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The Reverend Mother woke up in a disoriented haze.
She was wracked by a violent coughing fit before lifting her head to survey the room—spare, with walls the color of parched desert sand. There was no time to grapple with confusion or let fear creep in. She stumbled toward the door, jiggling the handle and throwing her weight against the frame, but it wouldn’t budge. That was when she spotted the words scrawled across the wood in a rough, unsteady hand: "Cry to leave." Jessica’s mind spun: Was this some cruel test? Where had she been taken?
Doubt tugged at her even as she tried to summon tears.
It had been a long time since she let herself cry. Ever since she’d forced down that strange blue liquid, her body had undergone a biological metamorphosis. She’d stepped into a new identity and mastered knowledge spanning eras, but the part of her that mourned her old life had slowly withered away. There was too much holding her together: the heavy swell of her belly, growing more cumbersome with each passing day; waves of bone-deep exhaustion and nausea that left her gasping; the lingering tension between her and Paul; the quiet terror that her daughter might not survive birth. All these burdens pressed down on her, yet none of them could break through the emotional wall she’d built around herself.
She’d spent so long avoiding memories of him, shying away from even the faintest thought. Jessica knew once she let the floodgates open, there would be no turning back. She was deathly afraid of spiraling into extremes of emotion—of joy or sorrow taking control. Showing vulnerability felt like surrendering what little safety she had left.
That day, when her family crumbled, she and Paul hid like cowards in the shadows. They watched the smoke spiral into the sky over their home and listened as silence settled over the desert sand. The man she loved was gone—her Duke, her husband, her lord, the one who’d filled the empty parts of her and given her half the life growing inside her now, who’d turned her from a Duke’s concubine into something she never dared imagine. Yet she couldn’t stop then to grieve. Duty clamped down on her heart like a fist. She’d promised to watch over Paul, to keep him safe until the end of her days. She would raise their son to become the next great Atreides—strong, respected, a leader others could trust to wield power with honor.
Oh, Leto…
Why can’t I cry? The thought echoed in her mind. Has time worn away our love, now that you’re gone?
But Jessica could not escape the feeling that Leto’s presence lingered. Not as a ghost, but as a promise. His blood still ran through their child’s veins. She still had an Atreides to love, to guide—their son. Perhaps the hope she’d carried for so long had not been extinguished. It had merely shifted its focus, reborn in the boy who would one day walk in his father’s shadow.
Lost in thought, she jumped when the air behind her shifted.
What is that? she wondered, stepping slowly toward the shape. A simple wooden chair. And lying across the seat, the still form of Leto. His... his body.
Is this how he died? No. No, no, no—her carefully guarded emotions shattered. Grief flooded her heart, drowning out every other thought.
His curls, his thick beard, the familiar creases between his brows. He was still breathtakingly handsome, even in death, still radiating that quiet authority that had always made people listen. She cupped his face, her fingers brushing away a single tear trapped in the corner of his eye. The warmth of the tear seared her palm. She saw it then—the look in his eyes. That flicker of defiance she knew so well. It was raw, unfiltered: rage at being defeated, despair that his family would suffer, but also that stubborn, unbreakable pride that had defined him all his life. He’d built a legacy of honor and trust, only to watch it burn to ashes. His family was in danger, and he could not protect them. All his power, all his plans, reduced to nothing. The great Leto Atreides, reduced to a prisoner, a sacrifice, a pawn in a game he had not chosen to play.
Why subject her to this vision? Was it a mercy—offering closure for the regret of never seeing him in his final moments? Or was it a torment, a loop of agony she’d never escape in her dreams?
What had he thought in his final breath? She wondered. He must have thought of his concubine. He must have fretted over Paul, and the unborn child still growing within her womb. The weight of her pregnancy felt heavier than ever.
Pain. It sliced through her heart like a blade. Her chest heaved, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Nausea rose in her throat.
He was naked. His sculpted muscles, his familiar form—all the moments of intimacy they’d shared, the gentle whispers during their lovemaking, were gone forever.
Her hands traced over his body, as if she could memorize every inch of him one last time.
“My Lord,” she said, her voice breaking. “I miss you. I miss you so much.”
Jessica leaned down over her man, her breath warm against his skin. It wasn’t until she felt her own tears drip onto his face that she realized she was about to break down completely.
No. She could not weep.
She could not bear to leave, even though this scene felt like an impossible illusion—a trap set by her enemies, or a delusion spawned by her endless longing.
The Bene Gesserit discipline that had always guided her felt like a fragile shell now. Pain consumed her. She told herself she could not cry, could not abandon him here. He was alone and he needed her.
Her lips found his in a desperate kiss, seeking the warmth that had once comforted her. But there was no response. Only cold, lifeless flesh beneath hers, deepening the pit of despair in her chest. The void inside her grew larger by the second, and she could not hold back her tears any longer.
She was aware of tears dampening her lashes as she drew in a trembling breath. Her body felt light as driftwood, carried by an invisible current toward the door.
No. She clung to Leto’s corpse, desperate to take him away, but it was no use.
Just one more glance...
A hoarse whimper escaped her dry lips. A single tear traced a path down Leto’s cheek—not his, but hers.
In the haze of her sorrow, she fancied his hand closing around hers, a faint, gentle squeeze as if he were reassuring her to embrace life anew, and let him sleep in peace at last.
Jessica woke up soaked in sweat.
In the desert, every drop of moisture was sacred, and she’d wasted so much of hers in a single night.