synthneon | skies of rust || ❝ d'you breathe the name of your saviour in your hour of need. ❞

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skies of rust || ❝ d'you breathe the name of your saviour in your hour of need. ❞

SKIES OF RUST

I hope to never fall, where enough is not the same it was before.

Come feed the rain
'Cause without your love my life
Ain't nothing but this carnival of rust CODE BY TESSISAMESS

[ Maud'Dib! Maud'Dib! Maud'Dib!

He walks through the group of Fremen that had accompanied him. Hands and knives in the air. Chanting the name he had chosen to be known as by those who made desert power. People he now walked with, broke bread with, lived with. A family when his had been so utterly decimated by those who took power back of the Spice.

They're more than family.

They're desert power.

A force to be reckoned with. A power. A people. People who saw him as their Mahdi--the savior that would take them to Paradise. The people who had been manipulated by generations to expect a savior. He is no savior. He is a man who wishes revenge on those that took his family. A man who wants better for those who inhabit the planet that he was forced to adopt as home.

They're a force to be weaponized should he chose to do so.

They're not a family as they touch his shoulder and chant his name in victory.

In this instant? They're a reminder of the path his mother and her people demand he walk for their own ends.

His footsteps are heavy and echo through the reclaimed spice hoard. The Harkonnens are thrown down to the ground and slain. None are left standing. No prisoners. They can't be trusted and nor would they ever bend and submit to the Fremen or their insurgent leader Maud'dib.

The Fremen bow and mutter his name as he continues to stride through. He can feel the blue-in-blue eyes on him as he moves. His own eyes changed to that some time ago. The spice is everywhere in the desert. It was bound to change... as was his mind. The mind always changes with Spice, but he knows he is an exception. An exception his mother hails as the key her people want. An exception one who he thought would be a close friend considers nothing more to be spice dreams. ]

Maud'dib! The Harkonnen rat in charge has holed herself inside the main refinery. Should we--

[ Duke Paul Maud'dib Atreides raises his hand.

The Fremen nod and shift to the sides.

Paul pushes the door to the heart of the hoard open.

Blue-in-blue eyes land immediately on the woman in the center of the room. His head and faced are wrapped, only allowing the intense blue-in-blue eyes to be seen. Paul knows who his opponent will be. He has seen her in a dream. Someone who he had thought laid dead in the dunes of Arakeen just as his father and other members of his House. Someone who he knows can plunge her blade into his heart if she fails to realize the identity of Maud'dib. A test for her to truly see if she knows him, or if those memories had been thrown to the wayside in chase of a seat of power and recognition.

Both paths have always been open to her.

Paul comes to stand merely feet away from her. His crysknife rests in his hand. Eyes settle on the woman that had been a childhood friend. The grip on his knife tightens. Even now, he can feel his own physical reaction to her. A mechanical way of describing it, yet, his Mentat training has taken foot in that moment as he possibly stands at an attempt on his life. He feels his heart beat irregularly. His gaze focuses in on nothing but her.

Small--smaller than he remembers--and chestnut brown hair pulled back from her face in a tight bun. Dark suits attributed to House Harkonnen and not the Atreides nor Bene Gesserit. Her brown eyes are as he remembers them to be. Deep and dark, but not without emotion she attempts to hide. The hand around his blade curls as he feels the sudden relief that another member of his House remains. ]

Surrender! [ Paul barks the order at her through the mask of his stillsuit. Not the Voice. Just his own, now filled with command and authority. A leader. ] The people under your command are dead. The Spice belongs to me now. Surrender, and I will make certain you live. You are from House Atreides, not the Harkonnens. The Atreides were friend to the Fremen. Respected.

[ Missed by some. ]

[ Bastila hears the commotion going on outside the room she has attempted to barricade herself in. She can hear the shouts, the name being shouted, but before that, she heard the sound of battle: screams, shouting, weapons clashing upon weapons, and she found herself standing still as though she had been riveted to the floor.

It is hardly becoming for her to be afraid, much less show that she is afraid, but as she remains the only one in the room, she does not try to hide the fear in her eyes. If Muad'Dib is coming, then nothing good comes for her. Of course he will have no reason to not fight her and then strike her down if he is able; and of course he is able, given who he is and the abilities he surely has. She is certain that all he will see is one of the Harkonnens at worst, and at best, a Harkonnen pawn complicit in their doings.

The footsteps approaching seem to grow louder, and Bastila feels her heart pounding faster in response. Either way, her doom seems to be growing closer, and she feels her hand tighten around the knife she holds.

Now she hears voices outside the door, as Muad'Dib gives orders, and she sees the door begin to move as it is pushed open from outside. She stands in the middle of the room, as still as before, but her gaze slowly travels to the figure striding towards her. If she dies here, she will join the rest of House Atreides, who have since perished. A fitting end, perhaps, as she is- was the ward of that house.

Muad'Dib is now standing in front of her, a few feet away. She sees the blue eyes staring at her from beneath the wrapping around his head and face. This is the prophesied figure, the one who brings change with him... change, war, chaos... So many things. He could bring about her death, but before that comes, she has already resolved to fight.

She snaps further to attention the moment that he barks out a command. Of course she recognizes it; it is a form of force, of attempting to bend the will of another into compliance. It is not the form of force that leaves no options, but it is still a forceful command. ]

Surrender? [ It is a risk, speaking back to this figure, this person who has begun to take the world by storm. Bastila straightens up to her full height, which is hardly anything at all, and yet she does so because she will not cower in fear. ] You will make certain that I live, and for what? To-

[ The pronouncement that she is from House Atreides gives her pause; she had not expected that, but she supposes it would not be difficult for someone to learn she is not one of the Harkonnens. She repeats his words again: ]

You will make certain that I live, to be a servant or a concubine.

[ Distaste is plain on her face, although the fear still remains in her eyes. She raises the knife in her hand, doing her best to steel her nerves and not appear afraid. ]

You speak of House Atreides, and you say fine words, but this could be a snare for the unsuspecting.

[ She doesn't lower her knife, because the last thing she intends to do is walk blindly into a trap. Never mind that she is already in one, as there is no escape from this room but the door Muad'Dib walked through.

Still, she surveys him, eyes taking in every inch that she can see. Something about him is familiar, but she can't quite determine what it is. Perhaps if he keeps talking, and begins to move... It is a fool's hope, in the end. The Atreides are dead. ]

Edited 2025-02-24 08:14 (UTC)

[ The corners of his eyes narrow to betray his amusement. No, Bastila would never bend to become someone's servant or concubine. Her independence is too strong for such a position. Her demand to be noticed, seen, appreciated. Such a call would require her to humble and realize a great many things of their place in the universe and how the attention she seeks could come from but a few instead of all. ]

And you are suspecting. [ The amusement leaks from his voice. ] An Atreides should not die in service to Harkonnens nor their commands.

[ His blue-in-blue eyes drop down to the knife in her hands. A crude boorish blade of Harkonnen make. The only thing they would most likely trust her with. A pathetic weapon to a pathetic woman in their minds, no doubt, as they would truly have no concept of the damage she could wield with it. Bastila Shan--trained by Bene Gesserit and to some degree the late Duncan Idaho.

Battle it is.

Paul exhales, and yet the notion is more of a sigh. A look to the side, a shake of his head. Then, he bends down into his fighting stance. The Weirding Way. He waits till she takes her stance. A lunge. His crysknife presses against her blade. A near unstoppable force pressing down against her. Paul knows that she can fight against him. She has done so before so many times. Until they were separated by order of his mentors and their lives began to grow in separate ways.

How much of Paul Atreides did she truly know as they grew into young adults? Adults, by the standards of their world and their reality.

He presses further. ]

Surrender!

[ He hopes that she sees with all that training that she has received. The Bene Gesserit can control the minute abilities of their bodies. They can see patterns and behaviors. Body language. Surely, if she remembers anything of their childhood, then she will know him. Paul Atreides, the son of Duke Leto Atreides and concubine Lady Jessica. ]

Edited 2025-02-24 10:30 (UTC)

[ She watches him closely, looking to see how he moves and how his expressions may change, or not. She has always been good at studying people, and that skill has proven useful more than once. The way his eyes narrow in the corners confuses her, but it also brings to mind a memory... a memory of a younger man, looking at her with a smile and the corners of his eyes crinkled slightly, just as they are now. Is it really...?

She had her suspicions the moment he walked through the door, but they were drowned out slightly by the fear that she was about to meet her end. ]

Can you blame me for being suspecting? I have been under their thumb, doing what I could to play the part and go along with what I was told, or else I would not be standing here now.

[ And I do not wish to be under anyone's thumb again.

She sees where his gaze travels, and she can all but see the decision in his mind, reluctantly resigning himself to a fight. It has to be him. It is him, I am sure of it. He never did like the idea of fighting. Training, but fighting?

She shakes her head once as if to answer her own internal thoughts. Still, she watched Muad'Dib- Paul. All of his movements are so familiar as if there has been no time at all lost between them. The stance, the ease with which he falls into it, how he moves when he makes his strike...

His knife presses against hers, and she can feel the shoddy work of the Harkonnen knife protest against the superior crysknife. Still, even as the force of his knife presses down against hers, she pushes back, leaning in to add her weight to it, but not expending all of her strength in the process. This was how they trained, after all: tactical movements, tactical thoughts, learning to read each other's movements.

He presses further and she feels herself slide back an inch against the sandy ground, but she does not stop pressing back. Again he barks out a command, and again she sees the younger man she trained with. The wrappings that obscure his face seem to fall away in her eyes and she knows (maybe she's always known) that this is Paul Atreides. ]

You think I will surrender simply because you order me to?

[ Now it's her turn for her eyes to crinkle in amusement, and the corners of her mouth turn up into the barest hint of a smile. Perhaps he will remember a time when she said something similar to him during one of their early training sessions together. ]

Why play the part? Simply survival or something more?

[ Blue-in-blue eyes stare down into her brown. Piercing, demanding answers, because he cannot yet simply see them. He never wants to see them. The more on this path he walks the less human he feels.

No, that is not the only reason why.

There had been questions he had hoped to ask her the day the Herald of Change had come to Caladan. Confessions to give. Secrets to share. Things to know so that he might put his own mind at ease and, if nothing else, learn to control and temper his emotions. The Bene Gesserit interfered as they always seem to do in his life. Now, those questions may surface, depending on her answers and actions.

His eyes narrow further in amusement. The way the blade pushes against hers. The defiance in her entire body despite the way a tremendous force presses against her. Yes, this is most certainly his childhood friend.

Paul leans in closer to her. His voice lowers. ]I was hoping you might surrender if I had asked. Not simply because your Duke demands it.

[ Many admissions are made in that one simple statement. The confirmation of his identity. The fate of his father and their House. Amusement made way for the somber note that, whether he likes it or not, that he is now House Atreides. Duke of Arrakis. The people on this planet are his theifdom and the Harkonnens are invaders. ]

Do you yield, Basi?

Why? If I did not play the part, I would have a very different story to tell. Oh, of course the Harkonnens did not dare kill me, but they had their ways of making it clear I did not possess leverage. It was survival, nothing more.

[ She stares back at him, brown eyes fixed on his blue ones. In a way, she misses when his eyes looked more like hers. There is a part of her that wants to reach for the wrapping obscuring his face and pull it away, because by now, she is more than aware that this "fight" they have begun is more of a farce than anything else.

Perhaps he does not wish to be exposed. But wrappings can be replaced...

He leans in closer and a quick exhale of breath leaves her in a rush as if she is reacting to his sudden closeness. It takes more willpower than she expected to keep the knife where it is and not drop it so that she can pull him into a hug, throwing rules and expectations to the winds.

Her mouth shifts into a crooked sort of amused smile. ] Oh, was that you asking? Beneath the demands, was there a request?

[ She plays coy, but she can also determine the admissions contained in his words. ]

Are you still Paul, or do I have to bow and call you Muad'Dib?

[ He asks if she yields, and finally, by way of her answer, she allows her blade to fall away from his. ]

[ Her answer seems to satisfy his curiosity. He had thought as much. He had never thought Bastila one to strive for power out of sheer hunger for it. Power means security--to some degree--in their world. A recognized talent meant that others valued her. Of course, to him, none of that mattered when it came to her. Bastila had been a friend when he had no other. His mentors far succeed his age, and there were no siblings to keep him company. Being a ward of his House meant someone near him in age and a friend. Someone to hide away in alcoves with during the thunderstorms that would ravage the face of Caladan. ]

Maybe you forgot how I ask to get your attention. [ The humor is clear in his tone then. ] You haven't forgotten how to play coy.

[ He flicks his crysknife in his hand, circling her blade, and causing it to sail away. A flourish to make it seem more as if he has disarmed her than simply her giving up. In one brish motion, his other hand raises and pulls down the wrap and mask that obscures the bottom of his face. The plug into his nose for the stillsuit still remains. A curling smile shows with no restraints.

He's missed when they could toy with words at one another. It wasn't simply the time that had passed since the fall of House Atreides that they had been able to speak in such a way to one another. ]

The only bow I would accept from you is to pledge fealty to the Duke of House Atreides. [ A pause, and the smile somehow curls further. ] You'd only call me Maud'Dib if you were Freman.

[ His curiosity might be satisfied, but hers is far from settled. No, she never chased after power, or the type of power that the Harkonnens represented. It wasn't the sort of power she wanted, if she wanted anything at all. Grasping for position and power wasn't who she was. She wanted to be recognized to an extent, as most people do, but she never asked to be thrust into the public eye. Her abilities proved useful, and the Bene Gesserit wished to harness those abilities, and the Harkonnens... Well, they would have seen her dead if not for the Bene Gesserit.

In a way, she wishes that they could return to those times when all they had to worry about was hiding in alcoves during storms and during moments of calm and laughing together when they could not be discovered quickly. ]

Maybe I thought that I would never hear you ask again. [ Her tone is light and her expression calm, but a storm of sorts is brewing in her eyes. ] Whether you believe it or not, Lord Duke, knowing how to play coy has benefited me more than once. [ A humorous tone returns to her voice, countering the slight turn into heaviness from just moments ago.

When Paul sends her blade sailing away, she does not move nor flinch, as it was only a blade, and after all, this is Paul: older now, and with more titles than before, not to mention more responsibility, but as far as she is concerned, neither of them need to put on airs around each other.

Once the wrap and the mask are pulled down revealing his face in its entirety, a slow smile spreads across Bastila's own face. The plug in his nose is something she could do without, but she understands the need for it, and so she pays it no mind. ]

My fealty to the Duke of House Atreides has never been in question. The Harkonnens never had it, nor would I have given it to them. [ Her smile remains as she tilts her head back slightly to get a better look at him, eyes surveying what she can see of him through the suit and the other layers that he wears. It is not at all in her imagination that he looks very much like his father. Not that she is ready to speak about that just yet. ] Now you have reclaimed the spice and this facility. What will you do next? And what will you do with this "Harkonnen rat"?

[ The words were barely audible as she stood inside the room, but she managed to decipher enough of what she heard to determine that much. ]

SKIES OF RUST

— chapter one.

—「 don't walk away when the world is burning. 」

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— prelude.

—「 moon over caladan. 」

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—— herald of the change.

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