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Leto thought it outrageously funny at first—to hear Paul, in his small, child's voice, attempt to say milord. The boy could manage, "m'lor," and the first time he said it prompted great excitement and celebration; each new word or phrase Paul added to his rapidly growing vocabulary was met with great fanfare.
"Shall we return to your mother, Paul?" Leto had asked him.
Paul had blinked, took a moment to consider—always thinking, it was clear from his expressions that he was always puzzling something out in his mind, clever boy—and then said, solemnly, "Yes, m'lor," and had giggled shyly when Leto and Gurney roared with laughter.
But now he would not refer to Leto by anything else. Jessica could rest contentedly with her status as Mama (always spoken with obvious delight, and accompanied by the pitter-patter of eager little feet as Paul toddled toward her so that he might be held in her arms), Leto had to grapple with the fact that his own son viewed him as only the Duke of Caladan. Even at this age, Paul grouped himself with Leto's subjects.
He is my son! I am his father! He should call me as such!
The Old Duke had been an exacting and stringent man even in private. Leto had always referred to his father as though he were one of his own soldiers. Sire, sir, my duke. Even in written communication Leto had never dared to acknowledge their blood ties, only that of a ruler and his subordinate. Your ever loyal subject.
It was Leto's reign, now, and he was determined to carve a different path than his predecessor. Paul was a child—his child. Already there was such gentle affection between them! Leto would do nothing but nurture it. If Paul wanted to be held, then Leto would hold him. If he wanted to play, then Leto would find the time to join him. And as long as he so wished, he would always be allowed to call Leto Papa.
Now, if only he would say it!
No amount of cajoling or entreating could sway the boy even a syllable. Leto suspected that Paul thought it a very fun game to see him in such a ridiculous state: on the floor, laying on his stomach, using the soft stuffed animals from Paul's toy chest as mouthpieces as he begged his son to just say the word.
"Please, Paul," Leto said, bouncing a extraordinarily soft, fat whale with mother-of-pearl button eyes on the ground. "Say Papa. I know you can. Will you say it now? Pa-pa."
Paul hummed. The tune was familiar. One of Gurney Halleck's songs, Leto realized. God, but what a clever child! So struck by the sound was he that when Paul reached for the whale Leto handed it to him and merely observed as the boy proceeded to hold the stuffed toy aloft and study it with great scrutiny. "Whale," Paul declared.
"Very good," said Leto. "That's your stuffed whale."
"Mine."
"Yes, that is your whale that your Papa got for you. Can you say Papa?"
His son gazed at him solemnly, the whale in his lap. "No!" Paul said. And then he added, giggling, "M'lor!"
Ducal responsibilities required that he leave the castle for a time. The rainy season approached; a boon for the rice fields, a disaster for the neighboring towns and villages if their structures were not built to the correct height or properly reinforced. Inspections had been completed, and now Leto would go to those areas that had been deemed lacking to make certain that measures were being taken to shield them from nature.
It would take him at least a week—an eternity now that he was forced to leave his own little family! But these were the sacrifices that the Duke of Caladan had to make for his people!
His concubine stood at the bottom of the ornithopter's ramp, their child in her arms. "Say goodbye to your father, Paul," said Jessica.
Paul looked puzzled. He reached for Leto's beard with a soft whimper.
Leto grabbed his small hand and kissed it. "Goodbye, son! Be a good boy for your mother!"
An extraordinary thing happened then: Paul's huge green eyes seemed to grow even larger as they filled with tears, and his lower lips trembled, and then he let out a hiccuping sob that soon became a piercing wail.
Both he and Jessica exchanged alarmed glances. So rarely was their son upset! Jessica murmured, "There, there, my darling," as she rocked Paul in her arms, and Leto stroked his soft curls, but still he wept, and never was there a more pitiable, mournful noise than this little creature sobbing as though his heart were broken!
Does he think that I shall not return? Leto cupped Paul's chubby, tear-stained face in his hands. "It will not be forever! Paul—I will be back before you know it!"
But still the boy sobbed. He could do nothing but press his lips to Paul's forehead and promise to return as soon as he could.
Once they were in the air, Gurney remarked, lightly, "Not quite the farewell you hoped for, eh, m'lord?"
"Ah, Gurney," Leto said. "How many battles have we fought together? And yet my son's tears nearly destroyed me!" Would that he could have stayed! But while Leto Atreides was a father to Paul, the Duke of Caladan was a father to the entire planet!
Upon his return Leto immediately sought out his concubine. The flight had been a long one; he needed to eat, he needed to sleep, but nothing would be more nourishing or restorative than the sight of his Lady of Caladan and their son.
He found Jessica awaiting him in the great hall. She wore a dress the color of an overcast sky—a dark blue-gray—that would have been described as otherwise plain had it not been worn on one such as Jessica. Leto couldn't look at her without thinking that she was absolutely ravishing.
She curtsied. "My lord duke," Jessica murmured, all propriety.
"None of that now," Leto said. He wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her flush to him. "Better, but—" He kissed her firmly. "Ah, there we are. Much better. How have you fared, Jessica?"
"Oh, as well as one can be with a weeping toddler. Poor Paul has been inconsolable since you left, Leto. He has no concept of a one week trip—he thought you were never coming back." A small smile graced her lips. "Your son dearly missed his father."
And he had dearly missed his son! "Where is he now?"
"Asleep, the poor darling."
Leto said, "I will go to him at once," and took one last kiss before rushing away to see his little boy.
He crept quietly into Jessica's quarters. There Paul was in the middle of the bed, fast asleep, just as Jessica had said, his cheeks tear-streaked, his thumb in his mouth. They would have to curb that habit, and yet—Leto was reluctant to do so. It was a mark of childhood, and Leto would have him be a child as long as possible. Gently, he brushed a lock of Paul's hair behind his ear, and then he placed his palm on the boy's back, marveling at each inhalation and exhalation, at the strength of his lungs, at how he had grown while Leto was away and yet was still so small, so precious.
Leto waited, patient and content, for Paul to wake.
It happened slowly, like a flower unfurling its petals to bloom. Paul's brow furrowed. He frowned. He blinked once, twice, and then stared ahead with those huge, green eyes that Leto thought more precious and beautiful than any gemstone in the treasury. With a small grunt, Paul wriggled, shook his head, curls bouncing, and then his gaze shifted and he saw Leto there beside him.
Paul smiled, bright and beaming. "Papa!"
There it was! The sweetest of words! "My son!" Leto cried, and joyfully welcomed Paul into his arms.