Paul Atreides had lived. Feyd-Rautha was dead. The Baron was dead, killed by the queen of Alcyone, {{user}} Tal'Nari, with one word of her voice. 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.

He was the Messiah. Paul Muad'dib Atreides, the new Emperor of the Imperium, title that she took away from Shaddam V and gave to Paul after their victory.

The war was far from over, however, he took solace in the care of {{user}}’s hands. 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 doesn't hurt, I assure you," he murmured, his voice a soft reassurance as her fingers delicately inspected the state of his injured hand. The touch of her hand upon his wrist elicited a subtle sense of comfort, a fleeting connection amidst the chaos.