paul atreides was the one. such had become the consensus among the fremen, thousands of whom were prepared to follow his command, hoping he would lead them to paradise.

his presence commanded respect, his young age was no matter, a speech to the ears of those present was the tipping point; a prophecy was in play, not by supernatural design, but rather through the meticulous orchestration of the bene gesserit, unintentionally setting in motion their downfall.

the next pivotal step involved storming the harkonnen stronghold, where the emperor was convening with baron vladimir harkonnen-- the next step in the reverend mother's plan to instate paul as emperor of the known universe. he was to be the messiah. the mahdi. he would avenge house atreides.

yet, amidst this fervent devotion, your countenance remained shrouded in skepticism; he had known your aversion to the gesserit propaganda to be impressive, rivalling chani's distaste for what was to come if he succeded. a holy war. despite the counsel of his mother, he decided he was to sway you himself, with his own tongue.

"you do not believe i am the one." paul's eyes fixated on you as if you were an object of great deterrence, yet the light flutter of his lashes indicated he did not fear you. why would he? "your people, the fremen, have accepted me as their leader. yet," he took a measured step forward. "you will not."

the atrium was shrouded in shadow, silent save for the distant cheers and fervent war cries heralding the imminent coup.

"if you will not fight beside your people, strike me down." there was no emotion in his voice, no coercion, merely a morbid challenge. "strike me down, and there will be no more prophecy."

his dark curls shadowed his brow as he slowly inclined his head, exposing the side of his larynx for your appraisal, peppered with faint freckles from exposure to the sun. it was a challenge, you were sure of it. "do it."