[flashback] stepping into the wind.

[Izdihar]

Author's NoteThis is meant as a sort of introductory post for Izdihar. Winter of 488 AV history is written on the sands a chapter has ended swept away by the whirlwind one door has closed but another has opened and on the other side our future - frank herbert; children of dune - All of Ahnatep shuddered and wept in the days following Pressor Teremun's untimely demise. The streets were filled with the tolling laments of the faithful, purchasing orisons to be sung in to the temples of Dira, Syna and Makuksi in honor of the fallen. The Gilded swarmed like a hive of bees bereft of it's queen, struggling with elbows and knees, chicanery and subterfuge to not only climb to the top of the power pile but to ascertain where that was exactly. Meanwhile, amongst the oldest of noble houses, the winds battered and blew omens of change. Most especially, perhaps, against the walls of the House of the West Winds. The Westwinds villa was thick with shadows. The oil lamp's light was wasting against the darkness but the thin glow of candles dripped through Dirames' study. The veiled woman paced before the sprawling expanse of his desk, the twists of her mourning robes whispering about her legs and multiple golden bracelets clattering like bones. Through sheer curtained windows loomed the outlines of the orchards, a verdant representation of the Westwinds' wealth though they slept now in preparation for spring. A child sat perched on the edge of the silk covered settee, spine straight as an arrow and oasis eyes wide and watchful. She had been sleeping, sliding into the sands of weariness while her father, head of the ancient House of the West Winds, worked long into the night. Yet the arrival of her royal aunt, Queen Dimourla of Ahnatep, in the dead of night with naught but the solitary protection of Chigaru, child hood bodyguard, had roused Izdihar from her slumber. Warned into silence by the tension dense as damp sand, she held herself in perfect stillness while the world around her surged towards drastic change, unwelcome and unexpected. "You have to protect me, Dirames," the queen's voice bounced off of the cypress paneled walls, bright with strain. "You know I'd nothing to do with Teremun's death, but Sadiki's jackals are at my heels as though I reek. Reek!" "You shouldn't have come here, Dimourla," Dirames frowned at his sister, gray eyes dark as the night that swept through the window behind him. "I lost my husband, Dirames," Dimourla snapped, grief stabbing through the crust of her anger. "And now half of Ekytol believes I killed him. Where else can I go?" "Home," he replied firmly. "Go home, sister, to the palace and the guards and the physicians. Have a care for the child in your belly, for the love of Dira." "The child?" Dimourla's hands swept, all six to cradle through the fine wool of her cloak the swell of her unborn child. "The child, Dirames, they're going to rip from my womb and then feed me to the snakes," hysteria pitted her cultured voice. "My son will ascend the throne on the ladder of his mother's bones if Sadiki has his way. I need your help. Please. I loved him, Dirames. I loved him. How could I have poisoned him? How could you have --" "How could I have what?" His voice was shatteringly cold, calloused fingers pressing against the lip of his desk as he rose out of his seat to lean forward, glacial eyes boring into those of his sister's. Dimourlas gulped in a breath, cultured voice in tumult as it lowered. "I know what you have done, brother. You and father, thinking yourselves untouchable, he a Sceptor and with mother gone you holding all of the power of our house. I never should have listened to you. I never --" "Don't act like you never wanted the throne, sister," Dirames interjected curtly. "Don't act like you never did!" She shrieked. "Izdihar, go to your room," Dirames ordered the child still on the settee. "But Papa --" Izdihar exclaimed. "Now!" Hastily, the young girl spilled from the settee, turning a pale, innocent face up to her aunt as she passed. Dimourla did not even seem to see her favorite niece. Once the door was closed behind her, Izdihar slid to the richly carpeted floor and pressed her ear to the jamb. Six arms snaked about her knees, huddling them close to her chest as she eavesdropped, terrified by all that she heard in the voices of her elders. An image of the Pillars of Dust came to her and she shuddered, concerned for their omen. Despite her efforts, it was nearly impossible to hear the conversation. It was like trying to listen to the words the wind whispered to the distant dunes, filled with sound and fury, but practicably unintelligible. The hush of footsteps had her eyes darting up, landing upon the elegant form of her mother accompanied by Chigaru. Ramla held a finger to pomegranate stained lips and they gazed at each other for a long time, mother and child and loyal guard, while behind the heavy door the fabric of their world was being unraveled. They said nothing to each other. Eventually, the study door burst opened, startling Izdihar into scrambling backwards, out of her crouch as Dimourla stormed into the tall ceilinged corridor. In the room beyond, Dirames stood before the massive, glittering window, his head in his hands and his form the framework of a man who had gambled and lost. "Aunt!" Izdihar cried. "Are you well? Is everything going to be all right?" Dimourla paused, khol-lined eyes sweeping over her sister-in-law, her guard, and ultimately settling upon the child. Though the lower half of her noble face was veiled by sheer, obsidian silk, Izdihar could see the sad smile in her eyes. "What are you, Izzy?" She coaxed, oft in the role of tutor. "I am loyal to the House of the Westwinds," the child dutifully replied, confusion pulling her mouth into a frown. She glanced questioningly at her mother, but the myterious Ramla but gazed mutely on. "Incorrect," Dimourla's voice soured, saddened. "You are the House of the Westwinds, Izdihar. Conduct your life in any other fashion and you will end up like me." She swirled away in a storm of gold beaded silk and tantalizing perfume. It was headier for the steam of emotions. Chigaru fell into step behind her, a silent sentinel. Those were the last words anyone in all of Ahnatep heard from the mouth of Queen Dimourla, for by dawn she had disappeared, stepped into the wind and was gone, taking the only known heir to the throne with her.