Work Text:
He finds Paul at one of the tallest overlooks within the vast grounds of Castle Caladan, seated on a jut of smooth stone near the drop of a cliff.
The search wasn't exactly difficult. Paul isn't permitted to wander this far afield without armed escort reporting on his location. Gurney knows damn well the ducal heir is capable of sneaking away and evading the palace protections, but he rarely pulls such stunts anymore. He has grown more respectful of the achy strain he puts on Gurney's old heart by making him worry that much.
Which means finding and joining him on this strange, windless morning is a simple matter of requesting an update from Gurney's personnel.
The two guards are stationed a respectful distance away, giving Paul the illusion of solitude if not the true privacy he probably craves. Gurney can sympathize. Paul's life is a contradiction, stubborn loneliness and constant attention in equal measure, and all the worst elements of each. No wonder he trusts and adores those few with whom he is truly close.
Gurney's chest squeezes with the truth of this thought, and he shunts aside the question of whether Paul would have chosen him in a different life.
They do not have other lives. They have only the world they've been given, and he refuses to feel guilty that—through all the loss and violence and constant change—his world has brought him to Paul Atreides.
As he traverses the last stretch of eerily motionless grass to reach Paul's side, Gurney studies his young master with a practiced eye. Paul is wearing the daily fatigues and jacket of his military uniform, though the jacket is open to reveal the bright white shirt beneath. His hair, which should be a chaos of curls blowing in an aggressive breeze, rests unruffled on his head—still chaos, but somehow quieter in its stillness. His knees are folded toward his chest, his arms wrapped loosely around them.
Paul's expression is heavy and more than a little bit sullen, and he doesn't take his gaze off the dramatic view as Gurney finally draws near enough to sit cross-legged beside him.
Gurney could ask what's wrong, but opts to stay quiet instead. His presence is all the nudge necessary to goad Paul into explaining, if he feels like venting the frustrations have put this unhappy look on his face. Gurney needs only to wait and find out if Paul actually wants to talk. In the meantime, he casts his gaze down along peaks and bluffs and the unnaturally smooth sea.
It's strange to see the water below reflect the sky in perfect mirror. Even knowing this is weather carefully controlled by guild satellites far above—even with a corner of his brain possessed of the knowledge of why this particular weather on this particular day—he still finds the image disconcerting. Stillness is not common in this region of Caladan, for all that the rocky cliffs and valleys give a stolid impression. Always there is wind, and today's lack of unpredictable yet constant gusts is enough to put Gurney irrationally on his guard.
The water below is only a small inlet. Wind or not, the true sea on the other side of the cliffs is never still. It will be roiling even now, and he finds himself wishing he were sitting atop a different cliff. One that showed him the more natural roll and splash of the lively sea.
Finally Paul spares Gurney a glance, and the thin-pressed line of his mouth softens into something closer to a smile.
"You didn't have chase me all the way out here." Paul leans his weight over to bump his shoulder against Gurney's before righting his center of gravity. A calculated risk of intimacy that is not likely to draw unwarranted attention from Paul's escort—and also nothing at all like enough. As with every moment in Paul's presence, Gurney aches to tug him close and hold on. He never wants to let go.
"I can head back to the keep if you'd rather be alone."
"No," Paul murmurs without hesitation. "I want you to stay. I would've invited you along if you hadn't been busy with Thufir."
Gurney cracks a faint smile, certain Paul will catch it in his peripheral vision. Gurney is always busy with someone. If not Thufir, then Duncan. If not Duncan, then Leto. Some of these obligations can be paused or put off if Paul needs him, but such detours require explanation. Paul did the wiser thing, in leaving him be.
"Sorry it took so long to join you."
Paul huffs. "How many times do I have to tell you not to apologize for doing your damn job?"
Gurney smiles wider. "Perhaps a few more, m'lord." Then, because he still senses the tense thrum of energy written across Paul's shoulders, he asks, "Do you want to talk about it?"
For an irrational moment, Gurney thinks Paul is going to deflect. Talk about what? It would be a hurtful evasion. And yet surely Paul is entitled to his secrets.
But finally Paul mutters without taking his eyes off the sea, "It's my father. We were discussing tax adjustments, of all things, and he starts waxing poetic about the future of House Atreides."
"Ah," Gurney breathes, beginning to intuit where this is going.
"He thinks I'll marry someday. To form an alliance with one of the other Great Houses, as he never will."
Gurney bites his tongue and does not point out that Paul might marry one day. Even if he refuses to do so while Gurney is alive, even the most stubborn old soldier can't live forever, and Paul is young. He will have a whole life to live once Gurney is gone.
"I wanted to tell him," Paul whispers, a rough rasp of a confession. "God, Gurney, in that moment I was so tempted. I wanted to throw his talk of marriage back in his face and tell him the truth. It kills me that I can't tell anyone who you really are to me."
"I know," Gurney murmurs, and he means it with his entire soul. The same feeling beats ceaselessly in his own stubborn heart.
There is nothing Paul can say to that. They understand each other too perfectly. So he lapses into silence, and Gurney does the same beside him, and they both look out across the flat and disorienting sea.