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Chapter Text

Feyd-Rautha’s lifeless corpse lay still on the flat, silty ground, yet Paul couldn’t bring himself to summon any emotion toward it.

That part of him had ceased to exist.

Disdain.

Inevitability.

The Emperor stood a distance away from him, eyes sharp and foreboding, but his body was that of an old man. An old man that watched, with bated breath, as power seeped away from him and into this strange and terrible Duke, in a strange and terrible place.

Paul.

Arrakis.

Paul could hear the murmurs of his followers throughout the room. His followers, who would die for him in the name of Muad’Dib, if he so much as wished it.

His mother stood to the side, shadowed green eyes watching him like a stranger, her gaze regarding him as a Duke of Arrakis, and as the Kwisatz Haderach , but not as her son. 

He could feel her silent support for him, but he could also feel her fear of the creature that Paul had become.

Paul turned, minutely, and through the mass of people, he saw Chani.

Chani.

Her eyes were wide — a beautiful, milky blue. Dried tear tracks marred her brown skin. She had a flat, almost resigned look on her face.

Paul’s stomach twisted.

Chani had given her water to the dead, to their first-born son, Leto, who had died while Paul was away.

Chani had waited patiently for her Usul to wrap her in his arms — To grieve the boy they had lost.

And Paul hadn’t. 

He couldn’t.

When his son had died, he instead had shut off all emotion, feeling inexplicably numb. 

He felt like a shell of his grandfather, an image of the old, dusty portrait back in Caladan - His dark eyes firm, and mouth perpetually twisted into a scowl.

What would his father think of him?

Chani’s steady gaze melted into his memories. And suddenly, Paul could feel things so sharply, so vividly, that he stumbled backwards.

Chani hadn’t changed.

But Paul had.

***

Paul thought of Chani’s slender form as they slept side-by-side in a still-tent, listening to the gentle rush of sand against fabric.

 A sandstorm.

The noise of the sand hitting the tent had reminded Paul, ironically, of the rains in Caladan. 

“Usul,” Chani had said gently, a calloused hand lining his cheek, as they stared into each other’s eyes. The harshness of the desert seemed to fade away into her quiet love for him.

Back when the world felt smaller, and he was part of a tribe - not leading it to a potentially endless war.

***

He thought of the boy who had been reluctant to kill — The one who had danced around Jamis’ crysknife, regarding the angry man with a certain measure of fear - not a fear of being beaten, but of taking that man’s life.

He thought of that boy, who had asked Jamis if he would yield, as he had been instructed to long ago by his father.

“You must always fight with honor,” his father had said to him.

His father would never see the legions that Paul would lead, the blood of hundreds on his hands - on his orders.

***

He thought of the boy who had shed tears over a man he didn’t know, after he was forced to execute his first kill.

“He gives his water to the dead!” the Fremen had said, with awe. And now his desert-hardened face couldn’t shed a tear toward his own, dead son.

Leto.

His breath hitched, and without realizing it, he could feel a single tear sliding down his cheek.

They took the life of my son.

And suddenly, the noise of the room seemed dulled.

Something far bigger than him was casting a wool swathe over what was and what had been.

“Paul?”

His surroundings blurred, the ground beneath him shifting to a sand reminiscent of spice, reminding him of the solitary dune he’d seen when he first set foot on Arrakis.

Back when this terrible purpose had not mattered so deeply to him.

They took the life of my son.

In that moment, something inside of Paul Atreides shattered.

Chapter Text

Paul lay with his eyes closed, as still as a desert mouse nestled into an unforgiving dune.

He could hear a sandstorm, pounding relentlessly against the windows.

The windows?

We don’t have windows in Arrakis.

With that realization, Paul sat up with the instincts of a man prepared for battle. 

He didn’t know what to expect when he opened his eyes. A room belonging to the Saudekaur, perhaps. Those were the only rooms that would have the luxury of windows on Arrakis, after all.

What he didn’t expect to see was his old, familiar quarters in Caladan.

Instead of a sandstorm, he saw the impossible: the quiet thrum of rain against thick glass.

Paul realized, with a stab of confusion, that he was lying on a luxurious, clean bed, dressed in the softest clothing he’d worn in years.

There wasn’t a hint of sand, or spice, to be found.

Paul blinked the sleep out of his eyes, and quickly looked down at his hands.

The reality of the situation hit him like the slash of a crysknife.

These weren’t his hands.

Gone were the callouses gained from years in the desert, and the deep tan he had gained from the beating sun of Arrakis — Paul’s skin was the soft ivory it had been on Caladan.

“Impossible,” he whispered, but even as the word left his lips, Paul felt the truth of this place in his soul.

He drifted from his bed to the window like a ghost, staring uncomprehendingly at the cloudy, gray sky — one that had become foreign to him.

This was not a vision.

There wasn’t even a hint of the haze that he’d come to associate with his prescient glimpses of the future.

In fact, he felt more present than he’d felt in years.

In an instant, Paul pulled on some clothes with a panicked clumsiness that he wasn’t accustomed to.

He pushed roughly past the guard stationed at the door outside of his room, ignoring the sleepy, and somewhat confused “My lord? Has something happened?”

He broke into a sprint, down another hall, and shoved through a locked entrance to the outside. He ignored the piercing alarm tone that had set off in the building as soon as he had rushed out of the fortress.

This can’t be.

The air outside was cold and filled with moisture, hitting his lungs with a harshness that he didn’t expect. 

He had become accustomed to the perpetual dry heat of Arrakis.

A crack of thunder echoed in the distance. Water was pelting into his skin as he ran, until his hair and clothes were soaked through.

He started towards the ocean in the distance, breath coming out in short bursts.

This can’t be.

He didn’t slow down until he found himself sloshing through the surging water. He stilled, feeling the water swell and shift around his legs. 

The vast sea seemed to mock his never-ending thoughts of still-suits, holy wars, and giving water to the dead.

Paul let out a strangled, hysterical laugh.

Water.

There is so much water.

Ice-cold, frothy waves surged above his hips. He could feel the water, unlike in his visions, which had always felt like mere echoes of what could be. 

He let his fingertips trail against the surface of the sea, feeling the rhythmic back and forth of waves.

He knelt down, submerging himself to his shoulders, feeling simultaneously young and ancient.

“In my home, there’s water so deep that you can dive into it. It’s called swimming.”

Chani had laughed with an air of disbelieving wonder, and careful hope.

“I don’t believe you.” 

He could hear his own panicked breaths give way to numb, shallow ones. In all his years in Arrakis, he had never truly given himself time to grieve. 

For the first time, Paul let the frozen well in his chest crack open without fear of wasted resources.

He let himself give water to the dead .

Tears pricked his eyes, and rolled down his cheeks.

And suddenly, an animalistic, strangled yell was ripped from his lips unbidden. 

‘There would be time for grieving later’, he had told himself, time and time again.

Now, Paul’s pent-up grief poured out of him in a messy, horrific rush of gasping, painful sobs.

The grief for an entire planet that fought tooth and nail to survive on the water from the bodies of the dead, while he stood here with more water than he could ever long for.

The grief for his dead father, his dead son,  and his dead friends seemed to all culminate into a single moment.

Grief burst out of his soul to join the boundless sea of Caladan. 

Arrakis is a death trap.

Chapter Text

“PAUL!” a familiar voice roared through the storm.

Paul froze.

This was the voice of a dead man. If he turned around, he knew that all he would see was his ghost.

Duncan.

The feeling that the ocean was taunting him returned with vengeance. Something white-hot was coursing through his veins.

“What more do you want from me?” Paul shouted madly at the wild sea in an uncharacteristic display of fiery emotion.

Paul started running into the waves, with a frustrated, broken sound directed at whoever had woven this particular chapter of his destiny.

He spluttered as a larger wave pushed him back, the force of it cutting into his chest, the unrelenting whitewater surrounding him.

You took the life of my father.

You took the life of my son.

And then two strong hands were firmly grasping his shoulders from behind. 

He didn’t fight as he was wrenched unceremoniously from the waves.

He couldn’t bring himself to fight anymore.

“Paul, look at me. ”

Paul was laid flat on his back on the shore, the damp sand sticking to his hair. Sharp sobs wracked his body, buried in the magnitude of his loss.

The cold that he had felt initially had faded into numbness, but he still felt raw, nauseous with the knowledge he held within.

Paul felt like he was drowning.

“Paul, you need to tell me where you’re hurt,” Duncan said levelly, with a note of panic in his voice that would be indiscernible to anyone but Paul, “ and who attacked you .”

It was just like Duncan to try to find the threat , not knowing that the greatest threat to Paul Atreides was himself.

“I can’t ,” Paul choked out, voice taut with emotion. 

He didn’t look up at Duncan’s face, afraid of what he might see.

What if Duncan was still a dead man that would turn to sand the moment he looked at him?

Meanwhile, Duncan checked Paul’s vital signs — looking for a physical explanation for Paul’s pain.

His hands were warm against Paul’s skin. 

Alive.

“Something’s wrong , ” Duncan snapped sharply to someone behind him,  “we need to get him inside, now. Kalan, Secure the perimeter in case an attacker is involved —”

“ Duncan ,” Paul cut in, voice pleading, and Duncan paused, turning back to Paul in an instant. 

He felt like a child, desperate for reassurance.

Please, let this be real.

“I’m here, my boy,” Duncan repeated gently, as though it wasn’t a massive impossibility that he was alive.

Alive.

There was a tentative feeling of relief, before an inexplicable burst of anger.

He thought of his Duncan, kneeling to him in the silence of the deadly Arraken desert as Paul grappled with the Atreides’ terrible fate.

“Your father… I’m sorry.”

“My lord Duke.” 

‘This cannot come to pass again’ he thought grimly.

“Do not leave my side,” Paul ordered shakily, failing to force the tremble out of his voice.

His face crumpled as he grasped tightly onto the front of Duncan’s shirt, still damp from pulling him from the ocean.

“Paul—”

Duncan looked taken aback, worry seeming to amplify by the minute.

“ Do not leave my side ,” Paul repeated, more scathingly, eyes wild. 

He spoke as if trying to divert the man’s grim fate through the power of his speech alone.

Though worry lined his face, Duncan’s blue eyes hardened with resolute, unwavering loyalty. There was a protective set in his shoulders.

“Only death itself could keep me from leaving your side, my lord,” Duncan vowed fiercely, looking him straight in the eyes.

Paul had lived the honesty of Duncan’s words once before. 

He believed him.

Duncan’s arms looped under Paul’s legs, and then his shoulders. 

He stood up, carefully pulling Paul against his chest as he and the contingent of guards jogged back to the Caladan fortress in a defensive formation.

Alive.

Paul closed his eyes, sending a silent prayer to the heart of Arrakis, calling upon whatever powers above had made him Maud’dib.

Please let me stay here a little bit longer .

Let me be selfish a little longer.

Chapter Text

After Paul was rushed to his quarters in the arms of Duncan Idaho, the castle was locked down against an unseen threat. The Caladan fortress was alight with whispers, a sharp contrast to its usual, silent tranquility.

***

‘The Duke and Lady are scheduled to return to Caladan this afternoon,’

‘They were both off-planet when this happened?’

‘Yes, for a trade negotiation. Halleck was with them to ensure their safety, so he can't have been involved.’

***

According to these whispers, Leto Atreides was alive . That thought alone made Paul’s head spin.

He was showered with questions that he couldn’t answer. Instead of replying, Paul fell into uneasy silence, thinking only of his father.

My father is alive.

****

‘What happened?’

‘Nobody knows who attacked the young master- he won’t say a word. They found him in the sea, delirious.’

‘Do you think it was an assassination attempt?’

*** 

Drained from his first outburst, Paul stared up at the ceiling, withdrawn and listless.

He was carefully assisted out of wet clothing and into dry clothing. His eyes followed the servant as she took the bundle of wet clothes, and rushed out of the room with a deferential nod.

Those clothes, already soaked in sea water, would be washed in a huge basin of clean water. Water that would later be discarded like it was nothing.

What a waste.

***

‘Terrible, isn’t it?’

‘He’s only fourteen.’

‘It had to be someone from the inside.’

***

After a while, Duncan encouraged him to drink a vial of blue syrup that would soothe his nerves. Paul looked at it critically. The blue hue reminded Paul of the Water of Life, the visions cascaded into Paul until he was - as Stilgar would put it - as written . 

Lisan al Gaib.

Duncan broke Paul’s train of thought by thrusting a large glass of water, filled to the brim, into his hands.

“To chase down the taste,” he’d explained quickly.

Paul stared at the glass of water as though it might burst into flames.

A full glass of water is immeasurable wealth.

A full glass of water is ten Fremen men.

A full glass of water is war.

He didn’t drink it.

Paul just closed his eyes, waiting for the desert to call him back - but he couldn’t hear a thing.

***

“My lord?”

Doctor Yueh entered the room in a business-like manner. The moment Paul locked eyes with the man, he could feel his blood freeze.

The Traitor .

“I’ve tested him for the regular poisons and basic physical injuries,” Duncan reported instantly, “I did not find a trace on him.”

“Thank you, Idaho,” Yueh replied, a clear dismissal.

Paul’s breath caught in his throat. Before he could think about it, Paul’s hand was impulsively closing around Duncan’s wrist, locking him in place.

Frantic, irrational thoughts flew through his mind.

If Duncan leaves, he won’t come back .

If I lose sight of him, he will turn to sand.

Yueh’s eyebrows furrowed, but he didn’t comment.

“I’ll stay,” Duncan said kindly, effortlessly supplementing an excuse to spare Paul’s pride, “with Gurney off-planet, it’s pertinent for me to understand exactly what we’re dealing with.”

“Very well.”

Yueh settled near his bedside table with a tray full of vials. Paul settled for stony silence.

The Traitor.

“My lord, can you start by telling me if you are experiencing pain anywhere in particular?” Yueh probed softly.

Paul’s mouth twisted. He didn’t know how to begin to explain, let alone to Yueh —The reason for his father’s death.

“He couldn’t say anything to me on the beach, either,” Duncan offered, filling a long, uncomfortable silence.

Duncan hesitated.

'Tell me what hurts.'

'I can’t.'

“Except to tell me that… he felt that he can’t speak of it,” Duncan continued, “Paul can’t speak of whatever-- or whoever hurt him.”

Duncan’s face darkened, running through a list of possibilities for Paul’s non-existent attacker.

Paul wished that it was that simple.

Paul looked down at his hands, the hands that had never seen the desert, and imagined Caladan fading away like sand sifting through his fingers.

When will I be back on Arrakis?

There was a pregnant pause.

“My lord, you need not speak of it, if you…can’t,” Yueh said carefully, “I will just need to run some tests,”

Paul looked at the man, letting the cold haze of anger sink back into his skin.

He felt weary.

Behind the formalities, Paul could sense Yueh’s genuine concern for his well-being. He could practically see Yueh’s analytical brain whirring, logging his every reaction and every movement with accurate precision.

‘I am fourteen here’ , Paul reminded himself reasonably, ‘ Yueh has yet to betray the Atreides. I should investigate the reason that he betrayed us while I am here.’

“I am unharmed,”  Paul replied finally, “you will not find anything physically wrong with me.”

His first words came out softly, insecurely - A far cry from the harsh, deadly tone he used to command his Fedayken.

“Nothing happened to me,” Paul repeated unconvincingly, “I’m… truly sorry to have raised the alarm.”

He returned his gaze to his lap, ignoring the way that Yueh's x-ray stare seemed to be trying to extract the key to his plight.

Neither Duncan nor Yueh looked as though they believed his words.

“Allow me to run a few tests, as standard procedure,” Yueh said, without room for argument, “It will ease your father’s mind when he returns.”

Paul sighed wistfully.

His father.

“We will start with a quick examination…” 

***

Yueh launched into an explanation that Paul quickly tuned out, opting instead to memorize every minute detail of his surroundings.

What if this was the last time he would ever see Caladan?

He felt the texture of his favorite shirt against his skin: a soft, heathery blue chosen for him by his mother.

‘ Blue like the fountains of Cala,’ she had explained, statuesque and serious as always, but with a warmth to her as she straightened his collar.

He studied the mahogany bookshelf in his quarters, lined with a collection of knick-knacks that Gurney had given to him from his trips off-planet.

He watched as his small black cat, Mira, curled up near his shoulder. Mira stretched lazily, before curling up in a ball on Paul’s chest. He could feel her contented purr as she nestled closer to him. 

Her warmth was contagious.

Paul reached up, fingertips brushing against soft, black fur, the moment awakening a long-buried memory.

His father had gifted him the animal when he was eight. 

What had become of her, on Arrakis?

***

He vividly remembered when the Duke had arrived with the tiny bundle of black fur tucked in his arms, his grin widening as he watched young Paul’s face light up with joy.

‘What would you like to name her? ’

He would listen to Paul eagerly recount his sparring sessions with Duncan and Gurney with a proud glint in his eye.

He would ruffle his hair, with a rare, playful smile that was seen only by his son.

***

On Arrakis, Paul had thought many times of Duke Leto Atreides.

His title, his dedication to honor, and his untimely death. 

He thought briefly of the day that his father had died. 

'I should mourn him. I should feel something. But I feel nothing except: Here's an important fact,' he had thought, at the time, back in a world where pushing down such emotion was a cruel necessity.

Paul’s father would always be his guiding star, his call to arms. But he had also pushed away the childhood memories of his father - memories of a man who had laughed far more often.

That man was so very different from the Duke who held the weight of a troubled planet on his shoulders. 

‘How could I possibly have forgotten my own father?’ Paul lamented.

***

“What's wrong, my lord?” Yueh prompted probingly. 

He looked at Yueh questioningly, before realizing that Yueh had stopped talking for a while now. 

Paul had been lost in his memories for too long.

Paul’s fingertips instinctively touched his face, noticing that there were fresh trails of water on his cheeks.

Had he been crying, without knowing?

Such a lack of regard for resources.

Stilgar would have been horrified.

Yueh cleared his throat. Duncan’s bracing grip tightened on his shoulder.

With a jolt, Paul realized that they both were waiting for him to explain his tears.

“Run your tests, if you must.” Paul said quietly, a lump in his throat, “I… would like to speak with my father, once he returns.”

Chapter Text

Duke Leto Atreides hid his distaste with practiced ease as he studied the crowd of ambassadors gathered around the long, stone table. It had been a long, difficult trade negotiation. 

Leto itched to tap his foot, a habit passed down from his father. Leto glanced over at Jessica, at his right – She was the picture of elegance, poised with immaculate posture and effortless beauty. 

‘Radiant, as always,’ he thought fondly.

Though Jessica’s face hadn’t shifted from polite interest, Leto could tell by the slight twitch of her shoulder that Jessica was amused by Leto’s boredom.

“U-m-m-m Duke Atreides,” a high, inquiring voice came from his left, “what a surprise to see you tonight.”

Count Fenring was a thin, weasellish man. Under the warm lighting, his pale complexion looked almost green. 

There was an expectant look on the man’s face.

‘The Emperor’s lackey’ , Leto thought, guard instantly in place. 

Fenring would not acknowledge him without reason.

“Count Fenring,” Leto greeted warmly, “a pleasure to see you as well.” 

He chose to ignore Fenring’s subtle jab at Leto’s lack of participation in previous meetings.

Fenring’s mouth bared into a smile. 

He leaned closer to him.

“Readdon’s weaponry is not catching your interest?” he inquired lightly. 

“Their weaponry is not compatible with Caladan’s natural resources. It’s not our main priority currently, but that might change,” Leto replied pleasantly, unsure of what the man wanted to hear.

Count Fenring let out an odd sort of chuckle, leaning back slightly in his chair. His beady eyes narrowed. 

“U-m-m-m – so House Atreides is partial to the use of natural resources, ” Fenring remarked knowingly, “like the spice trade.” 

Spice.

An invaluable resource, only found on the desolate, desert planet of Arrakis - a planet that was the antithesis of the endless waters of Caladan.

Leto frowned internally. He couldn’t recall saying a word about the spice trade on Arrakis in any past negotiations.

Why was Fenring bringing it up now?

“The spice trade,” Leto repeated neutrally, “a valuable resource indeed, but spice is not a natural resource in –” 

“Caladan, yes, I know,” Fenring finished Leto’s sentence, waving a pudgy hand dismissively, “but what if House Atreides was to seek… other opportunities? ” 

Leto considered this question carefully, with a sense of foreboding. Fenring was the emperor’s mouthpiece. 

Was the Emperor considering sending him to Arrakis? And why?

He opened his mouth, half of a response formulated when –

“My Lord Duke,” Gurney cut in from behind, “a word.” 

***

Leto turned toward Gurney in surprise. He had materialized a respectful distance behind Leto, with an unyielding stare that reminded him of flint. 

Leto’s stomach dropped. Gurney never verbally signaled him unless there was an immediate crisis. 

“Just a moment, Gurney,” Leto said, projecting an air of easy grace, though he could feel his heart rate increase. He turned back to Fenring. 

“My deepest apologies,” Leto said with just the right amount of polite regretfulness, “it appears that I’m needed elsewhere. I hope that we can discuss this matter further at a later time.” 

Fenring inclined his head, eyes glittering. 

Leto had the odd feeling that the Fenring had been testing him - whether Leto had passed or failed, he did not know. 

Arrakis once again slipped back to the distant corners of his mind.

***

Leto quickly followed Gurney out of the meeting room. Gurney shut the heavy metal door behind him with a snap, completing a cursory scan of their surroundings before turning back to face him.

“Tell me.” Leto ordered, pushing down his silent dread in favor of cool brusqueness. 

Gurney nearly always had a few sly words to lighten the mood, but today he looked every inch a serious swordsmaster.

Is there an assassin at this trade meeting?

An immediate threat to his life?

An immediate threat to Jessica’s life?

It wouldn’t be the first time.

“Hawat dispatched an urgent messenger from Caladan, my lord,” Gurney reported quickly, “Paul may have been attacked. They… found him in the Cala sea in the early hours yesterday morning.” 

Gurney’s grim facade cracked to reveal the helpless, angry frustration of being so far away from the boy he was tasked with protecting - a boy who he’d come to consider as a son. 

There was a beat of stunned silence.

That had been the last thing that Leto had expected.

Paul was supposed to be safe , watched over by guards day and night, housed in the most secure structure of Caladan’s quietest city, Cala. Cala’s crime rate was slim to none.

Who would dare attack his child in his own home?

“Attacked?” Leto spluttered, trying to shake off his shock, “is he injured? Have they apprehended anyone?”

“Idaho and Yueh have him under their watch, and the fortress has been locked down. I don’t have any other details.”

“They’ve locked down the fortress,” Leto repeated, connecting the dots, “do they suspect a member of staff is involved?” 

"The messenger couldn’t confirm, my lord,” Gurney said, face darkening murderously, “though if Paul was attacked by one of our own, I will kill them myself.”

Leto felt like the wind had knocked out of him.

His boy .

Status unknown.

Possible attack.

“We leave for Caladan immediately.” Leto said, voice steely.

***

Leto marched onto the tarmac in Caladan, steps matching the frantic drum of his heart. Leto didn’t pause to greet the formation of guards who awaited his aircraft, where rain pelted down at a steady pace. 

Instead, he stormed through the castle’s long hallways, Jessica, Gurney, and his guards following at a slight jog to keep up. Servants leapt out of his way as he passed, mumbling quiet formalities, until the band reached the closed door of Paul’s quarters. 

Yueh stood at attention in front of the door, face stony and hands clasped. 

“My lord.” 

“Brief me quickly , Yueh.” Leto ordered impatiently, a storm brewing in his voice. 

Let me see my son.

“Physically, Paul is stable. There are no fatal toxins or poisons in his system, nor does he have any physical injuries.” 

“But?” Jessica prompted urgently. Her face was unreadable, but her tone was decidedly uneasy. 

Usually, Jessica could read a situation with frightening accuracy, almost predicting events even before they occurred. This didn’t seem to be the case now. 

‘Was this a mother’s concern for her son? 

Or a Bene Gesserit’s concern for a shadowed destiny, coming to fruition too soon?’ 

The ugly thought crossed Leto’s mind before he could stop it. 

Yueh swallowed. 

“Paul’s mannerisms are that of someone who has lived through severe trauma – trauma that you would see in a victim of war. He refuses to speak of it.”

“Severe trauma? But… he’s in good physical health?” Leto repeated, confused. 

“There are ways to torture a man without leaving a trace,” Gurney said heavily, hands twitching. His jaw tightened. 

Leto winced at the implications. Gurney had never been one to mince words, which was a quality that he admired, but his stomach twisted at the thought of his own son suffering to such an extent. 

Yueh cleared his throat, looking uncomfortable at that train of thought.

“I also noted an abnormality in the level of spice in the young lord’s bloodstream,” Yueh reported, quickly changing the subject. 

“Spice?” Leto exclaimed, feeling as though he’d been slapped. 

All he could think about was Count Fenring’s sly voice from the trade negotiation meeting.

“U-m-m-m – so the House Atreides is partial to the use of natural resources,” Fenring remarked knowingly, “like the spice trade.” 

Had the Emperor orchestrated some sort of attack on his son? 

Had the Emperor declared war on the House of Atreides?

Or had that whole, odd interaction with Fenring been a massive coincidence?

Yueh blinked, looking befuddled by the Duke’s reaction.

“It’s not terribly unusual  – spice is a common element. Most people who have space-traveled before have some minuscule quantity of it in their system, but Paul’s numbers are… an anomaly. Twenty times the amount of a typical adult man.”  

Twenty times the amount.

Leto could feel anger simmering in his chest. 

“But… Paul hasn’t space-traveled in over a year. ” Jessica commented in confusion, “how could he have –”

“ Gurney ,” Leto interrupted through gritted teeth, red haze building behind his eyes, “get me everything you can on Count Fenring, and his work with the spice trade in Arrakis.”

Gurney’s eyebrows shot up, his hand flying to the hilt of his knife out of habit. 

“The Emperor’s advisor? You suspect –” 

Leto whirled around, silencing Gurney with one look.

“Would you still follow my orders if it is?” Leto snapped, voice severe. 

‘Would you disobey the Emperor if I asked?’ he asked, between the lines.

Gurney’s face flattened – he drew himself up, eyes flashing.

“Without hesitation, my lord,” Gurney replied resolutely, “it will be done.”

Leto rounded on Yueh, a Duke’s anger melting back into a father’s worry. 

“Can we see him, Yueh?” Leto asked pleadingly. 

“Of course, my lord.” Yueh said quickly, stepping aside. Yueh looked oddly agitated as he did so, but Leto didn’t stop to examine this – He had to see his son with his own eyes.  

Leto pushed through the door, Jessica at his side.

***

Paul was curled up on his bed, dozing quietly. A stream of sunlight beamed across his pale cheek, and his cat, Mira, was curled into his chest. His son looked so young when he was asleep, untouched by the darkness around him. 

Leto’s throat tightened.

Paul is too young to know the cruelties of the world.

Duncan sat watchfully at his bedside, dark circles shadowing his eyes. At the noise of Leto and Jessica’s entrance, Duncan stood up, looking uncharacteristically harried. 

“My lord –” 

Leto brushed past Duncan, fully focused on his son. Paul’s eyes danced behind closed lids as he neared. 

“ No… Sihaya… ” Paul was murmuring fitfully, clearly distressed, “ Death trap – Leto – the water –” 

“Paul?” Leto whispered. Leto placed a gentle, comforting hand on Paul’s shoulder, intending to ease him awake.

“STOP!”

Paul snapped away from the touch like a jolt of electricity had just gone through him, making Leto jump back in surprise. Mira darted off of the bed in an instant. 

“Where am I?” Paul snarled, disoriented. His voice was harsh, darker than Leto had ever heard it, “ where have you taken me?”

Paul’s right hand made several aborted motions to draw an invisible knife, blue eyes unseeing and wild, before he finally seemed to register his surroundings. 

Paul froze as soon as he met Leto’s eyes. 

Leto could see his hands trembling. 

“Dad?” he whispered, all the fight evaporating from his thin body. 

“That’s right,” Leto soothed, “I’m here, Paul.” 

Paul reached out dazedly, breath catching as soon as his hand met Leto’s shoulder. He looked as though he expected to reach straight through a projected image.

“How… how could this…” Paul was muttering, eyes taking on a glossy sheen of unshed tears, “they… killed you.” 

Duncan stiffened.

At that moment, Leto knew that the situation had just become more dire. 

An attack on an heir was one thing. 

But clearly, there had been a threat on his life as well.

‘An act of war.’ he thought grimly.

An attack on House Atreides. 

“Oh, Paul…” 

Leto pulled Paul into a crushing hug, feeling the boy’s shaky breath in the crook of his neck. 

Paul clung onto him like he’d never let go again.

‘I would sooner meet the end of my own dagger than let anything happen to you.’ Leto thought fiercely.

Chapter Text

‘So many playing cards…’  Gurney thought to himself grimly.

He reshuffled the deck in his mind - filled with people that could potentially be involved in an orchestrated attack on House Atreides.

The Jack.

Count Fenring. A cunning, machinist knight in the pocket of the Emperor - His intentions with Arrakis, unclear.

The King.

The Emperor. A man embroiled in power, with countless, intertwining motivations. What motivation could the Emperor have to kill a Duke of a well-respected House, or a Duke’s son, for that matter?

And the most pressing question - how could either man even have access to Paul?

This left…

The Ace.

Wellington Yueh. An inside man with the key to the entirety of House Atreides’ health records - From food intake, to pain management.

Gurney turned this over in his mind as he walked away from Paul’s quarters with Yueh at his side.

“Did I hear you correctly when you said that Paul has twenty times the normal amount of spice in his body?” Gurney mused as they walked.

Yueh was paler than usual, hand restlessly reaching up to straighten his collar.

“Yes,” Yueh commented, “an abnormality.”

Gurney’s mouth twisted into a frown. Calling the amount of spice in Paul’s body abnormal was a gross understatement. 

Gurney knew for a fact that withdrawing too quickly from excessive spice consumption meant certain death .

***

He thought back to an old pilot friend who had fallen victim to the allure of melange spice while space-navigating. The more spice that the pilot had consumed, the more he had desired it - Until every system in his body was hungry for it, drinking the substance into his veins like golden blood.

His access to spice had been terminated, after it was found that he was taking far more than his ration. After that, the pilot had declined quickly. His hollowed, blue-tinged eyes haunted Gurney to this day.

‘ Spice has sealed my fate ,’ the pilot had rasped, grasping painfully onto Gurney’s arm when he’d visited him, ‘but it has given me so much more than you could ever imagine.’

Gurney could still smell the faint waft of cinnamon as the man took his last breath.

***

“Interesting,” Gurney commented, “then explain to me, Wellington, why you neglected to tell the Duke the truth?”

At Gurney’s question, Yueh stopped abruptly.

“Are you implying that I lied in my report?” Yueh demanded with an edge to his voice.

“No,” Gurney replied pointedly, “you were just… selective.”

“Gurney, I would never exclude important information—,”

“If we don’t maintain the level of spice currently in his system, Paul will be dead within a day,” Gurney cut in bluntly, “and you didn’t inform the Duke.”

Yueh blanched, looking around compulsively for eavesdroppers.

“Are you accusing me of treason ?” Yueh hissed incredulously, “I'll be giving that boy spice-infused water regularly until his body is in a regulated state. Of course I am aware of that.” 

Gurney watched his reaction critically.

“Then why not inform the Duke of Paul’s risk level?” Gurney asked reasonably, “is it because it will change how urgently the Duke will pursue Paul’s attackers?" 

Yueh twitched, looking increasingly agitated.

“I just don’t want the Duke to make any rash decisions,” the Suk doctor explained, deflating, “I will find an alternative explanation for the excess amount of spice. There has to be an explanation.”

‘An explanation that doesn’t involve the Emperor,’ went unsaid.

“It is not your place to determine the Duke’s decisions for him, Yueh,” Gurney rebuked, eyes narrowing.

Neither missed that Gurney had changed  from addressing the man by his first name, Wellington, to addressing him by his last name, Yueh. 

A broken trust.

“You have no idea what my role entails, Halleck,” Yueh said stiffly, “I suggest that you remain within the realm of your duties.” 

“Anything that pertains to Paul’s life is within the realm of my duties,” Gurney countered dangerously, “and if I find one toe out of line, there will be hell to pay.” 

Yueh and Gurney looked at one another for a long moment, a flicker of hurt on Yueh’s face before his expression smoothed over.

“One day,” Yueh replied coldly, “you will come to realize just how wrong you are, Halleck. I’d do anything I can to help the people I care for. Anything. ”

With one last intense look, Yueh turned on his heel, stalking down the hall in the opposite direction.

Gurney watched him as he disappeared. 

The thought didn’t comfort Gurney. After all, the people who are willing to do anything are the same people willing to risk everything.

Paul’s life was now completely dependent on Yueh’s care, contained delicately within the carefully measured vials of spice-infused water.

Yes, the Duke and Hawat would need to be notified of his suspicions of Yueh - and quickly .

***

Paul flailed blindly, struggling to regain his surroundings. He could smell the tinge of burnt cinnamon. The sun reflected against it in a harsh, blinding white – Paul held an arm in front of his face to block it. He tried to squint through a seemingly endless haze of sand, breath quickening. 

All he could see was spice shimmering in the air, tantalizing in its motion.

“Hello?” Paul called out. 

He could hear the deafening rush of sand below his feet. The endless mass of moving sand blotted out any sort of response. 

It felt like a thousand years ago that he’d been in this very predicament, blindly flying an ornithopter through a sandstorm, the first time he had opened his mind. 

‘I must not fear,’ he reminded himself, returning to the familiar, fluid motions of the desert, ‘I do not need to see to understand.’ 

Paul knelt, placing his hands upon the ground. The ground was textured - Not sand, Paul realized, but a harder, more scaly material. 

Suddenly, the material shifted, Paul having to regain his balance to stay atop of it. 

“A maker,” Paul whispered in amazement.  With one rearing motion, the sandworm was shifting course, continuing its descent into the sand. 

Paul acted quickly, hands grappling to where he knew his maker hooks were resting, clipped neatly to his stillsuit. 

He knew how to handle this. 

“Usul, you must take Leto, ” Chani’s frantic voice came somewhere from his right, “you must save your son. Hurry!”  

“Chani?” Paul called out in surprise, turning towards her voice.

‘I am not alone.’

Through the haze, he could see Chani, also in a stillsuit, about a hundred meters away. She clung to the maker with the precision of a Desert-born, but a small bundle fastened tightly around her chest with a scarf was hindering her movements. 

Paul’s son.

The sandworm shifted again, and both tumbled to the right. 

Paul stumbled, and his maker hooks were lost – He could hear their metallic sound as they were dislodged from the sandworm. On his hands and knees, he felt for anything to grasp on the sandworm’s scaly surface.

In the distance, Chani was bracing herself, careful to avoid putting any weight on the small bundle. Her left arm was straining to keep her grip on a lone maker hook, fastened haphazardly to the sandworm’s side. 

“Usul, please, ” Chani pleaded, “you can’t let them take us again.” 

“Hang on! ” Paul shouted, abandoning any effort to maintain his grip in favor of clambering toward her as fast as he could make his body move, “just hang on, Chani, I’m on my way –” 

The sandworm unexpectedly turned again. Chani and the small bundle disappeared, hurtling into the avalanche of sand. 

“Chani?” 

There was no response. The wind whistled slightly as the maker shifted course. 

The swathe of sand returned, obscuring Paul’s vision. 

“No!” Paul roared, leaping off of the maker, and into the darkness.

Chapter Text

Paul landed hard on his shoulder, sand rustling upwards in a large plume where he hit the ground. Strangely, he felt no pain - though he could taste the grit of sand and spice in his mouth. 

Paul could still hear the sandworm as it slithered deeper and deeper, finally vanishing into the arid ground. It left nothing but rustling spice in its wake. 

“Chani?” he shouted, voice echoing across the endless clearing of sand.

He heard nothing but his own labored breath in response. Paul shifted, staggering to his feet. 

Paul called upon all of his senses, trying to pinpoint where Chani might have fallen. Alarmingly, his prescient abilities and all-knowing instincts seemed to have abandoned him.

‘I’ve already lost myself to this terrible purpose,’ Paul thought despondently, ‘I can’t lose her too.’

“Chani?” he called out again, a lump in his throat, “Siyaha?”

Paul stepped forward gently, foot sinking into the sand. Long ago, Chani had been the one to teach him in the dead of night - The broken, graceful dance that would allow him to move silently across the desert.

Step.

Pivot.

Forward.

He gritted his teeth, and willed himself to have patience. He could practically hear her voice.

‘Do not fall into a rhythm.’

Step.

Pivot.

Forward.

“ Stay with me, Chani ,” Paul whispered, “I’m almost there.”

He hoped that the wind would somehow carry it to her ears. The desert seemed almost tranquil, if not for the dread in Paul’s chest.

What if she had already been lost to the sand? 

Step.

Pivot.

Forward.

“Paul?”  a voice was saying from behind. Suddenly, a hand had reached out of the sandy curtain, grasping his shoulder, pulling him backwards. 

“STOP!” 

Paul jerked away in surprise, whirling around to face the threat. 

The figure was mostly concealed by an impenetrable wall of spice floating through the air. It was impossible to make out the figure’s face.

‘How did he get here?’

‘How did I get here?’

The strange thoughts crossed Paul’s mind as he took in the sight. 

“Where am I?” Paul demanded, moving into an offensive stance, “where have you taken me?”

The bright figure shimmered, rippling like water in a pond. Paul moved to draw his crysknife from its sheath — but his trusty blade wasn’t in its usual place. 

He looked down at his empty hands in confusion. 

Hands that had not seen the desert.

When Paul looked back up, his breath caught in surprise. 

The figure had morphed into a replica of his father. He looked exactly as he had before his trying times in Arrakis – Hair with a few less grays, and smile lines deeper. 

His father wore no still-suit, yet he breathed effortlessly, unfazed by the spice sifting through the air. His warm brown eyes were wide and worried. 

“Dad?” Paul whispered shakily, moving toward the figure slowly. 

He wondered if he had finally lost his grip on reality after being on Arrakis for so long. 

“That’s right,” his father soothed, “I’m here, Paul.” 

A knife was twisting into Paul’s stomach. His father’s voice was just as he remembered it - a warm timbre that softened only for his son. 

‘Those who are not Desert-born see things that we do not see,’ Chani had warned him once, ‘ They see oceans when they are thirsty, they see the dead when they are grieving — You mustn’t fall prey to what you think you see.’ 

‘My father is dead,’ Paul told himself matter-of-factly, ‘ this is a simple fact.’

He screwed up his courage, one trembling hand reaching toward the man. 

To Paul’s immense surprise, his hand met his father’s firm shoulder.  

He wasn’t an image that the desert had concocted, he was there.

“How… how could this…” he exclaimed, voice cracking, “they… killed you.”

His father’s face crumpled, before his arms were wrapping around him, just as they had when Paul was a child.

The world that Paul had created without his father fractured. 

Paul buried his face in his father’s shoulder, heart beating wildly. 

At that moment, the desert melted away in a flash of light.

***

Paul blinked the stars out of his eyes, still enveloped in his father’s arms. He took a deep breath, savoring the feeling of parental warmth that he never thought he’d feel again. 

“Oh, Paul.” he father was saying softly, pulling back to look at him properly, as though studying him for injuries.

Paul blinked, suddenly very aware of his changed surroundings — Gone were the desolate corners of Arrakis. 

Again, he sat in his comfortable quarters in Caladan.

***

Chani tumbled off of the maker and into a sea of unforgiving sand, their son held protectively against her chest. She closed her eyes, falling with simple acceptance. 

She knew that her fate was sealed.

***

Paul tore away from his father’s embrace in an instant.

He leapt up from the bed, hurtling toward the door. 

'My father is dead.’ Paul reminded himself harshly, ‘my real father died on Arrakis. This is nothing but an echo of the desert, trying to trick me.’ 

It was as if he could feel the spice crawling under his skin.

The desert lay outside of that door, waiting for him to wake up. 

Chani was waiting for him to find her.

***

“Paul!”

His father had caught him by the arm. Paul tried to wrench his arm out of his iron grip to no avail. 

“ Let go of me! ” Paul demanded, tone verging on the harsh resonance used in the Voice, “ Don’t make this harder than it needs to be. ”

Duncan had jumped up too – Paul could see him over his shoulder, hovering over the two looking unsure if he needed to be involved.

Leto's grip tightened. He looked panicked.

“Son, slow down . Tell us what you need.”

***

Chani lay in the dunes of Arrakis, staring up at the pale purple sky, silently waiting for footsteps that would never come. The sun would rise soon. 

She held her son close to her, shielding him as best as she could. She knew that they could only last so long under its unforgiving rays. 

***

Paul maneuvered his arms out of his father’s grasp in a fluid, graceful move that he’d learned from the Fremen.

He ignored the look of surprise on his father’s face as he succeeded. 

“I don't have time for this,” Paul snapped,  “I need to get back to Arrakis. ”

“Arrakis?” His father prompted, a strange inflection on his voice, “why Arrakis, Paul?”

He looked deadly serious as soon as Paul had said the word, something fiery behind his gaze. 

“Arrakis is my home now,” Paul burst out angrily, “My family needs me. A man like you should be able to understand that!” 

His words were ringing through the air. He could see Leto and Duncan exchange an unreadable glance. 

“Your family?” Leto repeated, eyebrows furrowed, “your family is here, Paul.”

Leto took a few tentative steps toward him, as though approaching a wild animal. 

"Your mother and I are right here," he repeated slowly, voice softer than Paul had ever heard it. 

Paul scowled, cursing whatever desert spirit that had forced him to see this version of his father - a version that was so hard to leave.

How can Leto not understand - 

Chani needs me.

My son needs me.

My son —

My son.

Paul paused his internal tirade, confusion twisting in his chest.

Paul’s son was dead. 

He knew that. 

He’d lived that.

At that moment, he realized that the reality where his son was alive on Arrakis was just a dream.

Chani’s voice floated back to him, as though taunting him.

Another off-worlder who had fallen for the tricks of the desert -- They see the dead when they are grieving.

Chapter Text

If Paul had dreamt that version of Arrakis… could that mean that this version of Caladan was now his reality?

Paul looked around the room with new eyes - Caladan was sharper than his dream of Arrakis.

He could feel the pleasantly cool breeze on his cheek. He could see every single stitch of the large tapestry on his wall - a Caladanan ocean that he vaguely remembered from his childhood bedroom.

He could observe every worried movement of his father - Leto stood tensely, as though ready to spring into action if Paul tried to leave the room again. 

Paul sagged with the weight of the realization.

'A new life,' he thought in amazement, and horror. 

“What year is it?” Paul asked Leto, voice seeming to come from a great distance.

There was a long, anxious pause after the question left Paul's lips.

“The year is 10190,” Leto replied slowly, “Paul… do I need to get Doctor Yueh?”

Paul didn’t reply, mouth falling open in shock.  

10190.

One whole year before their move to Arrakis.

Leto's hands hovered over his shoulders, guiding him back to a chair. Paul sank into the chair gladly, still attempting to reconcile the truth with his new reality. 

“I need you to listen to me, Paul,” Leto was saying carefully, tone surprisingly understanding,  “your spice levels are abnormally high right now. I imagine that’s why you’re a little… confused.” 

“My… spice levels,” Paul repeated, heart finally reaching a semblance of a normal pace at the mention of something so menial. 

“Yes,” Leto replied, looking relieved at Paul’s semi-coherent reply, “your spice levels. We suspect someone may have dosed you with it with ill intent.” 

Paul turned this over in his head.

He had lived his years on Arrakis, of that he was sure -- The memories were too involved, too detailed --

But here he was, back on Caladan. 

Something, or someone had sent him back.

For what purpose?

“I know it might be hard for you to talk about this right now, Paul,” Leto prodded gently, “but can you tell me what you remember from the past few days?” 

Paul closed his eyes.

His mind was full of memories from a life unravelled. 

***

A few days ago, Paul had killed Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen with the unfeeling precision of a ruthless leader.

A few days ago, Paul watched his followers lift their crysknives to the sky, eyes wild with the fire of war - a fire born by a thousand years of harsh desert.

A few days ago he had felt nothing but careful consideration of his terrible purpose.

Power for a greater good.

***

But then he’d awoken in Caladan – A version of Caladan that had ripped open his stone heart, and poured saltwater into an open wound that Paul hadn't even known he had.  

“I remember the sea,” he replied thoughtfully, as though recollecting a dream he'd had, “I remember asking Duncan to stay with me until I was safe.” 

His eyes flicked over to Duncan, who was still at his side, expression earnest despite his obvious fatigue. 

'Do not leave my side,' Paul had ordered him, a thousand years ago.

A ghost of a smile passed over his lips. 

Duncan had kept his promise.

His father kneeled in front of him in order to meet Paul's eye.

“Very good,” Leto encouraged softly, “can you tell me what happened before that?”

Paul swallowed, looking down. As much as he wanted to let the words pour out of him, to say everything that had been pent up inside of him for so long - he had no way of knowing if the future he’d lived would even come to fruition here.

‘Events will not unfold the same way twice,’ he reminded himself, 'I have already set a new future into motion.'

***

“I can’t.” Paul replied simply. 

“Why?” Leto pressed, a stubborn anger locked in his dark gaze, “is someone threatening you?”

A vision of his father hunting down men for crimes they hadn’t yet committed flashed through his mind.

Paul shook his head, hating the thought instantly.

He sat thoughtfully, trying to find a way to explain his predicament without putting the weight of his future on Leto’s shoulders. He could feel Leto’s eyes on him, observing every mannerism with a level of concern that only a father could know. 

Paul reached out, placing a hand on his father’s shoulder, memorizing every line of his father's worried face.

“One day,” Paul finally settled on, “I will tell you everything that I have seen - everything that I have lived. I promise you that.” 

There was an ache in his chest as he looked at Leto.

He'd forgotten how much he missed him.

Leto looked at him, confusion settling into his expression. But he said nothing. 

For a moment, it felt like they had shifted roles — Leto every bit the young apprentice, and Paul every bit the experienced guide.

Something snapped into place in Paul's mind.

One fact was crystal clear to him:

Leto Atreides would not die on Arrakis.

“Arrakis is a death trap for most,” Paul explained softly, eyes never leaving his father's,“There is much you must learn about the ways of the desert before you set foot there. I will teach you.”

Then, Paul's expression darkened into something sharper, more reminiscent of the warrior he had become in his years as Maud’dib.

The same fire that had burned in the thousands of Fremen fighters sparked in Paul's chest - kindling a flame that would never leave his body, no matter how long he spent away from Arrakis.

“Arrakis will not be a death trap for House Atreides," Paul vowed seriously, "I will make sure of that." 

***

Looking over his father’s shoulder, Paul saw Jessica. She stood with perfect poise, unsettlingly calm despite the situation. 

Paul had nearly forgotten what her face had looked like, before it had been changed by the desert sun, and lined with the careful, sacred designs of a Reverend Mother.

Jessica hadn’t said a word in reaction to any of Paul’s outbursts, but as she met eyes with Paul, her pale eyes widened slightly. Her eyes contained a fearful reverence that Paul knew too well.

The Kwisatz Haderach’s time had come, far too early.

Chapter Text

The Duke walked purposefully towards the briefing room, Duncan matching his step. 

Both men were silent.

Duncan was deep in thought.  

Duncan tried to reconcile Paul’s strange behavior with the young man he knew - A boy far more serious than other adolescents his age, but who still had  child-like wonder about him. He could practically see this version of Paul, full of boundless energy and youthful naiveté, regaling Duncan with his latest adventure.

In response, Duncan would grin, playfully sparring with Paul until he could hear the echoes of his laughter in the training room. 

Duncan was happy to draw out Paul’s playful side, something that had diminished year after year.  Recently, he felt that he’d been succeeding. Paul had been smiling more often lately, especially in Duncan’s company. 

That is, until something great and terrible happened — something that turned Paul into something… different.  

“There is much you must learn about the ways of the desert before you set foot there. I will teach you.” Paul had warned, a strange, self-assured wisdom emanating from his spice-tinged gaze. 

Paul had refused to say much else to the Duke after that, opting for a reflective silence. 

As much as Duncan wanted to disregard Paul’s words as delusions born from spice overconsumption, there was a surety in Paul’s voice there that he couldn’t shake. 

***

“Paul trusts you completely,” the Duke observed as they walked, “he ordered you to stay at his side - not anyone else. You obeyed, rather than assist in the search for attackers.” 

Duncan flushed, unsure of what to make of this statement.

Was this praise or reprimand?

“No further harm would come to him under my watch, my lord,” Duncan replied dutifully, “I made a promise to Paul that only death would keep me from his side.” 

The Duke paused. He turned to face Duncan with a speculative, stony look.

Duncan resisted the urge to twitch under his intense gaze. 

“Would you have obeyed me, if I had ordered you away from Paul’s side, after he was attacked?” the Duke asked, tone unreadable, “or would you have kept your promise to my son?” 

Duncan considered this question carefully.

He ran through the events of the last few days in his mind.

‘Do not leave my side,’ Paul had ordered frantically, back on the beach. 

It was an irrational order.  

Paul was not a ruling Duke, and though his orders held weight, Duncan wasn’t obligated to follow them - especially when Paul seemed ill.

If following procedure, Duncan would have gone after the attackers immediately. He would have been able to see exactly what his staff was investigating.  Perhaps he would have apprehended the attackers by now, or rooted out a potential traitor. He was, after all, one of the most experienced staff members, with Gurney off-planet.

But Duncan had chosen to follow his heart. 

He had followed Paul’s desperate, terrified expression. 

He had stayed. 

***

The moment Duncan had looked into Paul’s eyes on the shoreline of Cala beach, he knew that something was terribly wrong.  Paul had looked up at Duncan like he might shatter. It was a broken, haunting look that he never wanted to see on Paul’s face again.

He could still feel the imprints of Paul’s fingers, clenched around his wrist as he was examined by Yueh.

He looked squarely at the Duke, mind made up. 

***

“You are my Duke. I would gladly lay down my life for you,” Duncan stated gravely, “but I would not have broken my promise to Paul. Not even if you had ordered me away from his side.” 

Duncan lowered his gaze. 

The Duke had been as cold as a stone wall ever since he’d returned to Caladan, snapping at any staff member’s slightest misstep. 

Internally, he prepared himself for the Duke’s ire. 

“You’re a good man, Duncan,” the Duke replied softly, a note of respect in his voice. Duncan’s head snapped back up in surprise. 

The Duke was eyeing him with approval in his expression. 

He looked more like the man that Duncan was most familiar with: a leader who commanded respect, but who dropped the formalities with those who he trusted the most. 

“Thank you, my lord.” Duncan replied hesitantly. 

The Duke smiled slightly, before he turned back toward the briefing room. 

The large wooden door was closed, but Duncan assumed that Gurney, Wellington and Thufir would be waiting for them there. 

The Duke sighed, looking conflicted.

“I hate to ask this of you, but I must ask you all the same,” the Duke started reluctantly, voice strained, “speak nothing of what Paul said to me about Arrakis in this briefing.” 

“My lord?” 

Duncan’s mind was racing.

Gurney, Thufir, and Wellington would be attending the briefing.

The Duke couldn’t possibly suspect one of them, right? 

The Duke turned back to him apologetically, as though reading his thoughts. 

“I trust them with my life,” the Duke explained carefully, “but I know nothing of what we’re up against yet. You are the only one who Paul has indicated trust towards so far, and I do not wish to provide a full report until I have all of the pieces of Paul’s story.”

 Duncan could practically feel the exhaustion on the Duke’s face as he grappled with his son’s condition. He looked like the weight of the world had fallen on his shoulders.

“Consider this order an abundance of caution.” the Duke explained, running an agitated hand through his hair. 

“Understood,” Duncan replied, trying to conceal how shaken he was by the Duke’s reluctance.

The Duke shot him one last appraising look before starting toward the door, looking like he was marching into battle. 

Duncan fell into step behind him, ignoring the unease swirling in his stomach. He reminded himself to think like a soldier. 

Find the traitor, no matter who it is. 

For Paul. 

***

Gurney sat at the wooden table of the briefing room, arms crossed and mouth twisted into a frown. Yueh was across from him, regarding Gurney with a chilly stare. He knew that both of them were replaying their earlier conversation.

Spice had taken his boy’s mind. 

Gurney mentally swore at it. 

Gurney sighed through gritted teeth, wishing more than ever that he could just interrogate Yueh and be done with it. 

But Yueh had the keys to Paul’s life.

He couldn’t risk Yueh doing anything rash - which was why he needed to find time to speak with Leto alone.

Thufir glanced between the Yueh and Gurney.  Right when he looked as though he was about to ask, Leto entered the room, Duncan following closely behind.

“Gentleman.” 

The three men rose from their seats, at attention. They remained standing until Leto took his usual seat at the head of the table.

Duncan took his place at Leto’s right, near Yueh.  Duncan had a strange, pinched look on his face, which Gurney filed away as fatigue from the few sleepless nights that the man had spent at Paul’s bedside. 

He could relate.

“I’ve spoken with Paul, and can attest that he is experiencing the effects of spice overconsumption,” Leto started, tone heavy, “he did not provide any relevant information relating to his attackers.” 

He glanced at Duncan expectantly. Duncan straightened, seeming to temper his exhaustion with professionalism.

“I agree with the Duke’s assessment,” Duncan reported crisply. He didn’t provide any additional detail. 

Gurney looked at him, a little nonplussed - Duncan always provided reports in extensive detail. Even if he was tired, this was extremely minimal for his standards.

“You have no details that could potentially lead to an enemy?” Gurney clarified, tone carefully neutral. 

“Unfortunately not,” Duncan elaborated quickly, “Paul seems… feverish. The things he said to me made little sense, and I agree that it is due to the excess spice.” 

Duncan avoided Gurney’s eye when he looked at him. 

Gurney logged this reaction, glancing at Thufir carefully who nodded subtly. 

Duncan was keeping something from him.

He hated feeling suspicious of a man so loyal.

But then again, he’d thought the same thing about Yueh.

Chapter Text

“Let’s return to our main focus,” Leto redirected sharply, “Thufir, please report. Do you see a need to continue to lock down the fortress?”

“Our men have investigated every entrance area of the fortress, examined the perimeter, and started canvassing the surrounding city. We have found potential persons of interest, but nothing definitive,” Thufir reported, “I’ve cross-examined most guards, but have yet to conduct a full investigation on all members of staff–” 

Leto held up a hand, and Thufir paused. Leto closed his eyes, taking a deep breath.

He looked formidable. 

“Thank you, Thufir. I will review your notes on the staff investigation personally ,” Leto said stiffly, “for now, this meeting is concluded. I will follow up with each of you individually regarding your orders.”

Personally?

Individually?

Leto stood up abruptly, the rest of the men hastily rising as well. All looked uneasy at the lack of information exchanged.

Gurney resisted the urge to raise an eyebrow.

Any suspicions that Thufir had could surely be shared with Leto’s closest advisors.

Unless… the Duke suspects one of us.

Finally, Leto turned his shadowed gaze toward Gurney.

His expression was shuttered.

Gurney’s heart dropped.

Does Leto suspect him because he failed to protect his son?

Gurney could feel the cold sting of self-loathing in his bones long after Leto had left the room.

An enemy had slipped through his staff while he was gone.

This was his fault.

Yes, Gurney would deal with Yueh.

But first, he needed to apologize to Paul. 

***

Paul studied his reflection in the large, ornate mirror in his quarters.

The last time he had seen his reflection was in the Fremen’s cavernous cave, where he’d had a single drop of the Water of Life. Even then, he’d only caught a glimpse of himself in the pool of the Fremen’s sacred water.

At that time, the whites of Paul’s eyes had been entirely blue, matching the intensity of his Fremen comrades. Now they contained only the slightest hint of spice. There was a boyish slant to his jaw rather than the angular, sharp look he’d attained with age.

He heard Gurney enter the room before he’d even announced himself.

“Do you think I'm mad, Gurney?” Paul asked softly, not turning from the mirror, “a helpless boy whose mind was taken by spice?”

He turned, a flicker of amusement in his gaze at Gurney’s surprised look. Gurney clearly didn’t expect to be noticed so quickly.

“My lord,” Gurney greeted, uncharacteristically formal, “I think you are… unwell, is all.”

He didn’t agree or disagree with the fact that Paul was mad.

“Unwell .” Paul repeated, with a humorless smile. 

Paul hummed tunelessly to himself, an echo of the solemn, bittersweet song that Gurney had sung to Paul’s troops the night before battle. 

He glanced back at the mirror one more time. A glimmer of his old self shone through.

Muad'dib.

A name that was revered and feared across Arrakis.

He knew what he must do.

“Alright then, Gurney,” Paul replied easily, “best me.” 

“I’m sorry?” Gurney replied, looking uneasy. Paul started toward him, eyeing him analytically.

“You think of yourself as a failure. You think that you let an enemy slip by you, restrain me, and shatter what’s left of my mind,” Paul assessed ruthlessly, “Am I wrong?”

Gurney looked stricken. 

Paul knew that he had hit a nerve. 

Paul unsheathed a knife from his belt - a short, lightweight dagger with a black hilt that he’d found tucked in the drawer of his nightstand.

He tested the weight of it in his hand.

It was lighter than a crysknife, but familiar enough to be lethal.

“Best me in a fight, and tell me if you still think me a victim when you’re through,” Paul challenged, after a tense silence, “ not once did I say that I was attacked, and yet that is what everyone has assumed.” 

Gurney softened, nearing Paul with a mix of self-hatred and pity on his face. 

“Paul, you don’t need to prove yourself to me. It is not your fault if someone attacked you,” Gurney was saying, “If anything, it’s my fault that they were able to get past —,”

Paul thrust his knife toward Gurney’s unprotected shoulder. 

Gurney parried a second late, activating his shields at the last moment to avoid the swish of Paul’s blade.

The blade trembled against the thrum of the shield. 

Gurney’s eyes were wide.

“Wide open,” Paul observed coolly, raising an eyebrow, “you once warned me that not even in play do you let a man inside your guard with death in his hand.” 

He watched Gurney digest this, looking taken aback.

“I can’t recall ever saying that to you,” Gurney replied warily.

“Someday you will,” Paul replied knowingly, “someday, you will teach me a great many things about battle.”

His feet moved into a defensive stance with effortless grace. 

Gurney looked at him questioningly.

“I don’t want your apologies, Gurney,” Paul repeated stubbornly, “I want you to best me in a fight.”

There was a familiar glint in Gurney’s eye: The part of him that could never back down from a challenge.

“Shields?” Gurney asked finally.

“No shields,” Paul intoned, “they’ll be a hindrance.”

‘Shields attract sandworms ’ Paul thought automatically.

Paul could tell that Gurney thought that his insistence of using no shields was a form of self-punishment, for letting an enemy attack him.

He would soon rid Gurney of this delusion.

“If you go easy on me, I will never forgive you.” Paul warned with a lilt of a smile, but his tone was sharp as a whip. 

Gurney’s inkvine scar rippled against his jaw, expression heavy with anticipation. He deactivated his shields, feet moving into an offensive stance.

“Come on then, Paul,” he goaded, “give me your worst.”

Paul moved like a raptor circling its prey. He started the fight conservatively, dodging Gurney’s first, whirling jabs with restraint. 

He didn’t want to defeat the man too easily. 

Gurney cycled through a few familiar attack sequences. The attacks were simple and balance-heavy, with Gurney trying everything he could to get Paul to stumble. 

Paul could tell that Gurney was trying to keep the fight manageable for 14-year-old Paul’s skill level.

He pushed down his annoyance.

I told him not to go easy on me.

Paul darted away from Gurney’s offensive attacks with predictable defensive parries, until he could see Gurney fall into a rhythm.

Now.

Paul slid across the floor, jabbing his knife toward Gurney’s lower leg.

Gurney narrowly avoided it by jumping out of the way, but by that time, Paul had jumped up again, attacking him with the speed-driven dance of a Fremen fighter. 

Paul moved even quicker than usual — He was used to accounting for deep sand, which hindered movement, but the floors of this room were smooth, and ridiculously easy to maneuver on.

Eventually, Paul could feel Gurney shed the role of instructor and shift into the role of a hardened warrior, his lunges and maneuvers filled with intensity.

Sweat was dripping down his forehead.

A small coffee table was kicked over with a clatter.

The repetitive, metallic sound of blade meeting blade cut through the silence.

Good.

Fight me like an equal.

Paul pivoted unexpectedly, catching Gurney by surprise — 

Then, the tip of Paul’s knife was held steadily against Gurney’s neck, not unlike when the Reverend Mother had held a Gom Jabbar to Paul’s neck so long ago.

They both froze.

He could hear Gurney’s breath, heavy with exertion.

“There is no yielding in the desert,” Paul said quietly, but lowered his arm nonetheless.

He placed his knife back in his sheath, stepping back calmly.

“You didn’t best me,” he remarked, “but you will.” 

“A fighter’s wit is not to underestimate his foe,” Gurney quipped, with a slight half-smile. 

Gurney shook his head, a new clarity in his eyes. He slid his knife back into its scabbard.

“Kid… what happened to you?” he asked finally.

“I need you to stop dwelling on what happened , and start believing in what I will become,” Paul ordered,  “can you do that for me, Gurney?”

“Paul, you are the future Duke. I will always believe in you,” Gurney replied instantly, “I only worry for your safety - and for whatever is necessitating you to learn this style of fighting without telling me.”

Gurney crossed his arms, regaining the staunch, protective air that he had entered the room with.

Paul smiled, a genuine one this time.

“You’re right to be worried, Gurney,” Paul replied softly, “but your worry is misplaced. It’s the quality of House Atreides’ fighters that you must worry about.” 

Paul clapped Gurney on the shoulder.

“Promise me this, Gurney,” he requested earnestly, “promise me that you will best me in a fight. I need you to be ready.” 

“Ready for what?” Gurney asked guardedly. He seemed to be taking Paul’s words seriously.

“The inevitable,” Paul replied vaguely, mind already far away, filled with tall, ominous flames in the desert.

The fall of House Atreides.

***

“Paul?” a voice cut in.

Jessica had appeared in the doorway, eyes dark with carefully concealed terror. By the looks of it, she had seen the last part of the fight.

She looked pale.

'She fears the control that she lacks,' Paul thought, 'She fears that the strings of destiny have been cut.'

“We’ll continue this conversation later, Gurney,” Paul said quietly, “I must speak to my mother alone.”