Chapter Text
Paul Muad'Dib Atreides is dead.
Or perhaps it’s more accurate to say his whereabouts are unknown, though it’s only a matter of time. How long can a blind man survive, wandering alone into the desert? He doesn't even wear a stillsuit, and truly has lost his "vision".
But just six weeks ago, you met with him. He promised another lucrative contract, one that would secure your place among the wealthiest on Arrakis. You even came bearing a gift for his newborn today, eager to curry favor with the prophetic emperor. But now, you stand outside the audience hall, bewildered and uncertain.
"And… his wife?" You ask Duncan, the ghola Mentat who never lies. "I mean, the Imperial concubine, Chani. I heard she's about to give birth."
"Chani is dead." Duncan lowers his gaze, his cold mechanical eyes betraying a flicker of something almost human. So you figure out the truth behind the emperor’s departure. "It hasn’t been announced yet. Keep it confidential."
"Of course." You nod. "Then whom should I speak with today, my lord?"
"Queen Regent Alia Atreides." Duncan gestures to a chair in the corridor. "Please, wait a moment."
You thank him and sink into the plush red bench, resting your chin in your hand as you gaze out at the Keep’s courtyard. It is now alive with a vibrant array of meticulously groomed plants and flowers. Yet you remember how barren it once was, with only twenty solitary palm trees swaying in the desert wind, accepting admiration and jealousy from those outside the courtyard.
You sigh, your thoughts in turmoil. You’ve never dealt with Alia before—will she honor the agreement made by the emperor? Can she be reasoned with?
You find yourself odd. Though you are no fanatic of Muad'Dib, you should feel some sorrow. The self-imposed exile of the prophet-emperor will send ripples of despair across the universe. You dare not imagine the consequences.
However, you feel nothing. In fact, you almost suspect he’s sitting right behind this door, legs crossed, ready to laugh at your tears, just as he did the last time you met.
Your Majesty, we… we met over ten years ago. In the desert, you saved my life. I wonder if you remember?
Back then, you asked him cautiously, eager to flatter him.
——Haha, of course I remember you!
The emperor laughed as if you were an old friend. A black cloth covered his eyes, ruined by the stone burner, with hideous purple-red scars peeking out at the edges. But his smile remained bright and warm, and he was still as handsome as ever.
——You haven't changed a bit, Miss stillsuit. I’m glad there’s no scar left
He pointed to his right cheek. He could really see you. Losing his sight but still having vision, like a god. You’d heard he could see the past, present, and future all at once.
That’s too kind, Your Majesty. I’ve aged quite a bit!
You smiled, blushing. After all these years, you’ve been married and divorced, your daughter is already six, and no one calls you "Miss" anymore.
——Greening Dune must be tough on the stillsuit business, huh?
The emperor smiled apologetically.
——I thought you would hate me
No! How could it be?! Thanks to you, my business has expanded!
You shook your head anxiously, aware that many opposed him, but you were definitely not one of them. He should know it very well, otherwise, why would he meet you in this small private office instead of his huge intimidating Grand Audience Hall? He didn't even leave a guard.
It’s your turn to meet the Queen Regent. You walk into the audience hall and carefully offer your salute. Ghola Duncan stands behind you.
"I remember you." Alia says with a smile, sitting on the emerald throne. Her long black hair frames a beautiful face, and her blue-within-blue eyes are strikingly similar to those of the emperor—no, the former emperor. "You used to sell stillsuits, then arms during the Holy War, and now in constructing business. You’ve got a knack for following the market, haven’t you?"
"Praise Muad'Dib. I only followed the path pointed by the prophet.” You reply, forcing a smile and making a prayer gesture that feels hollow. You hope Alia won’t give you too much trouble out of respect for the former emperor. "But, if you’ll pardon me, Your Grace, have we met before?"
"Oh, sorry.” Alia sticks out her tongue playfully. “We did meet, but not with ME—it was my mother, Jessica. I inherited her memories, and sometimes they get a bit mixed up."
You nod, recalling Lady Jessica. She didn’t like you, dismissing you as an "empty-headed little vase”. Fourteen years have passed, and yet you’re surprised that you can hold a grudge for so long.
You were sixteen at the year when Harkonnan evacuated, leaving Dune under the control of House Atreides. Your father, the largest stillsuit manufacturer on Arrakis, had been invited to a dinner at Arrakeen Castle. He chose to bring you instead of your brother, even going so far as to buy you an expensive dress for the occasion—an important task awaited you.
Paul Atreides, the son of the Duke, was your task.
Of course, your father never expected you to become the future duchess—being a concubine would have been more than enough.
You, however, were far from thrilled. You didn’t want to be anyone’s concubine, nor did you wish to get entangled in politics. Your interest in the Duke’s son paled in comparison to your fascination with the twenty palm trees that had no business growing in the desert. But the moment you entered the banquet hall, pouting in protest, and saw him, you forgot everything else.
Paul Atreides stood there, impossibly handsome, tall and straight in his dark green military ceremonial uniform. His soft black curls framed a face that seemed both noble and gentle, and his clear emerald eyes were mesmerizing.
Unfortunately, things didn’t go as planned. You sat next to him, but he didn’t spare you a single glance. You tried to start a conversation, but his responses were stiff and polite, nothing more. All you could do was sip your Spiced beer, sneaking glances at his striking profile. Perhaps you just weren’t his type.
The atmosphere at the dinner was anything but pleasant. Various factions argued endlessly, with tensions so high that the ecologist nearly came to blows with the Spacing Guild’s bank representative. Amidst the chaos, the boy’s green eyes shone brightly as he observed the room, carefully judging each person’s character.
"Please allow me to share a story." Paul Atreides suddenly spoke, his magnetic voice far more mature than his youthful appearance. The table fell silent. "When we were on Caladan, we once found a drowned fisherman..."
"Drowned?" You blurted out, confused by the unfamiliar word, one that didn’t exist on Arrakis. "What does that mean?"
"Uh..." Paul glanced at you, clearly taken aback by the question. "It’s when someone accidentally falls into a large body of water, can’t breathe, and dies."
"Wow! What an interesting way to die!" You exclaimed, without thinking.
You caught the disgust in his eyes, and knew you had failed your task completely.
To make matters worse, your intentions had been painfully obvious that Lady Jessica from across the table had noticed. Her vigilant, contemptuous gaze aimed at both you and your father spoke volumes.
It was so embarrassing. You downed another glass of Spiced beer, didn't even listen to the rest of Paul's story. Your thoughts drifted, planning how you might slip away to the courtyard unnoticed, when suddenly someone lightly tapped your elbow.
"... To avoid drowning, it’s understandable that people might step on others’ shoulders to reach the surface and catch a breath..." Paul tilted his head, a small smile playing on his lips—the first time he’d smiled at you all evening. "Don't you think so, Miss stillsuit?"
God, he looks so good when he smiles. Are those deep green eyes really looking at you?
Your mind went blank.
"Ah... That's right..." you stammered. "... Unless... it’s Spiced beer, then you won't drown if you drink it all!"
For a moment, the table was silent, then erupted in laughter. The tense atmosphere from earlier melted away.
You blushed, realizing you’d said something foolish again. Paul Atreides had used your ignorance to lighten the mood. Now you understood.
You hated him.
On the third night after the banquet, you were jolted awake by the sounds of fire and explosions in the dead of night. At first, you mistook them for fireworks celebrating some event, but the truth soon became clear—it was a raid.
Panicked, you climbed onto the roof and were met with a terrifying sight: a dense fleet darkening the night sky, and Arrakeen Castle, just a few kilometers away, engulfed in smoke and flames. You huddled in your brother's arms, trembling, the firelight casting a glow on your tear-streaked face.
They said House Atreides was wiped out overnight, no one left alive—not even the Duke’s son, the green-eyed boy.
The Harkonnens had returned, only making the stillsuit business more perilous. Beast Rabban refused to pay and ordered you to stop selling to the Fremen. But with the factory on the brink of bankruptcy, your father had no choice but to secretly transport goods deep into the desert to trade with the Fremen. Even you had to lead one of the caravans.
But there’s no such thing as an impenetrable wall. Eventually, your caravan was ambushed by the Harkonnens in the depths of the desert. The mercenaries you hired were like mantises trying to halt a chariot, easily overpowered. Your employees were slaughtered, and you, desperate, requested to see Rabban, claiming your father could negotiate and pay the ransom. This earned you a brutal slap across the face before you were thrown into the rear cabin of the ornithopter, hands bound behind your back, your head spinning from the blow. You had never felt so hopeless.
But just as the ornithopter took off, it crashed violently. You were nearly knocked unconscious, and through the haze, you saw the cabin door pried open. A Fremen, clad in a stillsuit made by your family, slipped in with nimble precision. He drew a slender, dark yellow crysknife from his back and began to dispatch your captors with lethal efficiency, without uttering a single word.
The man moved with astounding agility, leaping and darting through the narrow cabin, weaving between a dozen fully armed Harkonnen soldiers. Each strike of his crysknife was precise, claiming a life with lethal efficiency. The cabin was soon filled with the sounds of fierce combat, anguished cries, and the sharp, metallic scent of blood. You huddled in a corner, trembling in fear.
The ornithopter pilot climbed into the rear cabin. For a moment, you thought he intended to join the fight, but instead, he grabbed your hair and yanked you upright, his other hand closing tightly around your throat. Your breath was cut off instantly, and all attempts to struggle were futile.
The Fremen had just dispatched his final opponent. His blue-within-blue eyes between the headscarf and the breathing mask momentarily widened in surprise when he turned and saw you. Then his gaze moved over your face, his eyes narrowed slightly.
"You..." The pilot spoke when the Fremen hurled his crysknife without hesitation. The blade whistled through the air, grazing your cheek as it buried itself deep in the pilot's eye. The man let out a blood-curdling scream and collapsed, releasing his grip on you. You crumpled to the ground, gasping for air.
The Fremen strode over the body, yanked the crysknife from the pilot’s skull, and, to ensure he was truly dead, plunged it into his neck once more. He then wiped the blood off the blade with his cloak and sheathed it with a practiced motion.
"Oh, your cheek… sorry." He knelt in front of you, reaching out to gently wipe the blood from the shallow cut on your right cheekbone with his thumb. His eyes, mesmerizing and intense, held yours. "Can you stand?"
A shout came from outside the cabin: "Muad'Dib! It's clear out here!"
"Thanks!" The man beside you called back, turning his head towards the open cabin door, "It’s clear here, too!"
You were stunned, Muad'Dib, this man was Muad'Dib!
You had heard the name, and it was notorious. The Fremen Feydakin he led were said to be the most fearsome army of devils. Stories circulated that he could foresee the future like a prophet; that his Feydakin would charge into battle, screaming his name in suicidal fervor; that he skinned Harkonnen soldiers to make war drums; and that he kidnapped virgins to sacrifice to sandworms...
"I'm not a virgin..." You murmured, trembling.
"Huh?" Muad'Dib froze, blushed.
"I'm not a virgin! Don't sacrifice me to the sandworms, pleeeeeeease!" You cried out, thinking that even the horrors of the Harkonnens would be preferable to whatever fate awaited you in his hands!
Muad'Dib laughed and removed his breathing mask. His face was younger and more handsome than you had imagined, and there was something familiar about him.
"You’re still as outspoken as ever, Miss stillsuit." he said with a brilliant grin.
Paul Atreides, you recognized him. It had been almost a year since the banquet, he looked more mature now, stronger, and his green eyes had turned blue-within-blue like the Fremen. Yet, you knew it was him.
He didn't die, he had become a Fremen, he had become Muad'Dib.