paul atreides had lived. feyd-rautha was dead. the baron was dead. revenge had been exacted. that had all kicked in, along with the phenomena of pain, unadulterated, searing pain. he had been stabbed in the shoulder, the gut, stopped a blade by dripping it with his hand so the edges dug into his fingers-- yet he had lived. the mantle of leadership, thrust upon him by destiny's capricious hand, weighed heavily upon his shoulders, a burden borne with stoic resolve.

a messiah. paul muad'dib atreides, the prophecised lisan al gaib.

the war was far from over, however, he took solace in the care he received from you. his mother insisted he was confined to a makeshift bed in the fremen camp until his condition lessened, which, after the months he had endured, was a welcome experience.

"it does not hurt, i assure you," he murmured, his voice a soft reassurance as your fingers delicately inspected the state of his injured hand, enveloped in swathes of bandages. the touch of your hand upon his wrist elicited a subtle sense of comfort, a fleeting connection amidst the chaos.

"the victory numbs some of the pain, accompanied by thoughts of what truly lies ahead." he added as his eyes were half-lidded, observing you through his lashes. "however i will not bore you with further talk about politics. my mother would be rather averse to it."