Pale, yellow light speckled the walls of the sietch, having found a way in through growing cracks around the sandstone door. The streams of light bounced and flickered off floating particles of sand and dust, and of spice that roamed the dry air of the desert dwelling, which were disturbed slightly by a draft leaking through the sandstone doorway. Across the chamber from the sietch door, curtains to the small hallway were pushed open quietly, sneakily, but the disturbance still threw the specks into a frenzy, the minute breeze throwing them around in a frantic dance, in and out of the light.
Each step the two young Fremen took sent new plumes of spice-laden sand into the air, that caught in their loosely worn stillsuits and blue-in-blue Fremen eyes. The children were one a boy and one a girl, a brother and sister. He was taller than her, but she three years his elder. Both had the lean, water-deprived appearance of a Fremen- versus the waterfat look of an off-worlder- and Atreides-red hair, though they were not of the royal house. Over their stillsuits, they each wore a bourka- a fine white hood, detailed with the red Atreides hawk embroidered about the hem- to keep the harsh Arrakis sun from their eyes.
"Do you really think we can trust him though, Bilal?"
The brother looked at his sister, confident and impatient, "Of course! He was a Fremen- Fremen trust Fremen, or what would Fremen be?"
"Okay, well… hang on, did you put this stillsuit on yourself? Haven't you ever put on a stillsuit before, Bilal? You'd lose water like a tourist if you went out like this- come here, let me fix it…"
"Lana! I'm fine!" Bilal protested, and tried to push her away as she fixed the straps and belts of his stillsuit, but she persisted, fixing some straps and undoing others until he was in much the same position as he started.
"There, you should be good now," she declared proudly, "Seven years old, you should be able to put on a stillsuit, Bil," she scoffed, and turned to the door. Bilal walked over and together they moved the boulder that served as the sietch door. "Pull down your bourka." Alana advised, and Bilal did.
The rich fabric used in the bourkas was not from Dune- that was obvious from just the color: white. Anything manufactured on the desert planet was infused with the spice, turning them to warm shades of brown and red. But young children do not often question gifts, especially children of the Naib of the sietch.
"Son of Muad'Tal, Daughter of Muad'Tal, I come with gifts," the man had stated, bowing to his knees. He carried a large spice-fiber bag over his left shoulder. Bilal stood awkwardly, uncomfortable and not knowing what to say to such a greeting, but Alana was quick to play along.
"Marhaba! Look at me, and show me your eyes." Alana spoke authoritatively, choosing a phrase she heard her father say often when addressed by strangers. It was an old Fremen greeting, asking to see the eyes of a person to prove they were also Fremen, based on the distinctive blue-in-blue eyes of a person who was exposed to the spice all their life.
When the man looked up, his eyes were those of a Fremen. "My name is Baz, I, mm, I live in this sietch, I came here with your father- perhaps you have seen me before?" They had not. "I have brought gifts, mm, from the nearby village, who wished you to have them. A pair of bourkas, embroidered with the red hawks of Muad'Dib of House Atreides."
"Thank you, Baz," Alana replied graciously, "Perhaps, if you could present these to our father-"
"I cannot!" The tall Fremen spoke suddenly, in a panic, but his composure quickly returned. He stood, "I, mm, he is talking with many men today, I could not interrupt him with minor luxuries. Easier to give them straight to you, yes? Here," Baz loosened the draw string of the bag, pulling out a paper-wrapped bundle, and then another. He gave one to each of the children. "They are soft, white fabric, light and cool, to reflect some heat. The stitching was hand-done by the finest, mm, the finest in the village. Sweet old women, very nice."
Alana unfolded her package carefully, leaving the bourka folded in her arms. Bilal shook it out, holding it up unceremoniously, but enthusiastically. "Lana!" he whispered, "Lana, can I put it on?"
Baz smiled at the boy, and continued, "I suggest wearing them whenever you venture into the desert- they would be very useful, mm, very helpful. Better to have one than to not, certainly."
"Thank you, Baz. Kull wahad." Alana said politely, using the Fremen phrase for thanks.
"I do insist- whenever you leave the sietch, do wear the bourka." He gave a small bow, "Sallamaka al-lahu wa-nasaraka" Baz added quickly, and walked away. Alana was startled by the sudden courtesy- the phrase meant "May God protect you and grant you victory."
"Lana… Alana!" Bilal whispered harshly, panicking, taking her mind from wondering about the odd sentiment.
"Bil!"
She turned to find he had tried to put on the bourka himself, managing to lose his head in the swaths of fabric, and catch his right elbow in the opening intended for a face.
In the sietch, someone lazily strummed a baliset to an old Fremen folk tune. Bilal wandered the halls, kicking a stone in front of him and humming along. Lost in his thoughts, he didn't hear the footsteps approaching behind him.
"Bilal?"
The boy turned in surprise, not expecting anyone. He forgot the rock he had been kicking, and as he stumbled backward, he tripped on it. The man who had greeted him looked taller than he truly was, from the perspective from the ground. Recognition was not immediate, but when it sunk in, Bilal smiled. "Baz! I didn't see you- thank you for the bourkas, we wore them out yesterday! It's so much nicer than my old hood, and I think Alana really liked hers too even though she wouldn't say. She had to help me put it on the first time, but I got it right yesterday, all by myself!"
Baz smiled distractedly and offered him a hand to help him stand. "I'm glad they are serving you well, those bourkas. I almost want one myself. May I ask, what were you doing outside?"
Brushing himself off, Bilal turned to continue walking down the hall, pausing to find his rock to continue kicking. The flaky sandstone had split in three pieces, so he chose the largest and began walking. "Just playing outside the sietch, by the bushes."
Baz nodded, recalling the sparse greenery dotting around the sietch entrance. "Have you visited the baklawa rocks before? They're not a ten minute walk from the sietch."
"Baklawa? Who would name a rock after a dessert?" Bilal laughed.
"If you haven't been there, you may not be interested then… I found something the last time I went there." Bilal looked up from kicking the rock, curiosity captured. Baz smiled knowingly at him. "When I was standing at the northernmost corner of the formation, I noticed that sand was spilling into the rocks, as though the rocks were eating the sand!" He paused, allowing Bilal to consider this. "I walked over of course, to inspect what was happening. Two rocks met very tightly, but the tight hairline crack became a very round hole between them, as I followed it, and that was where the sand was falling into the rocks. The sand only went in the bottom half of the hole, though- I could look into the cave above the pouring sand. And you know what I saw?"
"A baklawa cart?" Bilal snorted.
Baz chuckled, "I certainly wish. No, nothing nearly that yummy- I saw the corner of a red spice-cloth curtain."
Bilal gasped, realizing what Baz was implying. "A sietch? No way! No… that's so cool! Where was it? Can you bring me there? I want to see!"
"What are you talking about?" Alana walked up behind them, carrying a basket of spice-bread. Bilal snatched a slice and smirked at her. "Ida lam laktafil anta fil!" she scolded, 'If you cannot be satisfied, you are an elephant!', and spun so he couldn't reach the basket again.
Baz patted his head like a small dog. "Tell your sister what I told you, it would be a fun trip for you two to make, I think. Ten minutes walking west, straight toward the second moon as it sets, if you leave in the morning. I must, mm, I have to speak to, mm, your father- about some important matters." Then he turned and walked back the way they had come, feigning to steal a piece of spice-bread from Alana's basket, but she spun away again, grinning, so he couldn't reach it.
"Remember to wear your bourkas if you leave the sietch!" he called to them as he turned a corner.
Bilal relayed the story about the abandoned sietch, adding a few of his own details. "…and he saw a curtain, embroidered with jewels, and the chamber was full of crysknives and baklawa! And he could swear he saw a waterstill through a doorway! Imagine if we found that, Lana! Can we go? Please, please?"
Alana sighed and adjusted the basket on her hip so she could hold it with one thin arm. "I don't know, Bil. Shouldn't we ask Father first? I've never heard of those rocks before, and I've hardly seen Baz before, either."
"We can make it ten minutes away, no problem! Just put on a stillsuit, with all the, uh, stuff, and go for it! We'll be fine! Do you doubt your Fremen…ness?" he challenged, clearly set on his plan. He tore off a piece of the spice-bread, eating it in one bite and returning the rest to the basket. "Here, hide that, and a piece for yourself, we can go tomorrow morning! It will be fun!"
Alana looked at the torn bread uncertainly, and then back to her brother. She always forgot how much younger he was. His height let her look straight at his Fremen eyes, and they said he was doing this with or without her. She sighed again. Without her extra years Fremen wisdom, he'd definitely stumble onto atambal and get eaten by a worm. "Fine, we'll go tomorrow morning, then. Before the sun rises, so we can see the second moon as it sets."
Bilal jumped with excitement, ripped another piece off of the bread, and ran down the hall eating it. Alana yelled after him, calling him an elephant, but it didn't really matter. Who would care if the Naib's children had a bit of extra bread? She tore a corner off for herself, and set off to hide a bit of bread for the next day.
That next morning, they had a servant wake them before dawn, and then snuck out of their yali. Neither of their parents noticed, and the two young Fremen were quickly out in the Arrakis desert, eating bread and holding hands, one excited for a story of grandeur, and the other protecting the zealous, young adventurer.
A tall man watched the brother and sister slip out the door and roll the boulder back into place in the doorway, leaving it more badly sealed than it had already been. Rivulets of sand leaked through the cracks at the bottom of the door, tumbling into piles as though the chamber was an hourglass. The man took a deep breath- his job was done, he could finally return home, and House Corrino would release his family from Salusa Secundus. The blue Fremen contacts irritated his eyes, leaving them red and constantly tearing behind the cheap lenses, and his vision was left with a persisting blurriness that had been absent before the ordeal began. Still, what he did, he did for the safety of his family, and in that way he was Fremen.
Baz put a shaky hand to the microphone implanted in his throat. "They've left."
A voice replied from the receivers implanted behind each ear, "We see them." The foreign object under his skin vibrated when the other man spoke.
"I can, mm, I can leave then? I am done?" His hands shook violently at his throat with adrenalin and relief as he worked the microphone.
"You may."
"And my family?"
"Will be on the ship that retrieves you, two days hence, to the west, where you were dropped off."
Baz fell to his knees, eyes watering. The mock Fremen lenses were badly fit, and the left fell from his eye, revealing an eye only slightly dyed blue by spice addiction. He closed his eyes, uncaring, and let out a weak, incredulous laugh, mingled with the beginnings of weeping. Tears slowly collected in his eyes until one was pushed out, traced his water-starved cheeks, and fell from his chin.
Before that drop of precious water could land on the parched sietch floor, a force shoved Baz against the sandstone wall of the sietch. His mismatched eyes opened in shock, failing to register anything more than the blurry red hair and Fremen stillsuit of his attacker. He felt the back of his own stillsuit snagging on the rough wall, tearing the fabric.
But he was so close, to freedom, to home. So close to his family! He remembered Nicole smiling, always so loving, and blonde little Haley with her big brown eyes, grinning and calling for Papa, because Papa had to watch, she could do a cartwheel! And she ran to the grass, which was still sparkling with morning dew, and bent sideways to put her two little hands on the ground, almost reaching a handstand, but folding midway through, landing awkwardly on her feet. But she looked up so proudly, beaming, showing the gap that used to hold a baby tooth. And he heard her calling, shouting for Papa, Papa, who are these men? Why are they taking us? Papa, where are we going? And Nicole holding was her, looking at him with the same big brown eyes, silently asking him the same question. Not accusing, simply asking- where were they going, Ben?
Baz struggled, frantic, pathetically attempting to wiggle out from under his assailant, but his tall, thin frame was the result of starvation and cruelty, far from the lean muscle of a true Fremen, and he was held firmly to the wall.
"You give water to the dead, but I don't yet see a corpse."
The tall man felt a prick below his jaw, and warmth traced a line down his neck.
"Did you really think I wouldn't notice an off-worlder, among my Fremen?"
It was a crysknife below his jaw, he could tell by the temperature- not as cold as a metal dagger, but had a chill of its own. The serrated edge of the worm's crystal tooth skated along the underside of his neck, opening many small cuts.
"Speak then, false trash! No matter who sent you, Muad'Tal commands you now. Why are you here? Who sent you, what is your purpose?"
The rivulets of blood collected on his collarbone, creating a slowly filling reservoir of red, red as roses, and carnations, and tulips. At her last birthday, Haley made crowns of red flowers. She had climbed up on his lap and put a tulip behind his ear. She smiled, as did he, and a single sob wracked his body, causing the pools to spill over, staining his stillsuit.
"False so haiba. Ma-ka hiya ma-na. Ma ismak?" Your water is ours- what is your name?
"Ana asif. Ismi Ben Taligari," the man replied in Fremen, not trying to mask his off-world accent. "Your children… ana asif, I'm sorry." And he leaned into the blade, cutting his own throat.
The Fremen man watched grimly, surprised at first, but finishing the deadly wound cleanly so his death would be quick. "Kull mansuj manfud," he said over the body, "All weaving has an end."
He called to his wife and told her to bring the body to the deathstill.
"Karama, he mentioned Alana and Bilal. Have you seen them?" Muad'Tal said quietly as she left.
His wife turned and shook her head, "No, but I didn't hear them leave the yali. They are still asleep."
The father nodded and left the small hallway, unaware of the sand leaking through the cracks around the badly sealed door, filling the chamber like an hourglass.
Two small shapes wandered slowly up a dry-wash, not far from their sietch. The red embroidery of their bourkas sparkled in the morning sun. Ahead of them, the open desert stretched, devoid but for something silver that caught the sunlight. The sand was still.
"I want a baklawa." Bilal stated.
"You want to eat the rocks? Just a few more minutes, then!" Alana chirped, pulling her brother's hand. The second moon was setting in front of them, the rising heat bending the light so it waved in the sky above them like a flag in the wind.
"Ew, not the rocks! Why would I want to eat rocks!" Bilal shouted, laughing at the ridiculous idea.
"Mother's baklawa taste kind of like rocks, I think," Alana said, as though admitting to a terrible crime. Bilal gawked at her, and burst out laughing, a high and piping sound in the clear air.
"You're right, they sort of do," he chuckled, trying to calm down. Laughing at her own observation, Alana tried to shush him, but was unable to keep herself quiet, either. "I've never eaten a rock, maybe they taste better!" Bilal added, and they both had to stop to catch their breath. Once they did, they caught each other's eyes. The morning sun caught and reflected in the deep blue iris of their Fremen eyes, giving each of them a sparkle of childhood happiness they would remember forever.
Still giggling, holding hands they continued up the dry wash. Bilal found a rock to kick. "See, just roll it around in the sand for an even flavor, but not too much, but more than that…" he began to advise, imitating their mother.
Alana let go of his hand to keep climbing, letting him play with the rock. "I think I see something, Bil," she called back to him. He ran toward her quickly, but tripped. "Hurry up!" She was pointing at something.
Bilal stood, turning to catch his balance, and froze. "Alana," he whispered, and she started to turn. "Look!" he pointed in the direction they had come from, and bounding toward them were two huge tigers.
Both children stopped and stared at the interesting intrusion into their lives. Their fangs were long, their faces were wide, and their eyes intently green. Their paws were huge, bigger than the face of either child. Their tan coats almost blended with the dunes behind them, but the hungry eyes and lengthy fangs were a stark contrast to the calm background.
Behind Bilal and Alana, the second moon still waved in the heat like a white flag as it set, and the pale light of morning turned to the clear light of day. They were still standing when the Laza tigers hit them, one to each child.
The children died with a casual abruptness, necks broken swiftly.
The cats began to feed.
In the sietch, the sand stopped flowing through the cracks of the door. The sand had streamed to form two small piles, of about the same size. They were all that marked the adventure, and the small breeze sneaking into the entrance chamber through the large cracks picked up specks and carried them into the air, to waltz with the specks of dust in the flickering Arrakis light.