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Chapter Text

One year had passed since the Emperor Muad'Dib, Mahdi of the Fremen, had succeeded Shaddam IV and taken his spoils of war. Among these, one might say the CHOAM shares were supremely important to his imperial coronation of the known universe. He was a god from which all spice flowed.

Zealots, Usurpers, and Traitors shared one thing under Paul Atreides: they knew him not. His reign was marked by historians as singularly stoic wisdom bestowed by nature unto its blood vassal. However, those closest to him glimpsed the wearied sins of his flesh.


-Taken from Irulan's diary, date unknown est. 1st standard spring 10195 AG
Irulan often used spare notebooks to draft entries for her other works.

The night had sucked any warmth out of the Emperor's keep, and a stillness hushed over the cold smooth stones within. Irulan pulled her wrap closer to her body. Her skin betrayed her moisture to the dry air, but thousands of liters of water were afforded to the keep every day. The princess consort pored over her notes, fingertips parched from shuffling the bone dry paper she worked with. She could have used a recording device to aid her, or even a digi stylo, but she relished the opulence of the scene she created.

Suddenly, her inkpot had succumbed to the same dryness that pushed into every nook and cranny on this Dune planet,  it seemed. Irulan clicked her tongue. Her ladies in waiting and servants had gone to bed long ago, preferring to keep the same circadian rhythm as on their home Kaitain. She knew that while the keep seemed empty, the Fremen that the Atreides kept close were most active in these dark hours, away from the glaucous heat of the sun.


Her wrap dress swished along the corridor as Irulan strode through the deep tunnels between her quarters and the stock rooms. She hadn't noticed the real emptiness around her, and didn't encounter a soul on her trip. Instead,  she could only think of the sand that kept gripping her slippers, tracked in by Paul's Fedaykin, no doubt. Crysknifes glittered with scintillating light from her glowglobe as she passed, necessary weapon storage should they come under seige.

Uninterested in worm teeth, Irulan carried on further into the store rooms. Her wet breath condensed in front of her, it was so cold deep in this rock. Goose flesh rose up on her arms. 'Pat pat pat' her slippers shifted over stone quickly.


"What are you doing here?" It felt like an icicle lanced through Irulan's skull.

"Excuse me?" She drew herself up, bosom heaving in her thin dress.

"I said: what are you doing here?" The fogged breath that had escaped her lips vibrated with the force of the Voice coming from the shadows between the shelving. She shuddered, glad it was dark. "I must not fear," she thought religiously.

"I- I am retrieving a pot of ink from the stores," she explained, unable to shake the demand.

Silence.

"Of course." The voice had softened, but was hoarse. Then, Paul rose from his dark alcove where he must have been crouching. Irulan blinked, revealing something more profound than simple surprise.

Paul read her expression and understood that this woman, his wife in name only, did not fear him. In fact, the minutiae of her face spoke of calm coolness, like the oceans of Caladan. The memories hidden within Irulan, unbeknownst to her, without being in Many Places At Once, were overwhelming.

Likewise, the princess judged her husband. His soft eyes, blue within blue, cast dark shadows. He had slowed his metabolism- she could tell- because his breath came out silvery and wispy where there should be clouds. And, she could not be sure, but in the dark Irulan smelled salt. She catalogued these impulses for later. The Bene Gesserit would find this useful.

Presently, Paul shifted to her side, passing her with a glance.


"The inkpots were moved over here," he explained.


Paul moved silently up the corridor, leading Irulan to contend with scraping sand in his wake. She couldn't help but be keenly aware of the noise she made next to him.


Since their betrothal and wedding, Irulan had made herself scarce. Primarily, this was borne out of circumstances, as Paul had vowed himself entirely against their union. Secondly, the jihad took precedence above all else for the Fremen. They were eager to spill the blood of millions under his rule.

Now, the Atreides heir lithely balanced a terracotta jug from its place on the shelf. A hawkish grin escaped his stoic face towards her.

Chani had not returned after her father Shaddam was toppled on the sand just outside the keep. Neither had Jessica, Paul's first true believer. Instead, both women preferred to quietly criticize the Emperor from their sacred positions in his heart. One- from the desert,  the other- from the Sea.


"I'll have a servant carry this to your quarters," Paul said quietly at the entrance of the stock rooms. He glanced back at the knives. "Stay where the Princess Consort should be," he added with a sigh.


"As you say, my lord and husband," she murmured. With her training, she saw the title gave him the slightest pause.

Around them, at least 15 Fremen needed Paul's immediate attention. He turned to Stilgar.

A young Fremen girl dutifully handled the jug and motioned for Irulan to move.

Chapter Text

The heighliner creaked and groaned as the ship exited the fold. Despite taking many voyages across space, Irulan couldn't help but feel uneasy. Through her bay window, she watched the dark expanse of the universe slowly get swallowed by the advancing planet of Wallach IX.

She recounted the memory of Paul in the storeroom cellar a few weeks ago. With her minds eye, she tried to catalogue every motion, scent, feeling, that had come about in that moment. Certainly, it was plain that Paul was pained. There were many valid explanations, Irulan knew. The Bene Gesserit were not interested in such explanations, however. They were only interested to a point of gaining actionable levers to influence.

Irulan sighed. Her powers as a Bene Gesserit were not as developed as one would hope a woman of her position to be. When she attended school on this very planet she visited again presently, the other girls had sneered at the privileges afforded to her. Plush quarters, lessened duties, and coveted private meetings with the Reverend Mother added to a list of petty infractions in her sisters' minds. And now, Irulan was sure these wounds had only been entrenched by her wedding of circumstance to the Emperor of the Known Universe. And she knew there were others more fit for her position than she.

Nevertheless, Irulan wanted to continue. Regardless of her faults, now she ruefully accepted that fate had inevitably bound her and Paul together. That which submits rules, she thought angrily. And she had submitted to this- without question! When her father trembled before the Atreides, Irulan had not wasted a moment for her chance to supplicate her role for House Corrino.

A Guild officer strode into her observation deck, and she slowly tore herself from the glass viewer. It was raining a horrid torrential storm outside, but the viewport glass was too thick to give away the sound. Typical weather for Wallach IX, but an alien sight now for Irulan after making her new home on Arrakis.

"The escort is ready for disembarkment with Navigator Edric, Princess," the officer intoned.

A seething roil gripped the bottom of Irulan's stomach with this guard's easy pass at her title. Even after a year, Paul's outright objection to crowning her Empress- a pithy thing that was her due as first-born heir of House Corrino- still assaulted her pride. Now was not the time to be emotional, she knew. Irulan summoned her little prana-bindu competence. Feeling her fingertips, toes, the strands of flaxen hair on her head, mustered a plastic calmness on her face.

Irulan smoothed her damasc brocade overcoat with her hands. Her servant meanwhile, preened the pearl hairpins holding her hair in winding braids. Then, they pulled a dark blue net over the Princess's face. Irulan's eyes glinted behind her veil, and she tightened the skin around them to produce a harsh, cold expression.

She met with Edric in the foyer, just before the docking station. The smell of spice hung around his floating tank. It bit into her nose, and she thought she may never escape Dune, even here. His fish whiskers wobbled with his mouth when he spoke.

"I take the journey was short and to the point?" Irulan noted how he delicately stepped around her title.

"Yes, quite deftly maneuvered by your ah.. hands," she petered out. Rarely did these navigators leave their posts. But this meeting required his presence.

The doors opened wide to a hurling wind. The ship crew had done their best creating a corral to shield the precession. Large plastisteel sheets had been erected, and were forced into position with shield generators and gravity weights. Hail wracked at the covers above Irulan as she bowed into the storm. Behind her, she could hear violent sloshing from Edric's tank as they rolled forward.

The Reverend Mother waited in her tower to receive them- in this way, she would be at the advantage. Irulan knew her games after spending a lifetime with Gaius Helen Mohiam at her father's side. She had whispered many plots into his ear, and seen most of them through. The princess had always been jealous of the power Mother Gaius exacted from Shaddam. She wanted that same power... to hold sway over a man.

Once, the Reverend Mother had slapped her for these private thoughts. "Selfish" she accused Irulan. And she was right: the Bene Gesserit controlled men, not a man. They were focused on generations, not on the personal. But Irulan could not shake her desire.

Her hands were cold and stiff at her side when she stepped into Reverend Mother's private quarters.

"Ah yes, Irulan. How is the princess consort?" She motioned with her hands another line, however: What of Paul's plans?

Usually, they would speak openly on these topics, Reverend Mother probing and prodding every avenue she could with Irulan. With Edric here, she took extreme caution. To control the flow of information was paramount.

Irulan answered with her mouth, but spoke with her fingers: He leads the attack on many planets. Chani remains to the South. Lady Jessica, the same, but on Caladan. He is weak to emotional attacks.

The Reverend Mother nodded, to both lines of communication. She then addressed Edric, who patiently waited. His blue, bulging eyes centered on the frail woman.

"So, anything we speak of here- it is hidden from him?" She asked directly.

"Yes we believe so. I can not see him nor him me. Anything i directly control is lost. It is as if a blank space in the mind's eye." The navigator burbled. He then reached for a spice sachet, and opened it in his mouth.

"We shall see. Now, tell me Irulan- news from Arrakis?" The princess hesitated for but a moment, unsure of what she should reveal. Perhaps everything, if that was what the Reverend Mother wanted.

"As it stands now, Paul's chosen are advancing on many worlds. Daily, there are casualties possibly in the millions, but I can not know for sure. And his sister, she has plans for a giant church in her name. They consolidate their religion into government. The people he surrounds himself with- all zealots." Irulan continued with her speech.

"However, I believe we have an opening. Without Chani, I can sense a change in Paul already. He is weak," Irulan decided to lay her cards out carefully, watching the Reverend Mother. She gave away nothing.

"Chani has been gone for months now- have you sensed a change recently?"

"Yes, well I..." and Irulan recounted her surprise visit with Paul. The Reverend Mother's face grew into a knowing smile.

"A young man I know. Tell me Irulan, when was your last bleed?"

Irulan was shocked by the question. Surely, she must recognize Paul would not bend to her. It was obvious.

The Navigator cleared his throat.

"Ah so I see. The Guild can arrange the necessary accoutrements for a speedy getaway for the heirs," the fish man said. Irulan didn't know one could still have humor with a spice addiction like that. Finally, she grimaced for the first time after holding it in since she disembarked.

"This is impossible. You ask the impossible from me." She stated matter-of-factly.

"Why is it impossible?" The mother asked mockingly. She tilted her head to the side.

"He will not crown me queen, much less deign to put his seed in me," Irulan persisted.

"Use the wiles of the witch. What do you think we put you there for?"

"Am I to be a whore for you too?" The princess couldn't help it. She had already given up so much of her privilege by stepping down to be Paul's wife de jure.

The Reverend Mother laughed.

"Think of your father then, young whelp, he whored you first."

The navigator interrupted again: "the Guild does have some assets you may find useful in this way. Drugs to speed the courting process, what have you, " his tank smelled so strongly of spice that Irulan wanted to smash it.

Mother Reverend looked up from her glare and truly, truly looked at the rolling man in his tank.

"Yes, well, that may be sufficient, granted the child is conceived sober. We can not have an artificial union. Not another Abomination," she muttered. Irulan had been biting her lip and now attempted to return to a cooler, calmer self. To have a child, to have something to bargain, she could work with.

And well, Paul was Paul...

Chapter Text

The states of existence are like dreams ... When all things are empty in this way, what can be received, what taken away?

Śāntideva, Bodhicaryāvatāra, Crosby & Skilton tr. (9:150-151)

I must not fear, Irulan soothed herself with these words, but they did little to help her nerves. Fear is the little death, she tried but it was no use. She wiped a bead of sweat from her forehead, delicately, so as not to call attention to it. Paul's Fremen were always watching and keen to any waste of water, she knew.

They sat in one of the battle rooms together. Paul was here, his back turned to her. Stilgar stood at the controls for the visual viewer. The room was dimly lit to allow for the projected elevation map to take precedence. Other Fedaykin were here as well- about 10 other men and women perched on their chairs around the hologram battlefield. Irulan preferred to sit behind everyone, to watch, to wait until the perfect moment to lend her advice.

Conserving her words came easily to her, just like the natives here coveted water. The princess especially loved when her thoughts, aged like wine, quenched the thirst of her colleagues. And sometimes, Paul's mouth twisted up, as if to pay her the highest compliment. His thanks never found her ears, but she could tell in the way he postured himself to her in the crowded war room. When that happened Irulan couldn't help but smile to herself.

Today, they discussed a planet that had not yet succumbed to the Jihad. It was the first time that Irulan had been close to Paul since she went to search for an inkpot in the dead of night. He held himself haughtily, adjusting the stillsuit tube on his lip occasionally.

Deep in the breast of her silk robe, Irulan carried a needle- so tiny, she had sewn a small pocket to the lining for it. Her hands were clumsy, but she managed. It had to be done by her alone, as her servants could not do this task without the direct leadership of Edric, the Navigator. The style of these robes lent themselves to storing paper, wallets, and other items from this place, so it was not unusual for her to reach within.

The needle carried a subtle protein that affected the olfactory nerves. The Reverend Mother was too cautious to try a substance Paul may know immediately- like a simple aphrodisiac poison. He could easily break the poison down, and Irulan would lose her chance in the aftermath. Instead, Irulan would imbibe herself with the poison- and hope Paul's life force would respond to hers.

Before their session began, Irulan had taken her part. The poison had already begun working through her lymphatic system. She could feel it pooling deep wells of heat at the base of her neck, her armpits, and her groin. Her heart rate was elevated as well. She allowed herself to break some of the hydrogen bonds, lest it control her. It took a considerable amount of concentration, and she wound tighter around the bonds within to maintain autonomy.

Suddenly, a young Fedaykin rushed into the room and greeted Paul with a respectful gesture. Paul motioned for him to speak, interrupting Stilgar.

"Muad'Dib, I have news from Sietch Tabr," the young man panted, and Paul turned his complete attention to the man, after mentioning Chani's home.

Irulan tumbled through the mechanisms of her body, and forced a sleight of hand from her breast. She could feel the pressure change in the needle as it hit Paul's skin, brushing his hand in a quick movement disguised as clumsiness.

However, the poison gave her much more credibility than she needed. In the moment she stood, a tidal wave rushed in on her. The ocean claimed her and a siren sang a song somewhere off in the distance.

In the commotion, Paul had caught Irulan. He and the Fremen lifted her, then laid her on a nearby table to inspect.

He looked at her in that Bene Gesserit way- scanning her fully. Her lips were red and shiny, but Irulan did not often wear rouge. And she was sweating in the Spring. He delved deeper, and looked at Time. She was here and she was nowhere. Irulan was Now, but also Then. Paul saw her striding toward him, her fists held high.

He saw many things, but could not see her here- but she was here. He shook his head to the Fremen who eagerly awaited his assessment.

"What have you seen?" Stilgar asked

"She will wake in a few day's time." Paul answered, pulling his stillsuit hood on.

"Take her to her chambers and do not let her leave. I must go to the sietch."

Irulan was dashed against the rocks- over and over and over. Her head became a drum, which became water, which became the roaring of a conch shell. She was in the conch shell and she was the ear outside. Somewhere, she clung to something domestic and natural. Her fingernails dug into that soft flesh, seeking reprieve from her own body

A dream of dreams lapped at Irulan's mind. It promised ecstacy and comfort. She thrashed against it, forgetting why she was here. Voices whispered to the surftide foam.

Why do you fight the inevitable child? A voice called

You know you want it. Another snickered.

See things as they are not as you wish them to be. A familiar ghost said.

Irulan choked on seaweed. It heaved up from her center and was everywhere.

"No I.. I don't. I don't know if I want to," she cried back. Do tears fall underwater? Or do they return to their origin?

The vision receded and a moon replaced it. It loomed above Irulan. She squinted at its face, and thought it may be the first moon of Arrakis.

"This is my fall," Paul said.

"What do you mean?" Irulan asked.

"I don't know." He shimmered in the moonlight. Irulan drank in his lustrous skin, baring all to the moon.

"You're the Kwisatz Haderach," she responded.

"So? I am not omniscient," he spat.

Irulan recoiled on herself, hugging her knees.

"I know."

"Do you?"

She said nothing. The drumming was starting again. She leaned forward and summersaulted into oblivion.

Paul tried to shake the episode with Irulan as he banked the thopter down toward the Sietch. The Now was the same as his vision; nothing was disturbed, except him. He pondered the possible blind spots in his vision but it was impossible to see what did not exist.

The reports said that Chani had returned to Sietch Tabr, finally, after hearing nothing from her whereabouts for months. In her time away, Paul had imagined her riding sand worms on the open bled. A much better way to spend the day, he thought ruefully.

Gently, he landed the thopter at the foot of the rocks. His company followed close behind. He scrambled up the escarpment and into the Sietch, where the Fremen greeted him. "Usul," they said- his secret familiar name, reminding him of his duty and his place here. He treated them with that same familiarity, stopping to exchange words with his Sietch brothers and sisters.

However, Chani was not among the faithful. He looked for her in the crowd and saw no one- the same in his vision. Yet he had to fulfill what he saw. It was destiny but it was his destiny, and he would make it so. He would force it, if it came to it.

He found Chani in her room, piled with rugs and throws, pillows with gold embroidery. She had unfurled on the floor of the room, and made no motion towards him. It was customary to greet guests with an offer of water, and Chani had always made him coffee. Today, she did niether.

Paul took off his cap, undid his face covering, timed it precisely. But the scent that hit him was absolutely no where in his visions, and he was completely unprepared.

Chani smelled of spice, coffee, and the sweet desert flowers of this planet, to be sure. That part remained unchanged, but there was something new and unfamiliar.

Finally, Paul shuddered and fell to his knees.

"Sihaya", he begged quietly.

Chani threw away a look at him.

"Do not act surprised, Paul. I did not hide myself from you. Haven't you seen this night, my once beloved?"

Paul's mouth was dry. He had heard Chani took lovers, and that was fine... He had always been open to her doing so. While he did not attend the sietch orgies, Paul saw no reason to stop Chani in those moments they were together. She was free to do as she willed and Paul loved her for that.

But this new scent spoke of a deeper change in Chani's love for him. She was with child. Once, Chani was full with his child. The memory of it could be Now, and Paul had difficulty separating where he was.

He hung his head. "I have not," he said finally. Chani was unperturbed.

"No matter. I have seen you for what you truly are... Muad'Dib. A mouse who scurries about, using the desert for his dirty work," she hissed. "Oh yes, you are enterprising, to be sure. But I will not let my people be used." Chani sat up now, drawing herself to a new height.

Paul could only muster a shrug.

"I can not stop what has begun," he pleaded.

"That's fine. I will stop it." Chani had decided in her Fremen way that Paul was Nothing. She would not watch a man defy his words with his actions. Paul had said he did not want a Jihad, yet he plotted every day to make it the reality. This could not be borne.

"Paul," Chani commanded, "You will leave my Sietch and my people. I will have you killed if you do not. You can not stand against the whole of us."

Paul started, wanting to reach out to Chani to soothe her restless spirit. But this new scent told him it was impossible. His vision had completely turned on its side and he felt a new storm brewing. The vertices that collided here were powerful.
Chani was gone. In her place, a woman who smelled of retribution had replaced her.

"Fine." Paul said curtly. He kept his head low, covering his eyes with his dark hair.

"I will do as you say this once." Chani nodded at this, finally sated.

"You will leave now." She stated simply.

Paul stumbled to his feet. He put his reclamation tube back to its spot, happy to block his nose from the heartbreak before him. Slowly, he turned for the last time on his Sihaya.

"Once I love, I love forever. That is the way with my condition," he said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He sighed, and opened Chani to a vision. She made no motion of surprise, if it had caught her off guard.

Paul showed Chani their first born, who had died in battle one year ago. The child was happy, sweet, and doting on his Sihaya. This time, the young Leto peered up from Chani's skirts, clinging to her silk aba. He smiled cheekily, and Paul touseled his curly black hair. This memory was precious to him. He let it recede and took his leave.

"Thank you," Chani whispered, shedding a tear for the dead.

---

When Irulan awoke, it was another cold night. A servant who had been watching her close by rushed to her side.

"You're awake, your highness. How are you feeling?" They asked, grasping her hand.

"I'm fine, thank you," Irulan pulled her hand away abruptly.

"Where is Paul? We were just in the battle room a moment ago."

The servant shook their head. "No Mistress. Two days have passed. We fed you through a hypometer."

Irulan could tell there was more the servant wanted to say. She sighed.

"Yes well, I'd like to know what caused this. Summon the doctor." She would have to play dumb. Who would take the fall?

"Of course, your highness."

They came back a few moments later with the Doctor.

"It can be difficult to ascertain these poisons," the doctor drew out their conversation, trying to glean any information from Irulan. She became more and more agitated, laying in bed while the servant and doctor conducted some makeshift interrogation on her.

"I know the poison," she said calmly. "This must be investigated to the highest degree," she added.

"Quite right, Princess. I will let the Emperor know." Again with that damned title, Irulan angrily thought. These fools really accused her of adultery? It was ironic that she had to drug herself for the chance at marital sex.

"That you will," she snapped, and finally pulled her covers off to walk to the window. The moon was high in the sky at this hour, full and bright. The dunes took on a chromatic mystique underneath it. She continued staring out at the crested horizon until the servants took their leave quietly skulking away.

When they were gone, Irulan's body went slack. The emotions she had spilled out and she ran back to her pillow. Her tears dribbled down her nose into the cloth beneath her, and she drew up her legs underneath her.

A failure I will pay dearly for, I am sure, she thought.

Chapter Text

For things to reveal themselves to us, we need to be ready to abandon our views about them.

-O.C. Bible Chapter 42 v.56 stanza 3

Paul stood silently at the thopter controls flying back to his Keep. The hot desert wind whistled through the aircraft as the wings beat thump thump thump. His knuckles whitened on the steering stick, and he forced his eyes to look out onto the sand below.

Already, the landscape was changing with the water edicts he had ordered less than a year past. Green vegetation hugged the shadow projection of the sun, gathering to one side of rocks, cliffs, and mountainous dunes. They were far in the global north- that half that would be reserved for the oases the Fremen had dreamed of for generations.

Paul had wanted what the Fremen wanted. He wanted this people to see the far-fetched concept of a sea, to watch the rain fall freely from the sky, instead of where it gathered as precious dew in the early mornings. He ground his teeth. But there was a cost. They had paid more than due: in blood. He hadn't realized that Chani's blood was to be put to this ledger too.

He had to continue. This storm would rage with or without him. Paul understood that he merely was born in the eye of it. Only he alone could track the course, to see the path it would devastate. Even the best mentats could not predict each droplet of rain like he could. And yet... Chani's life force had escaped him. His fingers curled into the palm of his hands, biting the soft flesh.

How could I miss this, he wracked his mind.

The Keep loomed on the horizon and Paul had to prepare for the descent. His fleet would touch down much before he did, just outside of the inner sanctum. To reach the inner sanctum required prescience only he possessed. And of course, the Atreides' blood in him edged his piloting skills further.

Stilgar flew with him in the cockpit, behind Paul and to the left. No one could have noticed Paul's slight hesitation before the nosedive, shuddering the thopter ever so slightly. Despite the prescient fumble, they landed safely in the small bay connected to the royal private quarters.

Swiftly and silently, Paul exited the craft. His crew followed suit, filing off through the servant passage. Paul banged through the cedar-wood doors at the far end of the bay. If Stilgar was unaware of a disturbance in Paul before, now he was alert and by his side.

"Usul, you must tell me what happened. What has Chani done?"

"Nothing, " Paul mustered a calm voice to answer. It was enough to sway Stilgar, momentarily.

"Usul, fremen women will do as they will. You must know this. She contributes to the tribe the same," he added, referring to her pregnancy. "A woman of that stature should have many strong children."

"Of course, Stilgar, I understand." Paul was grateful for the scarf covering his face, as he knew a vein surely was showing.

The leathery Fremen man nodded, satisfied that his knowledge was understood.

"Leave me now," Paul said with the last of his strength.

The tribe leader bowed and took his leave.

Paul was alone in a cavernous room meant to recieve guests. The stone walls were covered in rare tapestries, spoils of war, and other works of art he had recovered from other worlds. In the center, there was a table that could seat 6, dressed for a meal at a moment's notice. It was laden with beautiful silver teapots, fine spice work china, and nozzles tipped with gold mouthpieces hooked into a central smoke chamber meant for spice inhalation. A few doors connected the salon to private kitchen and bedroom chambers.

He walked to the great desk in the corner which he used often to read reports. Paul didn't need to read such things, as he could know what happened with his inner eye, but he found it familiar- human. He picked up a fresh sheaf, holding back tears.

The report was from the Doctor- an old Fremen man he employed. He was from Sietch Tabr, and could be trusted with his life. He had scrawled a short note on Irulan, which piqued Paul's interest. What had happened today?

The note read:

Sylphiym poison, non-lethal amount.
She should awake in two days.

Paul crumpled the paper. It had seemed he won a small victory with predicting her condition. He blinked the rest of the tears away and started off for Irulan's quarters.

Paul had chosen to keep Irulan close by, in the same wing of the Keep as he. It was paramount that she feel under his control and he had wanted that specifically. The Bene Gesserit pawn needed to know she was watched always and only out of his kindness had he allowed her anything.

Tonight he walked into her chambers for the first time.

Irulan's servants reacted with surprise. Some of their eyes widened and others hung their mouths open at him. He gave a hand signal to vacate. They were all too eager to comply, fleeing through the small door to their rooms. Paul took one of the Princess's chairs, ornate carved balsamic wood with upholstered whale fur dyed a rich ultramarine blue. He lifted it easily and noiselessly moved across to Irulan's bedroom.

The door hung ajar, and beyond it the room was bathed in a gloomy orange light. It was still day and the ray shields were activated in the viewports. The white sun was dampened significantly from the atom bonds blocking its harsh energy, creating a soft orange halogen wash.

The door closed silently behind him. Paul scanned the room. Above, various drapery hung from the ceiling. Blue silks swayed, and a soft rustle could be heard when they collided. The hangings fanned out from a central place where Irulan slept. Paul noted how Irulan favored periwinkles and phtaloblues, bursts of unnatural color to the landscape outside.

She lay supine under thick bedding, her hands still at her sides. Paul noted the movements of the dust motes above her head, rhythmically rising and falling with her breath.

The poison still worked its way through her lymphatic system. Paul placed the chair next to the bed and leaned over her. Gently, he traced his fingers down her arm to her wrist. He searched for where the poision drained and spewed, and eventually broke down to her inner forces converting it to hydrogen and carbons. Perhaps she had some skill yet, he mused. And perhaps I should not listen to Reverend Mother's judgements, he added.

He stole a glance at the Princess's face, feeling guilty for his prejudice. Her eyebrows were knitted together, and she twitched. Paul could empathize with her, as he had turned poison once himself. She was lucky to be gone only two days' time.

There was something else nagging at him. The voices within him grew louder. They chorused a rasping song together. Take her, they sang sweetly. Take her, they urged. Take her now, take her, they chanted inside his skull.

He withdrew his hand but remained leaned over Irulan in the chair. His teeth chattered and he willed himself to finally look at Time once more.

Irulan swam up first, every where in his vision. She was in the cellar staring at him, barely masking her fear. He thought the shape of her face was so lovely when she struggled. Paul violently pushed the stray thought away and persisted. Irulan was in the hallway, avoiding his eye. Then, she was at her desk, filing reports and recommending fleets. Paul could feel the echo of the pen scratching in her hand. It worked deftly across the paper as if an extension of her arm. She was born to rule.

No where could Paul see this poison. He rubbed at his temples. He could only see outside the poison- Irulan recovering, walking to the window, and staring out. He heaved a sigh and turned in his mind.

He was floundering within his visions. Every curve he traced ricocheted into millions of prisms, multiplying and clouding his sight. With Chani gone, he had no one to consult. No one to share the spice with. No one to understand his visions.

Suddenly, a dry sob forced itself out of him.

Paul coughed with an unholy force. He had held in his emotions for years, beginning with the death of his father Leto Atreides. His visions had taken more than enough of his attention and he had avoided his human body for too long. The Orange Catholic Bible may soothe the soul, but it yet had no remedy for his flesh. These sins of the terrible, physical Now could not yet be burned away by his powers.

He gripped the sheets with both hands now, surrendering to the bed Irulan occupied. His cheek rested somewhere above her stomach. Water leaked out of his eyes and absorbed onto the silk below.

Paul lay catatonic for some time, matching his breath with the unconscious Irulan.

Sunset passed and the first moon rose. The temperature dropped considerably in the room.

The young man had considered many things while he half lay quivering. About one thing he was sure: Chani's absence did not change the golden path he must follow. He willed himself to accept this truth and carefully removed himself from the soft down bed.

All the while, the rabble of souls reached out to whisper insidious things. The Princess under him was their sole desire it seemed. Paul couldn't trust them, knowing the Bene Gesserit wanted this union. They were keen for his heir, and Irulan's recent event solidified his suspicion.

And yet, Paul needed an heir in this golden path he sought. He looked again at Irulan's face. It contained a whirl of emotions flashing back and forth. Her lips trembled, slightly open. He brushed hair from her face which had matted from sweat.

"This is my fall," he spoke aloud, muffled by the mask and reclamation tube.

Then he left.

After Irulan had finished her cry, she passed out again in bed.

The next morning, she learned that Paul had left for an off world battle, and it was unknown when he would return. What was left of Paul's court were separated from Irulan by many degrees. Alia, now 6 years old in body, preferred her tower, or preaching among the desert Fremen outside the Keep. The older Fedaykin who could not join Paul had stayed, but wanted nothing to do with the Princess.

This puzzled her, because she had expected a royal punishment meted out after her poisoning. No one asked any further details from her, and she decided to allow the matter to subside. There would be no one to hear her demands anyways, if she wanted to press her charges against the perpetrator who did not exist.

Presently, she decided to draft a report on the previous victory in the Jihad's favor. Irulan sent her Fremen women out to gather the necessary records, supplies, and intelligence that could be granted to her.

For the past year, Irulan had prided herself with these reports. They served as an appeal to both parties she claimed allegiance with: the Bene Gesserit, and the Emperor's Royal Court. While she may be reviled or ignored for whatever reason by either one, her writings never fell off deaf ears.

She knew they all used each other as a means to an end. Paul most of all, who summoned her to every council meeting, and sent a servant to fetch her notes after their adjournment. Not once did he deign to personally escort her, but rather resorted to the lower court making vague inclinations and dylanesque obfuscations of her.

Irulan chuffed at the Court's adolescent behavior here at the Keep. She had suffered far worse under her Father. Her father, who would have investigated this poison quite literally like finding a needle in a haystack. He had certainly arrested any provocation to her sex. Irulan couldn't help but laugh in her private musings.

Her servant girl, Mehvna, ushered in a suspended cart filled with various devices.

"Thank you Mehvna," Irulan said. She hoped to coax some information out of the girl by appeasing her with the Fremen currency of respect.

"What does the council say?" She asked, and the Fremen girl looked up at her from beneath her scarf.

"Many things, my lady. There seems to have been a disturbance in Alia's sermon today. There are traitors among us," she said quietly.

Irulan wheedled for more. "How does Alia fare?"

The girl shrugged, with a perceptible grimace about her face. Irulan could not see her mouth, but saw the wrinkles on her nose ever so slightly bunched. The Fremen reserved judgements for Alia, often swinging on a pendulum whether she was possessed or not. Irulan believed them, as her Gene Gesserit training warned her of creating such an Abomination.

"Hmm," she mused, turning her attention to the supplies. "Very well. You are dismissed," she added, keeping her voice cool.

Late into the night, the Princess retired after writing a feverish report and sending it to that Planet the Emperor currently ravaged.

Heat.

Desert heat.

The dry, dessicated wind brushed Irulan's face. It was a wind that softly threatened death, to render flesh from bone, and finally to scatter the remaining dust into nothing.

The rest of her body was locked in the sand. It slipped and slid around her skin. The crystalline grains searched out every crevice and bit into that soft tissue. Irulan cried out, but only darkness returned her call.

A looming shadow grew larger over her. It drew up into a towering figure with no end or beginning. Sand sloughed off it like gigantic waves. She realized it was a worm.

In a moment, it looked at her and beyond her. She saw those glittering teeth, so high above, that the Fremen worked into crysknifes. When she thought of this, the worm seemed to smile at her.

"Shai-hulud" she trembled.

The worm swallowed her then. She sensed a terrible purpose within it. It whispered to her those parts of herself that were so remote, she could only forget again with the next moment.

Her mind began peeling away, layer by layer, the threats of the desert wind having come to collect their dues. The worm pulled off first, then the sand, then her body, leaving only her.

"You cannot be the observer of Time and be within Time, you see," Paul spoke.

"So you are limited by your placement?" Irulan asked, unsure.

"Yes, that is true. I have gotten in the way of myself. I can not see through myself," he held his head in his hands now, as if to shield his eyes.

"Perhaps another perspective may help," she offered.

"I have many. I have millions. I stretch the expanse of time. It is what allows me these gifts, and stunts my growth," he whispered.

"A different one then," she said.

"Perhaps."

Irulan swelled, bursting the confines of her dream. She awoke panting, and could not remember what for.

Chapter Text

The time don't show
When the sun gets carried
The tide curves off your body
Oh you'll stay with me

Paul watched a bloodbath of a planet below him. His ship was currently in orbit, tidally locked so that the observatory equipment could capture a perfect re-image of the scene. Of course, the bay windows were only holograms- it would be unthinkable to open such a vulnerability to the command ship. On the outside, it was a hard, grey shell, with shield generators along lateral raises across the surface.

He studied a kamikaze Naib pilot hurtling towards his death. The aircraft vessel took a parabolic path towards the misty blue planet beneath him. Finally, it sparked a violent orange on impact before a giant mushroom cloud overtook the view.

The use of atomics against human life was forbidden, but this planet held no significance to the Great Council. It had been a backwater fief- a farm to collect taxes from, nothing more. The people here had tilled the earth for millenia.

Paul felt the ghost of an ancestor who must have lived here. He saw fruit orchards, rice paddies, and livestock farms. Now, those idyllic scenes were drenched in dark blood.

As his power grew, so did the wild religious war. Paul had wanted to stop. Everything in him screamed to disengage. But he knew it would rage even without him. Perhaps, more would be dead were it not for him.

Presently, Paul considered the options for this planet. Soon, he would summon the remaining viceroys to hear their official forfeit. The momentum had not met his visions yet. He calculated at least 5 more atomic detonations before that moment arrived. He tapped his finger impatiently at the image controls.

Without the spice near, extreme effort was required to ensure the golden path was followed. Paul pushed himself to see the edges of the battle, to know totally what would happen. He watched the image screen flicker with two more bombs to the north. A vein popped out at his temple.

Suddenly, Irulan swam into that double vision he possessed. She was naked, trembling on his bed. Paul took her in altogether in a Gestaltian motion. The Princess's lips were bright pink. Goosebumps raised on her flesh, little angel hair flags raising in defeat. Her expression was petulant and demanding.

In the recess of his mind, Paul smelled a faint powder and rose scent. It was a bleeding rose, dark and sensual. He could almost sense the drip drip drip of the petals heavy with the water of life.

Paul's visions were not locked to just his eyes. It was a sense all of its own, like the feeling of gravity. He could taste, touch, and even smell everything in the known universe. With his chin propped by the hand of his palm he gently dragged his thumb along his lip.

What if he explored Irulan's possibilities? How did she taste, smell? He wondered idly. Forgotten was the scene of violence before him, laid plainly by the glowing holograms. Irulan twisted like a vine, pushing and pulling her flesh taut. His mouth watered hungrily at these new dunes across his vision. Paul wanted to ascend that hill and look over at the Princess's future.

He had come here to forget her, he insisted to himself. He had deduced Irulan administered the poison to herself- for all he knew, it was meant for him. But Irulan of all people understood a common catalytic protein was nothing for a Bene Gesserit trained witch. Perhaps it had been a trick- like a court magician pulling their spectators' attention away from the real action.

Paul pinched the bridge of his nose and inhaled twice quickly to calm himself. He allowed himself to sink into Irulan's gravity -so to speak- the space she took up in time. He was uncomfortable here in this unfamiliar place. The image screens flickering in his true vision may as well have been the flickering moments of her childhood passing before him.

Always, Irulan had her books. Paul realized she preferred the ancient, unadulterated fashion of knowledge. His hands could feel the hot-pressed paper and glass stylus in his own hands. He could feel her pride swelling in his chest. When she handled old tablets, Paul merely chuckled at her idea of an archaic relic.

Another bomb went off. That marked three, he noted absently. He traded the glass stylus for that day in the war room. Paul sensed a needle in her hand, but he groped at the edges of darkness that muddied her form in his vision. She shimmered with the possibilities of unknown. He drove straight into their touch, when she tripped. Her left hand had steadied on his arm. Paul had known this would happen, and was ready. He effortlessly maneuvered to catch her in the fall.

Too early, and the Fremen would have fallen over themselves to swoon at his abilities. Paul had timed it correctly to act with grace, but not as a god. Perhaps Irulan had moved to poison him, but failed miserably by her own clumsiness, he deduced.

The Bene Gesserit must have had plans within plans, then. It didn't matter whether or not Paul was poisoned, but that he knew they moved in silence.

His mind shattered against the fractals overflowing in his vision. He pounded his fists against the plasteel chair. He was alone in the image room at the moment, but he needed to move soon. Another bomb dropped and he had no answers.

Without the spice, Paul was left licking his lips. His tongue felt swollen and hot, a paradox now that he was away from the desert. Yet, the Fremen spoke of a sickness plaguing the new cities. They called it water sickness; when a Fremen had been away from the open bled too long. Paul didn't believe he was suseptible. After all, he grew up on Caladan.

Irulan continued to evade him now, when he so desperately needed to see her in his visions. I won't go to her, he muttered to himself. He made another feeble attempt to investigate Irulan's vector path in the universe.

"My liege, the Naibs have returned from the raids on the leaders' fortresses," his Bashar called from the passageway.

"IT ISN'T TIME YET, Stilgar," Paul roared, suddenly torn from his calculations. His voice petered off as he realized his mistake, ending quietly.

Stilgar shrank slightly but recoiled. "When will it be time sir?" He asked passively.

Paul looked at the screens. His stomach had turned into icy knots. The final spark of a bomb lit the room.

"Now," he said coldly.

Weeks had passed at the fortress with very little to note. Irulan could not shake a deep sense of unease in her body. Nearly every day, she awoke with a cold sweat curling along the back of her neck. The princess could never remember her dreams to explain the sensations that gripped her. If she could, she would summon a dream interpreter immediately.

The ladies in waiting had responded with kindness at first. They fluttered about her bed in the early morning hours, trying to calm her nerves. They brewed her spice coffee and fed her dates from the qanat. But nothing availed, and soon they stopped. Mehvna sometimes soothed her with a warm towel, if she was awake.

On one such morning, Irulan huddled in bed and let the pangs of anxiety wash over her. She held her elbows tightly with her hands and scrunched her eyes shut. Stars blinked out behind her lids, a side-effect of latent spice ingestion. She consoled herself with the litany against fear until only she remained.

Something must be done, she resolved. Irulan threw the silk covers off and called for the servants to dress her. The princess had plans for the Empire, since Paul was pre-occupied with avoiding any responsibility. He had spent weeks with his Naibs decimating worlds beyond worlds. Meanwhile, the government stagnated.

This was where the Princess excelled. She only needed a lever. Even with the loyalty Atreides family demanded, surely there was such a one to fall to her. Of course, it was mere practicality to use the wiles of the witch to secure a better position.

Irulan recalled a heated argument between her and Paul early in their marriage. She had threatened to take her own concubine if Paul could not satiate her desires nor fulfill his duty. He had shrugged nonchalantly. Irulan despised his cool attitude that thwarted her very purpose. However, the Emperor had made it clear she would bear no children under any circumstance.

At the time, it had been an empty threat to observe Paul's reactions. When he made it clear she could have whoever she wanted at discretion, she had dropped the subject. It had been better to continue without involving third parties- the safer option for the state. Now, however, with Paul and Chani removed from the immediate picture, Irulan had room for a pragmatic union.

Irulan set herself to make a stately appearance that day in court. It would be the first time since Paul's recent departure, and the first time she would be alone. Irulan frowned when the Fremen insisted on St. Alia's permission. The embarrassment was soon forgotten when the girl sent back a message of approval to the Princess. And, Alia would be joining Irulan as well.

The small witch child arrived within the hour to Irulan's chambers. Her red hair was pinned back, and she wore a deep green robe complete with an embroidered headdress. It was a supremely sophisticated garment for such a small body.

Paul's sister held herself with the usual pomp that Fremen often did. Irulan was not stupid: she knew the Fremen truly ruled Dune. The Emperor and his connected family were simply symbols they had chosen to represent them. Irulan welcomed Alia with the customary water offering to guests. She waved them away.

"Irulan, I have come to discuss something which I am sure you are aware of." Alia continued in a measured, mature voice. "The empire requires an heir. I know my mother may soon plot to wed me to my brother. That cannot happen," she ground out icily.

Irulan did not try to hide her shock. Her eyes widened slightly, but she nodded for Alia to explain. The small girl's presence weighed on Irulan's nerves heavily. Whenever she was near, the Princess could only think of the lessons impressed upon her during her education at Wallach IX. The sisters insisted these cases of the pre-born were frought with horrible, and quite frankly disgusting, amalgamations of souls. They were unpersons, never allowed to develop a separate personality from the rabble within. Irulan shuddered at the thought but composed herself before her nervous system took the signal.

Alia ignored Irulan's reaction. Presently, she sipped a coffee that was laid out at the table in Irulan's foyer. When she was done, she smacked her lips impishly and said: "I have plans for myself, you see. I will not settle to be used thusly. My own voice- yes I do have one-" she snapped, "needs to be heard. I am telling you this because our goals align in this way. Without my cooperation, you will remain the only option."

"I see that. And you would do so without asking a price?" Irulan knew the Atreides games. They bought loyalty with loyalty.

"Of course, because it is true. I only want to love, and be loved, in this life. Paul will not give me that. But I hope you see this Princess, because I can offer more in your favor."

"A dream of dreams," Irulan remarked. How curious Alia was in her mannerisms. The princess empathized with her company- she wanted to love and be loved too. Above all however, she wanted respect.

Alia smiled and pressed more. She leaned in and began whispering to Irulan, "I can see as he sees. The most intimate things do not escape me. Better, I can speak to him in many places at once." The princess blinked. The sense of unease that was ever-present these days was growing. It carefully crawled up her spine, dredging up dark voices that muttered indistinctly. His sister could be the ultimate lever, Irulan decided.

"A powerful ally indeed. But I'm afraid I don't have much to offer." Irulan motioned to her quarter, as if it was a perfect analogy. She knew Alia would understand the subtleties of her meaning. This place was a prison, and Irulan was the canary in the mines, deep in this fortress.

"No matter. I only need your confidence. Do you choose this path with Paul, or are you acting with duty?" The tiny girl wanted to know if Irulan consented to these plots- no one had ever asked her choice. She searched her mind frantically for an answer.

"My reasons are my own," she faltered, "but yes. Although, does anyone have much choice in anything?" She asked, confused. Didn't the Kwisatz Haderach prove that determinism was the true path of the Universe?

"Believing you have a choice makes all the difference. An idea my brother lacks," Alia leaned back in her chair.

"So it is. My new friend, let us meet the court now." Irulan rose, and helped the girl off the chair. There was a new kinship forming between the two women, a fondness that could only be found from shared experience. Although the child scared her, the Princess felt a deep respect for the choice she made.

Their court appearance went smoothly, and Irulan noted how Alia moved around her now. It was different. The girl usually was enmeshed in her religious rites, followed by a gaggle of true believers. And, after her mother left, Alia had retreated further into the cult.

But today marked a break in that pattern. The red-headed sister of Paul stayed close to the Princess as she greeted members of the court. A new gleam glinted curiously in her eyes, which many were afraid to gaze upon.

Alia was making fast on her new deal by securing a more advantageous position for Irulan with her proximity. Irulan knew that the Fremen worshipped the divine personality that was Alia, despite the rumors. She was extremely fearsome- Irulan could not forget her tiny body that delivered the final killing blows to the Baron on that fateful day.

And when one of the Council members called upon Irulan the next week, she knew the time had come for her levers to give way to a new prospect.

"We have a message from the Emperor," the Naib explained. "It is a matter of diplomacy." Irulan understood then that powerful houses were in play, for the Fremen did not abide by their rules, nor care to understand the minutiae knowledge required. Her and Paul were necessary, in this way, for Dune to conquer the universe.

Seated in the war room with the message cube, she keyed the face to play noiselessly. Irulan suddenly wished to crawl out of her skin, like she was an enormous bug that had outgrown its carapace. The councilmembers eagerly watched the Princess. Was this a test? She wondered.

Paul's ego-likeness stared out at her while words flashed across his face.

Today I have received a formal complaint by the Bene Gesserit. Reverend Mother Gaius Helene Mohiam had offered to rescind the register with the Great Houses, should I meet with them. What input can Irulan offer in this deal? Send response immediately.

Irulan sniffed, and tugged at her robe under the table. The Sisterhood had not included her in whatever this new scheme was. It became apparent that Irulan was only told what she needed to know. It angered her however, that she had to guess their motives while her cooperation was expected.

Furthermore, Paul's curt directive explained the anxious response by everyone at the council table. Irulan hated that her hand was forced so provocatively with little information.

In the span of a moment, she made a few calculations. She deduced that the Bene Gesserit would only accept a deal that included securing an heir from the Emperor. Whatever claims they made may have some merit- otherwise, Paul would not be considering the deal at all.

It could all still be a farce, to see how Irulan fell. But why now, when he was so far away? And why her, when Paul knew her allegiance? Paul shouldn't care to know Irulan's thoughts on the matter... unless...

Irulan considered the petty response to Paul as a protest to this treatment. She wanted to know what he would think of her silence.

"A promise is only empty if you fail to deliver," she settled on, and crossed her arms. Everyone in the room nodded, taking her statement how she wanted them to interpret it. They thought she suggested he agree to whatever stipulations and then crush them before payment was due. But to Irulan, she was speaking directly between herself and Paul.

The message recorders set up the equipment in front of Irulan to properly take her response. She smoothed her robes, and pratted her braids. She couldn't help a small, sarcastic smile when she spoke into the voice encoder.

Irulan continued to wake from the unknown nightmares. The night after she recorded the message to Paul, she found herself suddenly aware, staring at the hanging silks. It felt as if a cold shroud enveloped her and she shivered violently.

When she closed her eyes again, Paul's ego-likeness from before flashed in her mind. While he was silent before, now he spoke. His voice sounded close by, yet far away at the same time. His eyes were empty, dark sockets. And when he opened his mouth, those delicate red lips framed a mouth dripping with contempt.

"I will show you why I can not fulfill my promise," he rattled. Irulan thought it must be her actual dream- finally. An ominous buzzing sound filled her head. Suddenly, Irulan saw things she had never imagined before: Paul, sitting in his bedroom on Caladan, she assumed. Then, Paul watching his father at dinner, who doted on his mother, Lady Jessica. Another fragment: Paul, fighting a young man on a rocky outcropping in the desert. More came faster and faster, a dizzying blur of happenings all at once.

These images imprinted on her, and wordless understanding was transferred. Irulan opened her eyes to escape the onslaught, and with that she came to the terrible realization she was not asleep.

The fabric above her rustled quietly, the buzzing sound gone now.

She stared at the place Paul had occupied just a moment earlier. Speaking to the emptiness, she said, "that was completely unfair." Maybe he would hear that, half way across the universe, she thought.

Paul held his head in both hands, grasping his dark curls at the roots. He was shaking beneath his half stillsuit. They hadn't needed the water-preserving devices here, but the habit could not be broken out of a true Fremen.

The message cube that had returned from Dune lay on the table next to him. It still played Irulan's words on loop. The faint light from the hologram was stark against the complete darkness of his private chamber.

The pressure for an heir was mounting and he needed a definitive answer. Looking inward, his ancient knowledge told him that his mother planned on wedding his sister to him. He knew the Bene Gesserit were not opposed to debased unions between royalty. Paul's nose wrinkled at the mere suggestion.

Perhaps, a false insemination may work as an option. The witches were only interested in the gene expression, weren't they? They had charged him with atomic weapon usage to place themselves in this bargaining position. It was risky, as all the houses dabbled in small transgressions like these and would not like to entertain the Sisterhood in the same manner.

Paul thought of Chani, whom he promised his only lover. It was pathetic, he knew, to continue a one-sided charade with her. At this point, he understood he only clung to possibilities that would never materialize, even if he could not admit it aloud. These future pasts were the last remaining pangs of devotion. He had to chart a new course on the dunes of time if he were to continue. The final door had closed on that nostalgic future. Shai-hulud promised fresh sand, if he chose to ride them.

Finally, his mind arrived again to Irulan. His wife in name only. Her words had cut to the heart of the matter: he had cornered himself into this play. She was a keen creature, and that is why he kept her close. But even as he retreated into the smoke and blood of the Jihad, she was close on his heels.

Her reports came flowing in not long after his departure. She commented on stately affairs, created expert analyses, and even conducted operations that had stymied uprisings in the city. The princess did all of this without complaint or recognition. It was she who had suggested a separation of state and religion, foreseeing future degradations with the changing culture.

The princess should have been the Empress. She was a paragon of duty to the government. While she had not consummated Paul's marriage, she certainly had to the state. Paul weakly felt that some time in the distant future, Irulan may even be considered the Empress de facto and de jure. He licked his lips.

Paul sat up in the darkness and clicked the message off. He stretched his tired limbs wary from the day's events.

In bed, Paul imagined Irulan's form next to him. She took on the visage of that day she was poisoned. He traced her silhouette, lingering on those transverse crests and troughs along her body. He fell asleep aching for answers he could not recall.

Chapter Text

The Emperor was truly a fickle creature, much to my own annoyance. While others saw him as a God, I saw him as a human act. He did tell me once that an ancient saying went thusly: "All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players. They have their exits and their entrances; And one man in his time plays many parts."

An excerpt from Irulan's personal collection, believed dated ~10290 AG

After the first message from Paul, more trickled in slowly from the Emperor. He had also provisioned a portable message encoder for Irulan, delivered by a Fremen guard. Instead of addressing her through the Council, the Princess now received personal recordings to her private quarters.

They were always short like the first one. And Paul had that demanding whine even wordless text conveyed plainly to Irulan. She pushed the small cube across her desk with her index finger. It was no larger than her fist, and made out of a silicon plastic with a dark lens in the middle which housed the hologram components.

Today, Paul asked about the weather on Arrakis. The princess had raised her eyebrows reading the short scrawl of text. It was a break from his usual business of guarded, thinly-veiled attempts for information on the Bene Gesserit. She could not sense any double entendre in his meaning, as fond as he was of doing so.

She had returned a summary of the week's storms and average daily temperature readings, along with humidity which was closely watched now that the terraforming had begun.

A voice simmering far below within her called out. It suggested that Irulan should try harder to capture his attention. She shrugged.

Only a year ago Irulan was making any desperate attempt to draw Paul's eye. She had sent him angry notes, whispered desperately in passing meetings, and even attempted to force contact. Paul had been calm and collected throughout, handling her like a misbehaving child. This only antagonized her further, and soon she exhausted herself from failed attempts.

Irulan's ego had suffered enough. It was painful to recall her losses in those early days. She had wanted to accept her role in the background, but still the Bene Gesserit continually pushed her onto the field. And now, she was realizing after her meeting with Alia, that she wanted him more than ever.

It was precisely the ache in her heart that stopped her from considering Paul's actions as anything but empty formality. She would not allow her feelings to win in this arena. Because Paul would never come willingly.

The protein catalytic she administered had a half life of 3 standard months. If Paul were to return soon, she may still have a chance to play its counterpart. But he was despondent; no excuses would tarry him to return, Irulan guessed. She picked up the voice encoder and added at the end: "how fares the weather on your planet?"

Then, she pulled out a notebook from the recesses of the desk drawer and opened it to a fresh page.

"I don't think I have ever asked Paul a personal question- how many more can say this isn't true for themselves? I have grown accustomed to watching him closely, as he watches me, and extrapolating the smallest details.

More recently, Paul has been completely disarmed by the abandonment of Chani. I was caught off guard while searching in the storekeeps 2 standard months past. He had been crying, and I was scared.

To see the Emperor so vulnerable changed something in me."

Irulan considered her motives with the Bene Gesserit, struggling to resolve the diametrically opposed viewpoints she possessed.

She sighed and lay down her pen. A flutter in her center stirred whenever she was near Paul. The claws of desire reached out, out, to that remote space he was at all times. When they failed to find purchase, they instead turned on her heart and squeezed.

The Sisterhood encouraged these feelings but only to the extent that it favored their plans. Personal affections were a means to an end. She was a means to an end, and another would replace her if she disappeared.

Her family was another thing to consider. Could she forgive herself if she gave in fully to her own desires? The Emperor had tossed her mother and father back to Salusa Secundus where they would live in the shadows for the rest of their days. Irulan had use for the Bene Gesserit too, if she wanted revenge.

The princess thought once more of that sad, forlorn face with soft tumbling dark curls crowning it. She chewed on her lip. They both were so lonely. Together they shouldered the Empire, even if they were apart.

"I find it difficult to disassociate myself from the closest person to me. While Paul may not call me by wife, we are irrevocably joined.

Perhaps, there is a bargain we can strike that satisfies all parties,"

she finished half-heartedly.

Another message arrived from Paul that night. This one was sent in quick succession, as Irulan's reply hadn't enough time to reach him. She blinked blearily at the floating message delivery box hovering next to her bed. It glowed red on the edges, indicating it was unread.

She held her finger on the print pad. It clicked open smoothly and she extricated the holo cube.

It read:

"You will leave at once with me when I arrive. We must see the Reverend Mother. Wait at the landing bay attached to my quarters."

Irulan immediately scuttled off her bed. The guard who delivered the message had disappeared, leaving her to scramble in the dim light of the spice lamps alone. She pulled a thin silk coat over her underclothes, shivering.

Even though the hot summer months approached, the Keep remained a damp earthen coolness. The princess stumbled into a pair of whale fur moccasins and walked to Paul's quarter. Her head was pounding when she entered the bay.

A lone thopter stood at the far end of the bay area. Its wings beat lightly thump thump thump. In the gloom, sand and dust had been thrown up in the disturbance of the recent landing. Irulan hugged herself tighter. She realized there were no guards, servants, or any royal entourage accompanying this midnight rendezvous.

Slowly, she shuffled to the aircraft, uncertain.

"Excuse me?" She called loudly towards the dark cockpit windows.

The only answer was the tail dock opening at the back of the craft. A lean figure stepped out, lithe like a panther.

"I see you don't have any suitable clothes. No matter, I will take care of that. Now, come." Paul's voice was unmistakable with his powerful inflections of the Voice. He always danced on the knife's edge of complete control. Irulan resisted the residual compulsions from his command and waited a moment before she followed.

He disappeared into the thopter and closed the door behind her remotely. Inside, it was empty as well. A few supplies were stacked into the corner, but the seats had a thin layer of dust. Irulan perched herself on the edge of one and waited.

The cockpit was separated from the cargo hold where Irulan sat. Paul had closed the plastic door on her. The thopter shuddered and Irulan could feel it gaining elevation. She wrapped her coat tighter.

Now that she was fully awake, her mind started racing. It smelled of cinnamon and smoke in the curiously empty thopter. She scanned for a source, looking for a spice barrel, but found none. If they were going to see Mother Mohiam, she thought, this thopter was only the first leg of the journey. Soon, they would be on a guild heighliner.

Irulan leaned back stiffly in her chair. The desert heat outside slowly trickled in, making her sweat. Perhaps stillsuits were practical, she thought with irritation, as a bead trickled over her brow.

The ship kept a steady pace for some time. Her thin clothes began sticking in places and Irulan worried about the loss of water. She got up hesitantly, but a sudden boiling anger fueled her next steps to the cockpit where Paul silently controlled the ship.

She banged on the door in frustration.

"Where are we going, Paul Atreides?" She seethed.

There was a small window which she peered into presently. At first, the light from the rising sun blinded her. Then, she made out Paul's slim figure against the rolling dunes. His face was uncovered and he stared out ahead to navigate.

Quickly, he looked back at her through the door's window. Irulan saw that his mouth hung loosely, slightly agape and jaw relaxed.

The door swung open. Paul must have clicked the magnetics holding it shut to depolarize. The sun felt like an iron to her hot skin. The clothes she had worn to bed last night were sheer silks, bias cut and short for the heat. Now, they looked like melting foam in the dawn. Irulan thought to cover herself, but her pride would not permit it.

Paul, on the other hand, looked away. Those claws of desire within Irulan itched to finally wrap around the man standing in front of her.

"Tell me where we are going," she breathed.

He glanced at her once more, careful to meet her eyes.

"We will go to a ship I have procured. I do not trust the Guild to take us without more stipulations tacked on," he explained.

Irulan flared even higher now. Did he truly mean to bring about their certain death? What the Emperor was suggesting seemed impossible even for the Kwisatz Haderach.

"What..." she trailed off, unable to finish. She began to massage her temples.

Paul stole a small probing look over her, then returned to the navigation.

"I said I would take care of it. We have no other choice," he said softly.

The absurdity of such a statement made Irulan laugh lightly. It was a nervous sound, tittering on sarcasm.

"You can't be serious."

"I am. Look now, there it is." She followed his hand pointing in the distance. A small freight ship loomed on the horizon. Was anyone on it?

"You.. you mean to tell me that we are about to cross space-time, completely under your command?"

"It has already been done. I can see it."

She started again, but bit her response down. Somehow, from everything she had witnessed with Paul's powers, she believed him.

While she was contemplating her immediate death if they somehow crossed paths with another aircraft, or worse- a planet, Paul had landed the thopter effortlessly without a lurch.

The rhythmic beat of the wings now slowed and the mechanical hums died down.

"Wait here. I will get your stillsuit." Paul squeezed around Irulan, careful not to touch her. She was slumped against the wall now, holding her ring fingers against her thumbs in a calming sutra.

A few moments later he returned with a dusty suit. It must have been stuffed under one of the chairs in the hold.

"I know this is your first time," he said, eyes down, "but please don't take your clothes off. Many off-worlders think you do when first putting the suit on. That is not the case. Don't worry about the fitting. I will help you when you're ready." She blushed at Paul's words. She did think it would be better to strip... but her water was in the clothes now. She managed to nod and pulled the suit out of his arms.

"Okay," she said, glad to have something to conserve her hydration. After he closed the door, she looked out the cockpit windows.

This is completely insane, she thought, kicking her mocassins off and pulling the suit on. While she was fiddling with a hose coming out of the neck hole, Paul cracked the door.

"Allow me to help you. It's the least I can do," he said sheepishly. She heaved a big sigh, but motioned him in.

The suit was a cool reprieve from the heat. Paul worked around her, starting from her legs. His fingers dextrously pulled on hidden tabs and smoothed various components. Irulan hugged her torso, unable to process the present moment.

When Paul straightened, he simply stared at her. She looked back, suddenly aware of their proximity. The corners of his eyes were slightly downturn, adding to the sadness that clung to them. Those blue within blue orbs seemed to see everything about her, she realized.

He tapped her elbow. Her arms unwound themselves and lay at her sides. Paul took one of her hands and gently checked that the gloves seated correctly. As he worked, his hair tumbled across his forehead, fighting with his hands that continually pushed the strands away. The only sound she could hear now was her own heart beating.

Lastly, Paul studied her neck. He tucked her hair into a scarf, making sure as not to pull her scalp. The way he moved was like a deft athlete, calculating the path to victory. Irulan looked away again, back out the navigation windows.

Breaking the silence, Paul asked: "Ready, Princess?" Like a bubble that popped, Irulan deflated with her title. Again she was reminded of their true nature in this relationship.

"Lead on," she said flatly.

They crossed the sands quickly. A few times, Irulan lost her footing, and Paul was fast to lend a hand out of the shifting grounds.

"You can drink most of your water back now that the suit has had some time to reclaim it," Paul explained, tapping his nozzle.

"Right," she said, and drank deeply. It was warm, but Irulan knew she needed it. The pads on her thighs deflated completely when she was done.

The small freight ship had been left open. They climbered in up the service steps from the port side, instead of the usual bay entry that aristocracy preferred when traveling by these crafts. Irulan attempted to channel her anxiety into excitement for this novel experience.

"May we be more excited for death, then, since it is a novel experience," she muttered under her breath in the control room.

Paul burst into laughter at her words, even though he was quite far from her in this cavernous room. She folded her arms. Instead of responding, she looked at the giant glass cylinder that sat in the center, framed by bare metal pillars from floor to ceiling. There were murky orange stains coating the bottom of the tank. Irulan wrinkled her nose. At the back, a separate glass chamber with control valves connected the outside world to the sealed container.

"It's where the Navigators... sit," he said, reading her question.

"When will you get in?" She snapped back.

He smirked at her but said nothing. Then, Paul started powering on the controls.

Again, Irulan was overcome with fear. She did not want this to be her final moments, alone on a deserted ship with a man who called her wife in name only.

"Wait, Paul," she called. He hovered over the blue glow of the manual buttons and digi displays. "Are you sure this will work?" She asked.

The Emperor straightened and faced her directly. "It isn't me that is sure. It is the future." His posture pacified her completely. His shoulders turned back and he propped one leg out casually. Irulan relaxed a little and walked to him, peering at the HUDs. Paul returned to his work as she approached and started flipping reversals on controls.

"Just to be sure," he murmured, taking a pill from one of his breast pockets. The acrid smell of geriatric spice filled the air as he popped it into his mouth.

The ship had its own gravity generators, which negated any accelerant motion. Paul kneeled forward, becoming entranced in his calculations. The navigation bay was not built for the average human. He worked the fallback mechanisms, because the main board was inside the glass tank. Irulan decided to awkwardly sit next to him on the smooth ground, as there were no other seats in the room.

Then, there was nothing.

Carefree daydreams of a bygone age floated by. They were motes of dust in millions, billions, trillions. The mesh of memories contracted, surged, and paused. Then again: contracting, surging, pausing.

There was no end or beginning, no middle, no side. In that infinite field; Irulan was what was missing. Her space was the absence of space. She was the tangent line that ran along an uncountable slope.

Her skin was the shore which the ocean lapped from all sides. Never once did the waves crash or break, they surrendered to her gravity and moved as one.

"Where is Now?" She asked, confused by her own question.

"Now is where I choose, in this non-linear place." Irulan felt the tug of recognition.

"Where are we going, then?" she countered.

A new wave sensated her. With it, came a vision of Irulan and Paul intertwined. His delicate hands caressed her eyelids. She clawed his back with her nails. Meanwhile, their mouths searched along their necks for those tender vulnerable spots.

"That's... me," Irulan said.

"Yes."

Her body-less form would not allow her to leave. Irulan had no eyes to shut, no lungs to breathe, no head to shake.

"Once I love, I love forever, Irulan," Paul's voice faded softly in the distance.

The ship swam up into her consciousness as soon as it had left. A loud POP sounded as some straggling molecules were forced out of the way by the ship's appearance. Paul had also moved countless volumetric tonnes of space while calculating their path. She let her mouth hang open in shock at his abilities.

"That was incredible," she said simply. Meanwhile, Paul extricated himself from the trance and slowly returned to his feet.

"We Atreides are expert navigators, I suppose," he said thoughtfully, rubbing the ducal ring on his finger.

"Come, Irulan. We have much to discuss and preparations to make," Paul called from the exit.

Chapter Text

The Emperor often sought Irulan for counsel, to allow him to see in places his ancestral knowledge could not. The Bene Gesserit program allowed some margin of error in the Kwisatz Haderach, surprisingly. It was in his name: the Emperor of the Known Universe. And we all have some unknowns that reside in each of us. Even Paul Atreides came to accept that.

The Chronicles of Paul Atreides and Irulan Corrino, excerpt taken from foreword by Berlioz Tranchfort, AG 10,407

A glittering city loomed over the outdoor landing bay where Paul and Irulan exited the space craft presently. Paul had explained to the Princess that he had bought a smuggler ship and secured a concealed voyage to Ix while they waited for a towing vehicle. For all intents and purposes, no one knew their true identity upon arrival.

Such circumstances were common to the planet Ix, where they re-birthed men from dead flesh and facedancers outnumbered the still-faces, they were called, in some areas. Paul and Irulan's obvious disguise as fremen smugglers carting their stolen spice was but a sandgrain within a dune on this planet of performers.

The weather was fair, albeit for a whipping wind that could be heard whistling through the buildings nearby. The port bustled with people dressed in colorful garb. Their clothes were more stiff than the silks of choice on Dune but more revealing. Here, all sorts of bodies were cinched or boned to accentuate the natural inclinations of full bosoms and backs.

Once, Irulan had traveled here as a youth. Her father had taken the opportunity to educate her on the ilk of the lower caste at the time. He had wanted to strike fear in her, by parading her through the favelas on their floating palanquin, she recalled.

"These are the people you must understand, Irulan," he remarked blithely, looking past the masses that peered up in astonishment at their wealth. "They must fear you above all. Love never conquers."

Irulan sat quietly through her Father's sermon. He explained the strategies that secured total victories again and again to her; drawing upon their family history, philosophy, and quoting Bene Gesserit scriptures. Instead of offering any conversation, Irulan resolved to observe and draw her own conclusions in silence.

Now, she had a completely different companion to guide her through this city. On foot, Paul navigated them to a service street near the landing dock. He was quick and silent, stopping Irulan wordlessly without explanation other than a fingered "wait" command. She figured it was his pre-scient vision allowing them to walk unseen away from any prying passerby in the streets.

Industrial and manufacturing tenencies eventually gave way to towering apartment quarters. The view from the streets was more daunting than the one Irulan had in the palanquin above the city. Up there, she had a place in this world. The people knew who she was and she knew them. In this stillsuit under the guise of a smuggler, Irulan could be anyone. The temporary loss of identity made her uncomfortable. She longed for a library to acclimatize herself to Ix.

There was no such library waiting for her at the apartment Paul had arranged. They were located in a top-floor suite that was furnished lavishly, however. He had let themselves in.

Once safely inside, Paul and Irulan peered around in the entry salon. The walls boasted of luscious red nightlillies against a black wash in a beautiful sandstone glass mosaic. The seating consisted of rich laqcuered wood creaking under black upholstery sprawling across dark tiles. It smelled faintly of crushed may roses.

Irulan found a vanity room that connected to the front entry hall. In it, she was glad to see that someone had laid out clothes for her. She wondered when Paul had taken care of that.

He broke the silence by clearing his throat behind her. She whirled around, suddenly startled. Paul continued without acknowledging her surprise.

"I sent word ahead while we traveled by thopter," he said, reading her mind. Irulan narrowed her eyes slightly, now paranoid.

He went on, waving vaguely towards the clothes: "I am sure these will be sufficient."

"I'll need someone to dress me," she replied matter-of-factly. "Where are the servants-"

"Arriving shortly," he cut off her question with how fast he answered. Paul motioned to a room past the hall.

"Shall we?" He asked, and started walking past.

In the dining hall, the light from the system's star cast short shadows, high in the sky outside. Irulan noticed how the wind ever so slightly buffeted the building. Down below, the city took on a parallax effect from their vantage point on the top floor, 100 stories up. The unsteady ground perturbed her after the long residence at the Keep on Dune.

Paul sat with his back to the viewing windows. Fatigue had wracked his body after their journey. His back hunched slightly, and he wiped at his eyes. To Irulan, it had been less than half a day since she departed. But she was sure his condition multiplied the effects of time on his physical form- and few people knew the reality of the effort to fold space.

She chose a floating shell chair across from him at the table chiseled from ocean corals. The glowglobes in this room were styled as sea anemones. In the bright light however, they were powered off waiting in corner alcoves. The decor of the apartment reminded her strongly of her home on Kaitain, which was constantly designed and re-designed by the top Ixian depeche modas. Irulan sighed and held her chin in her hand, waiting for Paul.

He avoided her eyes as he spoke. "I plan to make an offer to the Bene Gesserit. I want to hear what you think before I do, however," he said.

A few moments passed, and Irulan felt like she missed a beat. Before she could ask him to continue, Paul started again. Her heart started drumming in her chest.

"They want my heir. You know it, I know it. He paused again. "I can offer only my seed in this transaction," his hands had curled into fists as he finished his thought.

The princess wanted to interject now- surely he-

"I know they will have arguments," he held his hands up now. "I know. I can see it. I am tired of seeing all that will be. So I ask you: what do you think? Let us move to places unseen with your answer. I can only see what I am expecting." Finally, he steepled his hands at the table, still avoiding her eyes.

"I think it's a terrible idea," she said flatly, nostrils flared. Her pride bubbled up in response. What did he expect her answer to say?

"Why?" He slowly drew out.

"Why?" She scoffed, temper rising in her throat. "They will never accept that in any form. The Bene Gessetit mean to capture the soul, not the animal base act. They don't want your- your-" she began stumbling now, at the topic- "semen. They want the sum of the parts, the greater whole." She crossed her arms now, stewing.

"Fine. I see you have nothing to add that I am not already aware of," he said cooly.

Irulan was overcome with suppressed anger. She was tired of Paul's imperious habits, the way he grated with his self-imposed restrictions. Irulan knew the truth: he had no idea what he was doing but was too deluded to take any legitimate action to solve his problems.

"What do you want me to say, your Highness?" She hissed, "All of your ideas will come to fruition and you will be victorious? Surely you have enough followers to parrot those lines to you," Irulan grew in intensity as she continued.

"Look at me," she commanded, her voice talking on a shiver of power like the Reverend Mother herself. Instantly, to her great satisfaction, he met her eyes. She had always wanted this: to hold sway over a man.

"Do you know they plan to mate you with your sister?" Paul recoiled at her words, the first real break from his stoicism. His mouth downturned into disgust.

"Of course not," she spat. "There, surely that satisfies the new input you seek."

The distance between them felt like Paul had unfolded space between their places at the table, as if he had undone his spacetime calculations and left her on the other side of the equation.

"Go," he said quietly. "You will accompany me to call on the Reverend Mother tomorrow."

At once, Irulan stalked out of the room into one of the private chambers.

When the second sun finally dipped under the horizon, Irulan allowed her eyes to close in the canopied bed of her private room. The servants had arrived quietly, indigenous Ixians who made no indicaction they knew her and Paul's true identities. They had addressed her as "Lady" and she didn't correct them.

Soon, their secret journey would be dispelled once they announced themselves in the Reverend Mother's court on the morrow. The twilit scene from her windows bade her goodnight as the princess fell into a deep sleep after their trip across space.

The wind that howled outside slowly shifted to a soft sea tide. It came at comfortable intervals, like a meditative breath. Unseen windchimes twinkled in natural unison. Ix had no satellite bodies. However, at this time of the planet's rotation around its sun, the closest neighboring planet could be seen quite clearly and in detail.

The massive planet rose above the city truncated by a thin white line at its equator. The blue orb had an imposing ring that was perfectly aligned with the viewing plane of Ix. The ring of crystalline shards sliced across two perfect, swirling halves of the gas giant. Lightning storms raged on its surface, giving the magnificent planet a trembling, ethereal glow.

A millennium in the future predicted that Ix and this planet would joinder, the previous becoming the latter's moon, of which there were many. Even now, the powerful pull of its gravity was evident. Ixian mentats calculated that their planet was slightly elongated from the forces. These heavenly affairs explained the high winds and unique tidal ryhthms experienced on the surface, as well.

Irulan's door clicked open softly. Whispers of the dead dispersed from the doorway, bringing with them a man. His figure hunched over as he struggled to close the door behind him. For some time, he leaned his head against its cold surface. Slowly, Paul turned to face Irulan in bed. She lay on her side, dreaming eyes closed on him.

He silently crossed the room to the bedside. Dark shadows of ancestral memories cried out for attention in his mind. Paul tamped them down. Gingerly, he slid onto the duvet that covered the Princess's body. Her tiny mouth hung slightly ajar. He tapped the pressure points on her face that would drive her into the delta phase of sleep: one for the bridge of her nose and two for her cheeks. At once, a long sinuous breath expelled through her nose, indicating she would not wake.

"I'm sorry," he whispered hoarsely. "Please forgive me." Tears began to trickle down his face and onto his arm propped beneath him. Paul lay there without a stillsuit exposed to the outside world. Latent emotions crushed him from all sides, begging him to choose one to succumb.

Silent riddles rattled in his mind like those warning snakes on the dunes. He was the hot sand that baked in the sun and scalded those soft parts of the flesh that dared to touch. Snakes, however, had endured, just like their brethren worms below. Thoughts of violence and of love slithered along his surface now.

Paul considered what Irulan had said. Was it wise to give the Bene Gesserit absolute control of his genes, even if it was not the exact prize they sought? He only assumed Irulan would take it- perhaps he had not been direct enough. His wife's thoughts only solidified the horrific reality of this deal: it was a trap laid perfectly for him. Would he be complicit in the disgusting plot?

"Thank you for your words of wisdom," he continued from before. A hand flashed out in his psyche, pouncing on his willpower. Paul involuntarily shuddered from the mental strain. Then, he choked out: "There is only one path forward. The path we have always known," attempting to unlatch the grips that held him tightly. They urged him to intimate his wife, his sleeping audience. Before he could be moved to do his ancestors' bidding, Paul fled the room.

Irulan found herself tumbling down a windswept Dune. On that slipshod slope, her skin burned where it touched the sand. She tried to right herself and surf down on her heels, but lost her balance once more. A hissing sound could be heard from her left and right. When she glanced over, Irulan saw snakes carried along in the sand avalanche with her. Their heads were wizened faces of ancient great grandfathers and grandmothers, mouths open to strike.

Her screams hollowed out against the bright sky. Uselessly, Irulan clawed at the falling sand, swallowing the pain of the heat. The skin on her hands felt as if was boiling away and crisping at the remaining edges. It was a useless endeavor as sand beget sand and Irulan fell down, down.

Finally, the Princess looked towards her destination. She saw Paul at the bottom, his hands outstretched to catch her. He was not in the familiar stillsuit, but dressed in a militant deep green cloak of the Atreides' style. His forlorn figure reached fervently past the snakes that roiled on the ground below. They threatened to overtake him, seething at his feet. Paul's blue eyes steadied on Irulan despite the peril of their poisonous bites.

At the base of the slope, Irulan fell into those arms. Instantly, they were transported to an ephemeral existence. They were wisps of sheer fabric floating on a mild zephyr.

"Why do you choose these self-defeating futures?" She asked lazily.

"I have told you my precise weaknesses already, " he said, with a lifting humorous tone.

"And I have suggested you seek different council," she laughed, and pulled Paul close. Her hands held his small waist with ease. Where she touched him, the heat burns from earlier dissipated.

"Yes, my wife, I am listening," he tossed his hair slightly in boyish defiance.

"Good. Listen well then: do not give in to those selfish desires so easily. They only produce the levers the Sisters mean to control." Irulan was shocked at her own revelation. They were both pawns in a game of chess that began thousands of years past.

Paul chuckled. "My wife is right again. But our flesh will do as it must," he finished. The Emporer touched her cheek. His other hand slipped past the sheer nightdress to caress her thigh. Irulan keened in response, tilting her hips. Meanwhile, Paul grew more frenzied nipping at her mouth, neck, shoulders with his sharp teeth.

Suddenly she awoke at dawnbreak.

The garments that had been laid out for her in the boudoir yesterday were now in various states of dress on Irulan's body. Two servants fitted a colorful girdle under her breasts, which lay exposed in true Ixian gentry fashion. The girdle held up a flowing tiered skirt that gave the effect of a tropical climate fish's dorsal fins. Her dress rippled in the sunlight, scales of deep purples changing to vibrant azuls.

The two women who dressed her had sensed the hesitancy Irulan held, waiting for something to cover her chest. When they were finished, they reassured her that all royal women of the court held the highest privilege of her clothing. They continued to adorn her with compliments as they pinned her hair with opalescent shells and pink mother-of-pearls.

Irulan only smiled at the Ixian servants. Her Bene Gesserit training had taught her that teasing an audience with her body was ideal- never to show her power outright. While she had worn revealing garments before her betrothal, she had never fully committed to baring her skin without any cover. Even a thin gauze would do in this situation. The Reverend Mother would take this choice as an open affront to their private alliance, which worried Irulan.

The closets and dressing rooms were empty, Irulan checked them one by one before their departure. She waited alone for Paul, who had mysteriously disappeared in the night. The servants announced he would return with vehicles for their transportation.

When he arrived, Irulan was ushered into a sleek gravity car. Of course, Paul elected himself to drive. He was standing in the cockpit, fiddling with the controls.

"Good Morning, Princess," he said in a low voice. He did not even glance in her direction. Irulan settled into a reclining chaise next to the open compartment that Paul occupied. She rolled her eyes, but returned the greeting. The servants behind them remained quiet.

They soon arrived at the central palace and Paul announced himself over the airwave communications. After he had finished his titles, a short pause followed by a new voice- the commander of air traffic on Ix- assured the Emperor of the Known Universe that he could land on the primary dock reserved for esteemed guests.

A chaotic flurry of court members, militia, and servants greeted their party in the landing bay. Paul turned to give his wife a proper heralding, but was completely arrested when he finally looked to her. It lasted for a moment, but long enough for Irulan to notice. He seemed to drink her in, passing his eyes over breasts and finishing at the bottom of her skirts. Irulan raised an eyebrow at him, but he turned away and declared her titles matter-of-factly.

Irulan took note of his choice in garb: a dusty stillsuit from the day's before. The hand-crafted leather and plastic carried a certain message Paul wished to evoke since he called Dune his home. However, despite Paul's odd decision is dress, their outfits mirrored the court surrounding them now. The women all bared their chests, and the men dressed conservatively in comparison. The princess let her shoulders relax a little. The Ix seemed accepting of fashion faux pas, as they were responsible for the constant new artistry introduced to the courts.

A silky man introduced himself as this house's Bashar, and led Paul and Irulan to a dining room.

"We have the freshest meats of the fruit this morning, your Graces," he sang. A table had been set with a delicious display of pineapples, coconuts, guavas, lychees, mangosteen, among other various fruits. Curious seating was sidled right up to the edges of the ornate table, suggesting a retired pose while one ate from their plate. Irulan had seen this before during her previous visit to Ix. Carefully, she lay on her stomach and reached for a cut of fruit with a silver spit. Her cleavage pushed up against the cushion, and she was glad for a cover as she lay on the table chaise.

Paul stared at her figure as he spoke to the Bashar. "We must meet with the Reverend Mother at once," he intoned. The short man's eyes gleamed as he informed Paul they would need to wait but a moment. Then, Paul excused himself to relieve his human body in the restroom. Irulan said nothing in return, but watched his thin figure until he exited the hall.

Immediately following his departure, a young girl slinked into the room from a service door. She wore the unassuming grey robes of a Bene Gesserit trainee. She flitted like a bird to the table.

They spoke with their hands noiselessly.

"What?" Irulan signed in frustration.

"Take this. The Reverend Mother has asked you to choose wisely" the girl set a small vial of poison on the table. Irulan could see that it was the same as the one she just turned two standard months' prior. It meant they knew she had failed, but Irulan was still an asset. The princess slipped the glass into her pocket. She made the gesture for the girl to leave, which was followed promptly.

Irulan was glad she was left alone with her decision. Paul was still within the inoculation window- another month and the remaining half life of its volatility would dwindle. She bit her lip in thought. The princess considered her options: let Paul move forward with his plan, which forfeited any chance Irulan had if the Bene Gesserit accepted his donation. Surely, they would use his sister for their means if they could control the source of life. Another option would be to gulp this vial down, and let him breathe her scent in these close quarters. It did not guarantee her victory, and if she were to faint again, Paul had the information to deduce the source here.

A knot cinched her stomach below her tight girdle. Irulan was torn. A thought itched her mind, in the racket of all her considerations on the matter. She knew Paul wanted her. Perhaps not with his mind, but Irulan saw the signs of lust in his demeanor. He may have a near-perfect control of his body impulses, but still his physical nature broke through those dams he steadfastly built around himself.

Even if Paul promised his seed to the Reverend Mother today, it would not be delivered for some time. Irulan decided she would observe the outcome before she acted. At that moment, Paul called to her outside the hall for their hearing with Mother Mohiam herself.

The Bashar- Irulan suddenly remembered his name was Felix from her studies of the Great Houses- led them to a great hearing room down the hall. Paul and Irulan walked in unison, side by side, silently following along. Irulan knew he could sense her elevated breathing rhythms, and she focused on creating a calm temper across her face.

Mother Mohiam sat against a screened window, with beautiful wrought gold patterns glinting in the light. Smoke hung in the room from various incense pots that smelled of oud and myrrh. The wizened crone was draped in fine black silks, with sleeves hanging to the floor, and a mask that cascaded gently onto her lap. Her figure was hidden to the eye, and she became a dark hooded tower in the room. Beside her, another woman sat at her feet.

The Lady Jessica gave her son and his wife a hard, searching look, as they entered the room together. Irulan could feel her mother-in-law's gaze cross her body with a hint of judgement. In defiance, the Princess puffed out her chest.

"The Emperor of the Known Universe and his bride," the Reverend Mother broke the silence in the room. She shook her head slightly, and raised her sleeved arm motioning for them to sit.

Irulan followed her order without complaint, bowing slightly before she took a seat. Jessica smiled at her with a practiced sincerity, but Irulan knew a sneer hid beneath her glamors.

Beside her, Paul remained standing in his stillsuit.

"Our last meeting was in such different circumstances," Paul remarked simply, looking to the Reverend Mother. In that ancient way, Paul had known his mother would be here too, Irulan realized. Her fingertips tingled, and she knew she must record today in her journal.

The Lady Jessica glanced at her teacher, then addressed their guests: "You have something to discuss, Paul?" She wore Caladan blue stays, with rippling skirts that bore the resemblance of an ocean wave. Her face was covered by silver chains that tinkled when she opened her mouth to speak. Next to her, Paul seemed a babe looking for more candy. Presently, he scratched at his face before smoothing his expression, perturbed but subdued.

"Yes, I have come to offer my terms to your charade," he said in a clipped tone.

"You assume too much, Emperor," the Reverend Mother cut him off. "We have not opened ourselves to negotiation."

"And it seems you have not opened yourselves to legitimate charges, as well," Paul answered. The Reverend Mother shrugged, an enigma behind her mask.

"I will not argue with a boy," the old woman said finally. "But I will hear an offer, if made."

"Before I bid, I'd like to know something first," Paul stared at the Lady Jessica. She peered back at him with steeled eyes.

"Yes?" His mother asked.

"Is your committing to incest explained by your lineage or by your matronage?" Paul finally spat out, watching the room's reaction. The two witches became very still, unable to communicate through their fingers in front of knowing witnesses.

"Neither. It is only by necessity we consider this option- as you are unwilling to give us another." Jessica held her head high as she finsihed. Irulan could feel blood threatening to blush in her cheeks. Paul froze in silent anger, and Irulan could see the slight movement of muscles flexing underneath his suit.

Eventually, he ground out: "You both disgust me. This is beyond reason. I will not sit idly by as you use my sister in this way. But I cannot do as you want. I have promised myself to another."

A laugh erupted from the Reverend Mother. "The Emperor is still so green. Your genes are the result of the most ancient plan. We have carefully crafted your very essence over thousands of years. If you want to appear grateful, it would be wise to give us this small thing in return for your existence." The Lady Jessica nodded beside her, a dutiful zealot to the cause. Paul looked to her, then the shadowed figure.

"Fine," he muttered. "If it saves my poor sister from your disgraceful machinations. But it will not be today, and it will not be borne of emotion, as you wish. This is merely a transaction. I cannot see another path," he finished in a powerless whisper.

"Thank you, Paul," Jessica beamed at her son. She moved to embrace him, but the Reverend Mother stopped her.

"Don't," she commanded in the voice. Paul fled the room without another word. Irulan got up, refusing to look at her conspirators, and all but ran after him.

Chapter Text

The Emperor's greatest folly was believing he could change fate. Paul, like any human, struggled for control over the destiny of his life force. And Paul, like any human, was swiftly dashed against the rocks by forces quite unstoppable. Unfortunately, he was privy to all possible futures and pasts, mistakes always laid out raw and in detail to his psyche. Over time, I came to see that above all, Paul was a god forced into a mortal container along with all of its limitations.

-Excerpt found in private conversations with the Empress consort, located in a private collection lost to human records. No date exists and scant evidence supports the credibility of these recordings.

Irulan raced through the halls trailing behind Paul.

"Paul- please-" she called out, breathless and shaken. In response, he turned abruptly into an alcove.

The spice was a dry lump in the back of his throat, slowly congealing along his sinus tissues. He had broken a small pill of spice to assist with his future vision in the meeting. As it spread, his mind unfolded exponentially to meet its power. His sight was not only his own, now, but a woven tapestry of threads undulating over and under. Irulan buoyed up in his ocean of possibilities.

"Paul, are you okay?" Irulan asked with a tremor in her voice. She fluttered over him, her hands hovering where she might touch him if circumstances were different.

A wave crested over, new futures washing away the past. His golden headed wife occupied the space he did not, impressed upon his flesh. His retinas burned with future after-images. The moon in his vision fell, cratered into his chest. In response, he felt his hands vaguely clutch beneath him.

Between two horizons Paul straddled now. He was the seemingly endless sky holding the world together. How delicate the movements he must make to avoid total annihilation. In the darkness lay his love, his mother, and those contentious ancestors of Harkonnen blood. They fell one by one, dripping with the thick sanguine humor of the dead. The only path forward that remained was golden.

A small sliver of light illuminated the land beneath him, beckoning him to his inevitability. It twisted and snaked like those loose strands that betrayed her head. Gold, like the Spring. Gold, like those ancient tablewares of Terra, now brass and crumbled with age. It never stays, but it was Here and Now. She spoke again, louder.

"Paul-" Irulan reached out a shaking hand to her husband. Tears streamed down his face, half hidden in the shadows. Guards and servants clamored down the hall now towards them. She tore away her gaze from Paul's eyes and looked towards the approaching group.

Gently, Paul lowered her hands with his. In the moment she looked away, he had steeled himself.

"We shall take our leave now," Irulan spoke to the Bashar, Felix, who was now bringing up the rear of the house's servants. He smiled and bowed in return.

"Of course, Empress" he sang.

Paul said nothing by her side.

As they walked down to the landing pad, the servants peeled off one by one, leaving only the spritely man that greeted them upon their arrival. In the transport hall, their footsteps echoed off the cavernous, marble walls. The Bashar then stopped abruptly, and pulled out a cone silencer. He activated it without comment. Irulan watched Paul, who calmly waited for the next moment to arrive.

The man standing opposite of them suddenly changed. His face bubbled and wiped into a completely new one. Immediately, Paul understood the Bashar was a planted Facedancer. Perhaps he had only just replaced the man too- for a moment of conversation.

"Apologies, your Grace. I am Scytale, and I represent the Bene Tleilax." He bowed, revealing a balding head where once there was hair. "Us Tleilaxu have been watching the events that have transpired, Muad'Dib, and we can not help but wonder- how we may assist?" Scytale cocked his head to the side, and bit his thumb in thought.

This moment was not in his visions, Paul considered. He saw the Bashar, and he saw Irulan and him boarding their flight car, but this conversation never happened. Every nerve in his body listened, clawing for information to feed into his mentat calculations. How could he have missed a mortal enemy of the Ix inserting themselves on their central federated planet?

"Go on," he breathed. The longer they waited, the more his vision could change. The golden strands of time shimmered like gossamer on a sunny day.

"We are a people who worship creation. You have seen our inventions: we give new sight to the blind, we rebirth the dead, we can even dance to the living and take new forms." Scytale smiled again now, flashing bright teeth. "There are many more services we provide, for the right price," he continued, eyes wandering hungrily over Irulan.

"Oh," Paul said non-commitally. He was looking past the short man into the reception area. As if he was a sand merchant on Arrakis peddling cups of fine grit.

"Would his Great Eminence and God Emperor consider a gift from Tleilax? As a token of our mutual interests, of course." The lithe man stroked his face, waiting leisurely in the hall.

"And what would those mutual interests be?" Paul asked, perturbed. Irulan noticed his eyes darken beneath his waves of hair. It was a genuine question, she deduced, which puzzled her.

"We too want to give birth to a universe that accommodates our existence," the facedancer re-adjusted the silencing cone, fidgeting with its placement. "We would offer a proxy service for you and your Empress, to ensure a smooth delivery of what you promised here today," he continued with a smirk.

Information percolated quickly in Paul's calculations. The Bene Tleilax suggested an unprecedented solution to the Bene Gesserit demands. A distant crest in time revealed to him a perfect ego copy of himself. In that vision, a proxy Paul lay between Irulan's legs, completely enraptured. He thrust into her with perfect even motions. And his wife- all too eager to enjoy the facade. Paul could hear the thumping of her heart from the future vision.

A knot formed in his physical core as he dissected the scene in the span of a nanosecond. His hollowed version played the part well. The smell of Irulan wafted to his vantage point across the valley of time. Sweet, oceanic brine gnawed his senses and suggested memories of the past he would rather keep locked away. The Bene Gesserit may even accept this tribute, Paul knew. If Irulan believed this crafted ghola- his copy - impregnated with Paul's seed, her conception may capture the essence of their union.

Despite the qualities this offering boasted, Paul hesitated. The voices returned in full force, ripping into his mind. Howling, cursing, cringing, they rent a hole of doubt. "You must not contempt reality," they chorused. "Take her, take her," they urged.

Careening off the edge, Paul swept away the vision, unable to bear the possibility any longer. Instead, he coaxed the sand into orderly raked lines, slowly removing the Tleilaxan blot. Grain by grain, Paul replaced his double with himself. The sand danced and sang with resonant frequency. Finally, it was he who pushed into Irulan with a crescendo of boundless energy.

In a second, Paul had decided fate.

"I can not accept such a gift," he muttered, hardening his mouth into a thin line.

"Of course, your grace, " Scytale deflated. He bowed curtly, and switched off the cone of silence. "You are most welcome to the planet of Ix," he finished, now the Bashar again.

Waves crashed from within Paul. He felt the water trickle through his lineage, those ligatures that cradled the DNA living in his cells. The sweet brine was persistent and soon permeated everything. An unfamiliar moon glittered across his surface. And ever present was the blood of the Holy War, unrelenting and red.

"Your services were much appreciated, Felix," Paul murmured, and turned away to the gravity car.

He parted the air with new weight this time. Usually, the demarcation between himself and the outside was a suggestion. His vision opened him to a higher dimension, and with it, secret states of being. Now however, he felt a young boy again trying to take up space. His place, or rather many places, had been knocked over and demanded swift replacements.

Paul jolted out of this reverie when Irulan tugged his stillsuit behind. They were in the car now.

"Paul, where do we go?" Irulan asked, eyes searching his. Behind her glistening teeth was a wet mouth perfect for the present lingua franca. He marveled her. As he looked, an outpouring of thoughts added to his growing density.

"Please," she seemed to say. The voices harmonized with Irulan: "Pleeeease," they pitched. The buzzing returned, relentless. He seized the voice now, both in mind and reality.

Irulan yelped slightly when he pushed her savagely into the passenger side wall. Paul could feel her girdle cutting into his suit below. And above her waist, her bosom lay bare still, nipples hard. Irulan's arms hung helplessly at her sides, pinned down by his strong hands.

"You..." he breathed into the shell of her ear. The condensation from his breath pooled in the crook of her neck, where he poised to strike.

Paul reversed the flow of their thoughts, like paddling upriver to the mouth of her flow. He showed her the vision from before, his ghola copy slowly giving way to Paul's actualization. Somewhere, vaguely, his wife's breath hitched.

"You," he repeated, his voice tender. His lips grazed the soft skin of her neck as he spoke. Paul couldn't see, but he knew gooseflesh had raised on her arms. He smiled in the dark alcove beneath her golden hair.

The siren-crones of his past warbled put of sight now, metabolizing his genes. He felt the strange sensation of destiny again in this moment. The Jihad would be wrapped in gold. Irulan trembled beneath him now, privy to the forbidden knowledge his birthright granted.

With one kiss, his lips on her neck eased the spirits buzzing in his mind. A final spasm rent through his body, rutting against Irulan, before the voices stopped.

Paul separated from her, staunched their connection, and pulled up his scarf.

"You didnt answer my question," the Empress demanded. Her eyebrows knit together in a frown, and her hands on her hips now.

"You will address me as your Emperor," Paul replied tonelessly, "We will return to Dune presently." Paul flipped on the controls of the car.

Again at the controls of the heighliner he and Irulan had used to voyage to Ix, Paul had several messages on the console delivered by the dock custodians. These types of messages were generally reserved for perimeter notifications and general knowledge for the staff of these great ships.

However, there was no other way to contact Paul presently, as he and his wife had no entourage. He clicked the first message open.

The letter cube unfolded smoothly, and flicked on a fuzzy ego-likeness of Stilgar.

"Usul," he said, hiding a budding panic in the tone of his voice, "where have you gone? Let me send with you the Fedaykin who have sworn your protection," Stilgar's messages were always short and pointed.

Paul touched another message. It was Stilgar, again.

"Muad'Dib, they tell me you have journeyed alone to Ix. How could you have done so? Our charter with the Guild is yet to leave port..." the old Fremen's head shook, and he reached a hand to his brow. The message ended.

A final message remained- the former Sietch Tabr Naib looked into the recorder through disheveled hair. "Usul, you... You have tamed a time worm, I am told. Another victory for the Fremen across many worlds." He hesitated, "Please, return to us and lead us. The Fedaykin long for the blood of our enemies and the Qizarate demand attention," finishing stronger in voice at the mention of the Jihad.

The plastic cubes clattered to the floor with a wide sweep of Paul's arm. Even in anger, he was graceful. Always, that weirding way held his movement, constantly attending to his motions in space.

"FUCK!" Paul's body shook with the scream he allowed to escape. He doubled over, pounding the navigation board. A sea of images toppled over with him, flowing through his mind now with unwavering force.

Irulan watched his reaction from a distance in the navigation room. Paul was only just aware of her, receding from the shore of reality. The spice had reached its second peak in his metabolic consumption rate. He entered the super-reality of time and space once again. Paul took this moment to seize an easy opportunity to fold space once more. Compared to his maiden voyage, the path to Arrakis was smooth sailing.

The haze of possibilities cleared leaving a geodesic path Paul could trace to the outward bounds of the universe. He approached the final toric event horizon that would free the ship from the shackles of physical laws. Slowly, he steered the ship through the folding portal.

What followed can not be described linearly, relatively, or generally. The ship acted like a bottle with no opening or closing, no end or beginning, that had been smashed. It swooped and cinched in 12 dimensions, then suddenly liquid began to fill its infinite volume. At last, a limit was reached, and the heighliner seized at the other side of the fold.

Paul found his eyes again and blinked. He peered behind him and saw Irulan slumped against the giant, spice-stained tank. Presently, Paul stood and walked over to her limp body. She was breathing evenly, but was unconscious. He picked her up, holding her body in his arms, and made his way to the internal dock. The comms already were thick with cheers and garbled commands from his Fedaykin perimeter team.

Irulan's face tucked into his chest while he carried her. Her dress bunched at her waist, where she bent slightly to curve into his grasp. The iridescent fins of her skirt cascaded down, trailing between Paul's dusty still suit. He felt the smooth skin of her bare legs in his hand. Tightly, he held her close.

The spice was wearing off again, bringing back the heaviness of existence here in the aircraft. Paul examined his wife's face, feeling her with his keener senses. Her life force was coming out of suspension slowly. He had phased her molecules through a toric event horizon with a speed and effectiveness unseen even by Guild Navigators. Any knowing party would advise against such a folly, but Paul was glad to know Irulan came out unscathed. Her eyes fluttered, threatening this quiet moment.

Paul continued walking with her, his gait straddling the bundled skirts. They were almost to the internal docking station where passenger ships and towing craft parked. The bay was not completely open air. They walked down an aisle, glass windows at one side that looked out to the staging area. Outside the glass, an exposed ship hull encased the various vehicles, with an outline of a great airlock at the opposite end.

He had not yet seen Arrakis again with his human eyes. Behind the airlock, he knew the desert planet hung in space, waiting for their return. Paul felt as if he was filling with sand slowly, like the bottom half of those ancient hour glasses from Terra. Time had turned on him. Again, it had humbled him, flaunting its power to change and remain uncontrollable.

In his arms lay the indisputable evidence of Time's power and his powerlessness. She kept still. Perhaps she too recognized the solemnity of this moment.

"She will not have softness of glance, nor instance of desire," he said of her. The same flesh now held her, longed for her.

Paul sucked the air through his teeth and sighed. He had seen lifetimes with his beloved Chani. He had stood with her in the morning sun at Sietch Tabr, had seen her pregnant with his daughter. But these were dreams, despite his powers. They would never be true. They existed, parallel to the Now, but he would never experience them.

The hub came to life around him. The Fremen had seized remote control of the heighliner, as it was technically unmanned and unarmed in their air space. The bay lit up with hazard lights, and the dim walkway washed out. Paul heard the air sizzle as the doorlocks to the loading area closed.

Irulan stirred now, frowning and rubbing her temple awkwardly.

The Emperor met her eyes with a forlorn expression. His thick lashes hid the full extent of his blue within blue eyes. Automatically, Irulan held a hand to his chin. Then, she shimmied out of his arms and covered herself, now lit up by the headlights of an approaching passenger ship.

"It is time we return to Dune, Irulan," Paul said gently. "You will come to see that we experience time differently. The only moment we truly share is the extant Now."

"Where are you now, my Emperor?" She shivered and hugged herself.

He smiled weakly at her, but his scarf hid his mouth. She could only see the crinkle lines that creased around his tired eyes.

"With you, of course," he replied.

They waited for the docking sequence to finish, when their entourage rushed out to greet them. Stilgar loped to the front and hugged both of them in a tight embrace.

When he pulled away, he wrapped on Paul's shoulder with his gnarled hand.

"Your Grace has returned a conquerer of the space worm, I am told. Good. Now you can rule here, with Shai Hulud." The sand was piling even higher in Paul's hourglass. Stilgar had been worried, was still worried of what he was capable of. Paul would continue to go where his man could not follow, he knew.

Stilgar took the moment to turn to Irulan. She wore the same bell skirt and girdle from her audience at Ix. The old naib looked at her approvingly, as he never discriminated against Paul's wives.

"And the Princess is safe," Stilgar finished with a relieved sigh. Irulan squeezed her arms at the title, but nodded.

"Let us go. The council needs of you Paul, and Alia has requested a meeting with both of you, " Stilgar turned and instructed their crew. They all boarded the ship together.