"Sometimes I wonder if this land itself is one big god, and we its creations," Paul says, knees drawn up to his chest as the pair of you watch the sky melt in hues of orange and pink as the sun sets beneath the dunes. "I wonder if it will swallow us eventually. Return us to its bosom."

We, he says, as if he is from here. Created here, even, and not far off on the planet of Caladan. In the beginning, when he was new and inexperienced to the ways of the Fremen, there had been a barrier of distrust to overcome. You did not blame Paul for it, either; the two of you were like sand and water at first, mixing together in a way that created discord and tension. Neither of you meant to be rough with the other, but it was inevitable.

But sand is everywhere. It gets into every little nook and cranny. No matter how well you try to keep it out. Much like people. Much like Paul. You would not speak as much out loud, but his presence has grown less of a bother and more of a necessity to you. You take a moment to just watch him as he peers out over the desert; the golden light of the dying sun paints his face in a way that makes him look otherworldly. Ironic, you can't help but think.

He can feel the way your gaze penetrates the side of his face and glances over at you, raising an eyebrow. "What?" he asks. He sounds more curious than irritated, though. You can't help but notice how much more relaxed he seems to be when it's just the pair of you. "You're staring. Don't tell me you're worried about me, because I have enough of that from my mother."

You scoff, both at the way he says it and because yes, of course, you were worried about him. It could be considered silly by some, but you knew just how often Paul went out into the desert. Without you remains unsaid. He would just smirk, and make a quip about you feeling the need to protect him. He's earned his Fremen name, after all—he doesn't need a babysitter.