A/N: Well, here comes the last part of this story! Enjoy, and see you at the end of the chapter for notes on what's next =)


Sitting on the edge of his bed, Paul poured himself a glass of Spice-infused water from the carafe someone had brought into his and Chani's yali, the name the Fremen gave to their private quarters within a sietch. He had removed his dust-covered stillsuit and desert boots and put on a pair of short linen trousers. The surrounding air felt almost cool against his skin in comparison to the sweltering desert heat.

Chani and him had reached Sietch Tabr about thirty minutes earlier, landing their stolen 'thopter onto the sandy plains near the hidden entrance of the sietch. Stilgar and his Fedaykin, as they'd learned upon arrival, had already returned several hours before – a ride on the back of the mighty Shai-Hulud would take them across the erg faster than any ornithopter ever could. Paul and Chani had been greeted by warm welcomes, curious looks and excited whispers, but the Fremen had been respectful enough to give them a wide berth, allowing them to quickly retreat into the privacy of their room. Paul had been grateful for it – as pleased as he was to be back at the place he now considered his home, he yearned for rest and peace and quiet.

The yali was simply furnished with a large bed made of dark wood, a stone table with two chairs and a wooden wardrobe. Two nightstands, as well as a wide seating bench, had been carved directly into the rock walls. On the table, beside Paul and Chani's crysknives and desert headgear, lay three of the offworld auto-injector pens – Paul supposed he had Irlo to thank for those. A glowglobe hovered above him, bathing the windowless room in yellow light.

After slipping out of her own stillsuit, Chani had disappeared into the adjacent room, a narrow space with low ceilings that served as the yali's bathroom. The blurry silhouette of her nude body was visible through the milky plastic of a moisture-reclaiming doorseal. Paul heard her humming softly as she cleaned herself up, washing off two weeks of dirt, sweat and blood. He found himself longing for a shower – a proper shower under dozens of litres of fresh, running water. But that was a luxury the people of Arrakis would probably never be able to enjoy. He knew Chani was using precious few amounts of recycled water from a small basin in there, not wasting a single drop of it.

As he rose to his feet to fetch one of Irlo's painkillers, he heard someone knock at the entrance of their quarters – an irregular opening cut into the sand-coloured rock, in which hung a curtain that separated the yali from the rest of the sietch. He recognised the knock by its pattern. Before he could open his mouth to welcome the newcomer in, Lady Jessica appeared from behind the curtain, inviting herself into the room. She wore the ceremonial garb of a Fremen Reverend Mother, heavy layers of red and ochre linens, and her hair was covered by an ornate hood embroidered with metal pearls.

From the look on her face, Paul could tell she'd already been made aware of what had happened. Fear and worry were written all over his mother's features – the kind no amount of Bene Gesserit training managed to conceal. Her eyes were slightly puffy, and Paul wondered if she'd been crying. She stood frozen in the doorframe for a few seconds, her piercing blue eyes examining him from head to toe – then she crossed the distance between them with quick strides and threw her arms around him.

He remained still for a second, taken by surprise – he hadn't seen his mother drop her cold façade and distant demeanour in a very long time, and they hadn't shared that kind of mother-son intimacy since before she had drunk the Water of Life, months and months before. He hesitated briefly, then chose to put the tensions between them aside for the time being and responded to her hug, resting his chin on her shoulder. She pulled him close, a sense of urgency and desperation in her grip, her shaky breathing betraying her distress. She stroked his hair with one hand, the other wrapped tightly around his back. Paul felt as if entire minutes went by while they stood in the middle of the room, his mother seemingly unable to let go of him. Eventually, she lifted her head and looked him in the eye, brushing strands of hair from his face.

"You look absolutely terrible", she murmured.

Paul snorted. He suspected it wouldn't be the last time he'd hear that one.

"So I've been told."

His mother seemed far from amused. She turned to look at her son in the large mirror hanging on the wall to her right, next to the wardrobe.

"You've lost weight", she said. What a motherly thing to notice, Paul thought. He followed her gaze, studied his reflection in the copper-tinted glass. She was right; he wasn't exactly surprised. He and Chani had been rationing their food supplies carefully during their time on the run, not to mention he hadn't been able to keep anything down for days after he'd first been shot. In the mirror, he could finally take a proper look at his injuries – the pattern of irregular scars spreading across a large area of his thigh, and the small, round scar on the left side of his chest, a thin red line from the incision Irlo had made there following the upward curve of his ribs.

His eyes travelled up to his face, met his own blue stare in the mirror. It was the first time he saw his own reflection in weeks, and he couldn't deny that he did, indeed, look awful – he barely recognised himself. His skin was a ghostly shade of white, making the freckles on his nose and cheeks more visible by contrast. His eyes were ringed with deep, dark circles, his lips dry and cracked from dehydration.

Keeping her grasp on her son's shoulder as if she never wanted to break physical contact with him again, Jessica peered down at the wounds, shaking her head repeatedly.

"Great Mother." She paused, swallowed hard. "You're lucky to be alive."

Paul nodded. That, too, was undeniable.

"I know."

"How – how are you feeling?"

Knowing his mother, a dismissive answer along the lines of "Fine" wasn't going to satisfy her, so he opted for the truth.

"Exhausted", he said.

"Any pain?"

Paul let out a dry chuckle. He couldn't quite remember what it was like to not feel any pain – it was a wonderful, very underestimated experience, that much he knew.

Jessica observed him with concern, touched her index finger to his cheek.

"Paul. How bad is it?"

"It's manageable, Mom", he replied.

"Do you need something? I can ask the –"

Paul gestured toward the syringes on the table. "Irlo got something. But thanks."

"Irlo's a good man", Jessica said pensively. "A non-believer, sure, but –"

"I wouldn't be standing here today if it wasn't for the non-believer", Paul said cooly, his tone defensive. His mother's manipulative intrusions into the Fremen tribes was the last thing he cared to think about at the moment.

Jessica opened her mouth to speak again, but was interrupted by Chani coming back into the room, wearing a clean beige shirt that fell down to her thighs. She came to a halt as she became aware of Jessica's presence, standing in front of the translucent doorseal. Paul noticed how she looked as his mother – like Jessica was a strange, potentially lethal wild creature one needed to be very cautious around.

"Hello, Chani", Jessica said softly.

"Reverend Mother", Chani answered, voice and manners dry, wariness and mistrust emanating from her being.

Jessica seemed to hesitate for a moment, then let go of Paul's shoulder and addressed Chani again.

"I wish to offer my condolences. I heard you lost many of your fighters out there. I'm sorry."

'Your' fighters, Paul noted. His mother still differentiated herself from the Fremen – still thinking of them as foreigners, like the outworlder she was. It was a difference he no longer made. He felt as much Fremen as he'd ever felt Atreides, and those Fedaykin killed in battle had been his brothers, too.

Chani's glare told him the choice of words wasn't lost on her either, but she simply gave Jessica a courteous nod.

"We did. Thank you."

"Thank you", Jessica said, taking a step toward her, a hand on her pregnant belly. "All of you."

Chani shot a questioning look at Paul over his mother's shoulder, then gazed back at her.

"For what?"

"For bringing my son back safely", she replied, a sudden warmth in her tone – this wasn't politeness, but sincerity, Paul realised.

"Your son brought himself back." Chani shrugged. "Anyhow, we're Fedaykin. We take care of our own", she added with some heat, as if the implication that Jessica might think otherwise disturbed her. Jessica was certainly perceptive enough to hear the aggressive notes in her voice.

"Yes. Yes, you do", she agreed, and Paul felt like she was trying to put some unsaid things in these words – gratitude, for sure, perhaps even a bit of affection. She offered Chani a half-smile, then bobbed her head at her, putting an end to the cold, uneasy conversation between them. She then focused her attention back on Paul and took him in her arms once more, kissing him on the temple.

"Get some rest", she whispered gently. Then she turned around and disappeared behind the curtain again, her robes brushing up against the stone floors.

As Paul listened to the receding sound of her footsteps, he was forced to admit that despite all she had said and done, despite all the unspoken anger he harboured toward her, that simple, heartfelt hug from his mother had been just what he needed.

• • •

The night was fading and the horizon getting lighter, swallowing the last stars before the break of dawn. In the grey twilight of the impending day, Paul stood on the crest of a dune, an infinite expanse of sand at his feet. His face was covered by his stillsuit's filter mask and goggles, the hood fitted tightly over his hair, a scarf tied around his head for additional protection. In his left hand, he held the thumper Chani had tuned for him; in his right, the folded Maker hooks from his fremkit. They felt odd, heavy, unfamiliar – as unfamiliar as they had the very first time he'd held them in his hands.

Staring at the quiet beauty of the desert in front of him, Paul wondered why. After all, this wasn't his first ride. After he'd proven himself worthy of the Fremen by conquering a great sandworm about three months earlier, he had ridden several more times, alone or with his fellow Fedaykin, gaining a little more confidence each time he managed to find his footing on the back of the giant scaled beast. But right now, he felt just as tense as he had the day of his very first encounter with Shai-Hulud, just as unsure of the outcome of this experience. He could hear his own frantic heartbeat echo in his ears, sense the dryness of his mouth beneath his mask.

Once again, the fleeting thought that this might be a terrible idea crossed his mind. Once again, he pushed it aside, taking a deep breath to master himself.

"Usul."

Paul turned to his right, glanced at the tall silhouette of Stilgar, who stood next to him, an inquisitive sharpness in his eyes. He looked as if he could read Paul's mind like an open book.

"You know you don't have to prove anything to anyone, Usul. You know that, right?"

His tone was stern. Paul nodded. "I know."

The only person he needed to prove something to was, in fact, himself. He felt driven by a sense of stubborn, foolhardy pride he'd probably inherited from his paternal grandfather. The Old Duke had been known for his recklessness.

And he got himself killed because of it, a small voice in his head reminded him.

Stilgar didn't seem too convinced, studying Paul with a worried look.

"Are you sure you're ready for this?", he asked. Paul straightened his back, gave him a confident grin.

"As ready as I'll ever be, Stil."

That wasn't entirely true, and he suspected they both knew it. The truth was, his body still wasn't functioning at full capacity, and he grew increasingly frustrated about it. This was a test, he told himself – and not one he could allow himself to fail.

Three weeks had passed since the Fedaykin had returned to Sietch Tabr, and five weeks since the Harvester raid that had nearly cost him his life. And whether he liked to acknowledge it or not, he hadn't yet fully recuperated from his injuries. He felt tired and out of breath from even just a brief period of physical exertion, his lungs burning from the effort. His wounded leg still hurt whenever he put too much strain on it – he felt it throbbing even now, just from sandwalking the short distance from the sietch to the edge of worm territory. The pain was a lot more tolerable than it had been, but he still needed Irlo's medication more often than he would have liked. After a day spent moving around, it was intense enough to keep him from sleeping, reminding him he needed to take things slowly.

But he'd quickly grown tired of taking things slowly. In the first week following his return, he hadn't had much of a choice – he'd been practically unable to get out of bed, experiencing the physical repercussions of those two hellish weeks in the desert. He'd been forced to let his body gradually regain some of its strength, enjoying a period of much-needed rest, quiet days in the privacy of their yali with Chani at his side.

As soon as he'd felt healthy enough, Paul had put all his efforts into getting himself back in shape, pushing past his limits with strict, self-imposed discipline. He'd gotten into the habit of taking increasingly long walks around Sietch Tabr and its surroundings, training his injured leg to carry his weight again. During his first, non-too-convincing attempts, he had reached the end of his endurance rather quickly, hindered by a stabbing pain that flared up and down his leg with each step. But he'd kept at it, limping through the halls of the sietch with fierce determination, sometimes accompanied by Chani, Stilgar or Irlo, who'd kept a watchful eye on him during his convalescence. The medic's disapproving looks told him he was probably exerting himself beyond what was reasonable, but it hadn't stopped him.

As he'd felt his strength return, Paul had added knife-fighting practice to his daily ritual, fencing with any Fremen willing to join him. In retrospect, he had no idea how he'd managed to defeat those Harkonnen soldiers in the desert. Practice had turned out to be a lot harder than he'd anticipated. Perhaps he was missing the adrenaline and survival instinct that had gotten him through that particular fight. Pain impeded each of his movements, slowed him down considerably, rendering his moves stiff and graceless. There were times when he'd felt a sudden surge of anger and desperation at the struggle of it all – times when he'd wondered if he'd ever be able to recover his former abilities.

"The human body isn't a machine, lad", Irlo had said while examining him after one of those days, meeting Paul's irritated stare as he sat sweating and shaking from too much strain. "You can't just press a switch and expect everything to go back to the way it was. It takes time."

Paul knew it. But it didn't make things any easier. Patience, he guessed, wasn't his strong suit, and his body not keeping up with his expectations exasperated him.

Ten days earlier, Stilgar had taken his Fedaykin on another raid, attacking a small Harkonnen Crawler in the Hagga Basin – an easy target, and not much of a challenge for the seasoned fighters they were. Eager to put all his training to good use, Paul had briefly considered joining them, before the sensible part of his mind had won over and he'd put aside his pride in favour of common sense. Don't be stupid. You're not ready yet.

Standing now at the top of the dune, he asked himself if he was ready enough. Chani had accompanied him along with Stilgar and was watching him in silence, sitting cross-legged in the sand a few metres to his left, letting him concentrate on the task at hand.

Well, Paul thought, shaking himself out of his contemplation, there was only one way to find out. He took another deep breath and sandwalked a short distance downhill, then crouched down in the loose sand and planted his thumper. The rhythmic sound of it resonated through the dunes, echoing the pounding of his own heart. As he climbed back up to the crest, he took his hooks in both hands, firmly gripping the handles. He steadied his footing in the sand, ignoring the nagging pain in his thigh. From the corner of his eye, he glimpsed Stilgar and Chani moving away from him, retreating far enough to be safe when the sandworm emerged.

It didn't take too long before the stillness of the early morning was disrupted by a now-familiar rumbling sound, before Paul saw a huge wave of sand appear on the horizon, slowly growing bigger and bigger as the worm was drawn to the thumper's vibrations. Paul felt exhilaration battle with fear within himself. Desert power, he thought, watching the creature rush toward him across the erg at dizzying speed. If only his father had been there to witness such a moment. Shai-Hulud was the mightiest being on Arrakis, revered like a god by the Fremen, and he could conquer it, ride it, bend it to his will. You've done it before, he reminded himself. You've been the very first outworlder to do so.

Exhilaration took over, sweeping the fear away like a gust of wind blowing leaves off a windowsill. A feeling of endless power filled him – a feeling he desperately needed after all those weeks of struggle and hardship. He could do this. He suddenly knew it beyond the shadow of a doubt.

As the sun cast its very first rays over the rim of the distant Shield Wall, making Spice particles shimmer in the golden light of dawn, Paul unfolded his Maker hooks with a nimble flick of the wrists and ran.

THE END


A/N: Ah, the bittersweet feeling of writing "The end" on the bottom of a page! I'm very happy to have shared the complete story with you all, and also a bit sad to see the adventure come to an end. I think I'm not quite ready to leave those characters behind, though, so I might write another piece in the near future, although I'm not sure what. Part of me wants to write something set during Dune Messiah, but... I'd have to be in the mood for something dark and depressing, haha (and there would be spoilers, obviously). Another part of me wants to remain in the setting of this story - possibly some "deleted scenes" or a sequel? I don't know. Any suggestions are, of course, welcome ;) Thanks everyone for reading, liking and reviewing, you've been great!