My Caladanian Rain [A Paul Atreides Story]

11200 BG

A beginning is the time for taking the most delicate care that the balances are correct. This every sister of the Bene Gesserit knows.

Manual of Muad'Dib

By The Princess Irulan

"Do you dream every night?"

"Not dreams worth remembering. I can remember every dream, but some are worth remembering and some aren't." Paul closed his eyes.

"Very well, then." Said the Reverend Mother Gaius Helen Mohiam. "Goodbye, young human. I hope you make it. But if you don't—well, we shall succeed." The old woman turns away, swept from the floor, and her robes hissing.

It seemed to Paul that the woman came to put a stamp of strangeness on him. And the test... curious, really curious; he could be the Kwisatz Haderach, the male Bene Gesserit whose organic mental powers would bridge space and time, yet he could now understand how and when will that occur.

He came back to his quarters. Half of the room was filled with boxes to be shipped to Arrakis. He sat there for a bit before he remembered that he should be in the training room.

Facing the papers and charts spread across the table, he pondered over the words that were exchanged with the Reverend Mother, and the words he exchanged with the Princess Ilvermorny. He could cry, though he does not permit himself to. The confusion was paired up with a great sense of responsibility awaken, and is double downed with longing and despair. This was the time he needed his only friend. Just to hear her same something, no matter what it may be, it may be callous, out of question—even if he'd not like to hear it, but coming from her—he only longs to hear her voice, feel her linger within his space. He wants her to yell at him, "Paul, have some respect!" or "Paul, we must train swordfight this instant!" He would usually hesitate, never would he ever dream of harming Ilvermorny, not even in training. That's why he never does give in. "I can dodge if you haven't forgotten yet." She always replied so petulantly. Crossing her arm, and rolls her eyes. He laughed at the memory. She could be currently parrying with her sisters at their training room, she could be working with prisms, alone and going over ten (The thought scares him a little bit,) or she could be in her quarters doing nothing, staring at the all-too-familiar walls. She used to tell him that on every visit.

Paul hears Thufir Hawat's footsteps. The old man closed the door behind him softly, but not too softly for him. The big room was bright, the noon light pouring through the skylights, and Paul could see Thufir's shadow as he walked toward him.

He thinks I am not aware of my current position. A chuckle spreads through Paul's lip. "I know. I'm sitting with my back to a door."

The old man stopped at a corner of the table.

"I heard you coming down the hall," Paul said. "And I heard you open the door."

For a while there was silence. Thufir fought the urge to argue how sounds might as well be imitated, only to counter that the boy had been trained in a weirding way, surely his senses were heightened, and that is only the understatement of it.

"I leave today for Arrakis. Meanwhile, take care of yourself for an old man who's fond of you, heh? And sit facing the door. Form the habit of facing doors until you, yourself, are in Arrakis." Thufir said, scanning the room one more time for his last data gathering. "You'll be following tomorrow. Next time we meet it'll be in the soil of your new world."

"Thufir, will you sit with your back to any door?" Paul asks.

"I won't, lad. Depend on it." Thufir Hawat bowed on his way out.

If there is no way to save my father, as the old woman said, at least spare his best men.

Nothing can be done.

One more day here, he thought. He looked around the room. We're leaving.

The feeling of leaving this place also grew on him. How lonely it made him feel. But a place is just a place. And Arrakis is just another place. Another place to inhabit, another place to set his footprints, and another place to start his memoirs.

Later on, another of his father's men enters. It was Gurney Halleck.

"I guess I'm not in the mood for it today," Paul said. It was true, he could feel his thoughts eating his swordsmanship away.

"Mood?" Gurney was outraged. "What has mood to do with it? You fight when the necessity arises—no matter the mood! Mood is for cattle or making love or playing the baliset. It's not for fighting."

So then, Paul gave him a good parry. One to knock them down, multiple times. To show the man that he was getting in a mood.

"Old man." He balls his hand into a fist and strides with smug air to it. He grins mischievously. And they tackle each other. Paul decided to mess around.

-/-

"If wishes were fishes we'd all cast nets," He heard Gurney murmur, seeing that something had dawned on the old man. Tomorrow's venture, nonetheless. Stepping into the new world, even for a guy like Gurney, must feel like something.

Paul internalized what Gurney had just quoted. I'd rather cast a huge net that will stretch to cover the entire sea. He wished he could erase the touch of the Reverend Mother. He wished he could do something to save his father. He wished he could exchange a few words with Ilvermorny. Wishing won't suffice and he knew better.