PAUL DOES NOT MOURN THE LOSS OF HIS FIRSTBORN. not when he feels his son’s soul being carried away by the great maker nor when he sees the heartbreak on his chani’s face; not when he has secured his place upon the throne ＆ banished once emperor to his own prison planet to rot in his remaining days; not when his fremen death squads rage across the galaxy in holy fire ＆ blood, demanding his worship / his godhood. he does not walk along the path of denial / of anger / of pleading -- he simply accepts the death without flinching. it’s cold, cruel in a way; chani does not understand. she will never understand, he knows. she does not see like paul does, the way the future unfolds / the past unravels before him. she does not hear those same voices, alien / familiar, calling out, guiding ＆ tricking ＆ mocking.
he hopes she forgives him ; he knows she does not.
it is easy, so easy, to allow his mind wander into the recesses of all those voices -- to allow it to seek out that tiny one extinguished oh so soon, a voice he no longer remembers in his waking state. to ask him, what did you love most? the dual moons’ light across the sands? the smell of spice floating through the sietch you called home? or was it chani’s lullabies, her teachings, her carefully crafted stories of just where your father was? he could count the few days spent amongst chani ＆ leto during his life with his two hands, most spent distracted with a mind racing, planning each step / each path; impossible to relax even amongst his most cherished ones when the life of so many hung like strings in his hands. had he ever even held you?
his first sip of water. his first words. his first steps. his first time into the desert. his first sighting of a sandworm. all little milestones / little gifts of life missed in paul’s ascent to the throne, thousands of miles away, marching towards a cold universe ＆ an even colder loneliness. ＆ had it been worth it?
he isn’t so sure anymore.
he sees so much in the future; most he wishes to remain blind to, ＆ yet little glimpses of hope, of peace -- yet completely unattainable, like grasping at sand blowing with the breeze. he had been foolish, he now thinks, to believe that he had experienced all loss, that no more could rip apart his heart (it is a stone in his chest, he had assured himself, softened only within his sihaya’s hands but how much of his weight can she carry until cracks appeared in her own skin?) ＆ yet the harokennen’s had found one last way to teach him what loss is / what it can be. the loss of a son ; is this what his own father felt?
oh father, dear father, are you proud of me? oh, but how could that possible be? when i have slain the innocent ＆ the guilty alike; when i have pillaged each land ＆ its people; when i have crushed the wild flowers beneath my feet ＆ the feet of my armies; when i raged bloodshed in your name. loyal atreides, noble atreides -- is it still noble when our banner soaks in blood?
paul does not mourn, but he wishes he could, craves tears falling without the guilt of water wasted forcing them back. yet no matter how he tries (imagines his child’s body impaled, burnt, ripped, shredded, mangled ＆ rotting, bones bleached by overhead sun) they never come. once, his tears were sacred / holy, springing forth awe from those around him at the way he shed them without regret. but here, now, when it matters most, when he begs for the emptiness within his chest (when had his stone of a heart decayed / fallen away?) to be replaced . . . it never comes.
paul does not mourn the loss of his firstborn. he does not get the chance to.
