Chapter Text
Chani watched as Irulan pushed back a strand of hair, “So what’s with the - burst of colors?”
Irulan smiled and met her eyes in the mirror, “Green is one of the predominant colors of House Atreides, it’s a message to the Houses who have come to us on this day. The old Empire was more closely allied with them, House Kyzyl, Hajus, Forbino, and Morotai. Which means they were closely allied with my House, my family.”
“And you’re sending a message, through a dress?” God, the outsiders never could do things simply. She understood colors having meaning but this was more complicated than a blue scarf meaning love.
Irulan let out a small laugh, and said, not with cruelty, “It’s saying to every one of them that I have chosen my side, and it’s not with the old world and its powers. They’ve heard through their messengers and spies about me, about my place as the wife of the Emperor. They’ve heard that -”
Her eyes flickered for a brief moment. And a part of Chani, the part that had fought the urge to crumble at the sight of Paul’s laughter and the lines of his neck, at Irulan’s nightgown going see-through as water soaked every inch of it. A part of Chani that nearly crumbled at the sight of vulnerability, and all its connotations, burned.
It was something else, to have a Witch be human in front of you.
Irulan cleared her throat, her fingers twisting strands of hair into a complicated braid. She had never had her maids do her hair, not once. “They’ve heard rumors and whispers but they want, they need to see it for themselves.” Her smile grew sharp, a witch again, “They need to see that I’ve chosen my place, and it’s on the winning side, it’s above them.”
Chani stood, her hand instinctively running over the hilt of her knife. She shifted her weight, feeling the subtle movement of her various weapons hidden beneath her more-armor-than-not stillsuit. “So you’re drawing lines in the sand, and making it very clear where you stand.”
Irulan’s hand dropped from her hair and she turned, her dress swaying with her movement. Chani caught the glint of a thin-bladed knife in her sleeve of complicated and connected jewelry, and her eyes drifted over the complex dress.
She found, amongst the effortless beauty of the Princess, the sharp teeth of a witch. A detailing around her waist hid a thin silver chain that Chani knew was stronger than the walls around them, that could tear off a man's head with enough force. Jeweled tear drops clung to the fabric, poison glinting ever so slightly within them.
When it broke on impact, Irulan would change the very components of her body, while everyone died around her.
Her rising heartbeat should be from fear, from being in the presence of a girl soaked with death. But judging by the warmth spreading through her, Chani knew it wasn’t.
Irulan must have caught her staring because her lips pulled up in that deadly, knowing smile of hers. “Do you like it? Me, in colors and silks.” She took a step closer, and closer until the back of Chani’s legs hit the bed in her effort to not tarnish that lovely skirt. “Or do you prefer me without it, without everything?”
The air turned agonizing as Irulan reached out, and delicately - delicate in the way a bomb is - traced the seams of Chani’s suit. Her hand dipped lower, drifting over the top of Chani’s thigh, before settling on the hilt of her knife.
Those painted, ringed fingers tapped against the weapon. And Chani was burning.
A knock at the door interrupted them, and a muffled voice followed, belonging to Saena, a maid, “The Houses are nearly here, Empress.”
Irulan pulled away, and Chani watched as within seconds the Empress of the known Universe stood before her. Her face was a mask of long-perfected cruelty. You hadn’t forgotten, had you? A voice hissed in her head, sounding terribly like Shishakli. You know exactly who you fell into bed with.
You know exactly who you love.
But she had, if only for a moment in which she let herself. Chani had almost forgotten, the daughter of the first man who broke her people, and the boy-king who wrapped them in golden chains. Two children, born into something they would grow to choose, molded by blood-stained hands and generations of careful selection.
Witches and nobles and everything that she was not.
There’s a slight twinge in Irulan’s eyes, because she sees, because she has always seen. But Chani slides on her own mask, she becomes someone else. What’s done is done, and Arrakis had taught her young that you do not linger on regrets, or the sand will take you back.
She steps past Irulan and out of her way, flanking her. Chani tilts her head towards the door, “We should get going, Majesty.”
Irulan’s lips pressed together before they relaxed, “Let's.” And then she’s gone, and Chani -
She follows her, a hand pressed to the hilt of her blade.
She can feel Chani’s eyes on her, can feel her like a torn-off limb, her blood lingering. Irulan’s eyes scan the crowd of Fremen, a hush and tenseness in the air as they await their largest group of Houses yet. The hair on the back of her neck stands up, and a more reverent air sparks around her.
“Hello, Husband.”
“Wife.” Is his immediate and easy response. His tone is a blankness bordering on sharp, if he lets it be. But he had not. No, Paul Atreides had not been cruel, or even harsh in the past few weeks.
Even as she so readily bore the marks of Chani, bruises lingering on her neck, a fine set of teeth on the junction where her shoulder and neck met, visible when her nightgown slipped. Even as the whispers spread like fire. Even as Chani, in a move that was utterly purposeful, wore one of her silver rings - one that bore her seal.
Even as Maud’Dib watched his Desert Spring leave him, he had not turned into the monster she knew him to be capable of - the monster that had torn apart Houses for less.
It makes Irulan more weary than secure. This, this was not a man who kept his anger in a neat and gentle box. This was a man who raged, who screamed his grief into the world. It was the same boy-king who had overthrown her father after his House was slaughtered.
He had never been the type to forget anger.
“It’s a lovely dress.” A compliment and a question, and a thousand things hidden in every syllable and dip of his voice.
Irulan straightens her back even more, keeping her chin up high as her eyes scan the crowd before them. “Thank you. It was a gift from my sister.” My House knows when to stand, and we know when to bend the knee. Every one of the Bene Gesserit daughters.
He hums, low in his throat, “Which one?” Every one of them, and their Houses, their husbands, and powers?
She allows herself to run her thumb over the inner band of her rings. A move that does not go unnoticed. Paul tilts his body towards hers, his eyes on the crowd as well.
There was something in the air that neither of them liked.
“Chalice and Josifa. They’ve always been closest to me due to our ages and the - lack of memories of our mother.” Wenscia and Rugi have yet to say anything, to swear or fight. “But regardless, all of my sisters send their regards to their newest brother.” They are still my family, and I will protect them just as I will ensure they will not raise a hand against us.
A distant hum grows louder, the sound of footsteps, of entire parties that carry the Great Houses. Their time is growing shorter. Paul takes her hand, curling their fingers together. “When you have the time, send my regards. I have always wished for a large family.” I won’t attack them, as long as they do not strike first.
The ring of House Atreides is cold against her hand. The doors open, and Irulan can only see the towering banners. She takes one last unwatched breath, and then the Houses spill into the hall.
Chani’s eyes dance over the various groups, the House's different colors useful for telling them apart at least. At this dinner she’s in full armor, another guard blending into the wall, as dangerous as the heavily dressed Emperor and Empress. It’s a relief.
Not that it wasn’t fun to let Irulan pick out her clothes and draw her gentle fingers across her barely covered skin. But she had always felt more at home when she was like this - a moment away from fighting, from slipping into the desert and never coming back.
She rolls her neck, a subtle movement that’s barely there but regardless she sees both Irulan and Paul tense slightly, both of them scanning over her in a subtle movement hidden behind a laugh or a shrug of their shoulders. It hits her sometimes, in moments like these when she can watch them without interruption, with all that she has, how alike they are.
The death hidden in every line of their body, the danger in their sharp eyes, the fierce loyalty, no matter how distorted, that they carry with them.
Sometimes Chani realizes how foolish she must be, to love them so. To love these Noble Born Witches, whose families and houses are covered in the blood of her people, of so many people. To love these monsters with all that she has left to give, and that is so very little.
The crowd shifts, and the hum of voices and the cheer of various dignitaries wash over her. Her eyes flick to the other guards, some hidden and some boldly on display. She went over the doors and exits again, to any figure that stood out and all those that didn’t.
The actions were somewhat soothing, although they probably shouldn’t have been. It’s just - for the first time in months or years or lifetimes, Chani felt somewhat close to normal. She felt young again, like if she were to look to her right she would find Shishakli, her face hidden behind scarves and her suit but even so she could see the smile beneath it all.
It almost felt like, if she closed her eyes, she would feel the heat of the desert, the roughness of the sand on her face, beneath her feet. If she closed her eyes, she would be home.
Of course, that was nothing more than daydreams and the longings of all the parts of her that died long ago. It was a foolish dream. So, Chani did what she always did best, she shoved it down, locked it away, and survived. A servant girl damn near danced around the room, and her hand slightly tensed around the hilt of her blade.
The girl passed by, she let out a breath and focused on the crowd - not on the past she had left behind, not on the two monsters she loved.
He watches her, every movement, every detail, everything that made up Irulan Corrino. Somehow, over the course of several hours of various wines and foreign foods and delights, the two of them had ended up back in her rooms. Paul could feel the buzz in his blood, it wasn’t enough to cloud his mind, he was never that foolish, but it was enough to make him feel relaxed.
He leaned back on her bed, the silk sheets and blankets soft on his skin. He wondered, like the self-hating man he was, if Chani had been spread out here. If her fingers had dug into the sheets, if her hair had been splayed out against the silk, a moan caught in her throat as Irulan took her apart.
And for a brief, tentative second, he imagined the reverse, Irulan, her legs shaking, that impeccable mask falling apart as Chani smiled up at her, fingers digging into the soft skin and hard muscles of Irulan’s thighs.
He straightened suddenly, and he met Irulan’s eyes in the mirror. Her eyebrows were slightly raised, even as she struggled to take off her series of necklaces and headpieces and earrings. God, sometimes he felt the urge to tear her, and that mask apart.
“Do you need help?” Paul smiled, a sure thing because this - teasing or threatening or whatever game the two of them were constantly playing - was better than thinking about her, about Chani, about the two of them intertwined on the bed he was sitting on.
“If you’re offering.” So untouchable. He stood and silently walked behind her, the skirt of her dress brushing against his legs.
His hands didn’t brush her bare arms or shoulders like he could have, but still, slight bumps formed. Irulan didn’t tense when his cool fingertips grazed the back of her neck, unclipping one layer of the necklace. It was one of the things Paul admired about her, hated about her just a little bit.
She was perfectly relaxed, and somehow utterly dangerous beneath his hand, in the face of that vulnerability. Irulan was the spitting image of perfection in the eyes of the Bene Gesserit. What he would give to break that mask.
It was quiet, a tense sort of quiet as he slowly and methodically undid her extensive jewelry. The lights were dim, and even here, they could hear the faint echo of the party, music and laughter, and the sort of nonsensical joy that came from being on the winning side of a war.
For a moment the bloodshed and slaughter were forgotten in the name of wine.
With a small click the last of her necklaces slid off, he caught it before it could fall, leaning past Irulan and laying it out on the dresser. The rough fabric of his clothes brushed against her bare shoulder.
Her eyes were sharp in the mirror, like the blade he knew fit against the line of her thigh. Paul smiled, like he was an oblivious fool, “Do you need help with your dress too?”
Irulan tilted her head, any warmth from the wine absent in her voice, “Finally taking what you’re owed, Husband?”
Maybe another man would take offense, for various reasons, but Paul only shook his head slightly, relaxed and open. “I’m offering you help because you might be here for the next hour if I don’t.” There was a brief lull, and perhaps Chani haunted it. “I don’t take what’s not offered, Wife.”
He took a step back, his smile close to the boy he used to be, “I only take someone to bed when there’s begging involved.”
She laughed, a raspy chuckle, “Chani doesn’t strike me as the begging type.”
“Who said she was the one doing the begging?” That was what finally did it, Irulan stilled for a moment before turning to him with an almost incredulous look on her face. The words had just slipped out, and Paul couldn’t entirely blame the wine, or the warmth of the night, or the ease of their game.
It was just - There was something about Irulan, or rather Irulan and Chani, and everything he knew about them, that made something in him come unraveled. Paul felt, if only for split seconds of time, like a boy when he was with them.
They made him human, and to a boy-god-king like him, that was not something you so easily forget, or let go of.
“You are an odd man, Paul Atreides.” It sounded like an acknowledgment, and not for the first time, he couldn’t read Irulan’s mind. She turned back around, her hair pulled up in a complicated braid, “Come tear off my clothes then.”
Irulan paused, her voice strict and firm, “Don’t actually, this is a lovely dress.”
Paul nodded, barely containing an almost teasing grin, “I would never.” He made it sound like a devoted oath fit for the Gods. Irulan met his eyes in the mirror with a glare.
His hands brushed against her back as he stared down at the series of laces and buttons and various contraptions. He must have shown something on his face because he felt the slight shake of Irulan’s shoulders. “I’ve got this.”
“Sure.” Paul’s eyes flicked up for a moment, there was a faint smile on her lips, a barely there thing. But, for once, it rang true, genuine, real. “I’m sure you do.”
It almost sounded like the sort of conversation friends would have, almost.