The trek to the Cave of Ridges was a silent, grueling procession through the shifting shadows of the deep desert. Stilgar'stribe moved like ghosts, their stillsuits hissing softly against the sand. In the center of the column, the Atreides refugees were a pocket of "wet" vulnerability.
Paul walked with a rhythmic, focused stride, his eyes occasionally darting to the flank where a Fremen girl his own age—chani—was moving with a predator's grace. She was sixteen, her face toughened by the spice-winds, her blue-in-blue eyes fixed not on the path, but on the small, golden-haired figure huddled in the center of the group.
Anastasia looked impossibly small. She had celebrated her eleventh birthday only a few weeks ago in the lush, doomed gardens of the Arrakeen palace. Now, her petite frame was draped in a borrowed Fremen cloak that was far too large, making her look like a child playing at being a traveler.
The First OfferingAs the tribe paused in the lee of a massive dust-basin to check their moisture seals, chani broke rank. She approached the group with a canteen of recycled water—her own private ration.
She didn't look at Paul, the young Duke. She didn't look at the regal Lady Jessica. Her gaze was locked on the eleven-year-old "Goddess" who was shivering despite the residual heat of the sand.
"Drink, Little One," chani murmured, her voice a low, melodic rasp. She held out the tube with a sudden, uncharacteristic kindness. "The dust of the basin is thick. It will scratch your throat if you do not wash it away."
Anastasia looked up, her "naive" eyes brightening with a radiant, trusting smile. "Oh, thank you! You have such pretty eyes... they're like the deep parts of the ocean Paul told me about."
She reached out with a petite, trembling hand to take the water, her Influence radiating outward. For chani, the touch of Anastasia's fingers against her own was like a spark of lightning. A fierce, protective devotion—the kind the Fremen reserved for their messiahs—flared in her heart.
The Wall of Thorns"She has her own water," Jia hissed, stepping between them like a blade falling into a sheath.
The maid's yandere-like jealousy was a palpable, cold energy. She glared down at the sixteen-year-old chani, her hand resting on the hilt of her crysknife. Jia hated the way this desert-girl looked at Anastasia—with a raw, honest worship that threatened Jia's own place as the primary protector.
"The Princess does not need the dregs of a sand-rat," Jia spat, her eyes black with possessive rage.
"Jia, don't be mean!" Anastasia chirped, tugging on the maid's sleeve with a gentle, "naive" insistence. "She's being nice. She's my friend now."
Chani didn't flinch. She met Jia's murderous gaze with the steady, cold stare of a girl who had been killing since she was six. "I am no sand-rat," chani said quietly. "I am a daughter of the Sietch. And I will see the Pearl reaches the Cave of Ridges safely, whether the shadow-maid permits it or not."
The Brother's WatchPaul watched the exchange from a few paces away. He saw the way Sunny's jaw tightened—the same yandere-like obsession he felt, the same need to hoard the light of his sister. He realized then that Anastasia wouldn't just be protected by the Atreides anymore. The desert itself was beginning to claim her.
"Let her drink, Jia," Paul commanded softly. "The desert has its own laws of hospitality. We would be wise to learn them."
As Anastasia took a small, polite sip, Sunny reached out and tucked a stray lock of golden hair back under the child's hood. It was a gesture of absolute submission.
"I will carry your pack, Little One," chani whispered. "And if the wind blows too hard, you may lean on me. I am strong enough for both of us."
Anastasia giggled, her "naive" joy momentarily pushing back the darkness of the night. "You're like a big sister, Sunny! I always wanted a sister."
Jia's hand tightened on her knife until her knuckles turned white. The circle of protectors was growing, and she hated every new link in the chain.