ℍ𝔼𝔸ℝ𝕋 ROT.

muad'dib is not known for his usage of the voice, a gift inherited from his bene gesserit mother. this is not to say it was not common knowledge, but more of a rarity than a normality. he did not like using it when not necessary. what scenarios did muad'dib deem usage necessary for? those were his to determine alone. divination to a god means you believe them, no matter the cost. it does not matter if they remove the head from a person's body— if they will it and call it the path to justice (paradise), their worshippers will believe it. that is what being a god and being worshipped comes with. your god can do no wrong. in the current moment, there is nobody in the room but them. nobody to chronicle how muad'dib grits his teeth and clenches his jaw in response to the blonde digging her claws ever so deeper into his flesh. it's not that a nerve has been struck, but rather a part of muad'dib hating these moments. the build-up before the raging storm. he is a god who can no wrong, even more so now than ever. motions have been taken to ensure this moment in time, to secure her path once she departs from the planet and returns to her family. before she drenches her hands in blood. though, she still has to depart arrakis first. with a brief roll of his blue-within-blue irises, paul clears his throat before raising his voice, pitching it just correctly. “SILENCE! my time will no longer be wasted.”

any kickback you had died in your throat as vocal chords constrict; like artery having been cut at the behest of the muad’dib.  it was not so much a surprise but enough for eyebrows to briefly raise before gaze slants; as if making him smaller in your line of view.   there is no way to control what type of god someone turns into– but too often they take shape of blood hungry men drunk on a sip of power [what do you know about power? it feeds no one; aurum in ones hand yet tarnishable—    corruption plants its seeds first in the weakest of minds, palms upturned to the sky in search of an answer but no thirst is slaked].   you think you turned to sacrilege in your tenth year, it took white knuckle grip to your anger and allowed you to shed any remnants of past self as if watching water circle the drain.   even now–you do not know how to stop it bubbling underneath flesh, the feeling of blood collecting in your mouth that you will one day choke on,  and you will continue to tongue loose tooth through the entirety of your lifeline in hopes of feeling anything like you once did.    all that has ever grown in your home was wretchedness and violence, blooming under the summer sky and possessing the immortality to last through the harsh winters.   it was his idea that had planted the seed [although you cannot say that the soil had not been prepped long ago]; but it takes root, waiting for the correct time to blossom.   there was no denying that your father was not a just man,   the word rots in your mouth even now; you think it would be easier if a stranger.

with every sentence rebekah speaks, the venom on her tongue becomes more palpable. as if she's a snake who has snuck herself into his palace, tongue slithering out of her mouth with every hiss. descending further into her pain. muad'dib recognizes her feelings well. the ache of grief had once rotted in his bones. while she had lost a brother, he had lost his father. [what is a son if not an extension of his father?] as she views his worshippers as fanatic enemies, he had viewed the harkonnens in the same light. they had once been the invading force. however, muad'dib had slain his enemies and was going to lead his people to paradise. his terrible purpose. rebekah had not yet slain her enemies, therefore her path to paradise was unattainable. just like her father. how do you destroy a god? you begin plotting in advance. stalk like a predator, attack the prey in the shadows when there are no witnesses. just as she will inevitably do with her god. there are signs in the visions muad'dib sees. he recognizes the treachery awaiting the universe in the coming years; in the generations to come. although, not many gods come face-to-face with their non-believers. nor are they questioned by them. her challenges did not fear the mahdi— though, he did have to quirk an eyebrow. “you dare speak to the kwisatz haderach like that? your emperor?” the mahdi rises from his throne. “if my chief commander was here, he would have ordered your execution.”

you are not afraid of a mortal mans anger.  born both witness and victim to the very likes, of a quick hand unafraid to defend their leader to the death.    a perpetrator to it also—   own hands bleed red not from solemn prayer but the sharp edge of a blade.  [you act as you must for your own survival, perhaps that’s what you’ve learned most from your mother, the ever-changing chameleon of loyalty and duty] –     time passes in insouciance, the universe had set its plans in motion long ago, biding its breathe as the years strolled by.   you, too, raised by bene gesserit; the prophecy spoken about only in hushed tones not intended for you to hear within the dark shadows that eclipsed your home.   in this story, blood must always be spilled; there is no way for time to continue passing without it. you would be lying if you said his words weren’t still playing on your mind,    the truth of where blood lies, the eagerness in how they wish to spill yours.   [you are young, not yet offered the opportunity of truly living] and how they wished to take it from you—     the sacrificial daughter; wings clipped to ensure you couldn’t fly away from danger’s mouth/there was no other ending written for you yet.   the universe watches as you gnaw on scraps of love, let it fashion itself to your teeth as if to persuade the masses/you were never forgiven for wanting(what? it didn’t matter. it was your very existence the thorn in the side).     you do not quiver in fear upon approach,  in fact; you find a smile twisting itself onto lips, a hum verberating in throat.    “there he is.  the muad'dib i have heard so much about.”