Chapter Text

Day Zero

Days first light

Castle Caladan stands in ruins.

It stands nonetheless.

The journey home had started at the hint of first light—before pink and orange hues strode onto the stage that was the sky. Before the farmers of the countryside had a chance to pull their weary bones from bed, and long before his kid sister Alia roused for the day; she would undoubtedly be upset with him upon his prophesied return.

It was not too early for his mother, Jessica, to send him off, though he suspects sleep hadn’t taken her. It had barely taken Paul.

Their farewell was a painful one. The lady Jessica has never known such guilt—it creates a tension that Paul hates. He loathes the sympathy and all that is left unsaid between them. Emotions that rage inside stay tamped down, lest they give way to fear. Keeping their wits about them is imperative, and they must not falter. 

To waiver would be to accept a defeat that is most unkind. 

Each footfall away from his sister and mother plucked a string on a forlorn baliset. The song made him ache.  

Paul travels a familiar trail of flattened dirt, surrounded by trees that nearly reach the heavens. Flora thrives in abundance near their cottage on the outskirts of the Atreides kingdom. He passes a bushel of blackberries that remind him of his old weapon master, Gurney Hallock. Paul collects a few handfuls, bundling them up in a wax cloth. 

A path made of cobblestone comes into view, signifying his journey has reached the midway point. This was the furthest Alia was permitted, and the furthest Paul and Jessica ventured without concealing their identities. He stops to rest under a grove of fig trees. The sun slowly approaches the sky’s center, nestled in a sea of clouds; it inspires Paul to hurry. There’s much to be done. 

He wraps a scarf around his neck, fashioning it as a cowl. With haste, Paul gathers his effects and snags a few figs from the tree, ‘Hopefully, they won’t be missed,’ thinks Paul bitterly, the fruit serving as a mirror image. Hope would do nothing to help him, and he scolded himself for such a thought—just as his mother would. 

The trek into the city becomes less pleasant as the forest thins. He had walked it many times in preparation for this day. Even the nicest pair of boots would bear a hole from use with how often Paul made the crossing. Every step forward prepares the way; the preparation extends far beyond the scope of one day's work. Paul would spend weeks at a time holed up in the crumbling mound of stone and wood, harnessing the key element needed for the summoning ritual: the blood in his veins. It had taken years to amass the required amount.

Navigating through the city always served as a danger, but it was a danger Paul embraced. Once, not long ago, he was welcomed as he walked the streets, beloved by the people as the son of the High Priest Leto. He sought to reclaim that, but the fanfare hardly mattered in the face of revenge. 

For now, he risked drawing the unwanted eye of the Sardaukar Chaplain Core. They ‘ guarded’ the city in the Atreides’ absence. The notion of the chaplain core protection spat in the eye of House Atreides and its people. Their displays of extortion were in abundance—the kingdom, crushed under the boots of the Emperor’s foot soldiers.

Paul takes each stride towards his ancestral home with purpose, his resolve hardening. 

-

Miraculously, the place of worship remained untouched by the assault that had plagued the rest of the castle. It sat amidst the ruins in a way that felt pointed–a message from the great God-Emporer, Shaddam Corrino. 

The cathedral sneered at their hubris, shaming them for straying.

The cathedral stood proud as the God-Emporer himself. 

The cathedral mocked Paul. 

Paul only removes his traveling attire once he enters the Atrides family chapel. He’s thankful to be free of the many layers, stripping down to his tunic, pants, and boots. It’s a great freedom to dispel the heat trapped under the fabric; with the physical exertion and the summer air, it had grown suffocating. 

He shuts the double doors to the building just as quickly as they had been opened, as if fearing something irrational. Paul is on edge; he wills himself to relax as he drops his bag on a pew. 

It’s a small building, only comfortably fitting eight pews. Stepping into its threshold brought forward visions from his youth. Of all the places in the castle, the church had been among his least favorite. Being here was unpleasant, but Paul had grown used to the discomfort with how often he visited. 

Ghosts of the congregation and the image of his father at the pulpit swirl around far more real than Paul is comfortable with. He shakes his head to clear it of the apparitions and turns his attention to the work that needs to be done. He unpacks his bag and lays the objects out on a table that’s been shoved in a corner. Paul runs over a mental checklist as he pulls each item out; everything had to be just so.

Stained glass windows took up the entirety of the two side walls of the church, floor to ceiling. A heavy red wine curtain ran the length of both walls; drawn just enough to let the calladiscope of colored sunshine guide him in the otherwise dark space. Soon he’ll need to light lanterns, but for now, it can wait. 

Satisfied with the headway he made and needing a reprieve, Paul allows himself a few minutes to rest. Feeling the weight of the kingdom resting on his shoulders, he slumps heavily down on the pew. He stares up at the patterned beams, thinking about who his opponent will be.

-

Paul learned of his destiny when he was just twelve. He can still remember when his mother sat him down in the breakfast nook to speak with him about his place in the carefully woven prophecy. Her voice had been level, but Paul saw past the veil of calm. 

She was terrified.

“What will the king be like when I fight him?” He had asked. Jessica had almost seemed puzzled for a moment, as if unaware of who Paul was speaking about. 

“King Vladimir?” She questioned, seemingly in disbelief. Paul nods, and the hint of a smile plays on Jessica’s lips as if amused by the thought. “He will never come himself. The King will send a champion in his stead.”

-

It was off-putting to summon an unknown entity—like inviting a stranger into your home, mused Paul, rising to begin the ritual. As he walks back over to the table in the corner, he recites each step in his head.

He dresses himself in a cape owned by his father, one that he had worn into battle. It would signify his willingness to wage war, or so his mother said. A drawstring bag made of crushed green velvet contains his father's ring, emblazoned with the Atreides crest. Paul puts it on—it fits loosely around his ring finger but it holds just tight enough. 

The only item that remains to be put on is a black collar. Paul had intentionally saved it for last, it had not mattered for the sake of the spell, but to his heart. He looked at the necklace with suspicion, turning it over in his hands. It was a witch's artifact. Paul grimaces at the thought of putting it on.

Thankfully, its tenure around Paul’s throat would be a short one; he reminds himself of this as he goes about fastening it. The material is odd—stiff and shiny–and adorned with metal. ‘For a necklace, it has weight to it,’ Paul thinks to himself. 

Fingers nimble as a mouse secures, each buckle into its corresponding strap. There are clasps to be done for each of the three straps; it feels like a cage around Paul’s neck. Ignoring the discomfort is no easy feat, but the whole of his mind is needed elsewhere. 

Approaching the pulpit brings a sheen of sweat to Paul’s palms, for he would stand where his father stood. Crossing behind it hurriedly, he keeps his back to the wooden thing; his attention fixed on the slab of stone housing two candelabras. The wrought iron held six candles each—Paul placed a new beeswax candle in a chamberstick made of silver. 

To begin, all thirteen candles are set ablaze—using chalk, Paul draws a circle to encompass the flames. He set to work, etching ruins into the flat stone with the talc, taking great care as he did so. No parchment nor book of reference is needed for his delineation; Paul was more familiar with the iconography than he wished.

Both sweat and chalk dust are wiped onto his trousers, along with the last remaining shreds of Paul’s trepidation. He unsheathed a knife, gifted to him by the people of the desert. Gripping the marred base, Paul can’t help but feel the rightness of such an instrument in his grasp. The blade is said to be carved from a tooth—Fremen stories go that the great god-beast, known as Shai Hulud, had gifted them these weapons to fight for their freedom. 

Paul sets the weapon down on the arcane sigil, right in front of the lone thirteenth candle; he then plucks the chamberstick up by its handle. 

Slowly wax drips over a symbol that reminds Paul of a barbed fishing hook—though he knew it to be the Harkonnen crest. It’s pleasant to watch such a thing become obscured. Paul is brought a sense of great joy as he presses the imagery of a crested hawk into the small puddle of wax. 

All these things he had practiced with his mother, but the next step forward was a step into the unknown. Paul reaches into his pocket and pulls out a silver locket containing the sacred hallucinogen of the Fremen. The spice melange. It had been outlawed across the kingdoms. 

The Apocrypha spoke of its sin, and the Apocrypha spoke for the imperium. This, every king knew, but the Atreides sought to have man speak for himself. Paul opens the locket with care and nabs a pinch of the rusty-looking powder. It’s soft beneath the pads of his fingers and it leaves the air around him smelling of cinnamon.

‘It tastes of cinnamon as well,’ Paul thinks as he licks the entheogen from his fingers. His spit turns the powder into a paste—it coats his mouth and teeth with an overwhelming flavor. The taste itself is not bad; Paul finds it to be pleasant; and familiar, but the sensation of swallowing it down dry makes him grimace and his nose twitch.

Something akin to dread grabs at Paul; the touch is light at first, but it grows increasingly firm. The dust still feels as if it exists in his throat, no matter how many times Paul attempts to swallow it down. 

A new image is shown to Paul every time his curtain of lashes falls upon his cheeks. His eyes flutter from the weight of overwhelming terror and euphoria that fills his mind. The air around him has grown hot and stale, but Paul gulps it down anyway. 

The silhouette of a being that is neither man nor beast is the first to come to him. Before Paul can attempt to take in any details of the figure, a vision of the stars consumes him. It’s too dark yet too bright—it fills him with a sense of anticipation, infected by something so very wrong. 

Paul sees himself sitting upon a golden throne, wearing a mask of indifference. He fights the vision away, forcing his eyes to open. Around him, the world stands still and spins wildly in tandem; it threatens to bring Paul to his knees, but he holds fast. His palms move to brace himself against the stone's edge—he blinks, and his own hands trade for a strange pale pair with nails like black claws. 

His breathing hitches wildly at sensations that are merely phantoms. Raspy whispers of things Paul does not yet understand tickle the shell of his ear. Forcing himself forward is a momentous struggle; it feels as if his mind will never be clear. He sees pain morphing into pleasure, and it makes him fearful of what will become of him.

How beautiful it was.

There’s a pool of black in a dark room that Paul can’t even hope to recognize; it looks so foreign. The obsidian liquid calls to him, bubbles breaking to the surface in an inviting way. He feels compelled to get in, but the image is stagnant.

It takes a great deal for Paul to center himself. He pulls away from an invisible force and reaches for a blade made of silver. Heat runs down his palm and trickles over the crysknife in spats of burgundy. The cut does not hurt Paul, but the significance of losing something of his does. It burns him.

Deep within himself, he pulls the incantation to the surface. 

I call on a challenger from across the great expanse. Come forth from a banished star, a being of damnation.

Hark, forward! The Atreides of the thirteen sacred houses seek retribution.

I call for a duel of blood betwixt crimson and ink; for this, I offer the flesh of a descendent.

Hark, for I am born of the Imperium, calling upon the planetary body Giedi Prima. To the Capricornus, I offer my blood to be bound. 

Grant a champion passage through the mystic mountains of Carina so that my bloodline may know retribution. 

His palm trembles. Each drop of blood connects him to the crysknife like lightning striking a tree alone in a pasture. The skin of his neck tingles under the collar, like a lover's kiss.

-

Across the vastness of space— the heavens man swore never to return to –King Vladimir hears these words. A thick, ring-laden finger twitches.

“Go. Fetch me, Prince Feyd-Rautha.”

-

Suddenly, the soft, sweet feeling around his neck grows blindingly sharp. Paul stumbled away from the stone, knocking back against the pulpit before he could steady himself. The collar falls to the floor with a clatter, and Paul eyes it with wild eyes, still feeling echoes of the excruciating pain.

He heard it plain as day: the voice of a demon, calling forth a prince. 

Prince Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen. That’s who his opponent will be; that is who he will kill. Involuntarily, Paul shivers, his shoulders jerking back and forth harshly; the trembling flows all the way down to his legs, making him sway dangerously. 

The amount of light flitting in through the crack in the curtain tells Paul he has enough time to rest again. He did not need to prepare for his rival champion's arrival until sunset—

and for that one thing, he is grateful.