Chapter Text
This was the tangled forest of which Muad’Dib spoke: loyalty towards stasis meant to die alongside tradition; when they whispered the dangers of change in the dark, know it was to deny your individual want. You cling to the past, allow yourself to be tamed, restrain will and fence in the horizons. You die waiting-waiting was a form of defeat. To break control and set the current flowing, he demanded that you confront the new. Though, Muad’Dib himself was a coward that had turned his face from such metamorphosis. He feared difference and ran towards tradition. He rejected the Imperium in favor of his own self. Would replacing one messiah with another create a brighter dawn as he had dreamt? Is an absent Emperor better than a bloodthirsty one?
– Muad’Dib’s Dream by Zahir al-Din
Part 13
Time aligned.
Muriz’s eyes were deeply sunken, whiteless pits which not even the glow of the spice lamp touched. A pragmatic man whose sere features and bony frame Paul noted with blurred vision, marked him as an irrefutable desert born. The fluttering light revealed around them, damp walls and darkened holes through which laid passages outward; while the rhythmic dripping of falling water cast a strange sort of music over their shadows and masked the odd air between the two, Paul could sense-even in the quietude-that hidden cunning within the fellow.
They had told him the infection had lessened two moons ago yet, the previous pulse of throbbing pain that had radiated deep from inside his very skull had become for Paul a sensation once so incessant in nature, he was unable to truly forget its razor-edged torment. The sand, coarse and unrelenting had scoured the sensitive membrane of his eye leaving his vision distorted by the swelling. Even now, his face felt feverish-watery discharge fell from his sockets with the slightest brush of wind over the scarred cornea; he thought it would be easier to leave them covered. Each moment he remembered that grit-embedded flesh, his heartbeat seemed to falter ever so slightly. To wound myself, he thought to himself in the silence, with the very element that defines this desert and then complain of it-is this not what I had wanted?
Paul did not know in whole what had happened that night-only that when he woke he had become a vagabond-completed a great wandering unknowing of where exactly he had traversed. Muriz revealed very little to him and as they sat now beneath the kiswa hangings, Paul’s mind grew heavy with curiosity. He knows me, surely he knows me and yet, all the time that has passed and he still says nothing?
The man’s voice, heavy with a gravitas that appeared to press down on the air around them, stilled the silence, he uttered: “Eat.” Simple and tone deliberate, Paul rushed to pick up the copper plate before him-within which laid pieces of dried desert-hare; the aroma of melange wafted from it strong. He took between thin fingers, the slab of flatbread beside it and tore away small segments-placed that into his mouth instead.
“Muriz,” Paul asks finally, discomforted by the quiet, “you have given me my meal yourself tonight, may I ask why?” The man grunts softly and palms his unkempt beard in momentary thought. The air is silent once again and only the gentle fall of water echoes over each wall-Paul sets the plate down, suddenly disinterested in the food.
“My son helps his mother tonight-perhaps, you could grant him your wisdom at a later time.”
“That is not what I meant,” the garments he wore were far too uncomfortable-loose and itchy. Paul swallowed the spit gathering in his mouth and felt relieved for a second by the comfort it brought his throat. “In the days I have been here, you have seldom visited me. I am curious as to why you have decided to see me today ? Are you bringing me unfavourable news?”
“I am arifa of this place and my judgement of you has already been made. Shelter and aid regardless of your state. It is all in exchange for my son’s education, you will keep your word, yes?”
“Of course. I only wanted to understand your sudden decision at this very moment.”
“I will tell you soon enough.”
Paul’s brows knit together, he shook his head and decided to wait. There was a rippling sense of blackened suspicion in Muriz’s every movement, this is soon to become a path he must tread with careful sureness-even if true, Paul risked now, the launching of his awareness into this sudden and oncoming future as he questions: “I have been waiting for this privacy between us, to ask you where I am? No one has told me the name of this Sietch, still I search for answers.”
Muriz was reluctant in his reply, within that gentle ebb of thought, Paul recognised his life drawing away from its protective boundaries and known ways. “Shuloch,” Muriz says the name with complete discernment, as if it could be nowhere else.
Paul, searching the visionless dark, replies in Chakobsa. “ I see, ” he speaks, “ there are distasteful things said of your Sietch .”
“Then I suppose, the question should be: do you believe it? ”
“It would be unwise for me to judge unfairly the ones who have extended to me their kindness .”
With a click of his tongue, Muriz sat further forward-his eyes aglitter with carefulness. “No other walked into the desert with you? Is this true?”
The sharpened change in tone throws Paul onto unsteady ground, the man before him smells of a deathstill. Regardless of the definite truth that spins in his mind, Paul cannot help the thought. Has Chani followed me? His mentat awareness whirled but he stood in a great tide and was not in the proper calm to make a better assessment. “Yes that is true, no one else followed me.”
“Qays, tell me the story once more-how did this happen to you?” Paul felt unclean-this lie he weaved with such blatant confidence brought him a certain kind of shame. He tread with caution.
“I apologise Muriz. As I have said before, I truly do not remember how this happened. I can only remember the storm-I walked into it willingly.”
“I won’t intrude on personal matters, you know me as a man of understanding. There is nothing within your decisions that should shame you, we have welcomed you and shown your hospitality, have we not? All I ask for is honesty, tell me the truth, Qays.”
“And I tell you the truth, do you not believe me?”
“It is not that I don’t believe you, I am simply confused about the missing elements of your story.”
“I will tell you now as I once did before. I was in Sietch Abbir. My mother passed during childbirth and my father died in battle. I have no brothers or sisters, I too was Fedaykin and fought Muad’Dib’s war.”
“And like many others-you have been softened by its consequences?” Paul laughed, a single note quick and unassuming.
“Yes, though, not softened but rather…made ill? I long for the world before, I wish to return to better times-easier times.” Muriz nodded and absentmindedly tapped his knee.
Paul controlled his breath-still, the prana-bindu methods aided him, every minutiae movement guided by his mind's hand. It had become easier to lie but difficult for him to feel deserving of the trust. Deceiving to be rid of his duties as Emperor became for him a strange mixture, the humiliation was ever-present but so was his willingness to learn.
Many things had undergone a great change in his days here; being found by his Fremen saviours had not been anticipated while the death he had so earnestly sought after fell through his fingers. Only a singular detail kept Paul grounded; present and sagacious enough to exist alongside the people of Sietch Shuloch, to do away with the routines of his once-self and tie himself instead, to desert life beyond palace walls.
To have experienced that old balance of wealth and power he had once thought to have shifted, reduced to chaos. To have spoken with these people living on the outskirts. Everything pointed to a new truth: the Fremen had become work-shy, lost without tradition. Dreams had lived and died, the world they once knew dissolved with the horizon.
It was difficult for Paul to realise that he had not disturbed the balance but rather fueled it and Muriz’s dream was to return these people to their ways-break them of these ‘what ifs?’ What if our saviour has come? What if he lays us down in fields of green-by endless water? What if he calms our soul, so that we shall not want ?
Muad’Dib as a figure had made life easy, yet easy took as much as it gave-easy, meant that the people had forgotten struggle, they had not witnessed a miracle but a tremendous governing. These people who had once lived beside the desert, were asked to resist it in favour of their messiah. He had once believed that to destroy a thing meant to have true control of it, though, who was he to have such control? Who was he to destroy something that did not belong to him? Muriz was true in his judgement, a settler who had manipulated Fremen beliefs to establish political control, under the guise of justice, loyalty and stewardship was no better than a Harkonnen or Sardaukar who had demanded control with honest violence.
Other than the fact, of course, that open violence-sincere desire to have authority was perhaps more noble than doing it in the shadows. Paul had established a new way of life. He thought it had brought these people peace-the ability to settle at night, to stand beside him in council but they had not wished for such demands. It humbled him. The thought of Feyd entered his mind for a painful second, what would you have done, I wonder?
He clears his throat.
These new understandings however, left Paul in a compromised position. If anyone were to recognise him, the one who stood at the centre of all their misfortune, it would not serve him well. Though, it would be justice well served for the people. I will be honest, Paul thinks to himself, I will be open and true when time comes and allow myself to be pierced by the blade and die in a death I deserve. It is my injury that keeps me hidden and unrecognisable, while it heals, I will learn and teach till they decide my fate.
Perhaps Muriz was keeping knowledge of his secret to himself till it was favourable enough to speak. Perhaps in his long absence, his face had already been forgotten. Whatever it was, it gave him time.
In the sudden storm, there too stood moments of peace. The Sietch alone was a ferment of nasal memories-these warren closeness of bodies, the rank ester of reclamation stills and familiar food aromas. Paul could feel in the air the flinty burning of machines at work and then, over everything like a settling of dust-the omnipresent spice. He made his peace with it but continued to keep a safe distance. As much as it was possible. Wind blew in every direction here-calm and equable, there was space to lean against a cool pillar simply to think. Home. How could he have let this life slip from his tender grasp?
He had allowed his hair to grow too-longer now, almost within reach of his shoulders; this slowly-emerging rugged appearance tore away the strange opulence of being Emperor. He did not mind, maybe it was a miracle he had been allowed refuge for so long. Yet, Paul felt-for the first time since he had stepped foot on Arrakis-free. Truly free, no burden was tied to him, he was not bound to any responsibility. It was good, he could begin to enjoy it and he allowed the feeling to rest within him. He kept it all under control, rarely spoke to anyone-never revealed anything more than what was necessary. Kept his appearance messy-he was injured, it was perfect.
Yet, Muriz’s presence turned in his stomach and gave way to a feeling Paul could not exactly describe.
He swallowed uneasily, dropped the lump of flatbread onto the plate. “Muriz,” he coughed, “Why is it that you ask me all these questions now? You hadn’t even prompted me to repeat myself back then.”
Muriz took some time to reply, thought long and hard-Paul could sense with his truthsense that the man was finding it difficult to put what he had seen or heard into words. Paul’s blurred sight had raised his remaining senses and that was the imbalance between the two-Paul would have the upper hand, if Muriz was cunning then he knew he had to be ten times as cunning, he sowed the seeds carefully, knew that he had to keep the man at arms length-allow him to believe in a great many things.
“There is word, my people have seen travellers in the desert.”
Paul fails to blink beneath his eye covering, the air is trapped in his throat. That odd feeling in his stomach rises and he inhales a wavering breath and attempts to regain control-he had not expected such a revelation. This cannot be true, no.
“Travellers? How many?”
“A few,” he nods and the man continues: “The Princess walks with them.” Paul bites down on his tongue.
“The Princess? Why should she walk into the desert? What do these travellers seek?” Too many questions, he may become suspicious.
Yet, Muriz is even-toned in his response: “There is a rumour-that the Emperor is alive.” Paul wants to laugh yet no noise escapes his mouth. The sound is trapped between his teeth, grinding together in sudden anxiety.
Paul smiles simply. “I never thought you would believe in idle chatter, Muriz.”
“Do you mock me Qays?” Muriz’s voice is a strange calm, despite the question he asks.
“I would not dare, you are a man of great judgement. I thought you would need to see these things with your own eyes to take them into consideration.”
“If the Emperor is alive as they say him to be, I must take the opportunity to have him first. These travellers seek to save him-it is strange enough to see the Emperor’s men walk into the deep desert, even stranger to see the Emperor’s wife amongst them.” You do not understand the things you speak of you fool . Paul exhales.
“That may be-yet, we do not know what they search for or even whether they search . Is it not better to approach this with caution? These people could pose a d-”
“Are you afraid?” The question was abrupt and it forced Paul, for only a minute, to withhold his voice. Frustration bordering on anger filled him-he felt it then, stronger than ever before-this mortal wreckage his once ‘vessel of magnificence’ was becoming.
“No Muriz. I am not afraid but I am not impetuous either. However, your choice is the most astute and I will not question it, after all, this is your Sietch. Who am I to sway your word?”
Muriz sighs deeply, he shakes his head and Paul finds him unable to be read. “You may be a stranger Qays but you have proven yourself wise in the ways of the desert. Wise enough to even make unwise decisions. Tell me, what would you do in my position?
Paul pretends to take his time, yet, the answer had formed in his mind long before Muriz had asked the question. “I…I would allow the desert to decide their fate. They are foreigners and do not understand the sand. If the Emperor is alive as they say him to be then he could be anywhere, not even he would survive the sun for this long. It had been days since he was first declared dead, what prompted them to act against their own word? No, something does not seem right.”
The air stilled once more, Paul could feel the advice yield within Muriz’s mind. “I see. You do not find them worthy to question?”
“No. It’s not that. If captured, perhaps they could reveal-”
“So you do understand that they should be questioned?” Paul bites down on his tongue.
“Muriz. These people don’t know the deep desert as you or I do. However, I find it strange that only a selected few search for a man of great influence. This indicates that they are alone in their beliefs, they too operate on rumour. Their numbers show with blatant honesty that Alia does not wish to waste money nor resource on it. If there was factual evidence to prove the Emperor to be hidden away in the desert then the whole land would be flooded with men. Why should you trouble yourself for their foolishness?”
Muriz laughs-powerful and intentional-a sound cracked by years in the burning sands, “Qays, I have thought highly of you-yet, you have shown today that you are young and foolish. Do you take Muad’Dib for an idiot? He knows the desert, he knows its people. Was it not him who brought a great change? I fear that he is the Kralizec they speak of-bringer of demise, the typhoon struggle at the end of the universe.” Muriz spoke with a flat intonation of ritual, “I trouble myself as patience could mean loss-stillness is just as deadly as rushing with the blade.”
Paul falls wordless. This gamble of his life, the very game he had cast upon everyone-a monopoly like no other, all of it accumulated into this moment. He lowered his head as if in prayer, there was still a grand sense of respect and reverence in Muriz’s words even as he sought to destroy the very person he spoke of. These people, operating on nothing more than memory-memory like walking over burning coal. Still, the tragedy remained, he would never go forgotten, no matter how far he ran.
“I understand.” Paul replied simply, “I understand you, Muriz. Though, it was Muad’Dib who said of himself that he possessed no Rihani magic with which to encipher the universe. We should not doubt his word, his word holds meaning and the meaning reveals him to be an ordinary human. Holiness cannot replace passion, cannot replace love. He will not be the answer to these troubles of ours. We deceive ourselves, what will it cost us? To find these people, to kill that Emperor-fine, it will be done but what comes after? We must prepare ourselves for that, for the after.”
“There is no need to preach now, you may rest Qays. I came to you with questions and you have answered. The rest is of no importance to you.”
In the deepened night, Paul stands alone and contemplates the conversation he had with Muriz. Even now, the birds fly from one nest to another overhead-he steps into a tiny cleft in the basalt which the windsand had eaten away-it is a terrible dark and within the small space he rests his head against the wall and sobs silently. Between wavering breaths, he thinks of a line from the O.C Bible: ‘Do not curse God for the punishment you inflict upon yourself.’ How hilarious.
He wants to scream into the long evening, the salt-drenched tears burn his ravaged eyes and while the pain pierces once more through that sand-burnt skin Paul cannot help himself but continue. He lifts the eye covering and sinks to the floor. The space is small, it brings comfort to be hidden away.
He says to Feyd: “I don’t know what to do.” The phantom does not respond. Paul’s lashes, heavy with moisture dragged across his eyelids like tiny razors. “Please. Answer me. I cannot carry this weight.” The moon felt closer tonight, he wraps his own arms around himself and opens those eyelids now to stare at a ground he cannot not see.
“Is this my exile? These thoughts are at war inside my mind. Should I die? Should I atone for my sins? How jealous I am of your fate and how deeply I wish it for myself.” You who have never been given the chance to grow more wicked. The air grew thick and heavy and his breath came in sudden shallow ragged bursts-each pull of air catching in his throat like sandpaper. Even beyond his weakened vision, the world began to spin and Paul pressed a hand to his chest in an attempt to soothe the tightening; it was as though the desert itself had burrowed its way into his lungs-dry and relentless. This isn’t…what is this? This isn't logical. None of this. The words form in his mind in such horrid waves, he fails to keep up with it. Tears rush in droplets-hang from his upper lip a singular bead that Paul cannot bring himself to wipe away, it felt as if his limbs had locked in place.
The faint sound of the wind howling beyond the cavern transformed into a cacophony that gnawed at the edge of his mind-soft noises like whispering voices around him, saying: “you are unprepared-puppet playing king, do you truly wish to go back?” No. “No?” The wind laughed around him, over him. The sound came from within and towards. It mocked without remorse.
“They will find you, they will take you. They will tear your innards from stomach, break apart that ribcage and waste all that water as if you did not even deserve such a thing!” No, no. His teeth remained clenched together so tightly that his jaw ached. In the rattling disarray, Paul attempted to find a rhythm-a sensation, something to anchor him yet, the pressure continued to be unbearable.
“No? You cannot go back, you pretend that you can brave such death. You cannot.” I cannot go back. His hands trembled now, muscles betraying him. Paul felt the confusion of the sudden realisation that his own body refused to obey even the most simple direction of his mind-commands already fragmented, a wreckage of guilt and paranoia.
“Yes. You are filth, you are a coward. You will never be ready-never. Boy-failure, they pointed at you and called you Mahdi only for you to turn the knife towards them. You deserve nothing.” Please.
“In the heaving heat. You embarrass your father, condemn your mother. Unfit for power, unfit for wisdom. You cannot even control your body, what do you deserve?” Stop . Paul covered his ears-his forehead drenched in sweat, every sound, every shuffle of his robe against the ground felt amplified to unbearable proportions. Even with his ears covered, the voices did not cease.
“Ungrateful, ugly thing. You have a heart of black, you dare call for Feyd? Have you no shame? What do you deserve?” Make it stop. Please . The storm raged from within him-his thoughts, normally so precise and sharp were scattered now, fragments of half-formed fears and the torrential flow of dread.
“Pretentious, you preach superficial. You are no saviour, no saint. You take and take and take. What do you deserve?” Nothing .
“Nothing. Yes, nothing-”
“Stop,” Paul whispered hoarsely, voice swallowed by the darkness of the crevice around him. His words were powerless, that ghostly tone carried by the wind laughed through him-in that moment, he stood alone with the sound of that pulse roaring in his ears and mind-a crushing certainty no matter how far he ran; always another not too far behind him. The visions. His failure. What he thought right and the things he believed to be wrong, like a jungle within him-and so what was he? Truly, his mind became a black hole. I must prepare myself for the after, Paul thought to himself once more, they come to kill me, I cannot go back. His body collapsed to his knees, remaining still, tears falling in thin streams. I deserve nothing, they cannot take that from me.
Like a cornered beast Paul lay-his torso against the crevice wall. I must not permit this fear to destroy me , caressed by the darkened night, a plan writhed within him like a severed serpent. His mind swimming from one storm into another.