Fear is the Mind Killer

[Paul Atreides]

One moment Paul was in the desert, the hot winds of a forsaken world casting about him and then next he was in eternal whiteness- a void. It was silent as the still sands, but he could feel an oncoming presence. Paul waited, patient and unmoving as a white form- really a void within the voice- spoke to him. Paul did not talk, he simply took it all in. His mentat mind allowed the flow of information to passively be collected. He had experienced patience before- or at least he had thought he had. Was this one of his dreams? He spun about even as Omni talked to him... or at him?

Paul’s eyes fixed on the one calling himself Omni as he introduced himself to Paul. The young Atreides regarded him with a degree of careful respect- the way a warrior might regard a noble of uncertain allegiance. Would this shapeless man help or him or cause him harm? The way he spoke was like that of a god speaking to his creation and, if his words were to be believed, that is exactly what Paul was- his creation... of sorts.

Paul’s mind recorded the words, transcribing them like a computer might. These were the rules of this world and this was the “game”. Dream or not Paul needed to survive in this reality- he needed more information for only that would keep him alive. It was the Fremen way.

“That which submits rules. The willow submits to the wind and prospers until one day it is many willows- a wall against the wind. This is the willow's purpose.”

He had to serve Omni... or at least submit to him for the time being. He knew not where this submission would lead but he knew it was better than the alternative.

As Omni’s last few words “I’ll be watching … and waiting...” rang in his ear and then he heard something... familiar. It tinkled, and dripped, sweated and rolled. It was... water?

A fountain greeted him, suddenly there. To Paul, a man who all but lived in dreams, such things were not uncommon. Before him stood a deep pool, water dripping from some unseen point on high. His heart beat in his ears, his stillsuit still clinging to his form. Licks of water splashed upon his face but he thought little of it. He was of two worlds- a noble of Caladan and a Fremen of Arrakis. What was water to a noble? Nothing, but to a Fremen it was life. He filled his pouch, it was not something his Fremen training would allow him to pass up.

Next came a choice. He knew instinctively it was a great one. There were eight gates that lay at the edge of the horizon. He was no stranger to walking great distances. He needed not transport for what was two hours of walking to a man who could walk the deserts of Arrakis- from sietch to sietch- in a night’s effort?

They said “polish comes from the cities; wisdom from the desert.” and he felt the calling of the desert from one place and the politics of the cities from two others. He knew not why he felt this but he felt it none the less. As he walked he began his journey to the city. He was a creature of the desert, true, but he knew the power of the seat of leadership. Walking ever onward, Paul finally reached a great stone gate. He would see his sands again soon enough. Men in archaic garb came and went and Paul passed before them with the easy countenance of a man who has seen many worlds.

“Any road followed precisely to its end leads precisely nowhere.” He recited in his mind, choosing to travel to the world his heart told him was the center of power- the perfect place to start. He had a feeling this dream would be an endless one and did not fear it- for fear was the mind killer...