica licks her glistening lips, and the sight of it makes you want to ignore the signs of ill fate and return to your lovemaking, but you feel something pull at your heart that forces you to cease.

You stand to glance out the window, and a sudden dread fills your being.

Great pillars of fire and smoke fill your limited view, and from what you can see in the night sky, several large ships have begun descending onto Arrakis.

“The shield wall.” You gasp, slapping a hand over your mouth as to not make any louder noises. Jessica runs to your side, sharing in your fright, gripping your hand tightly. “Harkonnens.” You whisper shakily, the horrid name falling from your lips like a curse. You fight back tears for yet another moment in this most hellish night.

Jessica’s begun pacing, moving closer to the door of your sanctuary. You follow after her, panic rising in your heart and causing the tears to begin their flow.

“I must get Paul.” Jessica states grimly, her dedication to the Kwisatz Haderach, to her son, above all others. Above you. “I… I will find him. Bring him back here.”

Your heart stings with the idea of Jessica bringing another human into your secret oasis, but it pains even more at the fact that she’s so determined to leave in the first place, that she’ll surely be killed if she were to step foot out of this room.

“Jessica, no.” You try to carry a conviction in your voice but the hope for strength is far lost. You’re too scared, too desperate to stay by her side, but you know she will not let you. She is headstrong, one of your most favorite traits that Jessica holds, but you know better than to argue with her. All you can muster is a pitiful “Please…”

“I will be back. I promise you this.” Jessica smiles gently, and your brain tries to take a memory of it, knowing too well that this very well may be the last time it sees such a beautiful thing. “You must stay here. You must stay safe.” She shudders, images of Harkonnen torture flooding her brain.

“No. I’ll come with you. Please. Please let me come with you.” You beg, and as Jessica makes her way towards the exit of your most perfect room, you grab her hand, not ever wanting to let go. “Please, my love.”

“Stay here.” Her voice is pitched so that you must do her bidding, so that you’ve done it before your brain will move to disobey her. So that you’ve forcefully forgotten all about wanting to go with her, just long enough for Jessica to plant one last kiss to your lips before she escapes through the door and into the madness of the Governor’s Palace.

You fall to your knees at the door, clinging onto the cool metal. You continue your begging but soon lose your voice, sitting weak and dejected on the moisture-rich mat below you. You pray, pray so hard to whatever God that may be out there to protect your lady in her steps, that she may never face a Harkonnen soldier, and she may return to your side.

When your praying has finished, once you’ve begged for all you can, your force out those words that you so hate to hear.

“I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer.”

♱

When the sun rises over Arrakis, you rise with it. The white sun, filtered through yellow as though to keep your plants alive, stings through your eyelids and forces you awake. You rush to said window, gazing out at the dunes. Damage done to every building, the sand covered in the bodies of soldiers, though for which side they once fought for, you’re unsure.

You’d been rustled by explosions all night, and the remnants of them remain all around you. Orange fires scattered across yellow rock, the heaviest of them burning the trunks of the imported palms in the palace’s courtyard.

Despite her promise, your lady has not returned. You’ve spent the night alone, and though you heard a few grunting noises beyond your airlocked doors, the palm lock of the exterior door is far too advanced for the Harkonnen mind to comprehend. You can now only hope that they do not have a Bene Gesserit in their employ.

You’re in a terrible state, exhausted and starved, and decide to eat a bright orange fruit from a tree in the center of the room. You’re not sure if it’s safe to eat, but decide that if it is truly poisonous, at least you may join your love in a safer death than at the hands of Harkonnen soldiers.

You sit, drowning in grief and in a premature state of mourning, hugging your knees to your chest. You won’t be able to last long in this room. Though the supply of water will last you for probable decades, there’s no source of food. You also can’t stand the feeling of not knowing Jessica’s fate. You can’t stand the endless possibilities, and while you’ve always been so very optimistic, it’s awfully difficult for your brain not to consider the woman dead.

After a considerable time sent sulking, your brain has convinced you to leave the safety of your small jungle. Even if it’s a cold body that you find, you must find your lady. You stand, pacing around for a moment to shake the dizzy fog of your head, before pushing open the heavy door leading to the airlock. You let the air decompress around you, looking down at the state of your clothing. Your feet are dirty, hair dripping water. It’s not a state you’d like any Arrakeen resident to see you in, lest you be attacked for your wealth of water.

You stand in the hushed air of the airlock, ears fine-tuning so that you may hear any rustle of noise outside on the other side of the door. When you’re sure enough there isn’t a Harkonnen beast awaiting your exit, you step out of the door, closing it as quietly as possible, and scurry down the spiral staircase. The corridor is empty, but you hear commotion throughout the palace. They must have done a thorough sweep of the house and deemed this half useless just as the duke and his charge had done upon your arrival.

You return to your shared room, which lays empty. Though you’re so very pleased that you’ve not found Jessica here in a pile of her own blood, you also don’t find any sign that she’s returned to this room. You drop to the floor to rummage through her bags, finding a tunic and a pair of pants, something nondescript and lightweight enough that you may blend in as a lost Arrakeen civilian. You’d remembered that the women on Arrakis often covered their hair, so you wrapped yourself in a veil that smelled so much of Jessica’s perfume it almost brought another sob though your body.

After slipping on a pair of shoes, you frantically search the room for anything that may be used as a weapon. Nothing has been unpacked yet, not even your toiletries, so there’s nothing to grab, nothing to conceal under your sleeves. You’re forced to leave your room with only your wits about you, and you’ve not even really got those. Your brain is still dripping with sorrow, and as you finally exit the room, you enter a state of high alert to find your lady.

You creep down the long hallway, hugging yourself tightly as you do so. At least you’ve grown used to the sneaking around, the walking in shadow. It’s come easy to both you and your lady, and you hope that she’d taken these very steps, at least made it to Paul. You’re sure she has.

“Hey!” You hear from behind you, a loud, deep voice reverberating and echoing through the hall and into your ears. Before you can turn around to see the monster that’s yelled at you, a hand the size of your own head is wrapped around your arm, squeezing so hard you fear the bone may snap.

You don’t speak to the beast, for you can’t decide which character would better aid your escape. Would a bald, black-toothed soldier have more sympathy for a lady’s maid, or a wandering Fremen citizen? It was not like you could portray the latter well, you hadn’t studied the language, nor interacted with the public enough to adopt their mannerisms or accent. So, you walk in silence, stumbling over your feet trying to keep up with the soldier’s long strides.

The man stops for a moment at the tall exterior doors of the palace, speaking to another gross, fat soldier. They speak in that horribly guttural language, and you’re wise enough to know they’re discussing your fate. You take the opportunity to look around, seek your love, but all of the doors in the palace are sealed shut.

You’re suddenly thrust through the doors and out onto sand, and the creature pulls you towards an ornithopter. You force your crying to cease, understanding your coming desert fate, and stumble up the walkway and into the seat you’re thrown into. The Harkonnen doesn’t bother tying you up; he must not see your small frame and fancy clothes as too much of a threat to his life.

The ‘thopter is illuminated by only a few flickering, neon lights, but you can sense the presence of other bodies around you. They must be packing ship after ship with bodies and taking them out to the desert to die under the Arrakeen sun.

“Jessica?” you call out weakly, and though your mind knows that there’s not a single chance that your lady would be on this craft, you take the chance anyway. “Does anyone know what’s become of the royal family?” You beg, sure that the other maids and housekeepers of the palace surely haven’t given a single thought to the rich ones who previously ruled their lives.

“Quiet!” The Harkonnen yells towards you from the front of the ‘thopter, which now flickers to life as its bug wings lift you into the sky. You swallow hard, throat impossibly dry as you lift over what was once the shield wall, and move over the open desert. It’s a terrifying thing, sand upon sand upon sand. The yellow that you had been once so fond of, so mystified by, now brought nothing but fear through your heart. You mumble the litany once again, now finding comfort in its words yet not feeling the full-body calm that it’s supposed to bring. You hold the fabric of your veil close to your nose, the rich vanilla and crinum lily tricking your brain into calm, into believing that you’re back with your lady in the sanctity of your bed.

But you’re not. You’re in the middle of the open desert, ornithopter lowering down once the soldier figures you’re far south enough that you’ll never make it back to the capital city. You land on the sand with a thunk, a graceless landing that’s so very characteristic of the Harkonnen hand.

The ‘thopter’s cargo hold swings open, a sudden heat throwing sand against your skin, instantaneously evaporating all of the moisture that lays on your skin. The sun is impossibly bright when it beats off the sand and into your eyes, pupils dilating as you squint hard to protect yourself from floating grains of the dune.

Your captor forces you, along with five-or-so others who you vaguely recognize as Fremen house workers, into the sand. You fall to your knees in the shifting terrain below you, falling dejected to your fate. While the others around you scream and sob, you keep yourself grounded, preserving your energy as best you can.

The ‘thopter quickly makes its retreat, its pilot not wishing to spend any time under a sun that isn’t black. When the beating of wings disappears from your ears, you climb to your feet, addressing your surroundings. There only exists sand, white mounds waving from the heat of the mid-day. Once you turn, however, you find a tall hunk of rock to your left, perhaps a half-hour’s walk or so away. You can make it, if you start now.

You feel greedy in not alerting the rest of the group of your plan, but you just can’t worry over the survival of people that have lived on this planet their whole lives. They’ve grown with stories of shai-hulud, they’ll know it’s coming. So, you leave them, untrained rhythmless movements heading towards the black jetting of rock, praying that it’s not a mirage that your brain has concocted in a daze of lost love and impending heatstroke.

[avatarrecom]

Hajra

Chapter 1

So this is a Avatar X Dune crossover. I recently saw the second movie in the cinema with my bestie and I was inspired lol.

I would love to hear your thoughts and feedback on my work! Feel free to leave a comment or give me a like to show your support.

The dull pounding in your head doesn't help at all as you sit up and suspiciously study the white space that you have called your personal prison for who knows how long.

It was white. As in, completely white. Not a speck of color in sight.

Through the blurred look in your eyes you realize that you are lying on the uncomfortable bed in the corner of the white room again.

Your prison consists of a room with two doors, one leading to a bathroom, and a table with two chairs on opposite sides.

Just before you can decide to brave your dizziness and headache and stand up, the large metal door opens with a whoosh.

The lady called "General Ardmore" comes storming in.

She doesn't even give you a second to fully regain consciousness before she starts yelling at you.

You pretend you don't understand English, just as you have done since you were captured.

The woman clenches her jaw and snaps at someone outside the room to come in.

Heavy footsteps sound and two men enter the room.

At least you think they are men. They are at least twice as tall as normal humans, with blue skin, a tail, cat-like ears and glowing yellow eyes.

The one on the left has black hair and three long scars running from the back of his head to his tense face. And the right one is bald, with marks all over his arms.

"She's all yours Colonel," says General Ardmore. “I expect answers soon.” And with that she walks away.

The two men look at you with interest. Scars gestures to Baldy, who comes stomping towards you. He grabs you under your armpit and pulls you up.

He has no idea of the bruises currently covering your body, but it hurts like hell, so you curse colorfully in Chakobsa anyway.

Baldy raises an eyebrow before pulling down the collar of your white t-shirt.

His eyes narrow when he sees your bruises.

"Miles, look at this, she's covered in bruises."

'Miles' comes over and studies your bruises. He grabs your chin between his fingers and studies the bruises on your neck, previously hidden by your hair.

"They haven't exactly been friendly, have they, Darling?" he hums.

Baldy, whose name is apparently Lyle, deposits you in one of the chairs and leans against the wall next to the door.

Miles turns the other chair backwards, straddles the chair and rests his arms on the back.

"So, the general says they can't get any answers out of you, so she's tasked me and my squad with getting those answers," he begins.

You tilt your head to the side, still pretending you don't understand English.

“Didn't they say she doesn't understand English, boss?” Lyle asks.

Miles hums in agreement, "They did say that."

You feel the emphasis on 'say' and apparently Lyle feels it too, because he shifts and studies you suspiciously.

In the meantime, a few others have arrived. Two men with hats, you have no idea what kind of hats they are and how they should be worn, both wear them in a different way. And a woman with a lot of markings on her arms and hands and strange hairstyle, her hair stands up on top, but she is bald on the sides. She carries a stack of papers, which she hands to Miles, who grumbles about "even more paperwork." All three of them also have blue skin and glowing yellow eyes.

For the next several hours, you still refuse to speak or acknowledge that you understand them.

At one point, Miles sighs in annoyance, "listen, Darling, if I don't get answers out of you, you're going to be handed over to people who will torture answers out of you."

Your eyes widen and you quickly hide your reaction. But apparently not fast enough, as a faint voice sounds near Miles' ear.

He stands up and leans over the table, "I knew you could hear us."

Miles looks intensely into your eyes, “but it's true, Darling, they'll torture you if you don't give us answers.”

You curse through your teeth.

“Y/N Hajra,” you say.

Miles growls in irritation, "fine, it's your funeral,"

You roll your eyes, “Y/N Hajra,” you repeat, but you’re cut off before you can finish.

"Yeah we heard you the first time, Sweets," the woman scoffs.

“My name,” you say, while glaring in her direction, “is Y/N Hajra.”

Miles looks at you in surprise for a second, "okay then, Miss Hajra-"

You interrupt him before he can finish his sentence. “No Hajra, not for you,” you hiss.

“You call me Y/N, nothing else.”

Miles clenches his jaw, while the others look at him tensely.

“Alright then, Y/N, welcome to Pandora.”

[azoperoa]

I recently learned that David Peterson has an index of his work, including translations into Chakobsa from the Dune movies, so I've been having fun reading the words that were spoken cause I didn't know exactly a lot of what was said in that language during the movies

[yesthatssadirichardslove]

U.S. linguist couple map fantasy languages for the screen

LILLE, France

From Dothraki and Valyrian in "Game of Thrones" to the Chakobsa desert tongue in "Dune", American couple David and Jessie Peterson have devised numerous imaginary languages -- apparently the only two people in the world who earn a living concocting fantasy grammar and vocabulary for film characters.

Immortal lines from the "Game of Thrones" scripts such as: "You are my last hope, blood of my blood," plunge viewers deeper into the series' fantastical world when uttered in the original Dothraki: "Yer athzalar nakhoki anni, zhey qoy qoyi."

In Dune, the Fremen desert warriors roll the "r" in their Chakobsa tongue -- the name comes from a real ancient hunter's language that inspired author Frank Herbert in writing the original series of "Dune" books.

But Herbert and Game of Thrones novelist George R. R. Martin only included a few words of these fantasy languages in their pages -- it was the Petersons who fully developed them for the screen.

"Languages can be fun. Often I think languages are treated very seriously," said David Peterson. "People can laugh if they make a mistake."

The use of language creators in films dates at least to 1985 when Marc Okrand created Klingon for that alien species in "Star Trek." It has since taken off in numerous fantasy series -- but few people make a living from the work.

A trained linguist, Peterson landed his first paid assignment to develop Dothraki by winning a competition in 2009.

Speaking at a masterclass during a television series festival in the French city of Lille, the Petersons described how they devise languages by discussing the characters' environment, backgrounds and the objects they use.

From there, "we extrapolate," David Peterson said.

Tasked with inventing a language which sounded like fire for the Pixar cartoon "Elemental", for example, Jessie Peterson formed words from a series of sounds like explosions and matches.

Now she proudly recalls hearing children call out to their father in the language in the street.

With short turnaround times for filming -- sometimes just a couple of months -- the Petersons share the work.

Creating a language means more than just making up words -- the couple start by building grammar, including word genders and tenses.

From there music lover David Peterson works on how the language sounds and Jessie Peterson develops the vocabulary.

They send actors recordings of the dialogue at a normal speed, slow speed and even syllable by syllable. The high-pressure process "usually involves a lot of swearing," David Peterson said.

The pair have also created alphabets for messages written on screen by using images and symbols to create letters. David Peterson compares the process to the invention of writing five millennia ago.

Fans can study High Valyrian from "Game of Thrones" on learning app Duolingo -- or in regular lessons, along with Dothraki.

The Petersons share their expertise on their Youtube channel "LangTime Studio" with some 600 episodes for fans of co-called "conlangs" -- constructed languages.

Could artificial intelligence get the work done faster?

"It would be more work to train the AI to actually produce a small amount of things. You might as well use that time to create the language on your own," David Peterson said.

Jessie Peterson agreed: "The beauty of language is that it is inherently human and there is no reason I want to take humanity out of language."

[space-blue]

Gurney Halleck studies Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen like a bug. A venomous, skittering pest that has, through some incomprehensible turn of events, managed to infiltrate his house. Unfortunately, Paul has taken a strange interest in his cousin, and it has fallen to Gurney to provide security detail.

Art by CoagArt

[essenceofhispenance]

𝑪𝑯𝑨𝑹𝑨𝑪𝑻𝑬𝑹 𝑺𝑯𝑬𝑬𝑻.

repost,  don’t reblog

BASICS.

full name.  Chani Kynes pronunciation.   Ch-ay-nee  K-I-nz nickname.  Sihaya, beloved ( these are only used in private as Sihaya is more of a ‘secret’ name to be used by those who live in her Sietch, though, canonically, only Paul uses it as it was given by him during the sharing of The Water of Life. It means “desert spring” with strong religious overtones of “a paradise to come) gender. cis female height. 5′2″ age. ~18 verse dependent ( varies from 18 to 31) zodiac.   Virgo spoken languages.   Galach [galactic basic], Chakobsa

PHYSICAL CHARACTERISTICS.

hair color.   Very dark brown, almost black. In the sunlight, it has a soft undertone of auburn. eye color.  blue-within-blue. She has the “Eyes of the Ibad” which is most noted among spice addicts and natives of Arrakis, where  the spice comes from. There are no whites or any other distinctive color in her eyes- it is endless shades of blue. skin tone.  dark body type. lean, muscular, athletic, lacking any water-fat accent. arabic voice. lilting, half filled with laughter. Her voice is like moonlight on still water, a dream-within-a-dream , alluring yet filled with authoritative quiet and determination.  dominant hand.   left, self made ambidextrous posture. straight, shoulders back, head high, ready to fight or hide ( in her last years alive the posture shifts. The pride is there, the shadow of who she once was, but a vacancy sits there,  head down when she walks, like a bird in a small cage, unable to fly.  Mourning still sits in her bones and leaks into her posture,  Paul’s empire, and even his exuberant Keep is wearing on her. She is a desert creature,deprived of her commodity, and she is drowning. Unlike the others within this new empire, she cannot swim. The old ways are leaving her, though her hands grasp at the straws of the girl she once was.) scars. several. All are on the front of her body. The desert is not kind. It does not yield. There are no second chances. She still has stretch marks from the birth of her firstborn. tattoos.   none. birthmarks.   none. most noticeable feature(s).  The blue-within-blue eyes and a callous beneath her nose and along the base of her jawline from  the stillsuit nose piece and face mask

CHILDHOOD.

place of birth.   Arrakis hometown.   Sietch Tabr birth weight.   5 lbs birth height. average manner of birth.   natural. first words.   The first word is unimportant. what is important is when she learned not to waster water on tears, when she learned the safety in silence. It is said fremen chidren learn these by the time they are 3 years old. siblings.   none. parents.   Liet Kynes parental involvement.   moderate. Most of Chani’s early life was spent going back and forth between Imperium rule and the role of learning her father’s station as the planet’s  imperial planetologist/ecologist of Arrakis and the Judge of the Change.  Though  he decided for her that she would live a primarily Fremen life once  the Harkonnens started taking a greater interest in order to establish total rule of the planet. ( It’s been theorized that since the Judge of the Change is inherited by the next son , Feyd-Rautha, being the same age as Chani, was  instructed to seduce her and keep her as a concubine once they got older in order to inherit the role for House Harkonnen, but still keep an opening for one of the Emperor’s daughters. i am 110% here for this theory.)

ADULT LIFE.

occupation.   temporary Sayyadina,  Fremen planetologist.  i guess??? current residence.    before the war Sietch Tabr, but after Paul’s Keep close friends.   uh...  relationship status.   It’s complicated ( she was married to Paul, then he told her to negotiate the marriage terms for his new wife right after she found out their son had been murdered. So now she’s unofficially his concubine but like he’s still all “ you’re my true wife”....idk, sounds toxic to me) financial status. middle class pre-war, stupid rich 1% post war. driver’s license.   yes??? criminal record.   no—-none recorded anyway. vices.   idk.

SEX & ROMANCE.

sexual orientation. heterosexual ( because the author’s a dumbass who doesnt understand sexuality) romantic orientation.  demiromantic. preferred emotional role.   submissive  |  dominant  |  switch   preferred sexual role.   submissive  |  dominant  |  switch libido.   average. turn on’s.  she likes sex. a lot.  turn off’s.  decline to answer love language.  taking down the harkonnens, but also tell her she’s beautiful and let her act her own age for once relationship tendencies.   can you call it a healthy relationship?

MISCELLANEOUS.

character’s theme song.   world spins madly on - the weepies ;  Chani’s eyes - Exxos ; Paul Meets Chani - Dune Soundtrack hobbies to pass time. weaving ; water gathering and studying with father ;  she used to participate in games with other kids in the Sietch  mental illnesses. none yet. physical illnesses. prone to sepsis  fears. Paul( I cry) ;  generally fears are similar to most Fremen that being death, her generation is involved in , basically, a religious war for control of her homeworld. She’s watched a lot of friends and family die. Even Paul changes and she has a hard time seeing him as the man she once loved, let alone as a human being. Her main fear by the end of the book her loss of her own autonomy, self-confidence level. moderate - high vulnerabilities.  Paul and her children. She feels most obligated to protect them, going so far as to take extreme measures to make sure her children come into the world alive.

tagged by: @solosboy tagging: @withinycu , @jedien , @lightabandoned , @noretii , @onlyhopc​ and   whoever else wants to do it!

[dedalvs]

what do you enjoy about lexicon building? what makes it fun?

Discovering new words! Starting with something simple, something basic—rock, grass, cat—and then seeing where it could go from there. Words can have extended meanings, they can be in compounds with other things, there can be derivations. In Chakobsa, for example, I started off with gari "rock" and ended up with garabadh "to forbid". I didn't think of that when I started off with "rock". I didn't plan on it: It just happened. I probably wouldn't have thought of it with another language. It made a lot of sense as I was working with the word in Chakobsa. Gari is "rock", and so then garib would be "obstacle" (a manmade rock, metaphorically, an obstacle. The -b is associated with manmade objects or instruments). Then if we turn that into a verb and add the terminative -dh (associated with finality, the ending of an action, or permanence), you get garabadh "to permanently put an obstacle down—i.e. to forbid or deny".

If you're doing it right, lexicon building is an adventure! You're exploring not just the lexical territory of your language, but the derivational territory, as well. I love to stretch things out and ask, "What might this word mean?" It's fun when I come across some meaning that doesn't have any specific English word associated with it, but makes sense in the language itself. This is the fun part of language creation!

[dedalvs]

Conlanger here! I've been working on the lexicon for one of my conlangs a lot lately and I feel like it's time to actually start fleshing out an actual dictionary so the glosses aren't just jumbles of information. What grammatical/pragmatic/etc. info do you typically include for a word's entry in a formal lexicon?

Ideally, the dictionary is for everything that you can't predict. I was talking about this recently with a group of UW students that are in the process of creating some conlang software. Consider plurals in English and German. English has a regular plural and a small number of irregular plurals. Consequently, in an English dictionary, you don't need to list the regular plurals at all, but you note when a word has an irregular plural. This is because 95% of nouns in English take a regular plural and 5% are irregular, approximately. In German, on the other hand, there are like five or six semi-regular pluralization strategies. There is a regular one (add -s), but it actually applies to a small number of words and regularly to new words added to the language. Furthermore, it's semi-predictable, but not 100% predictable what plural group a noun will belong to (unless it has a suffix). As a result, you pretty much always list the plural in a German dictionary.

So now you come to your language. You have to ask yourself: What is 100% predictable, 90% predictable, maybe 70% predictable, or totally unpredictable? The further along the scale you get (toward unpredictability), the more important it is for that information to appear in the dictionary.

Here are some dictionary entries of mine:

That's Méníshè, Trigedasleng, High Valyrian, Aazh Naamori, Chakobsa, and Kezhwa. All of them have at least the following: a citation form, a phonetic form, a part of speech, and a definition. (They also have a code I use to tell whether a word is rare~common and benign~offensive, but that's something I find useful that's a little less common.) But you can also see there are different styles of etymologies, different parts of speech, some lexicons are actually ordered by root first then by word, some have orthographies, some of those orthographies have a typewritten reminder, since some have irregular orthographies and I don't want to have to remember how I typed things. You'll also see that they have different principle parts. Some have more (e.g. Chakobsa); some have none (e.g. Kezhwa and Trigedasleng).

So yeah, you've certainly see what kinds of things can go in dictionaries, but it's up to you, the one who knows the language best, to figure out what should go in yours. You have to look at it from the perspective of the learner and ask yourself, "What information will they need to know from this lexical entry, assuming they already know or can look up the grammar?"