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Despite the eight years Farad’n has been wearing the Harq al-Ada name, it still catches him off guard to hear the name said with him expected to answer.
“Yes?” Farad’n responds to the simply dressed courier.
“Our Lord requests an audience.”
Our Lord Padishah Emperor Leto Atreides II. Named in memory of his slain grandfather and to honor the original Leto II. Also slain. Farad’n has learned much about his cousin during his time as prisoner/royal scribe. Farad’n follows Leto throughout the day as the Emperor attends meetings and receives guests in his great hall. After all, who knows when the man who would pronounce himself a God will say something worth writing down and preserving for all time.
“Don’t you claim immortality Lord? Why write it down when you’ll be alive to tell it?” Farad’n had said once during his first year as royal scribe. “Why make me do it? Follow you everywhere and keep track of every word and decision?”
Farad’n will never forget when Leto had turned to him and said.
“My words always sound better once they’ve passed through your hands.”
“Where is he?” Farad’n asks the courier.
“He’s in the gallery sir.”
At this Farad’n is surprised. The gallery is simply a holding room for various jewels and treasures gifted to the Emperor. The holdings are impressive in sight but boring in materiality.
Farad’n starts towards the gallery. It had taken a solid year for him to be able to navigate the palace without an attendant.
The gallery is a frequent stop for high ranking visitors but today it is empty. There’s rows of jewels, sculptures, paintings, and intricately embroidered fabric behind protective glass. Like everything in the palace it is meant to intimidate.
Farad’n finds Leto in front of a large painting hanging on the gallery’s white wall. It is a landscape painting of Arrakis hung in a glittering frame. The colors and structure are pleasing but it’s obviously been done by an artist who had never actually visited the planet. The moons and splatter of stars in the night sky are out of place. The color of the sand isn’t quite rich enough to be the grains of Dune.
“Farad’n,” Leto says with a smile upon seeing him.
Now Farad’n is even more intrigued. His official name, the one every person in the system calls him, is Harq al-Ada. There are only a handful of people left who knew him as Farad’n; even fewer who knew him as a would-be ruler in his own right. But even Lady Jessica, who he enjoys a continued correspondence with, toes the official line and addresses her letters to the “The Breaking of the Habit.”
“They said you called for me.” Farad’n says. It’s no use to ask the Emperor directly. Farad’n will just have to play along.
“What do you know about art?”
“It is one of my interests, Lord. I studied it quite extensively on Salusa Secundus. To the dismay of my mother and Tyekanik I will say.”
This amuses Leto who takes something out from inside his robe. “Excellent, tell me what you think of this piece then. Which one do you prefer?”
The smaller artwork shares the same theme of an Arrakis landscape. The drawing is on a fragment of wood; something that might have originally been trash. Instead of paint the artwork is done in shades of charcoal. Despite the lesser quality in supplies and monochrome nature the piece is stunning in its rendering of a moonlight night on Dune.
“They’re done by the same person. The canvas was a gift commissioned by his planet. The sketch was one he did while visiting.” Leto says.
Farad’n gingerly takes the piece from Leto. He’s careful not to smudge or touch any of the charcoal. Their fingers brush in the exchange and Farad’n files away the texture of Leto’s skin: just another detail to add to his chronicling of Lord Leto’s transformation.
“The sketch is far superior.” Farad’n says.
“Tell me why.” Leto commands.
Others would shudder under the intensity of Leto’s words but Farad’n has come to expect, if not outright enjoy, being put under the microscope by one of Leto’s interrogations.
“They both hold beautiful technique but the smaller piece benefits from experience. Instead of imagining what Arrakis looks like, the artist can now work from his own eye instead of his imagination.”
“Do you think his eyesight is the only sensel which has contributed to the increase in quality?”
“Of course not,” Farad’n says. “This piece is a visual medium so by nature the visual is important; however, the knowledge of what the dessert sounds like or the smells of the plaza or the sound of the people, although not directly represented in the artwork, would have contributed to their overall impression of the planet.”
Leto takes the artwork back from Farad’n. Instead of placing it back in his robes the sketch is placed on the gallery wall to be admired by others.
Leto turns to him. “What if I told you I plan on making an art of government?”
“Then I would say you fail to understand both art and government.”
Leto laughs with actual delight. “I told my grandmother that you would understand.”
“You talk of me to Lady Jessica?”
“You are a subject we both consider safe.”
Farad’n tucks that piece of information away as it’s entirely too big to contemplate on its own.
“What do you mean by an art of government? You mean to render your subjects as still lifes?”
“In a way perhaps. As the artist I mean to place humanity in a perfect composition.”
“How do you mean to do that?”
Leto smiles and Farad’n realizes he has asked exactly the right question.
“Did you yourself not say the sketch was superior? That it was the artist's experience on Dune that enhanced the artwork’s quality?”
Farad’n nods.
“That is what I have as a ruler. A perfect storehouse of memories of those who ruled before me. Experience upon experience. From those who were rulers and those who were ruled.”
“And from that your art of government?”
Leto takes the scribe’s hands. “I knew you’d see it.”
Farad’n looks into the Emperor’s eyes. The perfect blue of spice. The perfect blue of a God.
“I know the path is in good hands.” Leto takes back his hands after one soft squeeze in which Farad’n can feel the smoothness of the emperor’s exoskeleton. “I will see you tomorrow Hara al-Ada.”
Farad’n hands ache in their emptiness. He must find a pen.
“I hear the wind blowing across the desert and I see the moons of a winter night rising like great ships in the void. To them I make my vow: I will be resolute and make an art of government; I will balance my inherited past and become a perfect storehouse of my relic memories. And I will be known for kindliness more than for knowledge. My face will shine down the corridors of time for as long as humans exist.” - Leto’s Vow After Harq Al-Ada