CHAPITRE IX:
Burning Hope.

"It is said that the Duke Leto blinded himself to the perils of Arrakis, that he walked heedlessly into the pit. Would it not be more likely to suggest he had lived so long in the presence of extreme danger he misjudged a change in its intensity? Or is it possible he deliberately sacrificed himself that his son might find a better life? All evidence indicates the Duke was a man not easily hoodwinked."

— from 'Muad'Dib: Family Commentaries' by the Princess Irulan

THE TRUTH CUTS LIKE A SURGEON'S BLADE—sharp, unforgiving, but healing in the end. A lie? It numbs, a fleeting balm with lasting poison in its wake.

Tick, tock.
The hour strikes.

Tick, tock.
You cannot outrun the inevitable.

Death is no longer freedom. There is no refuge. Only acceptance.

Fate.
Fate.
Fate.

Worshipped and despised, there is no hand that can turn its key or seal its door.

Saint—
The harvest is here. You will taste the bitter fruit your bloodline has long since sown.

. . .

WHEN MADHAVI AWOKE, the world was silent, as if holding its breath. Shadows curled thick around her, and the air felt heavy with stillness. The vision had left her raw, her mind sharp but her body dulled—an eerie dissonance that left her feeling tampered with, her will subjugated by something unseen. A dry, shallow rasp caught in her throat, her awareness sharpening as the bitter taste of a drug coursed sluggishly through her veins.

Darkness surged within her senses—an encroaching tide of voices whispering dire prophecies. Warnings clawed through her mind, chilling in their certainty: This dissociation will be a mercy compared to what lies ahead.

Her body stiffened. The sting of krimskell fiber bit deeper into her wrists as she instinctively tested her bonds. Her ankles were lashed, her mouth gagged with something thick and abrasive that made her jaw ache with its strange, foreign pressure. Krimskell... of course. The fibers constricted as she pulled, their venomous weave tightening with resistance. She exhaled slowly, quieting her frantic thoughts, focusing instead on the cold surface against her back.

Wood. Metal. A seat.

She traced its contours with numbed fingers, a growing dread pressing against her temples.

And then—
She remembered.

Paul.
The bedroom.
A hand on her throat.
The sharp slap of wet cloth.
One breath.
Then the abyss.

Horror crept through her anew, filling the hollow places where memory now stirred. Her stomach twisted as her mind snapped back into the present. She stilled her hands. Her wrists throbbed, slick with her own blood. The coppery scent mingled with the sour musk of fear, thickening the air with tension. She slowed her breath, counting the beats of her heart—steady, strong, relentless. Time measured its passage in thuds. Four hours. It's been four hours since I blacked out.

Her pulse surged as her senses tuned into the breathing around her.
Not one. Not two.
Five.

A soft, broken sound slipped past her gag—barely a whisper. She lifted her head slowly, blinking against the dark. Slitted eyes scanned the shadows. There, just beyond her reach, the rhythmic flutter of ornithopter wings echoed through the suffocating night. Shapes emerged from the murk. Bodies. Bound.

Paul.
Jessica.
Their forms twisted against their bonds, the same brutal gag distorting Jessica's face.

Her pulse quickened, but she forced herself to breathe—inhale, exhale. Her heart beat against her ribs like a war drum. She shut her eyes, drawing her fear inward where it could not betray her.

The voices of their captors drifted through the cold space. She counted them. Three.

Her senses reached farther, listening beyond the words to the subtle shifts of weight, the restless movements of bodies unused to stillness. One of the Harkonnen—his name Kinet teased her ears—leaned closer to another soldier, eyes fixated on his lips. His responses came with a beat of delay, as though each word required careful translation.

Her breath caught. Deaf. He's deaf.

Understanding bloomed like a blade drawn from its sheath. A pattern. A flaw.
Her eyelids fluttered, her body poised between exhaustion and resolve.

She felt her way to the seatbelt. It hung loosely. A rough edge scraped her arm—half-severed, ready to snap with the right force. A chance.

The truth settled like stone in her chest.

Yueh!

Now she remembered the subtle dread that clung to him like a second skin, the unease that whispered warnings every time his eyes lingered too long.

Betrayal always leaves its scent in the air.
And now it all made sense.

      "Sure is a shame to waste women like this," Scarface drawled, his grin sharp beneath sun-weathered skin. His eyes flicked to the pilot. "You ever handled any highborn? Or maybe a Fremen?"

Still and silent, Madhavi let her head tilt to the left, her curls hiding her face as her cheek brushed the lever near the door. Her muscles twitched under the shudders gripping her body, but she gave no other sign of movement.

      "Bene Gesserit ain't all highborn," the pilot muttered. "But Fremen slaves... heard they've got fire."

Her stomach knotted, bile rising as their eyes bore into her. Even unseen, she could feel their filthy hunger crawl across her skin. A soft rustle beside her made her heart pound—Paul. He stirred against his bonds.

      "And she's got Ginaz training, they say," the pilot added, a cruel chuckle threading his words. "Imagine the fight in her."

Madhavi swallowed hard, her disgust thick in her throat. Slowly, with infinite control, she shifted, letting her chin rest on the lever. Her fingers trembled behind her back as she felt the weight of every gaze.

      "Real pretty," Kinet said, his voice a wet murmur as his tongue swept across his lips. "Wouldn't it be a waste?"

The tremor in her mouth threatened to betray her. She clamped her teeth onto the gag, hiding her trembling lips, her jaw flexing as she tugged—silent, deliberate. The fibers began to shift.

      "You thinking what I'm thinking?" the pilot asked, his tone thick with implication.

      "Who'd know?" Scarface shrugged. "Just never had me no Fremen before." His grin darkened. "And she's Idaho's girl. This is the only way to make him bleed."

Madhavi's gag slipped free, falling loose around her neck. Her breath shuddered through her, controlled but fierce, as she forced her eyes to remain shut. Stay still. Stay small.

And then—
      "Don't you dare touch her."

Paul's voice cracked through the darkness, sharp as a blade.

A hand struck his face, the force of it snapping his head sideways. "Look at that," one of the soldiers jeered. "Cub thinks he's got teeth."

Footsteps. Heavy. Purposeful. The air thickened as Scarface moved toward her. His rough fingers lifted her chin. She felt him freeze.

      "Didn't she—"

      "Release me."

Jessica's head snapped up at the sound of Madhavi's voice—low, commanding, each syllable like the toll of a bell. The Voice, rich and flawless. It rolled through the ornithopter like thunder, shivering against the metal walls.

The Harkonnen's hand stilled. His fingers trembled as if under a spell. Without hesitation, he obeyed.

      "What the hell are you doing?" the pilot hissed, watching in disbelief as Scarface's hands undid her bonds.

Madhavi moved like a shadow—fluid, silent, lethal. Her fingers found his throat and snapped it before he could take his next breath. The sickening crunch of bone reverberated in the cabin as she pulled the lever, the hatch groaning open. Wind screamed into the night.

She blinked, sensation rushing back into her limbs, power burning hot in her veins. Her eyes, fierce and clear, cut through the dark as she seized the knives from the dead man's belt. Her hand was steady as she drove one blade into the neck of the next trooper, feeling the slick warmth of blood spatter across her arm.

The wind howled, tangling her hair in a tempest of dark curls. It swirled around her like a living thing, wild and free, turning her silhouette into a force of nature. Starlight kissed her skin as she stood framed in the open doorway, a goddess of death—beautiful, untamed, and terrifying.

      "You Fremen really are hell. I'll send you back where you belong."

Paul clamped his lips tightly closed, forcing himself to be silent. The last Harkonnen lunged, lasgun trembling in his hands. Madhavi smirked.

      "No need to hurt yourself for me." she whispered.

She watched him grow tense, her sneer following suit. The young Idaho knew that in this moment, he was convinced of the need to hurt himself. His will had no hold over him anymore. In his mind, he had to hurt himself.

Holding his gaze, she tilted her head, brows slightly furrowed in barely concealed amusement. "Why fight? Is any woman worth hurting yourself?"

Madhavi repressed a smile as she knew that by uttering those words, she made herself infinitely worth his pain.

      "Yeah," Czigo said. "No need to hurt..."

Her words slithered into his mind like poison. He faltered, his grip slackening. His pulse raced, driven by a need he didn't understand. Pain, sharp and inescapable, bloomed within his skull.

The wall met his head with brutal finality. Blood sprayed as he crushed his own face into pulp, the frenzy consuming him until death took his broken body.

Jessica's eyes never left the girl's face as Madhavi knelt beside her, blade slicing through her bonds. She murmured her thanks, but Madhavi only nodded, already standing up.

      "Let's move, another 'thopter's tailing us. We won't have time to clean up and get away," she urged, her voice a razor's edge as she moved toward the cockpit, leaving Paul's release to his mother.

Her hand brushed something unexpected beneath the pilot's seat—a strange, damp bundle. She jerked it free, her skin crawling as the bloodied face of Czigo greeted her. Disgust flooded her senses as she yanked the bundle away, her mind already elsewhere. 

A waste of moisture.

Paul watched in stunned silence, horror and awe warring in his gaze. His stomach churned as he took in the carnage. He had known she was trained to fight—but he had never imagined this. Not this.

No hesitation. No mercy.

. . .

Standing high atop a jagged rock, Madhavi's gaze swept over the vast expanse of Arrakis, Paul at her side. The wind, gentle yet firm, grazed her cheek—a fleeting, motherly touch from the desert itself.

Below them, two armies tore into each other, the clash of steel lost beneath the guttural, bloody screams rising from the battlefield. Yet above them, the sky held a quiet promise of something greater—a future where power was consolidated, the empire unified under strong hands.

The sun's heat bore no crimson hue; the earth made no cry for its suffering. All that remained was the haunting lullaby of agony carried by the wind. Enemy blood soaked into the parched sands of Arrakis, and the weight of their armor slowly succumbed to the desert's relentless pull.

This time, the kiss on her lips did not mark her end. Instead, it was a union of fire and water—turning blood into life, drought into abundance, uncertainty into absolute rule. The planet itself seemed to hum in approval, its winds singing, its sky rejoicing. But beneath, the earth trembled—a reminder that all things, no matter how vast, come to an end.

For even the most formidable of rulers must bow to the consequences of their choices. No tale is without its close, no matter how eternal it may seem.

. . .

ATOP A TOWERING DUNE, the three survivors stood in quiet, grim solidarity, watching the smoking ruins of the Atreides base—now nothing more than a hellscape of fire and corpses.

In a single night, one man's whims had obliterated an entire House.

The flames crackled and twisted, their heat kissing the cold morning air. The rising sun's golden rays clashed with the dark plume of smoke, painting the sky in hues of ash and foreboding.

Madhavi laid a steady hand on Paul's shoulder, her gaze fixed on the horizon. There was a silence between them, unspoken, yet laden with meaning. Her father was not dead—not yet. She felt it deep in her bones, in the thrum of her pulse.

Though she held onto the slender hope that her father lived, the smell of death gnawed at her—Leto's scent still lingered in the air. He was out there, somewhere. Alive, but not for long.

Fate, ever so selfish, would not grant the gift of survival to all.

. . .

SITTING IN THE STILLTENT, nestled within the fremkit, the trio huddled together in a corner, lost in their own thoughts. The events of the previous night still clung to them, the weight of loss heavy in the air. The Atreides army had been decimated, and the head of the House had been taken in a heartbeat.

Madhavi absentmindedly twisted the chain around her neck, her gaze resting on Lady Jessica, who seemed to shrink into herself, still in shock. Her son, Paul, stared down at his father's signet ring, his fingers tracing its surface as if it held the last remnants of a life once whole.

It's strange, isn't it? How everything we hold dear can vanish in the blink of an eye?

      "There's spice in the tent."

A soft, guttural cough cut through the silence, drawing Jessica's attention to her son. Madhavi's eyes flicked to Paul, sensing something was wrong. The boy's face was pale, his breath shallow, and his skin damp with a cold sweat.

      "Paul," Madhavi whispered, her voice barely audible.

He didn't respond, his eyes distant and unfocused, locked somewhere far beyond the present. His expression softened, as if lost in a dream, and the space around him seemed to warp and bend.

      "That's the future," he murmured, his voice detached. "It's coming."

Madhavi crawled toward him, her heart pounding in her chest. She reached out to steady him, only to find her hand gripped tightly by his. His fingers were trembling, his hold tightening with an intensity that made her wince.

Tears welled in his eyes, tracing down his face in silent rivers of emotion.

A bloody hand ― her hand.

      "Holy war," Paul whispered, his voice shaky as he stared at the space in front of him. "Spreading across the universe... like unquenchable fire."

The room seemed to close in around them. Madhavi's mind raced to make sense of what was happening. She could see it now—bits and pieces, flashes of horrors she couldn't yet comprehend. A mountain of charred bodies, smoldering under a sky of crimson, a fire that refused to die. She could feel the heat of it in her bones.

Blood, so much blood.

      "We made it," Paul murmured, his eyes far away.

Jessica's voice broke the trance, her tone wary, laced with concern. "Paul, you're scared. I can see it."

But Paul wasn't listening, his mind still trapped in the vision. 

Madhavi couldn't break his focus. Her hand was still locked in his, and though she could feel the blood draining from her fingers, she waited patiently, her breath held. She had to let him find his way back.

      "Tell me, please," his mother continued, her voice strained, "what do you fear?"

The young Atreides was still lost, his body tensing as he clung to her hand, pulling her into his vision, forcing her to see what he saw. The landscape shifted before her—an inferno, a vision of burning bodies, soldiers, a battleground that felt both distant and immediate.

The heat of the flames was overwhelming. The smoke suffocating. A mountain of charred bodies still engulfed in flames.

Madhavi's chest tightened. She could feel the weight of it, the pain, the blood. It was almost as though she was standing right beside him, the horror of the future seeping into her skin.

      "Somebody help me, please," she heard Paul's voice crack, a whisper of panic.

      "Paul," she said again, her tone soft, gentle, but firm. She wasn't going to rush him. He had to find his way out of the trance on his own.

His body jerked, his grip tightening, sending shockwaves of anxiety through both women. The blood, once warm, was no longer circulating in Madhavi's hand. She could feel it growing numb under his touch.

      "A warrior religion that waves the Atreides banner in my father's name," Paul murmured, his eyes wide, as though witnessing the birth of something monstrous.

Madhavi's heart clenched at the weight of his words. The idea of a holy war spreading in his father's name—it was too much. She couldn't imagine it, but she could feel the truth of it in her gut, in the growing desperation in Paul's eyes.

The young Idaho sitting beside Paul, endured the strikes that Paul's feet sent in frantic motion. His body trembled, as though trapped in an unshakable storm of his own making.

The once tranquil space, a haven of fleeting peace, had been transformed. The ground beneath them was no longer soft and reassuring—it was barren, tainted by the scarlet hue of blood that seemed to seep from every crack in the universe.

      "Paul."

This time, her voice was more insistent, firm, as she felt the painful stiffness in her fingers, desperate for the blood to return, to keep her steady.

      "A war in my name!"

The words hit Madhavi like a blow to the chest. Her heart seemed to stop, the true gravity of his confession settling deep within her. Everything—everything—that had brought them here, the bloodshed she saw in her visions, the mountains of bodies whose stench clawed at her throat, the sun now crimson and cruel—it all began with Paul.

She hadn't just seen the destruction in his future; she felt it. The crushing weight of it, the undeniable truth of it. He was the source. The origin.

You failed us, Madhavi. You succumbed. You did not free him from the madness that corrupted his mind, the madness that sterilised the sacred lands we once knew.

The voices were relentless, echoing over and over in her head, like a prayer that demanded to be heard. The litany of failure and blame tangled with her every breath, forcing her chest to tighten.

Forcing her to feel the dread.

Her pulse quickened, and she shut her eyes for a brief moment, trying to calm herself. But the weight of it all pressed against her. The suffocating heat of impending disaster, the horrors she couldn't yet undo.

      "Paul Atreides."

Lady Jessica's voice cut through the chaos, a faint anchor to reality in the storm. She knelt beside her son, her voice trembling with an emotion that Madhavi could barely understand.

      "You are your father's son. You are my son. You are the Duke Paul Atreides."

Madhavi rubbed her sore hand absently, watching as Jessica tried her best to soothe the troubled soul of her son. But it was futile. She knew that. And so did Paul.

      "Get off me!" he screamed, his voice raw with fury. "You did this to me! You Bene Gesserit made me freak!"

The harsh words sliced through the air, leaving the tense atmosphere in shards. Jessica recoiled, hurt and confusion flashing in her eyes, while Madhavi, silent and motionless, saw the fear in her.

The newly widowed woman looked at her, eyes wide, desperate—pleading.

Madhavi, her fingers still aching but her resolve solidifying, stood up, her movements slow but deliberate. She opened the stilltent, the fabric rustling softly, and approached the young man who was spiraling further into the depths of his vision.

She moved in close, her voice steady but gentle.

      "Paul," she whispered, softly but firmly. Her hands reached up, cradling his face, her touch a lifeline amidst the chaos in his mind. She could feel his breath—shallow and unsteady—against her palms.

Her gaze locked onto his, steady and unwavering. "Paul, please calm down."

Paul's wide, terrified eyes met hers. His breath hitched, and for a moment, the madness seemed to pause, just long enough for her words to reach him. 

Her voice was steady, yet filled with the kind of calm authority that left no room for argument. He seemed to hear her, though the fog of confusion still clouded his thoughts. With a deep breath, Paul closed his eyes at the feel of her hands, momentarily finding solace in the warmth of her touch. Madhavi's eyes never left his face as she reached for the soft, glistening tears that stained his cheeks, gently wiping them away.

      "I want you to come with me, okay? We'll let your mother rest."

Her words, though tender, carried an unmistakable weight, one that didn't allow for any hesitation. Without a word, Paul nodded, stepping out of the tent, his eyes still vacant but his movements obedient.

Inside, Lady Jessica watched them go, her face streaked with the weight of grief, her tears flowing freely. 

Madhavi followed Paul outside, taking a deep breath of the desert air before sitting cross-legged beside him. As soon as she settled, the young Atreides, weary and distant, rested his head gently on her thighs. His gaze was lost to the horizon, his mind still swimming in the remnants of his vision. Hesitant at first, the girl began to run her fingers through his hair, the slow, rhythmic motion offering a silent comfort.

The sun, sluggish and slow, hovered just below the horizon, casting a coolness over the desert that was almost surreal.

      "You saw it too," Paul said after a long silence, his voice small and fragile.

Madhavi nodded without breaking her rhythm. "I did."

He turned to look at her then, his eyes filled with uncertainty and something deeper, something that tugged at her heart. "I saw you die."

Her hand paused mid-motion, hovering above his dark curls, before she gently guided it back to his hair. "Everyone dies sometime, Paul."

For a moment, he didn't respond, the weight of her words hanging heavily between them. His voice broke the silence, raw and desperate. "Not you. I don't want to see you die."

The confession hit her harder than she anticipated, stirring something deep within her that made her chest tighten. She looked down at him, meeting his gaze, a softness in her eyes that belied the fierce resolve she tried to hold on to.

Fate is cruel.

The harshness of his fear seemed to melt away when she leaned down to press a soft kiss to his forehead. The warmth of her lips on his skin ignited something in him, a spark that lingered long after she pulled away. They locked eyes, the connection between them palpable, unspoken, yet undeniable.

I won't be able to continue to protect you if you keep this up, Paul.

IZIA'S NOTE

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