before his father leto had passed, he had told paul about house marcellus; duke leto had been distinct friends with one of the family's members until they'd broken promises, fallen in debt and, though paul often found it to sound utterly overexaggerated whenever told, turned into 'a bunch of thieves and traitors'. the boy had been young, around six or seven when he'd heard of the ties being cut with marcellus. trade was terminated, political associations erased - it seemed like they had done something bad, but jessica insisted paul mustn't know at his age

now, that he was much older, duke of arrakis and a messiah to the people of the desert, at the brink of the holy war, he, still, did not know. but the little boy in him was still holding a grudge against those that his father had painted in such deplorable lighting, and paired with the tension of the most recent events that weighed down on his exhausted, spice-inebriated mind, it formed an ugly form of aggression to be let out on someone

and that someone was you

the child of duchess elara of marcellus, a thief, come to arrakis to steal spice. a few fremen out to hunt had caught you to bring you to usul, that's what they called paul. he was one of them

after having tied your hands and ankles and taking away all of your weapons - weapons of a warrior, paul had noticed with the slightest quirk of his eyebrow - he took a second to take in your appearance. according to an old saying aurelia only birthed enthralling faces, and you seemed to be proof; you were beautiful

"tell me, are you as honest as you are beautiful?", paul asked coldly, not expecting an answer. his thumb toyed with the sharp blade of the dagger in his hand while his blue-tinged eyes pierced into yours, "for my father has cut ties with your blood years ago," he crouched down to be on eye-level with your kneeling self, "what makes you think you can sneak on arrakis, steal the spice of my people and get away with it?"