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At least an hour after the Bene Gesserit sister banishes them from the ducal bedchamber, Leto finally raises his head and speaks, bone white knuckles flexing through the desperate grip on his own knees. “I should be in there.”
“Sturdy is the soul that believes,” Gurney recites quietly, “and does not quail before uncertain darkness.”
Leto glances over, his expression wry. His hands relax, though, a slow unclenching that takes a visibly concerted effort—a vulnerability few people are privileged to see. “You sound like Jessica.”
“A voice of reason is always needed, my lord.”
Just as Gurney’s aiming for, Leto laughs, a startled thing that shakes tense shoulders. For his own part, Gurney remains straight-backed and alert, eyes flicking about the study. There’s not like to be any threat here—an excess of guards stand posted in the hallway beyond, their presence increased this morning as soon as the Lady Jessica declared in that unwavering way of hers that it was time— and Gurney never considers Leto safer than when the duke is by his side.
Yet he still feels disconcertingly wrong-footed, as happens when he compares his survival Before with his life After and finds the scales remaining unbalanced. That the arrival of the duke’s heir is heralded with joy instead of grief, celebration instead of lament, is novel enough; children were welcomed in the pits only by masters waiting to exploit them from first breath. That Leto is so deeply concerned about the welfare of the Lady Jessica, even in light of the extensive, expensive care she’s received—so deeply concerned, too, about their unborn child, even though it will emerge healthy into a world of luxury, wanting for nothing—
Well.
He doesn’t begrudge Leto his fretting, especially since it stems from the most earnest, genuine love Gurney’s ever seen. But for all Gurney sings of the human heart, sometimes it perplexes him beyond understanding.
When Leto regains his composure, he fixes Gurney with a look so blatantly fond it’s nearly unnerving. “Thank you for being here with me, old friend.”
He’s still considering his response as the door beside them creaks open. A veiled head appears, and on her heels, a baby’s cry.
Leto is on his feet before the sister even speaks, brushing past her into the bedchamber. Gurney follows where the duke leads, taking up post at the foot of the bed as Leto sinks into a chair by Lady Jessica’s side. He feels akin to an interloper in this room that stings sharp with the scent of blood, but nothing save Leto’s express order could send him away. It’s his duty, his honor, to protect this House, this family, this—
“—boy,” the sister says. Her voice has that dry, disdainful bite ever-present in the Bene Gesserit. Gurney allows himself to eavesdrop long enough to hear her add, “You have a son, my lord Duke.”
“A son,” Leto breathes, gently tucking a stray lock of hair behind Lady Jessica’s ear.
Her face is lined, worn with exertion, but her cheeks glow when she smiles. “Paul,” she murmurs. “Our Paul.”
There’s an aura about them Gurney will remember later, poignant enough to have him clutching his baliset like a lifeline as he composes—an aching love all-subsuming as the seas outside his window, a new bond forged between father and mother and son strong and enduring as the mountains beyond palace walls.
Now, though, he averts his gaze. It’s a thing far too precious to witness—far too innocent for him to witness, given the monstrosities his old eyes have seen.
It could be a moment, a minute, an hour, that he stands guard—time matters little when he would stand til his body gave out, if needs must—before his attention is caught by a lilting summons.
“Gurney.”
He obediently glances at Lady Jessica, who is… watching him. He’s long since accustomed to her intensity, but something in the shade of her penetrating expression—though it’s not unkind—sets him on edge.
He’s expecting the question. He’s not expecting it to be:
“Are you ready to hold him?”
Gurney blinks. “My lady?”
Leto chuckles. He smoothly takes the bundle from Lady Jessica’s embrace like he’s been carrying newborns his life entire, bridging the distance between her and Gurney before Gurney can even say another word. “Think of him as a very fragile instrument,” Leto suggests.
It’s all the warning Gurney receives before Leto deftly maneuvers the child into his arms.
God in heaven, the lad is so small. Gurney’s hand seems massive in comparison, cradled around the newborn’s swaddled feet, its tiny head dwarfed in the crook of his elbow. The child weighs nearly nothing, yet the enormity of his significance is heavy enough to threaten to bring Gurney to his knees.
Leto’s not wrong that this boy will be like an instrument. As the ducal heir—as a rare Bene Gesserit son—he will be seen as a potential tool to be manipulated, an object to be played, at best. An ornamental war prize, at worst, in a horror Gurney fervently prays this family will never experience. But the boy looks up at him—
Paul looks up at him, eyes big as he gurgles, and Gurney sees creation.
“Hello, little lord,” he soothes. He will remember this later, too—the shock as his devotion immediately expands to include this new life, the crush of his heart as he stands enraptured by this child he would die to protect without hesitation.
He understands, now.
He keeps his voice low, his touch careful as he brushes a fingertip wonderingly across the soft tuft of dark hair. “Don’t you worry, Paul Atreides. I have you.”