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Chapter Text

To Jessica’s surprise, when she goes to rouse Paul she finds him wide awake, sitting up in bed as if he’s been waiting for her.

He watches as her former mentor steps fully into the dim circle of light cast by the nearby glowglobes. To her amazement, Jessica reads not even the barest flicker of confusion in his expression, only a strange sense of… resignation?

She shakes her head. How the night warps one’s perceptions!

“Paul,” she says. “This is—”

“The Reverend Mother Gaius Helen Mohaim,” Paul finishes for her. “Your former teacher and Truthsayer to the Emperor.”

The old woman shoots a piercing look at Jessica, who hardly notices as she gapes open-mouthed at her son.

If the Reverend Mother is otherwise perturbed by his words, she doesn’t show it. She only eyes him, more sharply than Paul remembers her ever doing before. Perhaps she can sense some offness within him.

“I am known to you, boy?”

“Yes,” Paul answers simply.

“Do you know, then, why I have come?”

At these words, Paul sits up straighter. Despite being dressed in only his bedclothes, there is something regal and knowing in his bearing.

“You have come to test me with the Gom Jabbar,” he says with baffling certainty. His voice does not waver, Imperium-perfect and refined in its diction. “You think it a mistake that my mother chose to bear me, a son, and seek to discover if I am indeed human.”

At this, the Reverend Mother finally startles. Her composure breaks into a furious scowl as she rounds on Jessica.

“What have you told your son?” she hisses. “Have you lost all loyalty to our Order? Is it not enough that you instructed him in the Way? You dare greater blasphemy, to reveal our most sacred trial?”

Ashen-faced, Jessica opens her mouth to answer, but Paul cuts her off.

“My mother has told me nothing, Your Reverence,” he says sharply. “I have simply lived this day before. Not as a vision, you understand, but in truth, with my own flesh.”

The Reverend Mother’s face darkens. “Do you seek to protect your mother, boy? By speaking such ridiculous falsehoods?”

“Are you not a Truthsayer?” Paul retorts. “Tell me then, when did I lie?”

The old woman’s nostrils flare. “You may claim something you believe to be true,” she says, her beady eyes assessing. “That does not mean it is consistent with objective fact.”

A knowing expression steals across Paul’s face, far too old for his youthful features.

“Shall I tell you my truth then? Let you measure the weight of my words, Truthsayer to the Emperor himself?”

Despite his challenging manner, the Reverend Mother is intrigued. She considers using the Voice on him, but she experiences an unexpected thrill of doubt, unsure for the first time in an age if it would indeed work on this odd boy-child.

“Speak your truth then,” she says, words bare of any sorcery. “Who are you, strange child of Jessica?”

Paul takes a deep breath, and both Bene Gesserit in the room know that whatever words pass next from his lips will shake their worlds forever.

“I am the Duke Paul of House Atreides, son of Leto and Jessica, rightful ruler of Arrakis. Known once but not yet among the Fremen as Muad’Dib and the Lisan al Gaib.”

The Reverend Mother and Jessica both bristle at his titles, but Paul is not yet finished.

His solemn eyes meet the old woman’s and for a moment they appear an impossible blue, the spice-tinged Eyes of Ibad.

“I am the Kwisatz Haderach.”

“I have passed your tests, Reverend Mother. From the Gom Jabbar to the Water of Life, I am made anew. Time itself is my seeing glass, past and future are as clear to my sight as you, standing before me now.”

The old woman stares at him, a dual sense of elation and terror filling her.

He does not lie.

Here was what ninety generations of crossing bloodlines had brought forth. The purpose of her Order, finally fulfilled.

See what you have wrought, Bene Gesserit, the boy’s bright eyes seem to say as they bear into her own.

“Kull wahad,” she whispers, overcome.

Paul becomes aware of his mother’s own quick, rabbit-like breaths, halting and nervous as she eyes him cautiously from behind the Reverend Mother. He feels a pang of regret for how this knowledge has changed her, both in his lived-past and here, now.

She will always be afraid of me, Paul thinks sadly.

“Do not fear, Mother,” he says softly, knowing it is futile but that the attempt must be made. “I too once feared it, who I am and who I must become.” He can sense his mother’s awed terror like a tangible thing across his skin.

“I have faced my fear,” he continues, quoting the Bene Gesserit litany they were both taught. “I have turned the inner eye to see its path.”

His eyes fall upon the silent Reverend Mother. “Only I remain.”

“Kwisatz Haderach,” the old woman intones raspily. “The Shortening of the Way. The One Who Can Be Many Places at Once.”

Paul nods. “I have bridged time and space to come back. Not a ghola, but fully myself. To lead us into the future, learning from the mistakes of our past.”

The Reverend Mother’s eyes narrow. “The flow of time does not take kindly to meddling.”

“I know, Reverend Mother,” Paul assures her.

His gaze turns sad. “Some things are inevitable. Some events will come to pass regardless of my efforts. They cannot be changed, no matter how much I wish it,” he whispers with painful certainty.

It seems the Reverend Mother, however, is finished with his cryptic half-truths. “How?” she demands. “How did you return?”

Paul hesitates. He knows what the Reverend Mother isn’t saying aloud, but asking all the same: Was it a choice, He-Who-Claims-to-be-the-Kwisatz-Haderach? Are you that powerful — too powerful to let live?

Should he reveal the truth? That he was not sent back of his own accord?

The last thing he remembers is stumbling into his newly liberated chambers in the Arrakeen palace, exhausted and bearing fresh scars from his victory over Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen. A moment of resting his weary eyes later, and his twenty-three year old mind woke up in his eighteen year old body.

Yes, Paul quickly decides. Better for the Reverend Mother to think of him as a simple pawn, his weak, fledgling powers an easy tool to mold and manipulate according to her Order’s will. The Bene Gesserit will not risk alienating him, not while they think they still have the potential to shape him for their purposes. Though Paul refuses to dance to anyone else’s tune a second time around.

He can feel the Reverend Mother’s beady eyes upon him, calculating and wary. “I do not know how or why I was sent back,” he tells her honestly. “Only that I was.”

“But that is not the answer you seek. What you truly wish to know is if I am under your power,” he says, with a mirthless smile. “The Kwisatz Haderach, meant to bring the Bene Gesserit into a new age, and the galaxy along with it.”

In the background, he hears his mother gasp at his boldness, but he has eyes only for the old crone before him.

“And are you?” Are you one we can control?

Paul considers her question seriously. “Perhaps not in the way you imagined it,” he admits. “But I am what your Order made me. Bene Gesserit in blood and breeding, trained in your ways from birth. You are a part of me, and I could no sooner destroy you than destroy myself. I am not your enemy, Reverend Mother Mohiam.”

The shrewd woman can sense the truth in his words, yet she cannot help her touch of uncertainty.

“You speak truth,” she says. It is an unnecessary observation, but she feels the sudden need to reassure herself of it aloud. “Why reveal yourself now?”

A tinge of color rises in Paul’s cheeks, and for a fleeting moment both she and Jessica see the shadow of the boy he could have been, had destiny not derailed his path.

“You would have known of my subterfuge, should I have tried to hide it, Your Reverence,” he says humbly. But Jessica knows her son as a mother does, and can detect a hint of resentment in his tone. She wonders if her old teacher can as well.

The older woman hums, unconvinced. “You say you have been tested by the Gom Jabbar. Surely, if you are who you say, will our instrument not once again prove it?”

This is a test, Paul thinks. Not the poison needle itself, perhaps, but my reaction to it. Does she expect me to react in fear?

But he does not falter. Only the barest flicker of pain-memory passes through his eyes before he nods peaceably.

“As you will, Reverend Mother.”

Silence fills the space then, and though the Reverend Mother’s expression does not betray it, Jessica has the distinct feeling her old mentor has been taken aback by her son’s calm acceptance. She feels her own sense of disturbance grow.

Soon, however, the Reverend Mother regains her composure. “So be it, Kwisatz Haderach,” she hisses, voice deadly soft. Her eyes gleam balefully in the dark.

“Let us see what manner of creature you are.”

~*~

In the sitting room where Jessica has left them, the Reverend Mother taps a metal cube with a thin, wrinkled finger.

“You know what this is.”

She does not voice it as a question. The young heir’s unblinking stare at the box is answer enough, the way he eyes it warily, fingers of his right hand clenched in sense-memory.

“It is pain.” He looks up, something haunted in his expression. “Pain by nerve induction. Not meant to cause permanent bodily harm but… excruciating, nevertheless.”

“Very good,” the Reverend Mother says. “And the Gom Jabbar?”

Paul’s eyes flit to the folds of her cloak, as if aware of where it is concealed. Perhaps he is, she thinks.

“The poison needle. The mere touch of it brings a swift death.” He raises his gaze to meet hers unflinchingly. “You called it ‘the high-handed enemy’ once. You said that unlike other poisons, it kills only animals.” He does not try to hide the disgust in his tone, the Reverend Mother notes.

“Hmm,” is all she says. “Never before has a child tested by the Gom Jabbar had such knowledge of the coming ordeal before its administration. As in other things,” she finishes with some disdain, “you are unique in this.”

Kwisatz Haderach he may claim to be, but the Reverend Mother would evaluate his words for herself. She rages with bitterness against Jessica for daring to bear a son against all sacred prohibition. Such unapologetic betrayal of their shared Sisterhood cut deep.

Paul eyes her knowingly, aware of the reason for her anger, but says nothing. He understands he has yet to prove himself to her, despite the apparent verisimilitude of his prophetic words. And his mother’s actions have and will continue to carry consequences of their own.

“Are you prepared to be tested again by the Gom Jabbar?”

Paul swallows but keeps his chin high. “I will do what I must,” he says clearly.

The Reverend Mother cannot help but be impressed by this boy-child’s determination, despite his full knowledge of the agony to come. She can think of few others who would willingly resubmit themselves to such an ordeal, herself included.

“I have withstood it once before,” Paul says, “and even, through great effort, transformed the Water of Life. Yet, it is weathering visions of both past and future that has proven the greatest test of my resolve.” He allows the observant crone to hear the undertone of pain in his voice. “Some are beautiful, others horrific, but all my visions are terrible in their agonizing uselessness.”

That surprises the old woman. “You think your visions are useless,” she repeats incredulously. “You claim to have the unique honor of being the Kwisatz Haderach, the first in a millennia to be bestowed such a gift of prescience, and yet you dare to say—”

“You mistake my meaning, Your Reverence,” Paul interrupts, his voice hard. “Access to the flow of time means little in itself, unprecedented ‘gift’ though it may seem. For what good is such awareness when it offers little guidance on how to use it wisely? And what good is prophetic knowledge without the will to use it? A will that may yet be wielded to cause great harm, regardless of one’s good intentions?”

This is what he fears, the Reverend Mother realizes. He cannot fear the Gom Jabbar more than he fears himself.

In her heart-hardened breast, she feels an unexpected pang of sympathy for this youth, this son of Jessica’s. He is physically naught but a boy, but he is already old beyond imagining, aged by the horrors of war and omniscience.

Nevertheless, Gaius Helen Mohiam will do what she came to do.

“Will you resubmit to the test of the Gom Jabbar?” she asks again.

Paul lifts his gaze to hers.

“I will.”

And with those words it is as if the prescience of this strange boy-child — the Kwisatz Haderach — sweeps through her.

Like a vision, though clearer than any she has ever experienced, she sees. And suddenly it is more than that: she feels. As if happening to her own body, she is wracked by the flaming agony that once consumed Jessica’s child when he withstood the test. The slow burn quickly grows unbearable, far beyond anything she remembers. She opens her mouth to cry out, but her body has not the strength to spare the breath. Mercifully, the torment ends moments later, and she trembles with relief.

Paul Atreides, she is certain, endured pain the likes of which no child, male or female, brought before the Gom Jabbar ever successfully endured before. She feels the dim echo of her own erstwhile awe and fear at his unparalleled control, the revelation she once had that this young creature before her was not only human, but could indeed be the One.

He terrified her once, the Reverend Mother realizes, as the terrible sense-memory leaves her as suddenly as it came. He still does. This boy, who only watches her, unblinkingly, knowingly, as she catches her breath.

“There need be no retest,” she croaks out. “You are who you say you are,” she acknowledges, thoroughly shaken. And though her word is hardly law amongst her vast sisterhood, she knows her recognition of his role here, now, heralds a coming change that cannot be undone.

The boy appears surprised, but he nevertheless dips his head in respect for her decision.

And though his expression is calm, a testament to his Bene Gesserit breeding and upbringing, there is something wild about his eyes, something as dangerous and unpredictable as the sandstorms of Arrakis that await him.

How can we hope to control this long-awaited One, the Reverend Mother thinks with no little despair. How can we hope to tame the desert itself?

~*~

With her business here concluded, however unsatisfactorily, the Reverend Mother strides briskly down the dark corridors of Castle Caladan toward her waiting ship. Paul Atreides is a silent shadow beside her. She tells herself that she is not running away from him, that she is merely eager to return to the Emperor’s court where she belongs.

“You will wish to keep an eye on me, of course,” Paul says out of nowhere. His voice is even, unconcerned.

The Reverend Mother inclines her covered head. “While your mother is one of us, the remarkable product of a long line of Bene Gesserit breeding, she is still your mother.”

Paul hears her unspoken implication. “You cannot trust her to watch me, because you cannot be certain of her motives,” he says. “After all, she defied your order to bear a daughter, and trained a son in open opposition of your ways.” He says this calmly, with none of the outrage or protectiveness the Reverend Mother would have expected for one his age.

He hums then, and looks her directly in the eyes. “So what will you do now, Gaius Helen Mohiam?”

It is the first time he has addressed her so, without the assumed formality of her title, yet strangely she finds herself feeling no less respected by the lack of it.

As she meets his unfathomable gaze, she understands. He does not address her as a Reverend Mother. The Kwisatz Haderach asks her not as a spokesperson of her order, but her the individual, Gaius Helen Mohiam, what course she will take.

What will I do, indeed, she wonders, now that the Kwisatz Haderach has revealed himself? I exist to serve. Choice has never been the Bene Gesserit way. She says as much.

Paul nods, his bearing weary. “Nor mine. There is but one way forward for me, and I cannot escape its path.”

Without warning, he stops walking, causing her to halt as well. “I would not have us be enemies,” he says. “That is a choice I yet have some power over. I would ask the same of you.”

The Reverend Mother scowls. “Do not presume to order me. I am not your mother, boy. I hold no loyalty to you but what my Order asks of me.”

“And what does your Order ask of you?” Paul volleys back. “Control over the Kwisatz Haderach? Perhaps. But the survival of the Bene Gesserit comes before all else, does it not?”

The old woman feels a chill go through her at his words.

“I will be what I will be,” he continues ominously. “But I would not have it come at the cost of the Sisterhood’s, my mother’s people from which my own bloodline comes. Yet that is what will happen, Reverend Mother, if you choose to work against me with your private schemes. The destruction of your Order, your ways, thousands of years and nearly a hundred generations of history and purpose. Your Sisterhood torn to shreds from within, all without me raising a hand against you.”

“No—”

“That is the future I have seen for you, Gaius Helen Mohiam, if you choose to rally against me,” he says, his eyes clear and inescapable.

“You would gain allies, but not enough to sway those who will accept my place in your prophecy. You will rend your Order apart, simply because your fear would not allow you to abide the reality of my existence. Sister pitted against sister, until none remain. You will live only long enough to see the end of the Bene Gesserit, an end you yourself set into motion. You will be the last Reverend Mother of the Great Sisterhood.”

“You lie,” she breathes in mounting horror, even as her truthsense tells her he does not. In her mind’s eye, she can imagine that path laid out before her, the way she would use her position as the Emperor’s Truthsayer to her own advantage. To plant doubts, to whisper plots into being, all to undermine him. And in the end, if this boy is to be believed, all for nothing.

She feels helpless in a way she never has before. And for a mad moment, she feels an animal yearning to rip apart this fell creature standing before her, to claw him to shreds until nothing of his terrifying strangeness remains.

The urge abandons her, and with it, her hard-won certainty over her many years of service to the Bene Gesserit.

“What then must I do,” she asks with a hint of real desperation, “if the future is as you say.”

Paul’s gaze softens slightly. “I understand you fear what may come. So too do I dread the day of Arrakis’ Awakening. I dread the day my name gains enough power to incite a crusade of unimaginable devastation. All throughout the galaxy, the blood of billions on my hands.”

“Is all your talk of peace between us mere platitudes, then?” she spits. “Are we destined to be enemies, and my Sisterhood destined to fall?”

“No,” Paul says. “I must believe I have returned to this moment, of our meeting, for a reason. To gain your understanding, to share with you my vision, so that you may choose differently if you are so moved.”

His tone grows hard. “Make no mistake. My ascension will be. Fate will have its way. Your Missionaria Protectiva has seen to that,” he says with no little amount of resentment. “But you can choose if this time, when the moment arrives, you will lead your Order to stand behind me, or defy me and fall.”

“I am but one person, one Reverend Mother among many, one sister among thousands,” she warns, but Paul shakes his head.

“You are Truthsayer to the Padishah Emperor himself. I am aware of the possibilities your position presents, as are you. You have an important part to play in the empire we will build together, Gaius Helen Mohiam.”

Her Bene Gesserit-trained awareness catches on his word choice. “We,” she repeats dubiously.

“When the time of my ascension comes, I would have your counsel.”

“What need has the Kwisatz Haderach for a truthsayer,” she retorts. “If it is a Bene Gesserit advisor you seek, would you spurn your own mother so?” Truly, she retains no great love for Jessica, but it would be cruel of the boy to repudiate his own blood.

“My mother has her own great destiny to fulfill, but ultimately, it will not be by my side.” His firm tone implies that is all he will reveal of the matter; the old woman scowls, but does not question him further.

They walk the remaining distance to Castle Caladan’s doors in silence. Beyond it, the Reverend Mother’s ship awaits.

“Very well,” the Bene Gesserit says as they come to a stop at the front doors. “I will think on what you have said.” She pauses. “Kwisatz Haderach.”

Unlike before, there is no mocking undertone in her recitation of his title, only solemn acknowledgement. Paul understands it for the show of respect that it is.

He bows deeply in response. “Reverend Mother Mohiam. The Great Mother keep you and guide you in the days to come.”

She nods stiffly and turns to leave, before glancing back.

“Be careful you do not overreach in your corrections,” she cautions. “Fate may have gifted you an opportunity, but changing the future will have consequences even you cannot foresee.”

And with that final warning, she casts him one last lingering look before departing the castle in a flurry of robes, as suddenly as she came.

~*~

By the sitting room where she waits, Jessica paces. Ever since the Reverend Mother bade her leave to speak with Paul alone, she has grown restless with anxiety even her training cannot overcome.

At last, her son emerges from the shadows of the hallway, and she releases a breath she did not realize she had been holding. He reaches her side just as the harsh whine of a ship signals its take-off. Together they listen as it departs, the Reverend Mother, along with her entourage, leaving for the emperor’s court on Kaitain.

As they proceed back through the castle, Paul falls into step beside his mother effortlessly, as if they have been walking side by side as equals for years.

Who knows, Jessica thinks uneasily, perhaps they have. “You appear to have pleased the Reverend Mother,” she begins.

Her son says nothing in response, simply glances over at her questioningly. His smooth lope betrays none of the pain he surely must have felt when tested with the Gom Jabbar.

“The… test,” Jessica goes on. “Do you require medical attention?”

Aware though she is that the cursed box brings only temporary pain, she cannot stifle her motherly instinct to ascertain Paul does not still suffer. A futile and belated effort at comfort, perhaps.

But Paul is frowning. “The Reverend Mother did indeed test me with the Gom Jabbar,” he tells her, “but not this night.” His diction is still formal, as court-appropriate as when he spoke to the Reverend Mother.

“You convinced her not to test you?” Jessica asks in amazement.

“Not quite. She convinced herself,” Paul answers cryptically. He does not volunteer any more details of his conversation with her old mentor, and Jessica does not inquire further. She simply observes him, looking for clues in his bearing, but to her frustration his body language is unfamiliar and nigh unreadable.

As they continue down the castle’s corridors, Paul’s gaze wanders sideways to catch hers.

If Paul had not told her of his journey through time, she might not understand what she is now seeing. But there is something different about the way he looks at her.

He has always respected and resented her training in equal measure, she knows. But there is something more distant in his current look, his eyes no longer filled with the trust of a hopeful, young boy. They are wary and watchful, even as he smiles hesitantly, as if he is no longer certain of his welcome with her… as if doubtful of his mother’s affection for him.

Sorrow runs through her at the sight, and she realizes she cannot deny her own fears for him. Her fear of him.

Is my son truly lost to me?

As if he has heard her thought, Paul’s smile gains a bitter edge. He stops then, having arrived at the doors of his chambers. Rather than speaking her customary “good night”, Jessica hesitates. Too many questions run rampant through her mind, questions to which she dreads to hear Paul’s answer. No, not Paul’s. The Kwisatz Haderach’s, the One Who Sees All.

This is my son! she chastises herself. I need not hesitate so.

Paul remains silent, waiting for her to gather herself together. Other mothers might be pleased by this mark of maturity, but to Jessica it is only another sign of the stranger he now is to her, not as quick to the Atreides temper as he has been in all the years she has known him.

Finally, a query makes itself known in her thoughts, and she knows what she wants to ask.

The Duke Paul of House Atreides, she remembers him saying.

“Your father… he is dead then? When you came from?” Her voice trembles but she braces herself for the answer.

Paul’s expression twists. “He is.”

There is something so sad, so final in his tone. Jessica knows then, without asking, that even now with Paul’s forewarned knowledge… there is no saving Leto.

She turns away, choking on a cry.

Paul says nothing, even as he yearns to comfort her. There are no right words to offer.

Jessica looks back at him, and for a brief moment, taking in his solemn gaze, she hates him. How can he be so calm, so unmoved by the death — no, she knows, the murder — of his father soon to come?

Then her sense returns to her and she sobs again, ashamed of the direction of her thoughts.

Hesitantly, Paul’s thin arms come up to wrap around her.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers wetly over her shoulder. He sounds for the first time that night like the youth he is, yet far more broken then she has ever heard him.

“I’ve tried and tried to see another way, but the roots of treachery run deep.” He exhales shakily. “If only I could’ve been sent back sooner, changed things earlier maybe… but it’s too late now. Arrakis will be his end.”

Will Leto suffer? Jessica dares not ask. “Do you truly not know?” she says instead. “How you returned?”

Sighing, Paul pulls away from her embrace. “I don’t. For all my Sight, there are things even I cannot know. Especially about my own fate. Still,” he continues with a bittersweet smile, “I have a feeling my sister may have been behind it, somehow.”

His eyes flicker down to her abdomen before meeting her startled gaze. “I look forward to meeting her soon.”

“You — how —”

While shocked by the revelation of her closely guarded secret, Jessica still beams at the knowledge that her child, her precious daughter not-yet-born will survive whatever trials await them in the desert. A part of my beloved Leto will live on yet. In our son… and in our daughter.

“Goodnight, Mother,” Paul says quietly. He enters his bedroom, leaving her to her uncertain joy.

When Jessica finally arrives at her own chambers, she slips carefully beneath the bedsheets, and clasps her slumbering duke fiercely to her breast. Tears course down her cheeks as she melds herself to his familiar form, so warm and so alive against her. Still, Leto Atreides sleeps on, not entirely ignorant, but unaware of the dangers to come.

Chapter Text

Upon waking the next morning, Paul is struck by a relentless sense of urgency. Staring up at the rough-hewn ceiling of his childhood bedroom, he attempts to calm the frantic beating of his heart. But he is all too aware of the lurking dangers in the days ahead.

If only I had more time…

But the world will not wait, not even for the Kwisatz Haderach.

The sight of his carefully laid out training uniform reminds him he is due to spar with Gurney soon. But Paul finds himself uneasy at the prospect, more so than he was about meeting the Reverend Mother, who is, by all accounts, a far more formidable foe.

Because Gurney knows him. He’s been a part of Paul’s life since infancy. Paul knows his expanded prescience and lived experience will be immediately apparent to his mentor, no matter how he attempts to hide it. Gurney is far too familiar with his body language, having had a hand in training him into the warrior he is.

What is more, he will catch Paul’s inexplicable shift in fighting technique. Gurney need only take in the wary set of Paul’s body, ever-watchful from his time in the desert with only a knife and his own wits to defend himself. Or to see how Paul carries his Caladan blade awkwardly now, unaccustomed to its weight after the lightness of his favored crysknife. The way his strikes are a little too fast, having lost his shield-fighter’s timing after years of fighting the Fremen way.

And so, Paul makes his excuses to the Atreides’ warmaster through a message to a passing servant, and goes to find his father instead.

Though he knows his father already plans to seek him out later today, Paul finds himself unable to wait that long. He is too desperate to see his father alive and well.

Predictably, when he finally locates Leto Atreides, the duke is knee-deep in preparations for the move to Arrakis, having nary a waking moment to spare these days. Paul’s breath catches audibly at the sight of him, and Leto, now wise to his arrival, nods in welcome.

At Paul’s tentative query, Leto immediately makes his excuses to Thufir Hawat and gestures his son out the door with a tired smile. He says nothing of the countless decisions that still require his input before their imminent departure. Perhaps he too senses their time together is all too short.

They walk in silence beyond Castle Caladan’s walls toward the freedom of the open cliffs. Paul, despite having braced himself to face his father, somehow feels caught off guard by the physical proof of Leto’s vitality.

“You’re awfully quiet, Paul.” Leto’s tone is light enough to be joking, but Paul’s well-attuned ear detects a hint of worry. “Does something trouble you?”

“Oh – I...” Paul hesitates. He has so much he wants — no, needs to say — but he hardly knows where to begin.

“I met with the Reverend Mother Mohiam last night,” he ventures.

The duke’s brow creases minutely at her mention. “So I have been made aware.”

When Paul does not elaborate but his pace quickens, Leto stills him with a hand to his shoulder. “Did she say something to frighten you?”

“Not exactly. But we spoke of the future. Of the dangers that lie ahead. I—” He pauses. To what extent is it wise to confide in his father? Is it cruel to warn him of his impending death when his fate is already sealed? Or is it more cruel not to?

“You know I’ve been gifted with abilities,” he settles upon saying. “Beyond my skills in Mentat training.” Leto’s eyes go wide.

There has always been an unspoken understanding in their household that they do not discuss Paul’s Bene Gesserit-inherited potential. As much as Leto loves his wife and son, their Otherness unnerves him. For his comfort as much as theirs, Paul and Jessica do not broadcast their abilities overmuch in his presence.

But Paul has no choice now. Even if it is for nought, he cannot let his father go to his doom with this secret between them, heavy on his conscience. He will never forgive himself if he keeps silent.

“You already know Mother has trained me in her ways. But I’ve always been different.”

“Because you’re my son?” Not a daughter?

His father is not wrong, but —

“It’s more than that. I have an awareness of things yet to unfold. It's a unique skill, powerful even by Bene Gesserit standards. And now it has awakened.”

Leto inhales sharply. “You’re saying you can see the future?”

“In part, yes.” Paul falls silent, fingers twisting nervously as he watches his father process this with a thoughtful frown.

“You’ve always been special,” Leto says at last. “I’ve known since you were a little boy that you’re as sharp as a kindjal, Paul.” He smiles ever-so-slightly, but Paul’s nerves are too high-strung to manage a smile back.

“When it comes to your Bene Gesserit heritage… I cannot claim to understand. But—” Leto catches Paul’s downturned gaze— “you are my son,” he says firmly. “An Atreides of my blood. Whatever else you may be, that will not change… nor will my love for you.”

And Paul, for all that he has never truly doubted his father’s regard, cannot help the overwhelming, boneless relief that suffuses him. In his previous life, he had never dared this conversation, always too wary, too afraid to lay himself and his abilities bare to his father’s judgment.

But this, now? This is a catharsis. Baptized anew in his father’s love, before the waters of Caladan’s great seas, Paul feels a weight lift from his soul.

“I love you too,” he hears himself say, thickly. “Whatever fate awaits us on Arrakis… I want you to know, nothing will ever make me forget my love for you. Even if –” His voice breaks.

He cannot bring himself to speak the words. To make that future real.

Despite his best efforts to keep them at bay, tears slip down his cheeks. Giving water to the dead. To the Fremen, it is the ultimate sign of respect and honor, to sacrifice one’s life-sustaining fluid to one who no longer has need of it. As Leto soon no longer will. But Paul, who has shed both too many tears for his father, yet not nearly as many as he deserves, weeps.

Distantly, he senses his father’s alarm at his unexpected outpouring of emotion, of long-forgotten grief newly awakened with the knowledge his father is here and alive, yet not for much longer.

“Paul,” his father whispers, stricken. He gently wipes the tears from Paul’s cheek, cradling it like he holds something precious, still breakable, for all of Paul’s contained power.

With effort, Paul meets Leto’s gaze through his tear-blurred vision, and is startled to see his father weeping silently in turn. His dark eyes reflect Paul’s own despair, and Paul knows his father understands what he has not revealed aloud, what he has Seen: Leto Atreides will die on Arrakis.

“I’m sorry,” Leto whispers, voice heavy with guilt. “For whatever is yet to come… How I wish we had any other choice but to leave Caladan.”

But the cards have already been dealt, from the Golden Lion Throne itself. All they can do now is play their hand as best as they can.

“I must know,” Leto says, tone taut with tension. His expression is like that of one steeling himself for a blow. “You and your mother… Have you Seen if you will…?”

“We will live, Father,” Paul assures him swiftly. “We will be well.” He hesitates, then elaborates: “When the time comes, the Fremen will welcome us as their own.”

His father smiles, but there is something immeasurably sad in it. “Then the Great Mother has heard my prayers. Your safety is all I can ask for.” He laughs tearfully. “The knowledge that you will survive, and gods willing, thrive one day… my soul can be at peace.”

Oh, Father… did you once go to your death convinced we had joined you in it? Heart heavy with sorrow, Paul dares not consult the stream of time for answers. Some things are better left unknown.

“Let us speak of happier things,” his father murmurs. “Tell me about your future with the Fremen. Is there someone special who awaits?” Leto teases, with only a hint of melancholy.

Paul blushes. He thinks of Chani, of her mesmerizing elfin features, of her otherworldly all-blue eyes. He thinks of her and wonders if things will be the same this time around. Will he still be her little desert-mouse? Will she love him just the same? Will he still feel that way for her, or will she be like a stranger when they meet again?

“There may be someone,” Paul hedges. “She’s remarkable. I can’t be certain how it will come to pass, but I know she will be important to me.”

Leto’s smile widens, turns more genuine.

“Tell me about her.”

~*~

In the days of their whirlwind preparations to leave Caladan, Paul finds himself utterly conflicted about what to do about Wellington Yueh.

The Suk doctor is unmistakably the lynchpin in House Atreides’ downfall, his treachery thought so implausible that no one ever saw it coming.

Bitter rage sparks through Paul. It was by Yueh’s own hand that my father was delivered to the enemy, into the jaws of certain death.

But what good is his anger? That part of the future has already been set in motion. Even if Paul reveals Yueh’s betrayal now, the Harkonnens will still come and take the planet, bolstered by the emperor’s Sardaukar. Warning his father will only prompt the duke to bring more soldiers to Arrakis and yet still not enough. It will just mean more of their people will be struck down when the storm hits.

Not for the first time, Paul curses that his Sight grants him so little clarity. What good is being sent back when I cannot change even this?

The void has no answers for him.

All at once, he finds his expansive bedroom too suffocating, and leaps to his feet. The hallways outside bustle with activity, but for once no one pays the ducal heir any mind, too caught up in leaving preparations.

He finds himself drifting through the castle without any particular destination in mind, letting his feet take him where they will. Knowing this might be his last chance in a long time to see his home in all its glory, Paul does his best to imprint the castle’s features into his memory — the solid feel of the ancient flagstones beneath his feet, the worn smoothness of the carved gates under his palm, the smell of salty sea air around him. He takes it all in with a sense of distant nostalgia, and wonders when he became a stranger in his own home, more at ease in the dust-filled sietches of Arrakis than on the lush grounds of his childhood.

“Paul, my boy!” a sudden call interrupts his melancholy thoughts.

Paul spins around, gasping as he catches sight of a wildly-grinning Duncan Idaho.

Running up to catch him in a fierce hug, Duncan swings him around with a wordless yell, and Paul cannot help but laugh in delight.

“I’ve missed you, Duncan,” he says once he catches his breath, beaming joyously. It is the first true moment of happiness he has felt, he realizes, since returning to this time.

“As have I, little duke,” Duncan replies. He gives Paul one last friendly slap on the back as they disengage. “As have I.”

Paul eagerly drinks in the sight of him, healthy and whole. Duncan will not die, not again. No, this time, let the Sardaukar taste my steel, for daring to take him from me.

“What is it?” Duncan’s expression grows serious, perhaps sensing Paul’s return to a more sober mood.

“There’s just so much on my mind,” Paul confides. “Going to Arrakis… everything’s going to change.”

“It will,” Duncan agrees, in that blunt way of his. He has never been one to sugarcoat anything. “But that doesn’t have to be a bad thing. It doesn’t mean you have to change with it.”

“But I must,” Paul counters immediately, urgently. “We must. If we are to survive.”

Duncan’s dark eyes scrutinize him. “You’ve thought a lot about this.”

Paul cannot prevent the bitter laugh that escapes him. “You don’t know the half of it.”

“Try me.”

And with that open invitation, Paul cannot help the way his words come tumbling out. All he has held back now pours through the floodgates of his normally steel-tight control.

He doesn’t tell Duncan everything, of course. He discloses the time travel but glosses over the details of his former life, smoothly omitting Yueh’s role in the taking of Arrakeen. But he says enough to begin to drain the grief that’s been festering inside since finding himself in this time, with loss so imminent once more.

Duncan, to his credit, does not interrupt Paul’s tale, not even at the mention of his own death.

“Oh, my boy,” he murmurs when Paul finally pauses to take a bracing breath. “I’m so sorry for all you've lived through.” Reaching out, he enfolds Paul in his arms, his scarred warrior’s hands so painfully gentle. Paul curls into the offered comfort, feeling every bit the youth he still is in this current body, if not in mind and soul.

“I’m lost, Duncan,” he whispers. “It’s been so long since all this happened the first time, and yet now, living it again… I feel as though I’m walking through a graveyard. Seeing everyone alive again… it’s wonderful but cruel, because I know what’s coming.”

“I imagine that must be its own kind of torture. Having that kind of foresight… it’s a burden I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy, let alone you.”

Paul laughs humorlessly. “Do you know, you’re the first person to say that to me? Most think of my Sight as some holy gift. The Fremen style me as a long-awaited messiah, meant to lead them into paradise. Even the Bene Gesserit, for all they fear me, covet what I can do.” He sighs. “No one should have this kind of power.”

“You’re right." Paul flinches. “You shouldn’t have this kind of power. But not because it makes you a threat. But because it’s too heavy a burden for one person to carry alone.”

“I must. Why else have I been sent back? I have to be strong enough to bear it.”

“Not alone. Not anymore. You may have no choice but to walk this path set before you. But I swear,” Duncan says solemnly, “I will help you see it through. Whether by my sword or by my counsel, with my life or with my death.”

“No!” Paul cries, twisting away to stare at him with wild eyes. “That’s the last thing I want! You are not allowed to die on me again! I–” His voice breaks. “I can’t lose anyone else, Duncan. My father will be gone soon, and you – I need you by my side,” he begs. “I don’t think I can face all this a second time without you.”

And Duncan, taking in the naked desperation on his face, understands.

Paul had no one last time.

His mother was, perhaps, some comfort by his side through those trials. But Duncan knows all too well how cold and distant Lady Jessica can be with her son, despite her love for him. And losing the duke… who knows how her grief might have transformed her, turned her more into a stranger than the mother Paul needed.

“I wish I could promise you,” Duncan says tiredly. “I wish I could say I won’t ever leave you. But I’m sworn to your father, gods protect him. And one day… to you. If it’s a choice between my life and yours, you know what I must choose.”

Paul’s grip on him loosens and pulls away. “So it’s duty then,” Paul says, voice hollow. “You’re duty-bound to preserve my life, even if I command you to save your own?”

Despite the serious nature of the question, Duncan can’t help but laugh in disbelief. “No, my boy, it’s not duty that compels me. It never is with you.” He shakes his head. “What I can promise is that I’ll do my best to stay alive. Can’t exactly trust you to get out of scrapes all on your own yet, right?” he jokes.

Paul’s answering smile is tentative and all too brittle, but it’s there.

“I won’t let it happen again this time, Duncan,” he vows fiercely. “I will save you.”

And Duncan, despite everything, believes him.

Some time later, they make their way down to the duchy’s private beach. After some half-hearted complaining about the cold, Duncan allows himself to be talked into taking his boots off and wading into the chilly shallows.

It’s worth it to hear Paul’s laughter, to see the shadows fade from his eyes.

They're resting atop the boulders by the shoreline now, as Duncan regales Paul with some of his more outlandish anecdotes. And Paul, despite easily seeing through Duncan’s attempts to take his mind off heavier matters, is moved by his friend’s efforts.

He’d forgotten how much he’d missed Duncan’s ridiculous stories, how much he’d missed rare lazy days like this one, granted a temporary reprieve from their respective responsibilities, when they could simply enjoy each other’s company. It was only later in his first life, looking back all too late, that Paul realized it was these quiet moments that were the most precious. It was these small moments that stuck with him in his all-too human, fallible memory, that not even his powers could properly preserve.

“Gurney tells me you’ve been skipping sword lessons,” Duncan says suddenly. “I think the old man’s starting to take it personally, little duke.” He nudges Paul’s side playfully, which the latter responds to with a decidedly un-dukelike eye roll.

“I don’t want to avoid him, exactly. But he’ll know something’s changed as soon as we spar,” Paul explains glumly. “I don’t fight like I used to.”

“Better, you mean?”

“No – well, yes. But mostly different. I had to learn how to fight longer and smarter. To fight dirty. Water-plump shield-users don’t live long on Arrakis.”

Duncan raises an eyebrow at his strange word choice but doesn’t comment on it. “Survival,” he says instead, knowingly.

Paul nods. Together, they watch the last rays of sun dip below the horizon, refracting into brilliant sparkles of light against the ocean’s glassy surface.

“So you’ll find the Fremen then. Good.”

Paul smiles. “You’ll meet them before I do. I know my father’s sending you to Arrakis on a scouting mission tomorrow.” He hesitates. “Kynes and Stilgar. Look out for them. They’re good people. Fair. Loyal, once you gain their trust.”

“Trying to pawn me off to some new friends now, oh wise oracle?”

“Never.” Paul’s tone is joking, but he knows Duncan will be able to tell he means it. No one could ever replace Duncan’s place in his life. No one had ever come close, even in the years after his friend’s death.

“These people the ones who’ll teach you to fight so well?”

“No, that was always you, Duncan,” Paul says softly. “I wouldn’t have lasted a day in Sietch Tabr without your training.”

Duncan scoffs but Paul knows he’s pleased. “Still, I’ll believe it when I see it,” Duncan teases. “There’s no way you could ever beat me, even with all your special desert training.”

“Oh!” Paul laughs. “That sounds like a challenge, Swordmaster!”

“You bet your ass it is. Find us a training salle and we can test it.”

He’s only half-joking. Far be it for him to doubt the fighting skills that he’s taught Paul himself. But with Paul skipping sword lessons and apparently used to a different style of fighting in a body without the accompanying muscle memory… Duncan worries.

“I have a better idea,” Paul says, eyeing their surroundings for a moment. “We’d both best get used to fighting on sand while we can, and – well, there’s enough space here, don’t you think?” He gestures to the beach around them.

Duncan looks the site over with a fighter’s expert eye. “It’ll do,” he concedes. “Grab your shield and training blades and we can meet back here after dinner.”

But Paul is already shaking his head before Duncan’s finished speaking. “No shields,” he says.

“No shie–,” Duncan sputters. “What, are you crazy? Do you want your father to execute me for skewering his heir?”

Paul levels him with an unimpressed look. “It’s not like we’d be using live steel.”

“Still dangerous enough to seriously injure each other!”

“You can’t rely on shields in the desert!” Paul’s yell echoes in the open air, scaring off a nearby flock of gulls. A vivid memory assaults him, of Duncan lying bloody and motionless among fallen Sardaukar, his once bright eyes empty and dull. Paul takes a deep breath to center himself under Duncan’s suddenly probing gaze.

“Yes, you can use a shield while fighting behind Arakeen’s shield wall, but out in the open desert, it’s a death sentence. Worms will go into a killing frenzy if they sense one, and–” Paul slides his trembling fingers into Duncan’s grasp. “You need to get used to fighting without it. If you want to survive.”

Unsaid goes his desperate assumption that Duncan will live long enough to put the Fremen’s desert-fighting ways into practice.

“All right,” Duncan says quietly after a moment. “Sparring without shields it is. But we’ll take precautions. I won’t risk your safety more than I need to.”

Paul squeezes his palm gently. “I’m always safe when I’m with you.”

They meet on the beach later that evening, industrial-grade glowglobes illuminating a wide swathe of their chosen sparring grounds.

They fight. Paul wins. Only a couple rounds, but that’s still two more than he ever has against Duncan.

Neither of them is sure who is more shocked at the outcome.

~*~

On the day before their household’s departure, Leto seeks out Paul.

So engrossed in reading about Imperium politics – he would not be caught unawares again – Paul startles when his father knocks on his open door, dropping the filmbook in his lap.

Leto cannot help his bittersweet smile at the sight, remembering many an afternoon he’d come looking for his son, only to find Paul thoroughly distracted, nose buried in a book.

“Father?”

Leto blinks, coming back to himself. Good memories are all we have now. So let us make one last one.

“If you’re not too occupied, I thought we could spend the day together. Just me, you, and your mother.”

“Oh… I thought you had a council meeting to attend?”

“Not anymore,” Leto dismisses. His advisors had been shocked this morning when he abruptly announced he was canceling it. They had protested, saying it was critical they discuss the advance party’s latest reports on Arrakeen, but Leto had put his foot down. Nothing, not even duty, will prevent him from spending time with the ones he loves today.

The way Paul eyes him makes Leto think his son is aware of the direction of his thoughts. It’s a mirror image of the penetrating stare that often graces Jessica’s expression when she knows he’s hiding something.

“I’ll go get Mother,” Paul says quietly, slipping from his seat.

“No, wait –” Leto holds him back with a gentle hand. “Let’s prepare a surprise for her, shall we?”

Paul tilts his head in question.

“Think you can distract your mother long enough for me to have the kitchens put together a picnic basket?”

He smiles as his son’s eyes light up in excitement.

“Don’t forget to include a blanket,” Paul reminds him mock-seriously. “You know how Mother hates to sit on wet grass.”

“Oh, so she’s told me many times.”

“Also, if you plan to get paradan melon–”

“Make sure it’s the orange kind, not the green one, I know,” Leto finishes with a laugh at Paul’s hopeful expression.

It gladdens him to see a piece of the boy he knows and loves is still in there, still untouched by the horrors of his visions. On impulse, Leto steps forward to hug his son, ignoring Paul’s slight stiffening of surprise and the hesitant way Paul’s thin arms come up to wrap around him.

Leto’s own father, that stern old bullfighter, had rarely initiated such casual affection, and Leto knows he’s followed in his father’s footsteps. He’d never questioned it before, and yet…

If only we had done this more, when we had the time, Leto thinks, holding his son close. He cannot know that Paul’s thoughts echo his exactly.

Jessica is, indeed, surprised by their picnic plans – and even happier they thought to bring a blanket.

It is the perfect day for an outing, by Caladan standards. The weather is brisk, but not overly chilly. The sea breeze whips merrily through the air, but heralds no real danger of a storm.

Morning turns to afternoon against a backdrop of pleasant laughter and satisfied stomachs, only the crashing waves and the shining sun paying witness to the family’s joy. In these moments, they are not members of a noble house weighed down by the expectations of their stations, but nothing more than a father, a mother, and a son, enjoying a beautiful day outside.

Leto can hardly remember the last time he felt such happiness.

Paul is giggling openly where he lays sprawled across their picnic blanket, gangly limbs akimbo. He stretches out dramatically, forcing Jessica to squish herself into a corner of the blanket or risk falling onto damp grass. Her bronze locks gleam like amber in the sunlight, tumbling wildly around her oval face as she throws her head back, laughing at their son’s theatrics.

I should have married you long ago, Leto thinks, enraptured by the sight.

It is only when silence suddenly falls, two identical pairs of wide green eyes staring back at him, that he realizes he has spoken aloud.

“It’s true,” Leto says emphatically. And it is.

He wonders if he should hold his tongue. The last thing he wants to do is to mar their otherwise idyllic day.

“You know why you could not,” Jessica says carefully, mirth fully faded from her face. Leto aches to see it gone. “I understood, and I have accepted it.”

As always, her tone is eminently reasonable, but Leto does not miss the brief flash of sadness in her eyes.

That is what decides it for him.

“Marry me,” he says.

“What – Leto – ”

“Why can’t we?” he bursts out, feeling that famous Atreides temper flare to life within him. “Why can’t we have this – this one thing, just for ourselves?”

“You know the Great Houses –”

“Damn the Great Houses, and damn the Imperium too!” Leto cries. “What do they know about our love!”

He thinks of all the doubts he has kept to himself for years, all the sleepless nights he has tossed and turned with unease at his decision, trying to convince himself he was doing the right thing for his House’s future, despite how the sentiment rang hollow.

He closes his eyes as all-too-familiar regret rises up, but it is too late to change the past now. All he can do is choose differently in the time that remains to him.

What do the politics of the Imperium matter anyway? Leto will be gone soon enough, he knows, with all hope for House Atreides resting on the shoulders of his too-young son. At least he can make this one thing right, do right by she who is his wife in all but name, the love of his life.

“Marry me, Jessica.”

She stares at him, mouth parted, lovely eyes wide.

His words might have come as a surprise to her, if not himself, but they are no less sincerely meant. He wants to marry her. In this moment, he cannot imagine wanting to do anything more than finally make her his wife. To bind himself to her and her to him, in this way, for all the short time remaining to them.

“Please say yes. If… if you can forgive me for making you wait, my love. I should have asked you long ago.”

“All right,” Jessica replies after a long moment. “I’ll marry you, Leto Atreides.” Her eyes are wet but glow with newly awakened hope. She has never looked more beautiful.

Leto cannot help but lean over to kiss that perfect smile off her face. She melts into the contact, and he can almost taste her joy against his lips.

“Ugh,” comes a long-suffering groan beside them, and they break apart, suddenly remembering they are not alone. Paul levels them with a glare, but the upturned corners of his mouth betray his happiness.

“Ah –” Leto recalls suddenly. “There’s something I have – something I need to give you –” He struggles to remember just where he left –

A pale hand enters his field of vision, and both he and Jessica stare at the small, velvet-covered box in Paul’s palm.

“Where –? How did you –”

“I had a feeling you might need it today,” Paul tells him with a knowing smirk. “It was in the upper drawer of the desk in your office.”

Leto stares. That drawer is always locked, and Leto himself carries the key on his person at all times. He decides not to ask how Paul got into it. Great Mother, he doesn’t want to know why and when his son picked up lockpicking among his many skills.

Taking the box, he opens it as he lowers himself to one knee. Jessica gasps at its contents.

“Is that – surely that is not –?”

“It is.”

She meets Leto’s gaze, eyes wide with disbelief, but her shock is merited. The Hagal mines dried up over a century ago, and each gemstone from its once plentiful depths is now worth more than hundred times its weight in gold.

“I searched for years until I found one that reminded me of you.” It is apparent what Leto means: the emerald is an exact match for the stunning shade of Jessica’s eyes, an almost otherworldly, rich, forest green. Leto brushes a gentle kiss to the top of her knuckles. “It is no less than you deserve.”

Jessica’s gaze is wondering as she watches Leto slide the ring reverently onto the fourth finger of her left hand.

True, it is no Atreides heirloom, passed down from previous generations of wives brought into the family. And yet, Jessica knows it is far more personal, far more precious, beyond its not inconsiderable net worth. It is a declaration of what she means to Leto, of the depth of his love for her: she is more than another trophy to be worn by the Atreides bloodline.

Smiling tearfully, Leto gathers her and Paul into a tight embrace. “Today,” he breathes, “I am the happiest man alive.”

There is no small amount of sorrow hidden in his words, all persons present being aware of the impending fate that awaits their family.

But in this moment, there is no room for sadness. Only perfect, overwhelming joy.

Chapter Text

In the private suite of a Guild heighliner slowly but surely making its way to Arrakis, Paul silently observes his parents.

He cannot make out their murmured words from where they sit across the room. But he can see the way they lean into each other as they converse quietly, the looks on their faces achingly tender, the love all but glowing in their eyes. The sight is gladdening, albeit bittersweet; Paul knows that with his parents’ marriage their happiness is complete, but temporary.

A sobering future looms, and there is still much to be done when they reach Arrakis. Paul thinks of the letter that was handed to him when they boarded the heighliner, addressed without a distinguishing seal or the sender’s name.

To The One Who Sees All, the coded missive began. The script was strange, an unusual mismatch of Chakobsa and lost tongues, kept alive only in the memory of Bene Gesserit adepts who were still taught them.

I would advise you to make the acquaintance of the Historian. I trust you will see how best to do so. Should you be wise in your approach, you may find an unexpected ally in her when the time comes.

Thus begins my counsel to you.

There is no signature, but Paul knows it is Reverend Mother Mohaim who sent the letter.

So, she has chosen a side. For now, at least. Paul does not labor under any delusions about her loyalty. He knows she will only align herself with him so long as his actions benefit her or her order.

As for ‘the Historian’…Surely, she speaks of Princess Irulan, eldest daughter of the Padishah Emperor. It is obvious to Paul that Irulan is meant to be the Bene Gesserit’s none-too-subtle means of controlling him. While this might otherwise concern him, he is increasingly reassured the more he learns about Irulan through his visions.

Despite often being dismissed, living as she does in the shadow of her father, the princess is far from simple-minded. She is cunning, observant, and well-trained in the Bene Gesserit arts. Though she has little interest in them, preferring to pore over ancient tomes in the Royal Archives than sit practicing prana-bindu skills day in and day out.

She is lonely, he suspects. Like himself. She has her sisters, of course, but they are much too young and kept too far away for any true camaraderie to form among them. Irulan is isolated at the Imperial Court, and Paul knows that she, like himself, bears the weight of too much expectation as the heir of a Great House.

Irulan would have been bitterly unhappy, had she wed him in the timeline he left behind. He cannot help but wish for a better future for her. For all of them this time.

We could have been friends in another life, he thinks wistfully. If not for the ambitions of our fathers.

And in that moment, though he is no truthsayer yet, he feels the utter certainty of his words. Perhaps we can still be allies, after a fashion, he muses.

But how to get a message to the princess? It would have been hard enough to do so from Caladan, but with trouble brewing on Arrakis and the planet’s geological distortion making interstellar communication even more challenging…

Pondering his dilemma, he allows his gaze to sweep absently over the suite. His eyes settle on his parents, looking as relaxed as he’s ever seen them as they listen to Gurney coax sweet melodies from his baliset.

And Paul suddenly knows what to do.

~*~

“You want me to do what?!”

Gurney’s booming voice echoes with bewilderment and outrage.

“My father is sending a delegation to the Imperial Court,” Paul repeats patiently, “as a gesture of appreciation to the Emperor for entrusting the fiefdom of Arrakis to House Atreides. I want you to go with them.”

“Aye, I understood you the first time, young pup,” Gurney grumbles. “Hearing it a second time doesn't make any more sense.”

Paul frowns. “I’m serious, Gurney. There’s something I need you to do, something important. It’s a task I cannot entrust to anyone else.” Not to mention, it’ll ensure Gurney is far, far away when the fighting here starts. Paul wants to spare his mentor the traumatic experience of watching everything he holds dear fall to Harkonnen cruelty again.

“But why me? What possible use could I have that’s not better served here on Arrakis, protecting the duke? Protecting you?” Gurney cries, the scar across his cheek rippling with his frustration.

“I need you to deliver a message for me. Discreetly. It has the potential to secure the safety of our House,” he adds, sensing Gurney about to argue.

“Your songs and skills with the baliset are well-known throughout the Imperium, second only to your fighting prowess,” Paul explains matter-of-factly. “Your presence among my father’s delegation will be well-received. The Emperor will not question that my father honors him by sending such a valuable member of House Atreides' household to his court. It’s the perfect cover.”

“Does my lord duke know what you’re asking of me?”

“He does,” Paul says. “He agreed to it.” His composed face betrays no sign of the heated argument he’d had with his father on the topic.

(Leto had objected, vociferously, to the idea of sending one of his best fighters and war strategists away. But Paul had insisted it was critical they make common cause with Irulan now to have any hope of peace between House Corrino and House Atreides in the future.

“And what of the Emperor’s truthsayer?” Leto demanded. “Even if you’re right, and the princess agrees to such an alliance, and decides not to to betray your communications to her father–” The furious skepticism in his voice was clear. “–You think she will be able to hide your scheming from that witch? The Emperor will know within the hour!”

“The Reverend Mother will not tell him,” Paul replied calmly. And when Leto opened his mouth again to protest, Jessica quietly stepped in.

“She will not,” Jessica affirmed. Her eyes did not meet her husband’s when he looked at her in disbelief. “Reverend Mother Mohiam is aware of Paul’s unique gifts. Of his… value to our order. She will ensure his communications with the princess go undetected.”

“Jessica…” The duke stared at her in shock.

She rested a hand delicately on his forearm, squeezing in reassurance. “Paul is right. Trust me. Trust our son.”

And Leto, unable to deny his love, his wife anything, sighed and gave in. “Gods help us all,” he said tiredly. “I suppose it doesn’t matter anyway. It’s not as if the Emperor doesn’t already want us dead.”

There was nothing Paul or Jessica could say to refute that.)

“Your father agreed to this mad scheme?” Gurney repeats, unconvinced by Paul’s assurance.

“You can ask him, if you don’t believe me.”

“Don’t think I won’t,” Gurney warns, pointing at him with a callused finger. But his fight is gone from his voice. He must know that if Paul isn’t lying about his father’s support – and he wouldn’t – then it’s a done deal. However reluctantly the duke gives his approval, once he permits a course of action, he does not go back on his word.

“Fine. What is this ‘important task’ you need me to perform,” Gurney growls.

“I need you to pass a letter to Princess Irulan from me. Without her father’s knowledge,” Paul says. He braces himself for the next wave of Gurney’s vehement protests.

The old man does not disappoint.

~*~

In between their harried arrival to Arrakis and fretting about Gurney, Paul completely forgets about the hunter-seeker.

He catches it in time of course. Not due to any prescient warnings, to his chagrin, but his well-honed battle reflexes. It’s a stark reminder that he cannot become too reliant on his visions to show him every danger heading his way.

The circumstances of the attempted assassination are much the same, with Paul heavily immersed in a filmbook when it happens, this time a rare text on advanced Bene Gesserit mental arts.

He hears the killer drone before he sees it. And like before, tracking its progress through the room while otherwise holding perfectly still, he launches into motion to smash it against the wall, just as an unsuspecting Shadout Mapes enters.

The Fremen housekeeper gasps, dropping her held bundle in shock as she realizes what has happened.

“Great Maker,” she whispers, cobalt eyes wide. “That would have killed me.”

Paul nods gravely. He takes the crushed drone over to his water jug and allows a small measure of the precious fluid to trickle onto it. “It was sent for me,” he tells her as he pours carefully, short-circuiting it.

Task done, he turns his full attention to her. “Shadout Mapes,” he says, touching a hand to his forehead in a Fremen gesture of respect.

As expected, she startles at this unexpected bit of etiquette, impossible for an outworlder to know.

“Subakh ul kuhar?” Paul continues. Are you well?

This is his first interaction with a Fremen in this time, and Paul knows what he does now may yet spread through the secret desert channels to her home sietch and beyond. He must be careful.

She nods, open-mouthed. “You are touched by Shai-Hulud,” she breathes. From across the room, Paul can see her tremble. “Lisan-al-Gaib.”

He frowns at the title, but tries to keep his voice gentle. “I am no baraka, no miracle worker, Shadout. But I am here to serve the Misr,” he says, using the Fremen’s name for themselves.

The Fremen’s blue eyes cloud over in sadness. “Do you not know then, that your father’s rule is futile? I sense there is a traitor in your midst.”

“I know,” Paul tells her somberly. “I know who the traitor is, and I know with or without their help, my father’s time will come. And my people shall fall with him.”

“If you already know of the traitor,” Mapes says, “then I have told you nothing of import. There is yet a water burden upon me.”

The young Mahdi does not do her the dishonor of denying it, and she is pleased. Too many outworlders do not respect the sanctity of water bonds.

“Then I would ask you to do one thing for me, and be free of your water burden. But,” he hesitates, “I do not wish to ask too much of you…”

“Ask me, manling,” she says, “And I shall tell you if your price is too steep.”

He swallows hard, and Mapes sees pain, deep as a catchbasin, flood through his odd green eyes. “The Baron is a cruel man, and his Mentat even worse. They may wish to make an example of my father, to make him suffer atrocities I cannot even bear to name.”

Mapes feels a swell of pity in her desert-hardened breast. In her many years, she has witnessed countless acts of brutality by the Harkonnens, and regrets what might befall one as noble as Leto Atreides, outworlder or no.

The boy-child looks at her, eyes glistening, but in true Fremen fashion he does not allow his tears to fall, out of respect for those not yet gone.

“I am haunted by such visions in my dreams. And so I ask you… if it should appear that my father will be made to suffer–” His breath catches, but with visible effort, he continues on. “I would ask that you give him the gift of the desert. That his death may be swift, and he knows no humiliation.”

Oh, how his mother would curse him if she knew what he was asking the Shadout to do.

Mapes bows her head. “I gave your mother my crysknife,” she says apologetically. “I have no sacred tool with which to carry out this holy task.”

“The tool matters not. The honor is in the deed,” Paul tells her. “Will you accept my water price?”

“I will,” she agrees, after only a beat of hesitation.

He steps carefully toward her then and grasps her dry palms with his own. “This will not be the end. For my people or yours. Our eyes may not perceive the water that flows beneath the sands, but that does not mean it is not there. So too justice will one day flow, though we cannot yet see the shape of it.”

It is the least he can do, to give her hope, knowing she will not live to see her people restored. His eyes catch and hold hers. She stares back at him, transfixed.

“I have seen the future, Shadout. When the Maker wills it, the Fremen will rise up and take back this land once more. And we shall make of Dune a paradise.”

In the face of such prophecy, Shadout Mapes can think of but one thing to say.

“Sallamaka al-lahu wa-nasaraka,” she whispers, raising their clasped hands. May God protect you, and grant you victory.

~*~

Duke Leto is, to no one’s surprise, livid when he finds out about the attempt on his son’s life. What is less well known is how furious he is with Paul, when he finds out his son had foreknowledge of the attack and yet had taken no steps to prevent it.

“How can you be so careless!” Leto’s fist comes down hard upon the stone table of the palace council room, empty but for himself and his son. Paul flinches at the sound.

“You knew they would try to kill you and yet you told no one–”

“Father–” Paul tries to interrupt, but the duke will not be stopped.

“You say I should trust you, that you know what is coming, but then this? With Duncan gone, sending Gurney away was a mistake – I never should have left you so unprotected. I cannot believe I allowed you to talk me into this.”

Collapsing onto the nearest chair, Leto puts his face in his hands.

Paul watches, stricken. This isn’t a fight they had before, and he can’t remember ever seeing his father so upset. The last thing he wants is for his final days with his father to be full of anger and fear.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I just forgot about the hunter-seeker, I swear. I didn’t meant to, there’s just – there’s been so much on my mind, I – I can’t –”

To his horror, he feels his breath hitch in a sob and bites his lip to prevent a further outburst. His father must not know how poorly his coming death has been affecting Paul, as the day looms ever closer. Visions of terrible possibilities, some of them unspeakable, constantly plague his dreams, as he told the Shadout Mapes.

He hates that he has endured this terrible time once before, only to be forced to experience it again. He has to hope it’s all for something better, to create a brighter future… but in moments like these, he can’t help but feel cursed.

“Paul…” The duke’s voice is quiet, closer. He approaches his son cautiously, as if Paul is a frightened doe.

Paul feels his knees give out beneath him and he hits the sandstone floor hard. “I’m sorry,” he whispers again. “I’m so sorry.” Over and over, he can’t help but repeat himself, weeping apologies even as Leto shushes him, kneeling beside him to cradle his neck in a gentle palm.

“It’s all right,” his father soothes. “There’s nothing to forgive. It’s all right.”

“It’s not. It never can be. How can I ever forgive myself?” Paul cries. “Knowing I will leave my father to die?”

“You must,” Leto says firmly. He tips his son’s chin up to look at him, but Paul averts his red-rimmed gaze. “Because there is nothing to forgive, do you hear me, Paul? I came to Arrakis out of duty, knowing full well I would likely die here. I didn’t need your omens to tell me that. My death was already decided the second I stepped foot on this planet. But yours is not.”

Brushing a comforting hand over his son’s cheek, he manages a sad smile when Paul finally meets his eyes.

“So when the time comes, I need you to run, to survive. For me. I need you to live on. And be free of your guilt, son, because this is a path I chose.”

“We could all run,” Paul whispers, though his visions have shown him it would be futile.

His father would still be caught by the Harkonnens and executed, this time Paul and Jessica along with him, after being forced to watch his murder. And there are a million other possibilities all, like that one, ending in his father’s death, in increasingly gruesome ways. The more his father runs from his end, the visions seem to say, the more the Baron will force him to suffer when he finally catches him.

But Leto is already shaking his head. “I will not run. I will not abandon our people here to face the Harkonnens alone. Even if I did… the Baron would never stop hunting me, to the ends of this forsaken planet. He would kill every last man, woman, and child granting me safe harbor, and the Emperor would give him the means to do it. And if I ran with you… you and your mother would never be safe.”

“I know,” Paul says, fresh tears leaking from his eyes in his despair. “But I’m afraid, Father… I don’t want you to die.”

The duke feels his heart break anew at his son’s words. “I know,” he says, blinking back his own tears. “I don’t want to leave you either.”

“Just promise me one thing, Paul.”

“Anything,” Paul swears.

“Promise me you’ll be careful? And–” His voice breaks. “Promise me you’ll look after your mother.”

“I will,” Paul whispers. Tears slip down his cheeks to dampen the dusty floor beneath them, and the desert receives his water vow.

Chapter Text

The next day, Leto Atreides calls his council to order. Paul tries not to tug at the stiff collar of his uniform, even as the weight of many eyes fall upon him, shocked and assessing, as his father relays Paul’s run-in with the hunter-seeker. He accepts the councilmen’s praise and gentle ribbing with an awkward nod, unable to meet anyone’s gaze. How many of them will live through the Harkonnens’ purge?

These men are loyal to his father beyond question, to have followed him to Arrakis. Before their departure, Leto had offered each member of his staff, from his highest ranking advisor to the lowliest chambermaid, the opportunity to remain on Caladan (where it was safe, went unsaid). But despite knowing they were following their duke into certain danger, every single member of Leto’s council had refused to stay behind.

And now they will die for their loyalty.

The troubling thought keeps Paul quiet throughout the meeting. He pretends not to see his father’s concerned glances his way, and breathes a sigh of relief when Leto finally adjourns the meeting.

As the council files out, a herald announces Duncan Idaho’s arrival, and Paul’s melancholy lifts. By the time the swordmaster steps into the room, Paul is smiling brightly, not just due to Duncan’s safe return but in anticipation of (re)meeting another dear friend.

Sure enough, a familiar figure follows Duncan into the room with slow and obvious caution. But Stilgar’s scowling expression, deep with a mistrust that had been long gone by Paul’s departure from his previous timeline, isn’t enough to dampen Paul's mood.

Despite the tense atmosphere, he feels warm as he watches Duncan make awkward introductions between the sietch leader and the duke.

“Stilgar.” He can’t help but speak the man’s name with affection when it is his turn to be introduced. He greets Stilgar with a distinctly Fremen sign of respect, a salute from a sietch soldier recognizing the leader of an allied sietch.

The grizzled man’s blue eyes go wide, but before he can respond, Paul initiates the formal welcome, spitting generously on the table between them.

In his peripheral vision, he sees his father stare at him as if he has grown a second head, and the Atreides guards by the door shift in discomfort.

Duncan hurries to explain the ‘gift of moisture’ to Leto, who then promptly copies Paul’s action. Stilgar returns the gesture, spitting onto the table in turn, though his gaze never strays from Paul’s. Paul does not look away, knowing prolonged eye contact is a sign of respect among the Fremen.

Ritual water-sharing finished, silence reigns in the room, until:

“I was not aware outworlders had knowledge of our customs,” Stilgar says in his richly-accented voice.

“Paul is the one I was telling you about,” Duncan tells him. Leto narrows his eyes. For all that he desires to make allies of the Fremen, word of Paul’s abilities should not be shared carelessly. Sensing his displeasure, Paul taps his father’s elbow lightly, just enough to grab his attention.

I trust this man, Paul signs in their battle language, fingers hidden beneath the stone table.

“Ah,” Stilgar says. His expression has cleared slightly in understanding, following Duncan’s comment. “The child of a sayyadina.” His tone is nonchalant, but his piercing eyes do not miss a thing. “Strange… I have never heard of a boy-child having such abilities. And yet…”

“I did not ask Duncan to bring you here so we could speak of Paul,” Leto interrupts, a protective note of warning clear in his voice.

At this, the sietch leader finally halts his inspection of Paul to look at the duke. “Idaho did not bring me anywhere, Atreides,” Stilgar replies cooly. “I decide where I go.”

Leto nods, electing to ignore the Fremen’s rudeness. “And I would have that continue to be the case. I assure you, your people need not fear persecution under my rule as they did under the Harkonnens’.”

“Oh? And why is that?” Stilgar responds. “Are you not also here for the spice, the wealth,”– he emphasizes the word mockingly– “of our planet?”

“That is what the Emperor has sent me to oversee, yes,” Leto replies, still calm. “He has given me Arrakis as my fief, to oversee spice production for the Imperium. I have no wish to make an enemy of your people, but if I must, to fulfill my duty, I will.”

Stilgar hums, and though he does not overtly show it, Paul knows he is grudgingly impressed by the duke’s honesty.

“Continue your spice mining,” the Fremen says, to Leto’s surprise. “The desert provides all my people need.”

“I am glad to hear it,” the duke responds. “But I have something else I would ask of you.” He sees Duncan and Paul both turn to him in surprise.

“The Harkonnens will not be content to leave Arrakis as it is,” Leto continues. “They will come again soon. Within a fortnight.” He glances at Paul, debating, before he admits: “My son has foreseen it.”

Stilgar’s eyebrows raise at this but he does not dispute the claim. “You mean to warn us,” he says slowly. “Why?”

“As a gesture of goodwill,” Leto replies. “And also as a request. That when that day comes, you and your people will consider joining us in the fight for Arrakis. To end the Harkonnen threat for good.”

Oh, Father, Paul thinks sadly. He knows what his father is trying to do, to make one last desperate gamble to avert the bloodbath awaiting the Atreides forces, if not prevent his own death.

But it is too early. And the Fremen will not rally together to fight for a foreign duke. No, nothing short of the Lisan-al-Gaib’s coming will unite the disparate clans for such a reckless cause, to face the Harkonnens and Sardaukar head on in a surely bloody battle.

“And al-diq la ashu,” Stilgar sighs. “In bad times there are no brothers.”

It is a final answer in itself. To his credit, Stilgar does appear slightly apologetic, though from the firm set of his mouth, it is clear he will not be swayed. As a leader, he cannot hesitate to do what is best for his own sietch.

Leto inclines his head regally, though defeat is visible in his posture. “All I ask is that you convey my request to your people. Your decision is your own. I can ask no more of you.”

After a moment of hesitation, Stilgar nods. “I will do as you ask.” Paul recognizes the Fremen’s promise as a sign of high regard for his father; the sietch leader knows asking his people is pointless, and will only lead to a loss in respect for his own leadership. But he will honor Leto’s final entreaty nevertheless.

Stilgar shakes his head regretfully as he turns to leave. He likes this duke, despite his ignorant offworlder ways. It is a pity the desert will take his life.

“E kaah ledaabibet dhauvaalalam, so shiira isim un rauqizak,” Paul says quietly, just loud enough for Stilgar to hear him. You who know what we suffer here, do not forget us in your prayers.

Stilgar starts, and swivels to look at him with wide eyes. Paul offers him a thin smile, one sad and knowing. “Heshiigiishii,” the Fremen whispers.

And with one last penetrating look at Paul, he spins on his heel and marches out the great stone doors.

~*~

Following Stilgar’s departure, Duncan asks his duke’s permission to take Paul back to the barracks. Noting the way his son looks pleadingly at him, Leto laughs and waves a hand in easy dismissal.

“I have something for you,” Duncan says as they traverse the palace grounds. A well-muscled arm is slung companionably over Paul’s own thin shoulders, tugging him closer to Duncan’s side as they walk.

Paul ducks his head, cheeks pleasantly warm as he leans happily into the contact.

“Bet I already know what it is,” he warns teasingly.

The older man laughs. “Oh, you do, do you? Then tell me, oh wise sage.”

Rolling his eyes, Paul starts listing a number of ridiculous things, from Gurney’s hybrid baliset (Paul had broken it last year and Duncan had helped him hide the evidence) to the chandelier hanging in Castle Caladan’s ballroom (it was shaped inexplicably like the curves of a woman’s bosom).

When they reach Duncan’s quarters, the swordmaster pulls out a dusty fremkit from beneath his bunk. “Alright then, last chance. Guess correctly what’s in this, and I’ll let you keep the whole goodie bag,” he says, shaking it with a grin.

“That doesn’t look anything like a Cala Carnival prize, Duncan,” Paul pouts playfully.

Duncan winks and plops the fremkit in Paul’s lap, ignoring his scowl as desert sand flies everywhere. “You’ll like what’s in there, I promise. I know how much you enjoy strange new gadgets,” he hints.

“Oh, you mean like the paracompass and the sand compactor?” Paul asks innocently.

Duncan inhales sharply in surprise, and Paul freezes. Was that too obvious a show of his weirding knowledge? He’s never actively tried to hide his ‘strangeness’ from Duncan before, but maybe even his friend has a limit to what he can tolerate...

But after a beat Duncan throws his head back, guffawing. He slaps Paul on the back hard enough that he topples onto the mattress with a yelp.

“Oh, how the tables have turned!” Duncan crows. “Used to be me showing you the ways of the world, but not anymore. Look at you now.” His tone is unmistakably wistful, and Paul bites his lip.

“I’m still me, Duncan,” he says quietly.

Duncan’s answering smile is affectionate as he puts a hand on Paul’s shoulder, gently this time. “I know, little duke. It doesn’t matter how much things change… you’ll always be my boy,” he says seriously.

Warmed by his reassurance, Paul smiles back.

“Okay, enough waiting!” Duncan gestures with his chin to the waiting fremkit. “Open the damn thing.”

Obediently, Paul drags it over and opens the main compartment. As expected, there’s a paracompass, a sand compactor, even a well-tuned thumper. Paul dutifully pulls each item out at Duncan’s urging, but stops when his fingers brush an unexpected lump at the bottom of the pack.

Extricating it carefully, he unwraps it from its swaddling. He gasps in surprise as the object finally comes free in his hand.

It looks to be some sort of stone, but not like one he’s ever seen. The closest thing he can liken it to is perhaps sea glass, but that’s not an accurate comparison either. Where Caladanian sea glass is smooth and often brightly colored, this stone is jagged, all rough edges and mostly colorless, though opaque. Flecked with yellowing bits of desert rock here and there, the stone itself is less one solid piece than several crystals fused together.

“It’s a quartz cluster,” Duncan tells him, as Paul turns the stone over in his hands, fascinated. “The locals call it ‘desert glass’. Pretty rare, but not actually that valuable. They can be found in some of the rocks buried within the sand deposits.”

“It’s pretty heavy,” Paul observes, weighing it in one slender palm. “Why’d you carry it all this way?”

Duncan’s voice is soft when he answers, “It reminded me of you.”

Paul eyes the crystal skeptically. “Prickly, lopsided, and difficult to lug around? I feel like I should be offended.”

Duncan laughs but shakes his head. “That’s not how I see it. Raw and unpolished it may be, but it’s unique and determined to be whole. It’s impossible to see through, but in its depths there are specks of brilliance. You need only look closely enough.”

Embarrassed but pleased at the assessment, Paul takes in the rock with new eyes. He snorts. “Still ugly though.”

“Not to me.” Smiling, Duncan takes the crystal from him. “It has a wild kind of beauty. Like the desert it comes from. It’s beautiful because it’s different, not in spite of it.”

Paul ducks his head, fully blushing now. “Duncan,” he whispers, unsure what to say.

Duncan hands the piece of quartz back and gently clasps Paul’s fingers over it. “I want you to have it. I think maybe it could help you. The Fremen tell me there are lots of spiritual uses for this kind of crystal. And if that turns out to be just superstition… at least it’s pretty to look at. Well, I think so,” he finishes with a wink.

Paul rolls his eyes, but shifts until he is a hairsbreadth from Duncan’s side, wordlessly seeking contact. Duncan simply hums and pulls him close. He never could deny Paul casual affection.

For a quiet moment they sit, studying the strange desert glass together.

“Tell me about it.”

Held in Duncan's warm embrace and soothed by the sound of his deep voice explaining the soul-harmonizing, psychic strengthening properties of quartz, Paul drifts off into the most untroubled sleep he’s had in weeks.

“How is Lady Jessica adjusting to the move?" Duncan asks later, after Paul has woken up from his short nap. “I believe she had reservations about coming here.”

At Duncan’s words, Paul’s face falls. “I don't know. I don't see much of her these days.” The sadness is clear in his voice.

“I’m sure she’s busy,” Duncan backtracks quickly. “No doubt your lord father relies on her help—”

“She’s afraid of me,” Paul says quietly.

“What are you talking about?”

“It’s okay. She’s right to be.”

“But she’s your mother… why would she be afraid of you?”

“Because she’s a Bene Gesserit.” Paul laughs bitterly. “And I’m the culmination of thousands of years of breeding, ninety generations of mixing bloodlines, everything her people have been working toward. She got what she wanted, but now she’s so terrified she can barely look at me!”

He looks away, unable to meet Duncan’s shocked gaze. “I’m a mistake of a child she was never supposed to have.”

“Paul—”

“I was never supposed to be born in the first place,” Paul whispers. “She was ordered to bear a daughter. But my father wanted a son, and she wanted to make him happy.”

“It wouldn’t have mattered to the duke. Son or daughter, whichever you’d been born, he would have loved you — does love you because you’re his child. Your mother should do the same,” Duncan says, something dark in his tone.

“It’s not that simple,” Paul sighs. “Deep down, I know she loves me. But from the beginning, I showed an aptitude for the Bene Gesserit arts. When my mother started training me, I learned quickly, faster than she expected, I think. She praised my progress, but there was always this look in her eyes I could never decipher. It wasn’t until I was older that I realized that look was fear.”

“Oh, my boy,” Duncan says, heart aching. “There’s nothing about you to fear.”

Paul scoffs. “You’re just saying that because you’re not a Bene Gesserit. You don’t realize what it means for me to be this way, to have this kind of freakish power.”

“Maybe I don’t,” Duncan agrees. “But the Bene Gesserit, your mother – with all due respect to Lady Jessica, even she can’t understand the burden you carry. She is blinded by the biases of her upbringing. Her order has fallen victim to their own constructed legends – they cannot fathom the flesh and blood humanity of you.”

He reaches out to grasp Paul’s shoulder, and is encouraged when his boy doesn’t shrug his hand off. “People will always fear what they cannot understand. Don’t allow your mother’s fear to shame you, or make you hate who you are. Because who you are is beautiful and special, powers and all.”

The tension goes visibly out of Paul. He leans over to press his face against Duncan’s shoulder. Duncan can feel goosebumps rise where Paul’s warm exhalations brush the exposed skin of his neck.

“Sometimes I wish my mother wasn’t one of them,” Paul murmurs quietly against him. “I feel like I’ve already lost her, and she’s not even gone.”

Duncan smooths his hair back with a gentle hand. “Try to have faith in your mother. I’ve been in your father’s household for a long time. I’ve seen with my own eyes that Lady Jessica loves you, in all the ways she is able. But it’s not an easy thing to let go of years of Bene Gesserit teachings, as you know. Be patient with her… and she may yet surprise you.”

“You, defending my mother,” Paul says, a disbelieving half-smile on his lips. “Will wonders never cease?”

Duncan shrugs. He’s never made much secret of his wariness of the Bene Gesserit woman, it’s true. But this isn’t about him. It’s about what Paul needs – and that is his mother, even if he doesn’t know it yet. She’ll be all he has left once the duke is gone, the gods rest his soul.

And me. You’ll have me. But Duncan doesn’t dare voice his thoughts aloud. He will not lie to his boy and promise he’ll make it through the trials that await. And yet…

I’ll do anything to stay by your side, Paul. For as long as I am able.