leading an army of fremen who believed him to be the lisan al gaib into the holy war was nothing but tiring. in just a few weeks, paul had risen up from the outsider that aimed to be accepted amongst the fremen to their leader and messiah, someone they looked up to, someone they followed almost blindly into the jihad

paul had not wanted that. he had seen what it would bring and he had seen a tiny possibility of victory, and he had been foolish enough to think it so probable that he had went south and to drink the water of life and expand his vision. something he sorely regretted now. now, that he found himself driven by this plan of his, by the need to become emperor, by the feeling that he did, in fact, lead the way. he had grown numb, he was not aware of when he acted harsh and steered by politics, this was the new him - except when he was with you

you

someone who managed to calm him down like the sunrise calmed a wild sandstorm, like water quenched down thirst and like sleep fixed tiredness. whether it was because you reminded him that he was not mahdi or duke of arrakis but just a simple, young man, or because you just were the right person for him, he never snapped at you, he never pulled you into his complicated responsibilities, his mind just went quiet around you

and that was what he needed now. after a particularly rough day of visiting the atreides' family atomics and creating a complicated yet genius plan to destroy the shield wall around arrakeen to get to the emperor, he felt exhausted and remorseful; so many people would die because of him

his tall body lay stretched out on the floor of your tent, his head resting in your lap, eyes closed and chest heaving gently with the first calm breaths he was able to take that day, "I don't want to be their death," paul muttered and blindly reached up to play with your hand, "I don't know what's right anymore," he added softly, "except you. you're right, for me," the admission was quiet, "i don't want to drag you into this."