Chapter Text
As they journeyed back toward Arrakeen, Paul’s mind was anything but at ease. The rhythmic hum of the ornithopter’s engines provided a dull backdrop to the thoughts that plagued him, thoughts he could not escape, no matter how far he traveled across the desert.
They had been forced to stop at the previous sietch to allow Irulan to rest. She had grown weaker during their travels, the strain of pregnancy taking a visible toll on her despite her attempts to hide it. Paul had noticed the way her face had grown paler, the dark circles under her eyes deepening as each day passed. He had insisted on the detour, though she had protested, her pride as a Bene Gesserit making her reluctant to admit her need for respite.
Now, as she slept restlessly in the cool darkness of the sietch, Paul stood outside, staring into the distance where the last rays of the setting sun bled into the horizon. The desert night was beginning to settle in, cold and silent, the vastness of the landscape mirroring the emptiness he felt within.
Irulan’s words from earlier echoed in his mind, a phrase that had struck him deeper than he’d expected: I’m an Atreides too now. You’ve made me one when you married me to legitimize your reign and to get to my father’s CHOAM pocketbook.
An Atreides. The very thought twisted something inside him, a visceral reaction to the idea that Irulan, the daughter of Shaddam IV, the man who had betrayed his father and brought ruin to House Atreides, now bore that noble name. It was a cruel irony, one that Paul could not shake.
He thought of his father, Duke Leto, a man of honor and principle, a man who had always believed in doing what was right, even when it came at a great cost. Leto Atreides had been a beacon of integrity, a leader who had won the loyalty of his people not through fear or manipulation but through who he was.
And now, that legacy was tainted. What would you think, Father? Paul wondered bitterly. What would you think of your son, married to the daughter of the man who orchestrated your death? What would you think of the mother of your grandchild?
Paul’s fists clenched at his sides, the weight of his guilt nearly overwhelming. He had married Irulan out of necessity, a political move to solidify his claim to the throne and to keep the Corrino family in check. But with every passing day, the decision seemed more like a betrayal of everything his father had stood for.
Leto Atreides had despised the corruption of the Imperial court, the endless machinations and power plays that defined life on Kaitain. And yet, here Paul was, his father’s son, mired in the very bloodshed and intrigue that had cost Leto his life. The thought of Irulan conspiring with his own mother to take over the Bene Gesserit filled Paul with a deep sense of unease. It was another betrayal, another act of violence committed in the name of House Atreides, another stain on his family’s honor. His mother, who had once been his anchor, had become a stranger to him, her ambitions and her willingness to shed blood for power driving a wedge between them that he feared could never be mended.
And then there was the child.
Paul could not see anything of the child Irulan carried, not in his dreams, not in his visions. It was as though the future had closed itself off to him, a blind spot in the endless permutations of fate that usually unfolded so clearly before his mind’s eye. The uncertainty gnawed at him, a constant reminder of his own limitations, of the uncontrollable forces that even he, with all his power, could not bend to his will.
What kind of future am I creating? he wondered, his thoughts darkening further. What will become of this child, born of Atreides and Corrino blood? Will it be the salvation of my House, or the final blow that destroys it?
The idea of mixing Atreides blood with that of the perfidious Corrino family sickened him. It felt like a defilement of his father’s legacy, a merging of nobility with treachery, of integrity with deceit. He thought of the Jihad, the holy war that had spread across the universe in his name, and how far it had strayed from the principles Duke Leto had instilled in him.
Guilt and shame washed over him in waves, nearly drowning him in their intensity. He had betrayed his father’s principles, allowed the Atreides name to become synonymous with conquest and bloodshed, and now he was bound to a woman whose lineage was steeped in duplicity. And yet, in his darkest moments, Paul knew that the blame lay not only with Irulan or even with his mother. It was his burden to bear, his choices that had led them all to this point.
The desert stretched out before him, vast and unforgiving, and for a moment, Paul felt as though he were falling into it, as he had in his dreams—falling endlessly, with no one to catch him.
He thought of the sandworms below, ancient and mighty, the true rulers of Arrakis. He had once felt a kinship with them, a sense of belonging to the desert, but now even that felt distant, a relic of a past that no longer seemed to belong to him.
And still, the one question remained: What would my father think of me now?
As the night deepened and the cold of the desert seeped into his bones, Paul knew that he could never find peace until he had an answer. But whether that answer would bring him solace or further torment, he could not yet say.
He slipped back into the sietch, the quiet hum of the underground structure a faint whisper in the silence that surrounded him, as his Fedaykin guards trailed after him. The shadows of the rock walls seemed to close in on him, oppressive in their stillness, and the weight of his thoughts pressed down on him with suffocating intensity. The isolation he felt was unlike anything he had ever known, a gnawing emptiness that seemed to grow with each passing day.
He was surrounded by people—Fremen warriors, loyal attendants, even his wife—but none of them were truly with him. Chani had left him. The memory of her departure was a wound that had yet to heal, a constant ache that refused to subside. She had been his anchor, the only one who could see through the layers of prophecy and myth to the man beneath, and without her, Paul felt adrift, cut off from any true connection.
All his former Fremen comrades, the men and women who had once fought by his side as equals, were now his worshippers. They followed him with a blind devotion that made him feel more like a figurehead than a leader, their reverence a barrier that kept them at arm’s length. They called him Mahdi, Lisan al-Gaib, but in doing so, they had elevated him to a place where they could no longer reach him, and he could no longer reach them. He was no longer Usul to them; he was a god, and gods did not have friends.
His mother, Lady Jessica, had once been his closest confidante, a source of wisdom and guidance. But now, she was embroiled in her own schemes, locked in a power struggle with Irulan that seemed to consume her every thought. They were like two wild dogs fighting over a piece of meat, each trying to secure their influence over him, each pulling him in different directions. Jessica was no longer the mother he had once known. She was a stranger, her love for him tangled in her own aspirations.
And Irulan... Irulan was a conundrum, a woman he had married out of necessity but never truly known. She was intelligent, disciplined, and determined, but her motivations were opaque to him. He knew she had her own ambitions, her own secrets, and he could not bring himself to trust her. She was his wife in name, the mother of his child, but there was no bond between them, only a distant formality. She, too, was part of the web of power that sought to entangle him, and Paul felt trapped within it, unable to escape.
Alia, his sister, was still just a child. Though preternaturally wise beyond her years, she was too young, too untested by the world’s harsh realities to be the confidante he so desperately needed. Paul loved her fiercely, but he could not burden her with the darkness that weighed on his soul. She had her own path to walk, her own destiny to fulfill, and he would not drag her down into the mire of his own struggles.
As the future loomed before him, Paul saw nothing but war and bloodshed, plots and betrayals. The holy war he had unleashed, the Jihad fought in his name, was spiraling out of control, engulfing worlds in its relentless march. The horrors that it wrought—the lives destroyed, the atrocities committed—were laid at his feet, and though he had never wanted this, it was his burden to bear. He saw the battles that were yet to come, the betrayals that would shatter the fragile alliances he had built, and the growing discontent even among the Fremen, who had once hailed him as their savior.
The Fremen, his people, were changing. They had once been free, wild, and proud, but now they were becoming something else, something darker. The Jihad was twisting them, turning them into fanatics, warriors who saw death and destruction as their holy duty. Even as they worshipped him, Paul knew that some of them would turn against him, their tormented, reluctant god. He could see it in the edges of his visions, the seeds of rebellion taking root in some hearts.
He had no one to talk to, no one he could trust, no one who could understand the burden he carried. The loneliness was a suffocating presence, a void that threatened to consume him. He was surrounded by people, but he was utterly alone, abandoned by those he had once relied on, left to navigate the treacherous path before him without guidance or support.
Paul’s thoughts turned, once again, to his father. Duke Leto had been a man who had faced the trials of leadership with unwavering resolve. But even Leto had not been alone. He had had allies, trusted friends, a network of people who believed in him not as a god, but as a man. Paul had none of that. He was isolated by the very power that had once been his strength, cut off from the human connections that could have grounded him.
As he stood in the sietch, feeling the cold stone beneath his feet and the oppressive silence around him, Paul could not help but wonder how much longer he could endure this. How much longer could he carry the weight of the universe on his shoulders before it finally crushed him? The answer eluded him, just as so much else did now, and that uncertainty—more than anything—filled him with a deep, unshakable dread.
# # #
The sietch was quiet in the early morning hours, the dim light filtering through the narrow vents and casting long shadows on the rough stone walls. Paul moved silently through the corridors, his footsteps echoing faintly as he approached Irulan’s quarters. His mind was a whirlwind of conflicting emotions, thoughts of duty and betrayal, power and regret swirling together in an inescapable maelstrom.
When he reached Irulan’s chamber, he hesitated for a moment before pushing it open the hanging that masked the entrace. Inside, Irulan was standing in front of a small mirror, adjusting the folds of a light wrap-around dress in a pale blue color. The fabric clung softly to her body, its hue almost the exact shade that Chani often wore in the sietch. It was the color of love among the desert people. But on Irulan, it looked wrong—utterly wrong. Against her fair skin and golden hair, the dress seemed out of place, like a costume that didn’t belong on her.
The sight sent a surge of anger coursing through Paul. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, and he felt a hot, irrational rage bubbling up within him. Irulan had no right to wear that color, to adopt the garb of the Fremen as if she could ever truly be one of them.
“Take it off,” he ordered harshly, his voice sharp and cutting through the silence.
Irulan turned to face him, her eyes widening in surprise at his tone. For a moment, she looked taken aback, but then her expression hardened, and she squared her shoulders, a flash of defiance in her gaze.
“It’s a gift,” she replied, her voice steady but tinged with irritation. “From one of the wives of the Naib of the Sietch of Morning. I thought it would be respectful to wear it.”
“Respectful?” Paul snapped, taking a step closer to her. “You have no right to dress like a Fremen. You don’t belong here, Irulan. You never have.”
He stood before her now, glaring down at her with an intensity that made her take a step back. Irulan’s green eyes met his, and for a moment, Paul could see the stubborn determination in them, the same resolve that had carried her through years of court intrigue and Bene Gesserit training. She was pale, her skin still too alabaster in the light of the phosphor tube above, but she seemed better, more composed than she had been the night before. Still, her presence in that dress, her attempt to emulate something she could never truly be, only deepened his resentment.
But as he stared at her, something shifted inside him. The anger that had flared so brightly began to fade, replaced by something else—something darker, more complicated. He remembered how, back in Arrakeen, their physical relationship had become an escape for him, a way to forget, if only for a moment, the crushing weight of his responsibilities. It had been an outlet, a means of channeling the emotions he could not afford to show anyone else. He despised himself for it, for the weakness it revealed, but it was a weakness he could not seem to rid himself of.
Before he could stop himself, Paul reached out and grabbed her, pulling her close to him. The dress’s pale blue fabric bunched under his hands as he bent down and kissed her, hard, his mouth demanding and unyielding. He hated himself for needing this, for seeking out this connection with her even as everything within him recoiled from it.
Irulan responded without hesitation. Her arms wrapped around him, and she kissed him back with a fervor that surprised him. There was no hesitation, no pretense in the way she clung to him, her fingers digging into his shoulders as if she was afraid to let go. The kiss was fierce, almost desperate, and for a moment, all the walls he had built around himself threatened to crumble.
But even as he lost himself in the kiss, a part of Paul remained coldly aware of the reality of their situation. This was not love; it was something else entirely—something tainted by the power struggles and lies that defined their marriage. Yet, in that moment, with Irulan’s warmth pressed against him, he couldn’t bring himself to care. All he knew was that he needed this, needed her, if only to stave off the crushing loneliness that had taken root in his soul.
# # #
For two days, Irulan seemed to regain some of her strength. She managed to eat small portions of food, rested more comfortably, and even engaged in light conversation with the Fremen women who visited her quarters. Paul noticed the change, though he kept his distance, his mind still preoccupied with the troubling visions that continued to elude him. He couldn't shake the feeling that the child she carried was more than just the result of their union—it was something he couldn't see, couldn't predict, and that unsettled him deeply.
But on the third day, Irulan’s condition took a drastic turn for the worse.
It began subtly, with her appetite waning once more and the familiar pallor returning to her face. By midday, she was unable to keep anything down, not even the water laced with spice that the Fremen healers had prepared for her. Her sleep, which had been restless before, became fitful and disturbed. She tossed and turned, plagued by dreams she wouldn’t speak of, and when she awoke, her body was wracked with weakness, leaving her barely able to stand.
Paul stayed close by, watching her with a growing sense of disquiet. The Fremen healers assured him that she was not at immediate risk of losing the child, but their words did little to calm his anxiety. They spoke of her as an off-worlder, her constitution too fragile to carry the child of Lisan al-Gaib. The reverence in their voices only served to deepen Paul’s uneasiness. He knew what they thought—that she was unworthy, too delicate for the task of bearing his child, that her frailty was a flaw.
But Paul suspected something far more complex was at play. The healers saw only the physical; they didn’t understand the burden of his visions, or rather, his lack of them. For all his prescience, the future of this child was a blank spot in the vast tapestry of time. It was as though the universe itself had decided to withhold the answer from him, and that terrified him more than he cared to admit.
Irulan’s condition deteriorated quickly. She became too weak to leave her bed, and the little food she forced herself to eat came back up almost immediately. Her skin grew clammy, and the skin under her eyes became bruised, giving her an almost spectral appearance. Paul spent hours at her side, his frustration mounting as he watched her suffer, powerless to do anything to help her.
He questioned the healers relentlessly, searching for any explanation that might make sense of what was happening to her. But their answers were the same—she was an off-worlder, they said, not accustomed to the harshness of Arrakis, to the intensity of the spice that coursed through her veins, to the sheer magnitude of carrying a child destined for such a path. They suggested it was the stress of the journey, the long days spent in the desert, or perhaps even the weight of the responsibility that came with being the mother of Lisan al-Gaib’s child.
Yet Paul knew it was something more. The child—their child—was the source. He was certain of it. There was something about the pregnancy, something about this child, that was causing Irulan’s suffering. The unknowns surrounding the child gnawed at him, adding to the burden of guilt he already carried. This was his doing; he had set these events in motion, and now they were spiraling out of his control.
Stilgar stood before Paul and Irulan, his face solemn, the lines of his weathered skin deepening in the dim light of the sietch. The Naib had just finished assessing Irulan’s condition with the Fremen healers and now presented his suggestion with the calm authority that only Stilgar could muster.
"It would be wise," Stilgar began, "for the Princess to return to Arrakeen as swiftly as possible. The desert is unforgiving, and in her condition, it would be best to avoid the storms. I propose she travel back on the back of Shai-Hulud, borne on a palanquin. The journey will be safer, faster."
Irulan’s eyes widened in surprise, and she exchanged a glance with Paul, who remained impassive.
Stilgar, likely sensing her reluctance, added, "Lady Jessica herself traveled this way when she was carrying the unborn sister of Muad'Dib. She came to no harm."
The mention of his mother stirred something uncomfortable in Paul. He knew what Stilgar intended—using the example of Jessica to convince Irulan—but the comparison only served to deepen the apprehension that had been growing in him. His mother had made her choices, had embraced the Fremen way. But Irulan was different. She was not born to the desert, nor did she possess the instinctive resilience that Jessica had demonstrated years ago.
Irulan’s reluctance, however, irritated him. The sooner they returned to Arrakeen, the sooner he could put distance between himself and the ever-growing complications that surrounded them. "Stilgar is right," Paul said, not bothering to hide his impatience at Irulan’s visible hesitation. "Traveling by sandworm will allow us to avoid the storms. It’s the most efficient way."
She looked at him and nodded slowly. "Very well," she agreed, her voice quiet but steady. "If that is the safest way, I’ll do it."
Stilgar gave a small nod of approval, his gaze shifting to Paul for a brief moment. Paul remained silent, the anxiety still simmering beneath his calm exterior. The conversation about his mother had touched a nerve, and Irulan’s hesitant acceptance had only added to his irritation.
Paul glanced at where Irulan lay propped up against the pillows on the bed and forced his expression to soften just a fraction. "It will be over soon," he said.
# # #
That night, Paul sat alone in the dimly lit chamber of the sietch, the pungent scent of spice thick in the air. The faint glow from a single lamp cast long shadows across the rough-hewn walls, mimicking the depths of his own inner turmoil. The spice—the essence of Arrakis—lay before him in a concentrated form, its potent power both a gift and a curse. Paul had taken spice before, had plunged into the depths of its visions countless times, but tonight was different. He had never taken such a high dose, driven by a desperate need to see the future that lay shrouded from him, to see the child Irulan carried, the child that had remained elusive in all his visions.
As he consumed the spice, the familiar rush of awareness washed over him, intensifying until it seemed he could hear the very heartbeat of the planet beneath him. His vision blurred, then sharpened, transforming the world around him into something both more vivid and surreal. The sietch faded, and he found himself standing in the vastness of the desert, the endless dunes stretching out before him under the too bright light of Arrakis’s sun. The dry, biting wind whipped around him, carrying the scent of spice and the echoes of the lives he had touched and destroyed. But then, suddenly, the desert began to change.
The dunes softened, flattening and shifting beneath his feet. The harsh, arid landscape transformed into gently sloping green hills, lush and alive, something he had only seen in distant memories of Caladan. The air was cool, filled with the fragrance of fresh earth and the unmistakable scent of water. He could hear the distant sound of waves crashing, though he could see no ocean, only the verdant hills rolling out before him.
Amidst this serene landscape, a voice called out to him—a voice filled with despair. "Paul!" It was Irulan’s voice, frantic with concern. He spun around, searching for her, but the hills were empty. She was nowhere to be seen, yet her voice echoed through the air, haunting him. The sound of her anguish pierced him, and a deep, gnawing fear settled in his gut.
Then, in the distance, an explosion shattered the tranquility. The earth trembled, and smoke rose on the horizon. Paul felt the shift in time, felt himself moving forward, seeing not just moments but years ahead. He was older now, standing amidst the chaos, and in his arms, he cradled Chani’s lifeless body. The grief was overwhelming, almost suffocating in its intensity.
In that instant, he understood—Chani would lead a plot against him, a plot born out of love, loyalty, or desperation, and it would end in her death. The vision of her death struck him like a blow, leaving him hollow and aching. A future without her—empty, desolate—unfolded before him, a future that was becoming inevitable.
As Paul held her, her body began to change, turning into water, slipping through his fingers, leaving him grasping at nothing. The grief he felt in that moment was profound, a deep chasm opening within him. The water pooled at his feet, soaking into the earth, and as it did, the green hills around him withered and crumbled, transforming back into the desert sands of Arrakis. And above him, he saw his moon—Muad'Dib—begin to fall from the sky, a symbol of his own impending doom, of the collapse of everything he had tried to build.
Paul knew then that he was powerless to stop what was coming, that the choices he had made had set him on a path that could not be undone. Chani’s death, the loss of his moon, the return of the desert—these were the consequences he could not escape. And as the vision faded, he was left with the bitter knowledge that even his greatest powers were not enough to prevent the destruction that lay ahead.
As the vision pulled him deeper into its grip, Paul felt a surge of dread wash over him. He no longer wished to see the future, no longer desired the knowledge that was being forced upon him. But the spice had taken hold, and there was no turning back.
From the shattered remnants of his falling moon, Paul saw the Golden Path stretching out before him—an endless, winding road of light and darkness intertwined. He glimpsed the great scattering of humanity, as countless souls fled across the stars, driven by fear and necessity. He saw famine, a hunger that gnawed at the edges of civilization, threatening to tear it apart. Yet beyond the terror, beyond the suffering, there was a glimmer of hope—a brighter future, shimmering on the horizon like a mirage in the desert.
The vision shifted, and Paul found himself in a modest chamber, somewhere far from the palaces and thrones he had known. A figure sat reading a book, its title emblazoned in gold: The Manual of Muad'Dib. The sight of it filled Paul with an indescribable sorrow, as if all the wisdom he had sought to impart had been reduced to mere words on a page, stripped of the pain and sacrifice that had given it meaning.
In an instant, the chamber faded, and he was back in the desert, the golden sands stretching out in every direction. Chani was gone—bereft of her presence, the emptiness around him felt suffocating. But he was not alone.
Irulan stood beside him, dressed in a flowing white dress that billowed softly in the desert wind. Her hair, once golden, was now as white as the sands beneath their feet, and a coronet with turquoise stones adorned her brow. Her eyes—once bright with intelligence and determination—were now the deep, haunting blue of the Eyes of Ibad. Paul’s breath caught as he saw the blood staining her dress, dark and wet against the pristine fabric, as though someone had stabbed her through the heart.
"Don't jump," Paul pleaded. "Please, Irulan, don't jump."
Irulan looked at him, her expression filled with a sadness that cut him to the core. "I can't jump," she replied softly. "You ordered them not to make me."
"But they will break that prohibition," Paul whispered, the realization sending a wave of terror through him. "They’ll break it, and I’ll be powerless to send you away."
Irulan’s form wavered, her edges blurring as though she were dissolving into the very sand they stood upon. "You know I can’t promise you that," she said, her voice distant, as if it were coming from another world. "Not when the choice was never mine."
"Please," Paul begged, reaching out to her, but his hands grasped only air as she faded into the sands, slipping through his fingers like a dream lost to the waking world.
Paul stood there, alone in the desert, the emptiness around him mirroring the desolation within. As the last traces of Irulan vanished, Paul knew that he could not escape the future that awaited him, no matter how much he might wish to turn away. The Golden Path lay before him, unyielding and inescapable, and all he could do was follow it to its bitter end.
# # #
The next day, Paul dressed in silence, his movements slow and deliberate as though each layer of clothing was a piece of armor against the future he had seen. The stillsuit, a second skin that had sustained him through countless trials, clung to him like the memories of a life he yearned for but could never truly have. He buckled on his crysknife, its blade still sharp with the edge of war, a symbol of the deadly power he wielded. Finally, he draped himself in the black desert cloak from the days of the desert war. Every step in this preparation felt like a ritual, an invocation of the strength he would need to face the horrors that loomed ahead.
As Paul stepped out of the chamber into the main corridor of the sietch, the air was thick with anticipation. When he emerged from the dim interior of the sietch into the open air, the Fremen were waiting. They bowed or knelt as he passed, their reverence a silent acknowledgment of the power he held over them—power that he had never sought but could no longer deny. Paul’s eyes swept over them, but he saw only echoes of the future, where loyalty could twist into fanaticism, and devotion could become his own undoing.
At the entrance to the sietch, where the rock walls parted to reveal the open desert beyond, Irulan waited. She stood pale and wary, her usual composure seemed to have been eroded by the harshness of their journey and the growing unease between them. Paul’s heart twisted with a mixture of guilt and compassion as he approached her.
“It will be fine,” he said, his voice more awkward than reassuring. “The ride atop the worm is… unusual enough the first time, but safe. Stilgar himself will guide us.”
Irulan nodded, but her eyes betrayed her circumspection.
Paul signaled to Stilgar, who stood ready at a distance, thumper in hand. The Fremen warrior nodded and set the device into the sand. A low, rhythmic pounding began, a call that reverberated through the desert, summoning the great leviathan from its depths.
Paul had hoped for a smaller worm, something more manageable for Irulan’s first ride, but the desert had its own will. The sand began to churn violently, and a gigantic sandworm erupted from the depths, its ridged, armored body rising like a mountain from the earth. It was ancient, its massive size and weathered exterior speaking of centuries spent in the deep desert. The ground shook with its presence, and for a moment, it seemed restless, its massive maw gaping wide as though testing the air.
Paul took Irulan’s arm, guiding her forward. She hesitated, but his grip was firm, and together they approached the beast. As they drew near, the worm’s restlessness stilled. It lowered its head slightly, its immense body settling deeper into the sand as though in deference to the man the two of them. The Fremen around them, those who had not already knelt, fell to their knees, heads bowed in veneration. Some ran their hands over their heads, whispering quietly to themselves.
“Come,” Paul said after a while, helping Irulan onto the palanquin that Stilgar had arranged for her. The worm remained still as they ascended, its obedience almost unnatural. Irulan looked at Paul, a question in her eyes, but he said nothing, his thoughts elsewhere, caught between the visions of the night and the uncertain path ahead. As the worm began to move, Paul could not shake the feeling that each step forward brought him closer to a future that no armor, no matter how strong, could protect him from.
# # #
Paul's return to Arrakeen felt like stepping into a trap he had set for himself. The air in the stone corridors of the residence was cool, a sharp contrast to the searing heat of the desert outside, but it did little to soothe the turmoil within him. As soon as they arrived, he had dispatched a Suk doctor to see Irulan, ensuring she was looked after immediately. He himself, however, was not so eager to face what awaited him. His mother’s probing questions, her disappointment, her anger—he wasn’t ready for any of it.
He managed to avoid her for the first few hours, slipping away to his private chambers under the pretense of needing rest. Paul entered his bedchamber with a sense of relief, shutting the door behind him as if it could keep the world and its mounting pressures at bay. The room was dimly lit, a welcome contrast to the blazing Arrakeen sun outside.
Inside, he was greeted by an unexpected sight. The bedding had been rearranged, not in the neat, orderly manner of the servants, but with a chaotic creativity that could only belong to one person. Alia had dragged down his blankets and cushions from the bed and fashioned herself a Fremen-style sleeping corner on the floor. She sat cross-legged amidst the nest she had created, munching on a handful of dates and grinning at him with an impish delight that contrasted sharply with the darkness in his thoughts.
Paul couldn’t help but feel a flicker of amusement at her antics. Her grin was infectious, and for a moment, it was as though the heavy burdens he carried were lifted, if only slightly. “You’ve made yourself at home,” he commented dryly, leaning against the doorframe.
Alia’s grin widened as she looked up at him, her blue-in-blue eyes sparkling with a mixture of innocence and deep wisdom that was unsettling in one so young. “How are you planning to tell our mother that you took the Water of Life in the desert, slept with Irulan while drugged, and conceived a child you can't see?” she asked, her tone light, almost playful, despite the gravity of her words.
The bluntness of her question didn’t surprise him one bit as he was used to Alia’s disconcerting way of cutting through the pretense to the heart of any matter. He couldn’t help the bitter chuckle that escaped him. “I'm counting on the fact that our mother is not pre-born, unlike you,” he replied, his voice tinged with sarcasm as he crossed the room to sit beside her. He reached out and plucked a date from her stash, popping it into his mouth.
Alia’s grin faded, replaced by a more serious expression as she studied him. For all her playful irreverence, she knew him too well, sensed the weight of the darkness that clung to him. “Did you see Chani in the desert?” she asked softly, her voice full of a tentative hope that made Paul’s heart clench.
The question hit him harder than he expected, bringing with it a fresh wave of grief. He nodded, his voice low and rough. “I did.”
The levity drained from the room. Alia’s expression grew even more somber as she searched his face for answers. “She’s not coming back, is she?” Her voice was a whisper, but it echoed in the quiet room, amplifying the ache in Paul’s chest.
He swallowed hard, fighting back the surge of emotion that threatened to overwhelm him. “No, she’s not,” he confirmed, his words carrying a finality that made the loss all the more real.
For a moment, the two of them sat in silence, the only sound the faint rustling of the breeze outside the chamber’s thick stone walls. Alia reached out and took his hand, squeezing it tightly in her small, yet strong grasp. “I miss her too,” she said.
Paul squeezed her hand in return, grateful for the simple, honest connection that existed between them. In that moment, they were just a brother and sister mourning a shared loss, the weight of their individual destinies forgotten. It was a fleeting comfort, but in the midst of everything, it was enough.
Paul leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes as he tried to push away the swirling thoughts that crowded his mind. The vision from the desert replayed itself in his memory, relentless in its vivid detail.
“Paul?” Alia’s voice broke through his thoughts, pulling him back to the present.
He opened his eyes and looked down at her. “Yes?”
She hesitated for a moment, as if choosing her words carefully. “You’re going to tell Mother, aren’t you? About the child.”
Paul sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Eventually. When we know if it’s a boy or a girl. Until then, I’ll protect Irulan’s pride and tell Mother she took ill during our trip in the desert.”
Alia tilted her head, studying him with those piercing eyes. “But why shield her this way? You’re angry with her. And the only reason you married her was sheer convenience.”
“It’s my child she is carrying,” he said. “Your niece or nephew, by the way.”
Alia nodded slowly, understanding more than he had said. “You’re afraid of what it means, not seeing the child.”
Paul didn’t respond. He didn’t need to. His silence was answer enough. The uncertainty gnawed at him, adding another layer to the already overwhelming burden he carried. He had made decisions, set things in motion that he couldn’t reverse, and now he was being forced to live with the consequences.
The two of them sat in silence for a while longer, the atmosphere heavy with unspoken fears and the weight of the future that loomed over them. Finally, Paul stood, releasing Alia’s hand.
# # #
Irulan drifted in and out of consciousness, suspended in a realm that hovers somewhere between waking and dreaming. She wasn't sure if she was truly asleep, or if this is some strange, spice-induced vision, but she was too weary to question it. She was enveloped in a thick, viscous liquid that cradled her in its warm embrace. The substance was cobalt blue, shimmering faintly around her, but despite its density, she didn't feel like she was drowning. Instead, she felt a sense of peace, as if this strange, unnatural womb was the safest place she could be.
Her mind drifted aimlessly in this space until she heard a voice—a child's voice, soft and filled with innocent affection. "Maman," the boy called. The word struck her with a sense of unfamiliarity, yet also a deep, innate connection. It was an old Galach word, informal, intimate, the way a child might lovingly address his mother. But it wasn't a word Irulan has ever used. She was raised with strict formality, trained to address her parents by their proper titles even before she could speak. Her nannies had made certain of that, and by the time Irulan was old enough to walk, her mother was more an abstract figure than a comforting presence—someone who sent her on missions to spy on her father rather than someone who held her close.
"Maman," the boy’s voice repeated, a hint of urgency in his tone, as if he was trying to get her attention. The sound was almost hypnotic, drawing her further into this surreal experience. She felt the warmth of the liquid around her pulse with life, and then, another voice—a little girl this time, equally sweet and filled with a child's simple love. "Maman," she said, and the word is a balm to Irulan's soul, filling a void she hadn't even known was there.
Irulan's heart clenched as she realized what these voices had to mean. She focused, trying to will the dream to reveal more. The liquid around her thickened, the blue deepening, and then she saw them—tiny embryos, delicate and fragile, floating in the ether around her. Their forms were translucent, and yet, she could see the faintest outlines of their tiny bodies. She heard their heartbeats, steady and strong, a rhythmic thrum that echoed in her own chest.
"Don't be afraid, Maman," the little girl said again, her voice full of comfort and reassurance. "You are with us."
Irulan wante to reach out, to touch them, to hold them close, but she found herself unable to move. She was frozen, but not with fear—with awe, with the overwhelming realization that these were her children. The ones she was carrying. The ones she never thought she would have. A profound love, unlike anything she has ever felt, surged through her. It was unconditional, all-encompassing, a fierce desire to protect them at all costs.
But with the love came a sharp pang of sorrow. She knew that this moment, this serene connection, was fleeting. The world she lived in, the life she had chosen—or that had been chosen for her—would not allow her to keep this peace. The children she carried would be born into a world of power struggles, of plots and schemes, where their lives would be dictated by forces beyond her control. And that terrified her more than anything.
"Stay with me," she whispered, though she wasn't sure if she spoke aloud or only in her mind. "Please, stay with me."
But even as she begged them to remain, she felt the warmth of the liquid begin to fade, the blue dimming until it was nothing more than a distant memory. The voices of her children grew fainter, and she heard their heartbeats receding, leaving her once again in a cold, harsh reality she could not escape.
The last thing she heard before she woke up was the little girl's voice, a soft echo in the back of her mind. "We will always be with you, Maman."
And then, Irulan was alone, lying in her bed in the residence in Arrakeen, tears slipping silently down her cheeks. The dream, or vision, or whatever was was, lingered in her mind, more real than anything she had ever experienced. She placed a hand on her abdomen, feeling the life growing within her, and vowed to herself that no matter what, she would protect them.
# # #
Paul was jolted awake by a persistent, rhythmic knocking on his door. The sound was insistent, cutting through the last vestiges of sleep and pulling him into full consciousness. For a moment, he wondered if it was a continuation of a dream, but the knocking was real, and it was growing more urgent.
Rubbing his eyes, Paul rose from his bed and opened the door to find Irulan standing on the other side. She was dressed in an ivory dressing gown that clung to her frame, her skin almost the same pale shade, making her appear ghostly in the muted light of the corridor. Her eyes were wide and wild, haunted by something he couldn’t yet name. Her normally immaculate hair was disheveled, strands of gold falling messily around her face. She looked as though she had been caught in a storm, and perhaps, in a way, she had been.
"He speaks to me," she whispered, her voice trembling, barely holding back a tide of emotion. Her green eyes were filled with a deep, unsettling fear. “They both do, Paul.”
Paul felt a chill run through him at her words. The race consciousness that constantly pressed against his mind intensified, a silent reminder of the myriad possible futures that awaited him. In that instant, as he looked into Irulan’s lost, frightened eyes, he realized with startling clarity that the future he saw under the influence of the spice was not fixed. It was fluid, mutable, a tapestry with threads yet to be woven.
But the future, with all its uncertainty, was still his. At some point, he would face a decision—a choice that would determine the path ahead, that would shape whether the terrifying vision he witnessed came to pass or was avoided. Yet, as Irulan stood before him, the truth weighed heavily on him: he had no idea what that choice was, or when he would have to make it.
Paul stepped back to allow Irulan into the room, his mind racing. Her distress was palpable, and though he felt a deep-seated anger towards her, for the manipulation, the schemes she represented, he couldn’t help but feel a pang of sympathy. She was caught in the same whirlwind as he was, swept along by forces neither of them could fully control.
"Tell me what happened," he said, his voice firm but not unkind.
Irulan stepped inside, her arms wrapping around herself as if to ward off the cold that wasn’t there. “I... I dreamed, or it felt like a dream. But it was more than that. I was surrounded by this blue... this blue liquid, and I heard them, Paul. Our children. They spoke to me, called me ‘Maman.’” She choked on the word, as if it was too much for her to comprehend. “They were... so real, Paul. I could feel them.”
Paul’s heart tightened at her words. The vision he had seen, the future he had glimpsed, began to overlap with what she was describing. The children, the voices, the unsettling sense of inevitability. It was all connected, intertwined in ways he was only beginning to understand.
"They said not to be afraid," Irulan continued, her voice cracking. "That I was with them. But it wasn’t just comfort—they were warning me, Paul. I know it."
Paul remained silent, absorbing her words. The race consciousness within him hummed with possibilities, with the weight of countless lives and futures that would hinge on the choices he made. He recalled the vision of the desert turning to green hills, the loss of Chani, the scattered remnants of humanity, the shattered moon. And Irulan, with the Eyes of Ibad, fading into the sand.
He wanted to tell her it was just a dream, to reassure her, but he knew better. This was something more—an echo of the possible futures they were both entangled in. He had seen Chani’s death, her betrayal, his own grief. And Irulan... Irulan was a part of it all, in ways he hadn’t fully grasped before.
TBC