Disclaimer: I don't own Dune, Alia, Irulan, or Paul. I do own various books, though.
A/N: I don't know about you, but I always felt sorry for Irulan. She seems to do nothing but write about Paul, and he couldn't care less about anyone except Chani. Poor Irulan. Well, what else can I say about this? Hmm…oh, yes, it's not in Frank Herbert's style. Not at all. If you don't like it, I'm sorry. I just gotta be me. It's also just skirting the edge of pointlessness.
Writer's Block
"I'm bored," Irulan said dully, leaning back in her chair and closing her eyes.
Alia glared over at her. "So go write something," she spat. Irulan had noticed Alia spitting more and more lately. She'd better talk to Paul about that, it could turn into a nasty habit and cost them a fortune in dental bills as well as wasting water. Besides, it wasn't proper for saints to spit.
Irulan sighed and shook her head. Ay, there was the rub. "I can't," she said ruefully. "That's the problem. I just can't think of anything to write."
It was probably the hardest thing she had ever said in her life. The sheer pain involved in admitting that she had a case of the dreaded writer's block…and in front of Alia, too. She had never experienced such humiliation before.
As she had expected, Alia showed no sympathy for her plight. "Come on," she scoffed. "You're always writing. About Paul." Crossing the room, she stood at the window, her back to Irulan.
Irulan wanted very much to avoid this subject. She had suspected for some time that Alia was jealous of her brother, and the fact that the revered Muad'dib now had seventeen biographies, four philosophical and religious analyses, seven collections of quotes and wisdom, one screenplay, and two miniseries to his name—all courtesy of Irulan—probably didn't help matters.
"Yes," she said carefully, "that's true. But it's not easy being a writer. You have no idea of the hardships I face every day." That was certainly true. And one of her hardships was named Alia.
"Hardships? You?!" Alia exploded. Oh boy. She had done it now. "You think you have problems, huh?"
"Yes!" Irulan recognized the defensive tone in her own voice, but it was too late.
"You think you're the only one who matters around here, is that it? Well?" Alia whirled and glared at her, a murderous look that made Irulan's blood run cold. "You and your precious writing."
Irulan felt her face heating up. "And what about you?" she shot back. "You should talk! 'St. Alia-of-the-Knife,'" she mimicked in a high-pitched voice. " 'O holy Alia, sister of Muad'dib, help us please! After all, you're only the greatest, most important, holiest person ever to walk the face of Arrakis.'"
"Irulan…" Alia warned, growling alarmingly.
But Irulan would not be stopped. She had strained her Bene Gesserit control to its very limits for years, and now she was going to have her say.
"It's true!" she snapped. "Always lording it over me in council because you're abom—" She broke off. She had meant to say "preborn", but "abomination" had somehow slipped out instead. This was not good.
Alia looked at her silently, a look that Irulan suspected would kill if Alia had her druthers. The awkward silence stretched between them for a good thirty seconds. Finally Alia spoke, obviously keeping her temper under tight control. "So you think I lord it over you, huh? You think I just enjoy manipulating other people to do my will? You never considered that it might be because of a deep feeling of personal insecurity and inadequacy?"
"No, not really," Irulan said in all honesty. "I think you just hate me." Candor was one of the most important tools of the Bene Gesserit, but sometimes it could be dangerous, like any other tool. This definitely qualified as one of those times.
Alia glared again, but said nothing more. Irulan, glad of this momentary cease-fire, studied a portrait of Paul's father hanging near the door. She immediately wished she hadn't—it was one of those creepy pictures where the eyes seemed to follow her no matter where she went. No doubt it was an Atreides trait.
"So." Alia was carefully being civil now. "You said you were having trouble thinking of what to write next." To Irulan's surprise, she actually sounded mildly curious.
Irulan tore her gaze away from Leto's portrait, grateful to be back on relatively safe conversational ground. "Yes. Somehow, I just can't come up with anything new." She sighed. "I've spent so many years writing…it's getting hard to come up with original ideas."
"The Prayer of Muad'dib?" Alia suggested.
Irulan shook her head. "No, I've done that one already."
Alia thought. "Hmm…how about A Teen's Guide to Muad'dib?"
"Been there, done that, designed the graphics on the T-shirt," Irulan said with a mirthless laugh. Not that the shirt had sold very well—stillsuits still had a monopoly on the fashion industry of Arrakis.
"Everything You Ever Wanted to Know About Muad'dib, But Were Afraid to Ask? Muad'dib for Dummies?"
Irulan shook her head and snorted. "Are you kidding? I wrote those years ago!"
"Wow," Alia said in disbelief. "I see what you mean." For once, she didn't seem overtly hostile. With astonishment, Irulan realized that she was actually enjoying the conversation. Perhaps Paul's sister wasn't so bad after all, when one had something in common with her. In this case, deep resentment of Paul.
Lowering her voice to a confiding whisper, Irulan leaned forward. "And do you know what the worst part is?"
"No," Alia said, taking a seat in a chair opposite her and also leaning forward to hear better. "What?"
"If you can believe this," Irulan said in disgust, "all the royalties go to fund that bloody jihad of his!!"
Alia gasped. "No!" she breathed. "That's…why, that's…"
"Sickening," Irulan finished for her. "Appalling. Awful. Incredible." She nodded grimly. "I should have stuck with romance novels."
"I read some of your romance novels," Alia said meditatively. "They were rather good." Irulan practically glowed—this was high praise from Alia. "I particularly liked Catchpocket of the Heart and The Naib's Water."
"They were some of my best," Irulan admitted modestly. "But those days are behind me now. Now it's all about Paul, isn't it?"
"It's disgraceful!" Alia said, her eyes flashing with rage. "You would think women's lib had never happened. Here you are with all this talent and you squander it writing about your husband."
Irulan smiled sadly. "I know." The two women sat for a moment and pondered the injustice of male chauvinist Kwisatz Haderachs.
Suddenly, Alia pounded the arm of her chair. "But you can't let him get away with this!" Irulan had never seen her this excited—usually her face was more or less unreadable, even to one with Bene Gesserit training. Their discussion had obviously stirred up some deep emotions, though.
"What can I do?" Irulan asked. "Go on strike?" Frankly, she doubted whether Paul would really care. There were already enough books about him to last a lifetime.
Alia grinned, a rather disturbing and calculating expression. "No, better than that. Listen, I've got this great idea…"
Paul looked up as Irulan and Alia headed past him an hour later. "And where are you ladies going?" he asked.
They looked at each other. "Shopping," Alia said instantly.
"We're taking a 'thopter down to Arrakeen," Irulan explained. "We should be back in a few hours."
Paul frowned. There was something not quite right about this situation…normally these two would sooner claw each other's eyes out and eat them than go shopping together. Oh, well…anything to promote domestic harmony. He had enough problems without catfights. "Have fun then," he said absently, going back to his paper. It always amused him to quote the news articles word for word just before he actually read the paragraph in question.
Once in the 'thopter, Irulan and Alia traded high-fives. "He didn't suspect a thing," Alia said scornfully.
"Men are so stupid," Irulan agreed.
Within an hour, the two had found their way to the offices of The Arrakeen Inquisitor, the weekly source of gossip about celebrities, spiceblows, and the hippest water sources. In other words, the sort of tabloid that had existed as far back in human history as Other Memory could reach and, presumably, much further.
"Here we are," Alia announced with great satisfaction.
They made their way to the office of the editor, one Felin Rusevol. His blond hair made him immediately conspicuous as an offworld journalist who had moved to Arrakis when the amount of breaking news there had dramatically increased overnight. Obviously, the Inquisitor was successful enough to keep him in the kind of luxury that would easily accommodate a small Fremen sietch. Alia tried not to show too much contempt for the fat little man. After all, he would help them achieve their rather unscrupulous goal.
Rusevol smiled and put his feet up on his desk. "So you have a story for me?" he asked, looking them over. He didn't seem especially impressed. Irulan eyed him with distaste and wondered when it would sink in through his thick skull that he was talking to the sister and wife of Paul Muad'dib.
"Yes," she said. "Actually, we feel an exposé would be more in order. You know, 'inside sources reveal what life with Paul Atreides is REALLY like', that sort of thing." She shifted her weight from foot to foot, very aware that Rusevol had not offered them seats.
The editor's eyes narrowed in anticipation at the word "expos" and the name "Paul Atreides". "I…see…" he said slowly. "Well, I—I think we just may be able to work something out." Alia and Irulan smirked and imagined how sweet revenge would be.
The two returned home several hours later, each with a token shopping bag so their alibi would hold up. "Wasn't that a wonderful shopping trip, Alia?" Irulan asked brightly as they came in.
"Oh, yes!" Alia gushed. "I found this cute sweater on sale, isn't it great?" She held up an orange and green sweater with a picture of a sandworm on it for Paul to see. "I think I'll wear it over my aba for official functions!"
Paul paled. "Er…" he managed. "…Tell you what, I'll be somewhere hard to find if anyone needs me, okay?" He disappeared through the nearest doorway. Irulan and Alia stifled their giggles with an effort.
The rest of the week dragged by as Irulan waited impatiently for the next issue of the Inquisitor to come out. Finally, she woke up and knew it was the day. She dressed as usual, though with the addition of constant ecstatic humming. Then she all but ran to Alia's room. She felt she had to share her excitement with someone before she imploded—of course, Bene Gesserit control would never allow explosion of emotion.
Alia was already dressed and waiting for her when she arrived. "Today's the day!" she laughed, whirling Irulan around in a little impromptu dance. "I can't wait to see his face—" For see it they would when they came down to breakfast. Alia had made sure a special copy of The Arrakeen Inquisitor would be delivered for the occasion—free of charge, of course. Felin Rusevol was expecting this story to make him more money than all the previous issues of the tabloid combined, and one free copy was nothing.
"What do you think he'll do?" Irulan asked, a little more seriously. "D'you think he'll kill us on the spot?"
Alia shook her head. "He wouldn't dare," she said contemptuously. "The people would be up in arms if I were killed."
What about me? snapped a small, lingering resentment in the back of Irulan's mind, but she ignored it. She and Alia were allies now, perhaps even friends, and jealousy had no part in that.
Taking deep breaths and occasionally repeating the Litany against Fear, the two women went to breakfast.
As they had expected, the morning greeting was not quite the usual one. Before they even entered the smaller dining room they used for normal meals, they could hear Paul ranting and raving at the top of his lungs. Alia and Irulan traded slightly nervous smiles…and entered.
"WHAT IS THIS?!" Paul shrieked, whipping around to face them as they came in. All Jessica's careful Bene Gesserit training had not kept him from foaming at the mouth. "WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS?" In one hand, he waved a copy of what was unmistakably The Arrakeen Inquisitor.
"Good morning, Paul," Alia said sweetly. "What's wrong, dearest brother? Has something upset you?"
"This," Paul seethed, "has upset me!" He shoved the tabloid at Irulan, who took it and held it so Alia could read over her shoulder.
KWISATZ HADERACH A FAKE!!!!!!! —INSIDERS TELL ALL: DETAILS INSIDE"Dear me," Irulan murmured innocently. "Who could have come up with such a dreadful lie?" Alia tutted and shook her head sorrowfully.
Ignoring Paul's splutters of indignation, Irulan found the promised "details inside" and she and Alia continued to read. They had both agreed that anonymity, while insuring their relative safety, would only hurt the credibility of the story, so it came as no shock to Irulan to see her name splashed all over the page. She could only imagine the look on Paul's face when he had read it himself.
(000)
Behind every great man, it is said, stands a great woman. Or, in the case of the revered Muad'dib, three or four great women. Recently, Irulan and Alia, wife and sister of the alleged prophet, revealed the hotbed of corruption and cover-ups that is the basis of Muad'dib's power.
"You see," explains Irulan, who draws on knowledge of the deepest mysteries of the Bene Gesserit, "this rumor that Paul is the long-awaited Kwisatz Haderach is actually a bunch of hogwash. After living with him this many years, I would think I would know if he could be in many places at once and all that rubbish. It's simply a way to gain power over others."
But what, you may ask, of the assertions of Muad'dib's mother, the Reverend Mother Jessica? According to Alia, the startling truth behind Jessica's support of her son as the Kwisatz Haderach lies in her frequent use of melange.
"Many people don't know this," Alia reveals, "but my mother has had…shall we say, a few 'bad trips' in her time." Including the one that resulted in her own unique identity, she adds with a wry smile. "After a while, the melange started to get to her. I think she's managed to convince herself that Paul is the Kwisatz Haderach because it was a way to vicariously fulfill her failed hopes for her own life. I think—I think she's always been disappointed in me as a daughter," Alia admits, beginning to get misty-eyed. "So she had to have someone to pin her hopes on."
With the truth revealed, it is almost unbelievable that it could have stayed hidden for so long. How is it possible? "We've been covering for him," Irulan says, blushing with shame. "I write propaganda, and Alia comes up with mystical prophecy-fulfilling things for him to say in his speeches."
It is only natural to wonder why such obviously intelligent and strong women have allowed Paul Atreides to use them for so long. "It's hard to explain," Alia says. "He's a very…magnetic person, he has a strong personality. It's just…" She trails off, shaking her head helplessly.
"He threatened us," Irulan continues. "He told me my entire family would die if I didn't write for him. I've been so afraid…"
For Irulan and Alia Atreides, there is no longer any need to fear. Their courage has led them to reveal the truth behind the greatest power in the galaxy, taking the first step toward breaking the power of the Quasi-Haderach charlatan who has fooled so many for so long.
(000)
Alia looked up from the page, obviously barely controlling a fit of laughter. "Oh dear," she chortled. "What a terrible thing to happen to you, Paul! You must be absolutely devastated."
"I'll devastate you!" Paul roared, jumping up from the table and charging the pair. Both jumped out of the way with the speed of highly trained reflexes.
Irulan widened her eyes. "You're not threatening us, are you, Paul?" she asked loudly. "I'm sure the people of Arrakis would love to hear about it…"
Paul growled something incomprehensible and stopped dead, breathing heavily and glaring at two of the people he had trusted most. "How could you do this to me?" he demanded, his voice breaking slightly.
Irulan felt no pity for him. "Come on, Alia," she said. "I want to hit the stores early before all the sales end." She headed for the door.
"Irulan!" Paul barked. "We're not finished here!"
She stopped in the doorway and turned back, raising an eyebrow. "That's Ms. Corrino to you," she said coldly.
"Alia!" Paul entreated, turning to her instead. "You're my own sister…"
Alia smiled wickedly. "You should have seen it coming, shouldn't you, Mr. Kwisatz Haderach?" Then the two newly liberated women headed for the sale at Sietch Stylish, leaving Paul to eat breakfast alone.
A/N: Um, yeah…I wrote the whole middle part of that at one in the morning. Can you tell? It ended up a lot longer than I meant it to…congratulations for reading the whole thing. I only hope it amused you as much as it amused me. The ending is stupid, but hey, can't win them all. So, please review and tell me what you thought, keeping in mind it's my first Dune fic, and please tell me if I get any details wrong so I won't do it again. And yes, all others I write will be this random and out of character. Just to warn you…