fairy

Dearest Niece,

I hope this message finds you in good health, despite the trying times you have endured. I cannot begin to imagine the pain and sorrow you must have experienced in the wake of the tragedy that befell our family. To have been thrust into the midst of such turmoil and danger must have been unimaginably difficult.

Today I write to you also with heartfelt congratulations on your recent betrothal to Paul Atreides; While I understand that this union may have come at an inopportune time, I have every confidence that you will make for yourself a splendid future on Caladan. Duke Leto is a noble, honorable man, and I have no doubt that his son is the very same.

Please know that you are not alone in your sorrow, my dear niece. Know that our home is always open to you, and one day I would be honored to meet your new husband and welcome him to Ginaz. 

In the meantime, I hope this message brings some small comfort to your troubled heart. I have every confidence that you will emerge from this darkness stronger than ever before.

With all my love,

Lady Ginaz

- Message sent to Lady Bourbon from the Lady Ginaz. 10191. Caladan.

For the second time in his life, Paul is roused by his mother in the dead of the night.

At her hushed instruction, Paul blinks blearily, staggering after his mother’s grave visage, padding barefoot across the wing; a hall, lit only by the lick of waxed moon looming in the sky and the curling tendrils of slumber pulling at his mind. 

It is not until his mother opens the door that the sense of dread fully solidifies within his chest – a chamber at the end of the hall, an ornate chair placed in the center – and sat within it, the Reverend Mother Gaius Helen Mohaim.

Any remnants of tired sighs and heavy eyes cease immediately; Paul’s eyes snap forward, blood thrumming and alert. 

Searing pain; a memory of years ago washed onto the shores of his mind – humanity, that nameless obscurism. The Gom Jabbar. A test. 

A bitter reminder of the consequence of trust; Paul spares a glance to his mother, his posture rigid. A crack in granite, a splintered thorn on a plucked rose. 

The reminder is acidic upon his tongue.

He is dropped within the choppy waters of silence and anticipation – a phantom memory of pain and disquiet alike; and with a square of his shoulders, Paul steps forward towards the shrouded woman. It is a test in of itself, his mind computes in a whirring, quick blink, steel yourself. Do not betray your mind.

 “What’s this?” His voice drips in condescension; no effort at all to hide such disdain.

The voice comes; a low drawl, chrisomed in black. “Tell me of your dreams, Paul Atreides.” 

It is the sharp, needle-like stare that sends that wave of dissent through him – and a sharp glare is then moved to level his mother. She merely nods towards the Reverend Mother, and Paul drowns in the waters. 

So, Paul steps forward, and he speaks of the hauntings that come to him each night. 

Lapsed by the less pertinent details of his dreams, Paul’s lips spill of eerie clearings, a shroud of ceremony white against the weeping earth; flakes of smoky snow raining from a clear sky, streaks of missiles cracking along the orange the horizon, splintering the world in two. A large pine, shivering and quaking as its limbs creak and bend, unfurling its burnt sap and smoldering barked skin.

“I’ve tried to make use of them,” he murmurs, brows furrowed with visions of soft skin, sharp gasps and ashy snow.

And they are a portent of doom – that crawling thing that clutches his chest and reminds him with a pang of fear about the very dream he’d been roused from not minutes ago; of the flash of silver, the sharp gasp, and metal, piercing soft flesh. 

Pain, in any other name. 

“They’re…elusive.” 

His voice is small and cold in the wide yawning chamber, and the piercing sparrow eyes of the Reverend Mother do not blink. His shoulders are weak, despite the way he holds them back; a weary voice, the swallow of a shaky worry, some hidden fear that nestles into his ribcage. 

“She’s always there.” 

And there is a small flashing under the thickened veil – a horrifying breath in which Paul reconsiders if he’d truly just seen the woman smile.

His stomach churns. There is no part of him which yearns to continue speaking – though a sharp glance from his mother draws forth the recent memories of his dream this very morning, the one he’d just been roused from. 

“And…the last dream, sh–” His jaw is increasingly tight, though his efforts to conceal emotion prove decent; a vision burnt bright in his mind, the sharp memory of tissue pierced and torn, a sharp gasp – a black hilted knife. An engraved blade. “Someone stabbed me.” 

He does not say what he indeed feels – the flutter of fear, the boiling anger, and that lick of worry that curls around corners of his racing mind.

You stabbed him. It was you.   

Paul braces himself for the far-reaching consequences, knowing he cannot afford to hide what plagues his mind as the Imperium stirs in the eve of war. 

Not if what you said about Sabberon is true. 

There is a small leak in the window in the far right corner – Paul can nearly see the small droplets as they fall from the wooden beams and kiss the stone floor, dripping slow and passing the time as a grandfather clock. 

“Your dreams hold great significance, Paul Atreides.” 

Unimpressed with her words of grandiose, Paul's jaw ticks in indignation; he could have guessed as much himself. 

It is an effort to resist a snarl; confusion is an unwelcome addition to anger and it simmers low in his gut. Great significance, she says.

“I am the heir to House Atreides," Paul starts, jaw tights, "The Imperium might hang by the brink after the coming Referendum,” as he spits, his mother places a hand on his shoulder, her sharp inhale bristling the hair on Paul's neck. It does not quell his anger. “I won't entertain any manipulations in the name of my fate–”

“Silence.”

Words dissolve on his tongue; lips shut, eyes roll, light disappears from their sconces in the murky corners of the room. 

And in that hazy, prickling way, he emerges from the momentary dreamstate with a wash of shame, of sheer wrath. She once again dares use the Voice?

But she has begun speaking, and Paul has no choice but to listen.  

“You are the heir to a great legacy. But with that inheritance comes duty.” 

He does not dignify her with any response. 

To his defiance, she tilts her head – a crow of black and veiled, her beading eyes glint through the low light. “Tread carefully, Paul Atreides. The choices you make will shape the fate of many.” 

A spoiled disdain of fanatic manipulations – the words are discomforting as they are incendiary in Paul’s brain. 

The Reverend Mother continues. “You possess a strength within you, a strength born of both blood and spirit; but true strength lies not in the wielding of power, but in the mastery of oneself. Trust in your instincts, but do not let them blind you.” 

His mother is fearful behind him. He feels it, radiating off of her; that pulsing worry that leaks from a wounded antelope in the twilight of a chase, the bleeding heart of a wounded animal.

It seems that the Reverend Mother grows tired of Paul's presence, for after a terse moment, she nods harshly.  “You may go.”

Paul finds no better relief than turning heel and stalking briskly towards the door. 

“–Not you, Jessica.” 

It is with fury that he nearly turns around; but somewhere in his mind is a hazy insistence from his mother – urging to leave them; and so he does, lingering with an ear to the doors as a child would, straining to find the hushed words whipped into the chamber.

“The boy..." and then, "the girl, too,” The voice is a whistled wind in the ears of an unwelcome fate; The fragments of sentences are chopped and warbled, “–down the right path.”

He does not bother to stay and hear the rest of it.

The morning crawl of sunrise comes crisp as you cross the halls to the training rooms.

It is early - far earlier than your usual training hours, though you still cross into the room, stopping upon your toes at the sound of fighting.

In lieu of the common sight of Duncan perched in thought, cleaning blades and awaiting your presence, you’re met with the thud of skin meeting skin, exercised breaths and grunts of focus; the sharp slice of blades against shields. 

You haunt the doorway, staring owlishly as Paul and Duncan spar.

It is an odd thing, you observe as the morning sun climbs higher into the cool sky; it is odd, the way that Paul Atreides fights; quite unlike the fluid but brutish style of your formerly betrothed, with his painted chest and curved blades.

These are slower; ones that awaken some dormant emotion low in your stomach. The patterned leaps and strikes, the circling toes; It is a dance – a rhythm that beats the same as the blood in your veins.

One, then the other – legs lunging, arms parrying, striking; hawks, in a circling prance. 

You realize, with creeping horror: You know this song. 

There is a melody in it, that old formulaic law of the vast universe, beyond the Imperium. Those whispers of the people who came before yours, who carved their faces into the mines within Sabberon’s tallest peaks. Their dance, their song.

The Zakon Roka. The martial art from your ancestors, who poured their song into the teachings of the Ginaz Swordmasters.

Your lips are wettened with your tongue as you watch the slide of thighs, a sharp spurt of strength emphasized with the glinting of rich curls; Paul has struck Duncan across the shoulder. The Law of Fate, as it were; a dance with blade in hand.

And in this waltz, you find that familiar beat, the quick jolts of Kozachok; A cautious precision. Soldiers with thick trousers and balanced on ice-bracketed boots; gliding between sword parries and swipes to the legs. Thick dresses and furs; whooshing in the passing air as pointed toes slice through cold, tapping upon ice with the kiss of a feather. 

Paul’s movements are fluid, graceful, calculated; your worry doubles but is only quelled by the growing discomfort in your ribs. 

So he is trained in the ways of your people. 

Something about it twists an ancient melancholy in your gut. 

Your mouth is bitter. He should, by principle, be little match for Duncan Idaho; A young man so clearly well-endowed in the areas of strategy, politics, governance, you’d hoped you could wheedle out some clear pitfall of the heir. 

But instead you watch, a phantom of snow and evergreen in the doorway, as his watery movements outmaneuver his counterpart; the lapping of cerulean waves against a frigid shore, the laugh of a hawk in a frosted forest – a game of échecs, placed upon a checkered board – or, in this case, a sparring mat. 

Nevertheless, the Atreides heir fights in a way all too familiar, and you’d strike yourself a liar if you said it did not coax some unwanted heat around your neck. 

Your heart throbs painfully in your ribcage. The boyish laughter of your youngest sister, hair unruly as she leapt to your brother, rapier prodding the shield protecting his precious skin.

Snowflakes still fell in those last days before you left for Giedi Prime; and you still held on to those foolish dreams of springtime in an Imperium that would soon be frozen in winter. 

A sunbeam streaks through the green of Paul’s eyes just for a moment, glittering just as that sea which lies beyond the horizon. Your skin has grown small gooseflesh; a shuddering breath from your lips, furrowing your brows as Paul leaps, avoiding a low swipe from the glinting blade of his counterpart. 

He fights like them, yes – like the wolves of Sabberon – but he too mirrors those quicker movements, the ones that were taken from ancient cultures of other civilizations; an amalgamation of the sharpest fighters in the Imperium, honed into one pattern of dance steps.

A waltz of death. 

You should have expected as much. 

After all, he's grown up here on Caladan – a Duke's son, trained to become a ruler one day; and he has been tutored in this dance by the greatest fighter you’ve known, a man who shared the blade with your people for many years.

Paul matches him blow for blow; and his cheeks, glowing and dusted with pink – to your dismay, barely a glean of sweat across his furrowed brow. 

A strike against Duncan hits unblocked once more; The older man, in turn, lets out a huff of laughter – pride leaks through that sound. 

Your blood turns to acid; and your patience is rapidly expiring in the knowledge that your betrothed is once again quite talented – and Duncan watches Paul as if he were his own son, an observation that festers somewhere horribly sore in the bruised chasm of your emptied, wanting heart. 

Anger bites at your heels, and though you know he had no control over your fate, the bitterness lingers. The bruises upon your soul, the clawing betrayal of abandonment those years ago. Of when you last saw him.

Harvest season came on Sabberon with gusts of spiced air and merry visitors – each revolution of orbit, with leaves of crimson and amber falling to the ground; the scent of roasts and cider blowing with the harvest wind with the first few flakes of wintertide.

Each year, Duncan Idaho would visit; and then, even when you were no taller than his elbow, it’d been a dance for you too – your body in step, giving and taking with his own. A Waltz of Death. The Zakon Roka. 

You’re brought back when Duncan's blade presses to Paul's side; Grunting, Paul cannot seem to parry – your eyes flicker with the red flash of the shield’s warning.

A vision behind your lids once more – viscous liquid, gleaming in the sun – a curved blade, dripping carmine. 

The blade is slow, and it penetrates Paul’s shield; Your veins thrum in excitement at the widening of viridescent eyes, the glance of a doe along the point of a hunter’s bow.

God forbid he hurts that precious porcelain skin. What color, you wonder absently, would his blood flow from such a blade? 

Feyd-Rautha's blood was so dark it was nearly black.

A crimson color when it smeared across his skin, though reflective and glinting in daunting light; a tangy, sharp metallic taste when you’d brought his bloodied fingers to your own lips.

A gasp echoes in your mind, a sickening squelch; the expiring rattle of breath, eyes desperate beneath knitted brows. Fear floods your stomach, a horrible thing as the outline of the sun leaks a halo over Paul’s curls. 

It seems your dream from this morning has not left you – the dread threaded into your muscles as you’d woken pulls at your lips, weighs upon your shoulders.

A phantom pain lingers in your stomach. 

Paul has escaped the slow blade somehow as you stood daydreaming; and he now moves along the ring of sunlight from the window.

His lips, furled in concentration – those lips, pinked and bitten in the haze of your memory, a dream of sighs and of bites against warm flesh. 

Heat creeps once more around your neck: And your haze snaps, any such grasp of patience you may have had is gone. 

It takes only a shift upon your feet to catch the attention of the two. 

At the sight of you, Duncan hesitates. Seizing the moment, Paul strikes and Duncan tumbles to the ground with a blade to his throat. 

You do not hide the lift of your brows. 

Paul releases his grasp, pulling Duncan up with himself. With a wipe of sweat from his brow, Duncan's eyes skirt to the clock and he huffs, “Sorry. Must’ve lost track of time.” 

Humming, you slink onto the mat; a panther stalking along the limb of a tree.

In greeting you receive a nod from Paul; though his gaze is more a fleeting brush from your face to the blade at your hip. It is a split moment – though the green in his eyes snags like a hook, reeling you back — back to the dream you woke fresh from this very morning. Of blood, bright as a jewel; A breath, shuddering its last. The sharp sting of fear - the whisper of a hidden blade.

“I’m early,” you reason, slipping past Duncan’s startled stare as he takes in your uncovered visage. It is the same look you received from the Houseworkers all morning.  

The fresh-faced Bourbon.  

Paul’s frame glows. A bathe of soft golden, flickering as his hand wipes sweat from his brow, chest heaving. A stirring deep in your chest turns bitter when it rises, warm and wanting, to your neck. You shove it down, recalling the ebbing gaze of his stare last evening aside the small tide pools. 

In the turn of only a few weeks, you will have to use this marriage as leverage; should the referendum reap rotten fruits — and if you ever want to make sure the Harkonnens stay off of Sabberon— you must build trust.

Paul might be your only bridge towards redemption if the arraignment crumbles. 

And so it is with these thoughts that you slink next to him, toes gracing along the floor, an ancient beat in your pulse. 

Paul’s gaze catches through the corner of his eyes before returning to the disinfectant in his hands, running it along the side of the knife. His offer held out in the glint of a blade is declined softly, with a shake of your head.

“No, thank you,” your hands find the hilt of your blade.

In a chilling instant, his visage turns and his gaze flickers lower; a green sea staring at the glint of your knife at your side. Lips, pressed tight into a polite smile. “Right.” 

He wastes no time. In his leave, he brushes your shoulder, brow gleaming with a thin sheen of sweat. 

You begin to stretch, ignoring Duncan Idaho’s watchful stare.

It's only a moment before you run your mouth. “He fights like you,” you observe; and if it's instigative, you let it be.

Duncan’s hum is amused. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.” 

The unsheathing of your blade conceals your eye roll as you begin to sharpen its edges — and in the creaking quiet, his stare burns into the side of your uncovered face. 

Your patience wears thin after only a minute; and so in the sterile silence, you lift a brow.

“Did you expect me to be bald under the veil?” you snap, tired of the stare burning into your visage.

He hardly blinks before you turned to him, some resent nestling familiar in your chest. “I lived there long enough, didn't I?” 

Duncan twists the blade in his grasp, eyes softening in that way that makes your heart race, an unknown urge to fight or to run. His voice comes out far too gentle. “You’ve grown up.” 

Your eyes sting. You turn away frilly, fighting the rising tightness within your throat; though his words come soft and far too close to your heart.

“You just…” he sighs. “You look like your mother.” 

Your stomach drops; you throw your knife onto the table, whirling to face him as the metal clangs. “Don’t.”

His stare is much too patient; your heart tremors in its cage, your vision swimming. A shaky inhale in the empty room. And then, the words spill. 

“I was never prepared to be the last Bourbon alive.”  Your step comes forward in some vague threat, though your mind is far beyond the sparring mat. “I’m barely a Bourbon at all anymore,” you laugh, a bitter thing that falls flat in the sterile room. Duncan has nothing to say to this, it seems.

“My betrothed had to inform me of my own culture’s traditions,” you spit, glaring sharp at the man standing before you, “Do you know how humiliating that was?” 

Your anger is misdirected; This you are well aware, and yet you must resist the urge to strike him at the words ringing in your head. You look like your mother.

It is a bitter laugh once more as you look out to the coastline warbling far beyond Duncan’s shoulder, a jeweled sea tickled by stray rays of sunlight. “My mother ensured long ago that any chance of my house’s traditions being preserved would die alongside with my father,” your jaw clenches, fury quivering in your breast. “So it doesn't really matter, in the end.” 

A gull flies far in the distance, circling the sea. “There’s nobody left to witness those traditions being broken but myself.” 

Duncan remains; and with a small nod, his voice comes heavy with the burden of bodies hanging above your heads. His words bite when they hit you.

“You don't have to face it all alone.” 

The disbelief must reflect on your visage as you let out a short bark of a laugh. “Then where were you?”

His face changes – a subtle shift, in the bright of his eyes, drawn in my a thick line of brow. The silence is suffocating. 

Shadows crawl in your mind, a whisper of screams, of ears pressed against heavy locked doors; you suck in a heavy breath. “I was there with them – with him – for four years. Four years!” Your voice cracks through the room, a whip sharp as you lurch in your pain. 

Your hand finds the weapons table as you snap. “Not one single fucking check-in, no visit, nothing. Nobody batted an eye when my messages stopped delivering?” Your voice, boiling and nearly splintering, warbles when you look back to Duncan, “When there was never a wedding?”

And, despite your rage, Duncan lets you continue. 

It is a spill of the festering thoughts you’ve kept within for years – since that fated day, waving weakly from the window of a ship as your family, five strong, draped in green and swathed in furs, waved back.

“–They had to have known what kind of monsters they’d shipped me off to,” you whisper, “House Bourbon was allies with the Atreides for centuries,” you shake your head bitterly, “We've always known what the Harkonnens are.”

You lift your shoulder, shaking your head. “And yet, they sent me happily to marry the devil.” You glare at Duncan. “To become one.”

You press your hands to your cheeks to soothe the heat; Thankfully, no tears fall. “I don't blame you.” You snap, and the words feel weak even to yourself. "I don't. but..."

You break the stare, gaze dropping to the mat below you. “You’re the only person left to be angry towards.”

His voice is heavy when it comes, and you fight the small instinct clawing at you to pull him into embrace. “I'm sorry for everything you’ve lost. Everything that’s–” he clears his throat, then, and the floor swims with unshed emotion below you. “For everything that happened to you.”  

You do not go to him – instead you stand, barren and alone, rooted evergreen in the middle of the floor.

“I should have been there for you.” He takes a step forward, “They should have, too.” 

And how ugly is your heart, to force him to say such things when his grief mirrors your own?

His voice comes once more. “It’s okay to still be angry with them – what they did to you – even if you’re mourning them.” 

Your throat tightens, exhaustion settles deep; a weariness, carved from years of fear, abandonment, festering anger. It has been far too long you’ve stood alone, always looking over your shoulder, twitching your fingers towards the blade that lives upon your hip. 

His eyes are too warm for what you deserve. 

“I shouldn't have treated you so coldly,” you admit with a sting of humility. “I…” your mind crawls to the message that sits in your chambers from the castle at Ginaz. Your throat tightens, your voice wavers weakly, and you curse yourself. “You're the closest family I have here.”

And Duncan remains patient as the Pine. “There is nothing for you to apologize for, Little Bourbon.” 

The name settles deep; your mind finds the melancholic memories of chilled cheeks, plumed breaths, flakes catching on blades. A youthful laugh bubbling through the buzzing anger in your heart – and despite yourself, your lips twitch. A ghost of a smile, from the ghost of a girl. 

He knows better than to dwell; and so you catch the blade he tosses to you gratefully.

But just as you roll your shoulders, the sound of footsteps disrupts you. A soldier walks through the room; though to your shock, he addresses you and not your master. 

“Lady Bourbon,” he nods, “the Lady Jessica wishes to speak with you over lunch in her quarters now, if you have a moment.”

Something within you deflates. A glance shot to Duncan, whose gaze is already set upon your visage with a mild interest that does very little to soothe your upticked nerves.

Whispers flood your mind as you blink numbly – a syrupy dizziness that finds you so often when you consider the Sisterhood, whenever you catch Lady Jessica's stark eyes. You cannot deny how unsettled you are by the thought of being alone in her presence right now. 

But you know better than to refuse the lady of the house’s wishes.

“And spoil my fun here?” You muse, sharing a wry glance with Duncan. 

You follow the soldier anyways. 

If there is one thing you can certainly appreciate, it is that Lady Jessica burdens neither of you with the pretense of smalltalk. 

In fact, lunch is hardly picked at before she brings it up.

“You were once on the path of the Bene Gesserit,” she starts over the soft clinking of silver and china. Your gaze remains steady, your spine uncurling as if awakened by an ancient memory. 

You nod stiffly. 

She continues – penetrating and warm, her eyes take in the curve of your shoulders, the pride of your spine. Her voice carries all the calm melody that your mother never possessed.

“Circumstances may have led you away, but your training has not been forgotten,” she sips the cup of tea before her. This change in subject comes as no surprise to you; in fact, since the very moment you stepped out into the rainy morning of Caladan that first day, you’ve been waiting for it to return, to curl in from the shadows. Somewhere in the murky ruminations of your mind, voices whisper. You blink them away. 

“Yes, my lady,” you set your own fork down and offer her a tight-lipped attempt at a smile. “I studied the Ways when I was younger.”

She nods. “Have you considered continuing this path?” She tilts her head, and an icicle slides into the soft flesh of your stomach. “Honing your skills once more— to strengthen your voice, your intuition, your presence?”

To you, the Sisterhood is an unforgettable chasm; memories flooding the fur-floored halls of your mind. Your mother's stern visage, relentless training regimens; elixirs, smoking incense, warm spice behind heavy doors. Knives flicking from sleeves, robes wrapped around you and your sisters, swishing as your hands found the soft skin of each other’s weakest spots.

Women veiled, with eyes that slithered; boxes which screamed, needles which threatened, words which controlled. A heavy past. 

And though it is skepticism that tugs at your mind at her words, there is still a part of you that can't help the twinge of curiosity; Such an ancient order – such power, the only kind possible to have as a woman in a cruel world such as your own. And then, there is that looming thing; for your mind trembles at the impending shadow of the upcoming arraignment. The thought of protection is a glamorous one. 

But you know better. 

You saw that very mistrust sewed in your own house; The crack between your father and his court, of the looming shadow of your mother and the sisterhood through the halls of Castle Bourbon, of the loss of thousands of years of tradition. 

You have been struck with a bout of dread, and your throat has dried. “I’m…” you purse your lips, “I haven't, my lady.”

Her voice is earnest as she leans closer. “I understand your hesitations,” her eyes flicker to the empty doorway and back, “but given the current circumstances, it may be wise to strengthen all of your skills. Including those you learned with the Bene Gesserit.” 

The dread swirls in like the tide, and you swallow thickly. “Circumstances?” You parrot, tilting your head. You know what she's implying; it doesn't ease the suspicion that rises, the feeling that the strings which tie themselves to Lady Jessica are being pulled from much higher above your head; somewhere unreachable, unattainable. 

“It's imperative to ere on the side of caution,” she murmurs; though you feel no such assurance at her message. You are unsettled as she takes in your posture, at your fingers, curled in your palm. 

“Tell me,” she starts then, stirring the tea in front of her, “Even after your time with the sisterhood, did you ever experience visions?” Her eyes penetrate, and the hairs on the back of your neck stand up at her next words. 

“Dreams that stayed with you long after you woke?”

Your throat dries so quick you almost choke. A chill finds you when your eyes lock with hers.

So it was a look she shared with Paul at the strategy council yesterday. It seems Lady Jessica has been keeping close tabs on you, after all. 

Heat licks around your neck, creeping over your chest – you hope she cannot read your mind thoroughly, for she would likely not enjoy the more intimate parts of your dreams.

The dread has surfaced; your hair still prickled, you level your visage to hers, calm. Your voice is chill in the warm sunbeams of midday.  

“You seem to already know my answer.” 

Lady Jessica's lips press together. “Indeed,” she affirms; gentle, yet probing. She nods nearly imperceptively, “but I need to hear it from you.” 

You pause, grappling with the memories that surge forth at Lady Jessica's inquiry; The dreams, the visions— they haunt you, asleep and awake – and despite your reluctance to acknowledge them, they have persisted; lingered, a shadow waning in the corners of your vision. There is a thin sheen of sweat growing across your breast, in the insistent thump of your heart. 

And then your voice comes. 

“Yes,” your voice, barely above a whisper. 

She is a master in her own craft, and any attempt to analyze the twitch in her gaze would reap futile.

“I suspected as much,” her eyes swim, gleaming in the warm sunlight. A clink as you raise the tea to your lips, obscuring the tremor threatening to jolt your composure. 

“I must advise you, my dear," she nods. "Dreams are often the key to understanding the path that lies before you.” 

Cool dread rises to your lips, pressing wordless screams to your lips. You do not let them leak. 

Her words hang, exasperatingly cryptic; And you are, in your silence, forced to acknowledge for the first time that these dreams, torturous and haunting as they are, are still a calling, a beckoning towards something that you cannot ignore. A whisper comes in the back of your mind, a forgotten mantra, though you do not know what it means: The Shortening of the Way.

Your jaw has begun to ache; you force yourself to release the tension, setting your saucer down gently. It clinks in the empty silence of the room. 

Lady Jessica speaks your name once more. “I urge you to consider resuming your training with the Bene Gesserit,” she suggests, and your fingers twitch subtly. “Not out of obligation, but out of necessity. In times of uncertainty, it is essential to be prepared.”

Prepared. 

You meet Lady Jessica's gaze; and despite your reservations, despite the ghosts of the past, you cannot deny that which you have always known. Power comes to those who seek it - and it is a dangerous thing to wield a blade when its other edge is hidden.

Your mother’s voice finds your mind, a haunting ghost of a life lost to time and pursuit of power: To wield raw power is to bare yourself to forces far greater. 

You are overcome with the overwhelming sense that you are far over your head – and with a squared shoulder, you nod curtly. You are not safe.

“I hope you will understand my wish to reflect, my lady," you respond, willing your heart to remain untampered by your unease. “And I thank you for your guidance."

Lady Jessica offers you a reassuring smile, though it does little to quell the raging in your stomach.

And then, at her final words, your stomach drops. 

“Consider it, my dear,” she nods, gaze unceasing, penetrating. “To wield raw power is to bare yourself to forces far greater.”

That night, Paul exits his mother’s quarters as the moon kisses the coast. 

An exhausted drag of feet over the stoned flooring, Paul yawns against his palm, thinking quite fondly of his bed and pillow. 

In the empty corridor, his stomach groans; a normally ravenous appetite eluded in the wake of the Reverend Mother’s early morning visit today has left Paul on the edge of shaking hands and a racing, unsettled heart.

An evening sparring his mother on knife skills would, on an average night, be nothing of consequence to Paul; though the last few hours were tense, laced in the budding and unusual mistrust that has sprouted in the dawn of the day. Any such attempts to pry the truth from behind closed doors this morning had resulted in gentle stern looks and tight words from his mother. This sentiment, naturally, only serves to worry him further; and lost in the puddle of unidentifiable dread, Paul quickens his pace. 

Absent footfalls come and go as he passes towards his quarters; in the drooping tangle of his curled lashes, a shadow flickers. 

Of course, he realizes much too late that the shadow comes with a body. 

A careening impact, one that sends both you and Paul into a sharp inhale as you both rear back in shock; two does caught in the crosshairs of a hidden scope. 

He meets your eyes, and in them there is that particular glint; a cold thing in nature, but warming in his gut as he takes in your startled figure.

You, draped in warmth and soft clothes, with gently parted lips and wide eyes; you, so unlike yourself in the daylight. 

“I'm s-" he shakes his head faintly. "Apologies,” he stutters intelligently, inclining his head in a respectful effort to valiantly hide his suddenly warm cheeks.

Your lips twitch, and he watches the curve of gloss in the faint glow of moonlight. Your tormented stare follows his own almost reluctantly down the hall you both seemed to have been headed towards; and though the thought of accompanying you to your chambers when his mind is on the brink of exhaustion is less than favorable, it is highly outshined by the stroke of unease through Paul’s heart at the sight of the knife upon your hip. 

Not unlike your blade, your hair glints in the light, sliding against the skin peeking from your collar. Paul feels a tickle upon his neck. 

“No harm done, my lord,” you nod with that same guarded visage.

There is that unsettled, ashamed tug in his chest when your gleaming eyes find his own once again – and though it has been a day, he’s still starkly arrested by your bare countenance.

You don't have to look away, you know. I'm still the same beast as before.

His cheeks are warm. With a quiet cough, he gestures down the hall. “I was just heading–” 

“–So was I,” you interject with a surprisingly endearing lurch upon your toes.

Paul’s lips press together, plagued by visions of glinting blades and dribbling crimson; though still you fall into stride together, shadows slinking over the halls quietly. 

It is odd; perhaps in an ordinary world, Paul might feel giddy to walk his prospective wife to her quarters after a long day. But this world is not ordinary, and neither are you. 

There is a large casement on the eastern cast of the wing; the window kisses a silvery breath over your figure - so soft in the forgiving nature of evening - before hushing you back into the shadows again. An eclipse in his blinks, and he wonders vaguely what the moons are like on Sabberon. 

If there is one forgiving thing about the misfortune you’ve both happened upon in this late hall, it is that neither of you seem keen to speak – and Paul is more than pleased with this, knowing not what to say nor how to respond should you say anything first. 

But indeed, the twisting of your fingers, the sly glances up towards his visage, and the silence do not last; soon your lips part, and from them spill words that nearly stop him in his tracks. 

“I had lunch with your mother today.”

Your eyes are sharp; and he does not hide his consternation. Your gaze is intense – and if he were any less wary, perhaps he’d find it in him to flush under the sheer weight of your attention. 

“What did she tell you?” His accusatory tone is poorly concealed, and he once again chastises himself for letting you wheedle through the small cracks in his tenacity. 

You, with sharpened teeth and a gaze hungry for the scent of fresh blood; a brow lifts over your blinking eyes and Paul slows his pace. 

“Why do you assume she had things to tell?” You lilt. 

And damn you. 

A weary sigh from his worried lips must encourage the loosening of your own, for your jaw sets but still your voice floats, dreamy and melodic and wholly troubling all the same.

But you do not play this song and dance further – for that he is grateful – until you tell him. “She suggested I take up Bene Gesserit studies again.” 

Your stare drinks in his tightened jaw, the hardly perceptible shift in his breathing; and though his unease has spread to each stretch of his being, he wills it not to show. Words flicker in his mind, images of women whispering in corridors, of windy planets, of trickling gardens and sharp needles. 

Down the right path. 

In a breath of unease, he has quickened his pace; and your footfalls stumble only once as your frame turns to keep up, tilting your head up to him. 

His words are quiet in the hall, and his gaze is focused upon the doorway far on the left. Whispers curl around the dredges of his mind, a terrible tone that laughs at the thump of his heartbeat.  

And though the dread has spread, he urges his heart rate to steady. Paul gives a valiant effort to appear less than affected by this revelation.

 “She asked about your dreams?” It is not a true question, for he already knows the answer. 

And now it is he who watches for a reaction: Green eyes study, analyze, explore the curve of your cheeks, the swallow of your smooth throat. And in his search lies the answer – a blink of bare and curling lashes, a stuttered inhale. 

In that way you do, your spine stiffens; brows furrow over your jeweled gaze, tilting your head as a few stray tresses kiss along the fabric of your top gently. Your lips have parted in a flare of worry. 

“My dreams?” Your hand is warm as you grasp his elbow – a sturdy thing, tugging him to stop fully. “How–” 

But it seems you’ve wizened to the footsteps of houseworkers in the chamber just to the right of where you and Paul now stand before each other, transfixed in the harmony of stuttering heartbeats and the steady shake of uneasy breaths. 

And as the houseworkers fade to the other side of the wing, there grows a horrible bout of silence. 

His mother’s guarded visage flickers in his mind when his gaze casts once back towards the hall he came down; your breaths are much too schooled, far too even. Paul knows the flickers of Prana-Bindu, even when they are ingrained deep into veins and concealed within skin thick as stone. 

Visions; some sunsoaked melody of Weirding Ways, sharpened blades – of you, standing opposite his mother, raising that very same blade that haunts his dreams.

His gaze returns to the hilt that peeks from the soft drape of your tunic. Along the corridors of his mind comes the harsh lilt of the Reverend Mother this morning: Down the right path. 

There is danger there, something whispers to him – and memories of dreams, of lulling whispers, of sharp gasps of pain, soft sighs of ecstasy; the glint of sunset-streaked skies, rustling trees, the flashing of sharp metal – of hands that wander, that grasp, that plunge. 

The breeze through the hallway is a sobering one – and soon enough, there comes another echo down the hall. 

An inkling of fear creeps along Paul’s nape, and he shakes his head minutely. “We shouldn’t be speaking of this here.” 

You blink, and he cannot help but stare – a truly beautiful creature, hardened with subsistence yet so softened in the trickery of night. 

You merely nod. 

It could be a treacherous thing, he knows. The Bene Gesserit are a force that machinates far above his head – far above his mother’s, for that matter.

And although Paul knows not what silky ties such whispering hands might weave across the Imperium these days, and though spiders might descend wrapped in the trickery of gowns and sharply beautiful smiles, it does not mean he is completely blind to the signs of a webbed trap. 

“Come,” he requests; though in the starkly quiet hall, it finds his own ears as more of an order – and though he glances only sparingly at your neckline, his gaze hooks nearly regretfully upon the pendant clasped and catching the light just below your throat. 

At the memory, he cannot bring himself to meet your eyes. 

You do not try to catch his stare. Instead you merely follow, a silent tempest of resistance and obstination.

He opens the door to his quarters – and your sly glance around to survey for any witnesses brings a slight heat to his neck; still, your frame slips past where he holds the door ajar. 

Paul knows how active you’ve been in your time on Caladan so far; And yet here is a place of which you are completely unfamiliar.

 Paul’s chambers – where your spine stays rigid and your steps precise, where your eyes snake over each revealing aspect of his personality; tracing over books and figurines and the photo projector across the way. 

You repose upon the chair across his room, but he finds himself restless, standing before your expectant gaze. 

“Paul,” your voice brings his name in that crisp and yet breathy way, that accent that curls dense and throaty through the air.

It's a startle to his senses, for you to use his given name; and when he snaps his gaze once more to you, he finds you resting upon pointed elbows, a flicker of anxiety lurking beyond your limitless stare. 

“If we are to do this together, we must build trust," you murmur.

And you’re right; This – marriage, ruling Caladan, representing the House Atreides – and whatever else is to come. He nods solemnly; your tongue smooths over your bitten lip. 

“Why does your mother wish to know about my dreams?” You’re blunt – a thing he quite appreciates. “How did you know she’d ask me of them?” 

Answers come to the tip of his tongue and dissolve just as he opens his lips; you watch him, lying in wait, and yet the truth lies in some thick plane of dust, of sand, and Paul cannot stop slipping through it. 

“I don’t…” he swallows, shaking his head. Because he does know; and the truth sits heavy upon his shoulders. 

His sigh is sharp.  “The Reverend Mother Gaius Helen Mohiam visited this morning.” 

And if you are surprised, it only comes in the stiffening of your spine and the flat tone of your voice as it slips, a caress of silk in the low light of his quarters. “She visited Caladan? This morning?” 

He blinks at you, nodding once more. “My mother woke me early,” Paul murmurs.

“And... she came for the Duke?” you ask slowly – though Paul is no fool for the pattern of lies upon your tongue, nor the schooling twitch of muscle upon the curve of your cheeks, “...or for Lady Jessica?” 

His jaw ticks slowly, lifting his chin. Your own head mimics the motion. 

He admits it slowly, watching your stare trace the pattern of the words from his lips.

“She came for me.” 

You remain evergreen and cool in the shade of night, silhouetted by the warm glow of lamp shade. 

“What did she want with you?” 

And though instinct tells him to deflect, he cannot look away from your penetrating gaze. His tongue drips with verity. 

“I’ve been having dreams.” 

And he sees it in the sharp inhale, the way your gaze breaks from his eyes to somewhere near his stomach, just for a split moment. It is miniscule, a farce; but to so sharp a refined mind as his own, it is enough. You are scared. 

“You’ve had dreams?” Your voice is sharp. 

His own mimics yours. “About Sabberon.” 

And he’s firm, ignoring the foreboding tendrils of apprehension that lurk within his heart. He continues. “In those dreams, I feel like…” a stray curl comes loose in his vision, though he does not tame it. “...Like I have to go there. Like I’m... meant to.” 

Your skin has grown ghostly as you nod absently; and in the lapse of your words, Paul fills the silence with all he can admit. 

The night turns slowly, minutes folding by in the cadence of his voice. Your expression melts more and more as Paul recounts the Reverend Mother’s words, to his encounter with her previously those years ago. This, it seems, sends you into a state; for your eyes snap to him, unblinking. 

“The Gom Jabbar?” You ask suddenly. Paul nods, “Yes, it is a kind of test–” 

Your head shakes, tresses ablaze with the licks of lamplight, falling in tendrils across the soft fabric of your tunic. “–I know of it,” you interject purposefully, voice melodic and syrupy in that way your people are, “I also received it,” you explain quickly before your brows furrow in that way they sometimes do; shaking your head minutely. “I just do not understand why she might administer it to you.” 

In a nervous habit of childhood, Paul’s lip has grown raw from troubling it with his teeth. A pause sits heavy in the room, and the lull of his bed behind him calls quietly; Outside, the coast shines with ripples of lazy moonlight. 

Paul debates in his mind, glancing over the sharp turn of nose, the hook of your jaw – the curve of your lips. 

Knowledge – a weapon, a burden. 

His breath falls short, and he whispers your name as calmly as he can. “My mother has trained me in the ways of the Bene Gesserit too.” 

Your visage morphs; a momentary lapse in control, some flame burns bright in your gaze, a fury he knows not. 

It is gone in a moment, though it is ingrained into his retinas. 

It is only within a blink that you remain muzzled by this revelation – and after a breath, you return to his stare; it hits him at once, that shift. Your eyes are cold, sharp. 

Perhaps the dread he feels is not unrequited. 

Though there are larger beasts lurking in the depths of these waters; and you lean back upon palms, shoulders broad and head tilted to take in his standing frame. 

“She warned me, at lunch.” You speak bluntly, “That resuming to practice the ways of the Bene Gesserit is not out of obligation, but necessity. She told me…” and then your eyes flicker to the very same spot upon his stomach as before. “She told me something odd. That dreams are keys. To understanding the path before you.” 

Paul’s stomach drops. 

Down the right path. 

A crone, that Reverend Mother; playing you, his mother, and Paul; all of you, puppets strung high above the dark chasm of the Imperium, that shadowy something that lurks in the dark corners of each House’s history books. 

And dredges of childhood memories, of harsh whispers and trials-in-twos and of ears pressed to closed doors: Paul swallows thickly, heart pounding in his chest. 

“My mother spoke to my father once of a tale,” he rushes, biting his lip. “A tale, or– a prophecy. I was young, eavesdropping through the closed doors,” Paul has to shake off the sudden flare of amusement, some odd hidden recognition in your gaze at this; heat creeps round his neck, though he continues. “I didn’t hear most of it,  but I did hear… parts.” 

The tale comes choppy, haphazard – a stream of uneasy consciousness spilled to the only person who might be of any help deciphering it. 

“She said something about... dual contenders. About me being tested one day,” he mutters, hand swiping over the bridge of his nose. “And years later – the day the Reverend Mother administered the Gom Jabbar– she told my mother there would be two candidates for something.” Paul’s brow furrows, “Today…” his throat is tight, stomach pitted. “She spoke to me of my dreams. Said nearly the same thing my mother did to you.” 

You do not speak, and a lurch of nerves urges Paul to mutter: “I just..." he shakes his head absently, mind far away, "I find it troubling.” 

A heavy beat. Your lashes tangle when you blink up at him – and then comes a stark, shocking noise; a laugh, tumbling sharp from your lips. “You find it troubling,” you nod with a wry grin, “do you, Paul?” 

And he realizes quickly how much of an understatement it'd been; and despite the tug of indignation in his chest, his lips press together, biting back a boyish grin of his own.

Your laugh bubbles away with his own breathy chuckle, and in an ungraceful surrender, Paul finds himself plopped upon the chaise lounge beside you. 

Your fingers are adorned with bands; jeweled and draped with the bleeding hearts of your homeplanet’s jeweled mountain caverns, your fingers tap against the bland fabric of your trousers in an unwilling rhythm. They glint, jaded, emerald, even rubied; and in the night’s light, they seem to sing. 

Your words come just when Paul feels the deep pull of exhaustion drag at his eyelids. 

“I dream of it too.” 

His stomach forms a pit of ice as he stares. 

“Sabberon,” you supplement; though it is not needed, for he feels the pang of dizziness at the implications. It is never a good thing, no matter who you are, to share dreams. 

You continue, your hair falling in loose strands over your haunting visage. The lamplight melts the cool stab of your stare and he finds himself lulled in by the gentle rhythm of your accent. 

“My planet,” your brows furrow in that way Paul has come to recognize in your past day free of the veil, “we have a sacred Pine. It's symbolic of our Harvest.”

And though Paul knows this from the very book that lies across the room, he merely nods.

You bite your lip, “It has grown for thousands of years, upon a mountain beyond the Castle Bourbon. I’ve never actually been.” You shrug your shoulder, eyes glinting in veiled unease. “At least, not lucidly.” 

And you start again, pressing your fingers to your palms. “When I dream of it, I’m…” your gaze snakes over his posture, following the lines of his shoulders, up his neck, tracing the warmth as it spreads to his cheeks. Paul wills it away with a quick breath. 

You clear your own throat, a heat creeping along your cheeks that Paul staunchly ignores as his own memories of dreams come to mind. Your voice is sharp, though quiet. “I’m always there with you.” 

There is a special sharpness to your stare; Fear, Paul’s mind whispers. A similar feeling slithers over his heart, clutching it in ice. 

Despite himself, still he feels it: Another soul, trapped in this web of visions, and politics, and power; it is a dizzying thought in of itself, to sympathize so rawly with you – though he cannot deny that the gleam of worry in your stare is surely mimicked in his own. 

His lips part easily. “You're there. In my dreams, too.”

Minutes pass after his admittance. It is punctuated by the harmony of rising breaths and schooled exhales, of tapping metal and restless knees. 

Paul, slumped with consternation – and you, rigid with anxiety. He can feel it ebbing from you in waves, can feel the pulse of your heartbeat within his own. The silence has just grown comfortable with the resignation of fate when you speak once more. 

“Do you trust her?” 

Your voice is quiet, and it strikes fear deep in his chest: for it is a foolish thing to ask one of one’s mother – but it is just as telling that Paul hesitates, that he chooses his words with painstaking analysis.

That his words are not a true answer. 

“The Sisterhood instructed her to have a daughter,” Paul starts, “and yet instead, for my father, she bore a son.” 

He needs not explain to you how the Reverend Mother is still unhappy about his mother’s choice. It seems his words answer your question in a way; for your inhale is deep. 

Paul tugs at a spare thread that pokes from the chaise lounge below him. “I was dismissed this morning,” he murmurs, “but I stayed outside. Pressed my ear to the door.” And this truth brings some flicker to your gaze – a quirk, again, of amusement – that familiarity glinting in your eyes as if remembering some long past memory. 

“You seem to keep a habit of this,” you murmur dryly. Heat creeps along his cheeks at the curl of your voice. 

His laugh is quiet, shy – hardly audible. He pushes on, ignoring the glossy tresses that fall over your shoulder and bring a soft scent of citrus and forest. 

And the grin melts from his face as he recalls what he’d heard, the dread settling once more. “The Reverend Mother said something to my mother about–” he clears his throat, “the boy. And... the girl. Going down the right path.”

You peer at him from beneath evergreen lashes. “And then, your mother offered, quite abruptly, to tutor me in the ways of the Sisterhood once more,” you piece it together with pursed lips. 

There is a small figurine of a bull that sits upon the table before you; Paul’s gaze traces over the carved horns, studying it with an absent worry budding in his stomach. 

“It’s about us,” he murmurs, watching as your shoed toe drags along the pattern of his rug softly, brushing curves and pressing gently. “Whatever this is. But... it’s not about us.” 

Two candidates. 

You nod in his peripheral; a glinting of a pendant upon your chest, the tinkling of jewelry draped over your hands. 

“Will it ever be?” 

Paul solemnly shakes his head towards the bull, unable to look you in the eyes. 

I shall wear it like a dog. 

Your face is solemn – a permanent thing, one Paul has quickly grown used to. Admiring of, in a way, though it draws forth heavy visions, swirling fabrications of screams, of years spent in shackles – of families falling to the ground, of blood staining gowns. 

You tilt your head to him, hair catching the light from behind his own frame. “It is a heavy burden to bear,” you say softly when it becomes apparent that Paul cannot speak. Your voice echoes the exact sentiments that roam in Paul’s mind; Heavy, yes. And Paul knows you are used to burdens. 

He leans back in his seat, blowing away a strand curl from his vision in exhaustion; and though your eyes flick to him in his peripheral, he does not notice the way your eyes track the action and flick away almost shyly. 

The quiet is cold. 

“If only I’d had a sister,” Paul sighs. 

You snort softly from your nose, and it is an endearing noise – his eyes rove over the quirk in your lips, the faraway gaze in your eyes. 

“I had three,” you murmur quietly, “They were a handful.” 

It is the first time you’ve spoken of your family to Paul; his interest piqued, he hums gently – for he can nearly picture it for a moment. You, ten years smaller, just a young teen – traipsing and wrestling in a snowy field with three sisters, a little boy stumbling after you. Screams from nearby onlookers as the youngest sister jumps into a half-frozen and emerald lake – the dampened silence of white fields and evergreens forests slumbering in the distance, broken by cracking ice and sharp gasps of frigid thrill. 

Laughter – sharp and bubbling, smooth and melodic as you run and plunge, dress and furs, into the icy depths, pulling your sisters with you. Scolding nursemaids and soldiers in wolf armor running to fish you out. Attendants rushing to bundle and protect your young brother's frail, weak skin. Shivering, blistered cold – and then, hands cupping tea, toothy grins bit back, ruddy cheeks warmed before a grand hearth. 

“What was it like?” Paul wonders. 

You shift in your seat, your own gaze now tracing the curve of the bull’s horns before you. “Complicated,” you breathe out – Paul watches as your spine relaxes just slightly, arms wrapping around yourself. “We were close in many ways, though…distant in others.” You bite your lip, eyes hooked upon the wood carving. “There was competition. Always. Even when we were young, especially between me and my sisters. My mother was in the Sisterhood. Very strict.” Your voice has grown terse; he sees the flicker of fury in your gaze as you stare down the bull. “My elder sister died in childbirth after she married. She left Sabberon just before my twelfth nameday. I never saw her again.”  

Your boots are foreign against the rug on his bed chamber floor as you drag the tip across its swirled pattern. “They were my only friends,” you murmur – a lilt in your tone that makes Paul uncomfortable – a rawness that you are trying hard not to let through. “They made me laugh like no other.”

And when you look back towards the bull figurine, your gaze is far away. “I loved them very much.”   

It hits Paul with a rush of guilt: He's studied so much about Sabberon, learned about your House's old customs and traditions – but yet, he realizes how little he truly knows about you. And still, now - in the warm lit din of his room, you remain rooted in that chilly, resiliently ethereal way. The chill of your stare, the curl of your lips as frost bites the corners of windows in a winter morning. Your heart beats strong below your breast.

How foolish he’d been to think of you as any bit Harkonnen. 

Paul’s chest is tight; a pang as he swallows thickly.

“I don’t have siblings.” He clears his throat, “But I’ve always wished to be a brother.”

And to this, you turn to him. Paul is shocked to see your kind smile; glacial, small – his neck heats. “You'd be a good one,” you murmur.

Paul has to look away – and in a glance to your hands once more, he notices the small blemish lying in your palm. With a small nod, he gestures to where there had been a large irritation just yesterday. “It looks better.” 

You smile once more, a sheepish thing – and it brightens the room as you huff a small laugh, clearly relieved to be done with such heavy topics. “I thought you were trying to trick me,” you admit, “trying to make me look foolish.” 

 He hums at this, tilting his head with a small grin of his own, “I assumed you'd thought I was trying to poison you.”

Your voice is serious when you respond. “The possibility did cross my mind.” 

Paul has to hide his grin in his shoulder; You seem unaware of his reaction, though there grows a faint flush across the apples of your cheeks. 

Your eyes have wandered – and after a moment, you suddenly rise onto your feet.

Paul watches as you pad over towards his bedside, tilting your head to run your finger over the spine of the book that lies upon his bedside table. The Noble Lineage: Exploring the Customs and Cultures of the Houses Major of Landsraad: House Bourbon.

“Is this yours?” You wonder, hair splayed in the air as you lean. Paul’s cheeks are hot with embarrassment at your discovery, but he nods, soothing his palms along his thighs. “If you’d like to read it, help yourself.” 

You crane your neck back to catch his gaze. “Is it interesting at all?” 

For a moment, Paul flounders – but it dawns on him that you’re teasing; and with a small grin, he laughs, still quite unused to the privilege of your trust, no matter how small it might be now. 

“I haven’t decided,” he quips back. Your lips twitch before turning back to the book, your eyes tracing its spine. “Maybe I’ll borrow it, then,” you hum, “I’ve been sleeping very poorly. Perhaps this will finally be the thing to put me to sleep.” 

He cannot hide the huff of amusement that falls from his nose – nor the odd, melting sensation in his chest as he watches you. It is not until he sees your eyes blink rather slowly that he remembers himself and his manners. That despite the worry and the foreboding sense that has crawled into the back of your minds, you are still his guest – his betrothed.  

When he stands to meet you, he is struck by how your neck cranes to meet his eyes. “You should get some rest then,” he murmurs, “we’ve got the Strategy Council in the morning.” 

You blink, and soon your face is that cool slate once more. “Yes– apologies,” you clear your throat, “It’s been a long day.” 

Paul escorts you quietly to the main hall – where you insist with quick words and a small nod that he need not walk you all the way to your quarters. 

He watches the fabric of your tunic catch the corner of the hall as you walk away. 

The warmth that had enveloped you at such a late hour wears off quite quick when you return to your chambers. 

The shadows climb here; whispers, worries – promises of galactic war, of the haunting wraith of the Harkonnens – of the Bene Gesserit and their webs; of petroleum reserves and trade routes, of Sabberon and her insurgent factions. Of Castle Bourbon, standing alone and empty before the Pine. 

And those dreams – Paul, sharing them? Your cheeks heat at the mere thought; though your mind strays, an attempt to ignore the fear twisting in your gut. 

Paul's room had been very warm – and his eyes quite jeweled; he keeps his chambers neater than you’d thought, clustered only by books on planets, flora and fauna, biology, culture. 

And you must admit; Though the subject left you on edge, it is terribly reassuring to have someone who not only you could speak freely with about your dreams and the Bene Gesserit, but who seems to hold similar consternations as you. 

There remains upon your clothing a faint scent of his bedroom, and your neck heats as you catch yourself pulling your tunic tighter, biting back against the warm spread onto your cheeks. 

You are exhausted; but as your eyes catch upon your bureau, upon the daunting metal that stares at you gleaming from across the room, you resign yourself. 

The message remains on your desk, where it's been since being delivered a few days ago. You'd read it already, yes – read it, avoided it – but now, you suppose, it is time to respond. 

And in due time, it's finished.

My Dearest Aunt Ginaz,

Your letter arrived at a very uncertain time for me and for that, I am profoundly grateful. I apologize for the delayed responses – my keepers on Giedi Prime preferred I did not receive or send messages. 

For my betrothal to Paul Atreides, your kind words of congratulations reassure me; Truthfully, the prospect of marrying into such a noble family is daunting, yet they have been quick to ensure that I have felt welcomed.

The loss of my family continues to weigh heavily upon my heart, and there are days when the pain feels unbearable. But there are things here that help. I spend my days tutoring, training your old friend Duncan Idaho. I have begun to sit in on the Duke's Strategy Councils.

I believe I will live well here.

Though I am assisted by the Atreides', each day that the arraignment nears, I grow in my unease. I wonder, will you be in attendance? 

I look forward to visiting you and the family. In the meantime, know that I am safe and well, and that I carry your love and affection with me always.

With all my gratitude,

Your loving Niece

There are lies trickled through the entire letter – though you feel no such need to burden your mother's bastarded sister, a woman you’ve admired your whole life, with petty things such as your betrothal. 

Your Aunt Ginaz; who succeeded your mother's parents when they died, who inherited the noble last name as one of her father's dying wishes. They’d had several daughters – all married off to other houses, like your mother; and your aunt had been reared to run the Swordmaster School. She now rules over their house with her husband, who took the name Ginaz.

In an exhausted haze, your mind wanders too freely. Paul Bourbon. 

Your huff is less of amusement and more of shock, shaking your head to wipe yourself of such odd, childish thoughts. For it is late, and the ghosts of your dreams wait impatiently at your windows.

You’ll have Hestia send the message out in the morning; you sink into the mattress, and your eyes are closed as soon as your head hits the pillow. 

You know you’re dreaming this time.

Sounds are muted, blurred – and your head is heavy, numb. The hands that are on you are Paul’s – you know this. But you're not embracing, no – there is no pleasure. 

No. His hands are slippery against your flesh; you're gasping in pain, gasping for breath. You are bleeding.

Or, is that his gasp – his blood?

The ground is a muddy landscape of slush and crimson; and the hilt of your nameday blade glints in the sun, blood dripping from the tip.

Horror courses through you, heavy as the confusion pulsing through your veins. Who wields it? 

Paul leans against you, his weight heavy; the air is heavy with snow. 

Your brows furrow as a flake lands upon your lashes – but no, it is not snow; ash. 

Ash, that rains from the sky in flurries as the earth tremors below you, smoke gathering in thick clouds somewhere in the near distance. Your throat is thick with fear. 

Another flash of your knife, this time in a grasp. 

Gasping, your hand comes away from your own abdomen, tainted black – black as the sun you once lived under.

“Hello?” 

A fuzzy voice, laced with pain; warbled in this state, though you could pick it out of millions. 

You look into his eyes and see green; shining stones, glistening lakes, rustling needles, waving fields. Paul’s hands cup your cheeks, staining handprints over your trembling cheeks. An explosion somewhere in the distance–

“Paul,” you breathe, fear lacing every fiber of you. 

But then, his face changes. 

A sickeningly lucid recognition flickers over his features when you speak, and something shifts as his gaze pierces, brows furrowing. Your lashes flutter in some muted pain. There is something wrong.

And then Paul says your name as if he's surprised to see you; and it is wrong – as if you are in the wrong place. 

Paul’s groan of pain draws your horror – a wound, bloodied and black with expiring life; right upon his stomach.

Your cry of his name is silent to the whipping winds. 

He looks down, as if expecting to see something between the two of you; some memory of a bejeweled hand, draped with bands and jewels of green and gold, plunging a blade; but you gasp in horror. 

Because with his head tilted down, you squint, just barely making out the glint of another figure across the clearing.

Glowing skin, sickeningly pale. A creeping, black smile.

There is someone behind him, and he is holding your nameday knife. 

It has the blood of your husband on it.

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