#cuckoo child duke ...

[normalbrothers]

prev post i still think duke should have been john's kid though, confounding that this didn't happen

[thevampiremarie]

THE KNIFE OF MUAD'DIB (Paul x OC!Reader x Chani)

Wherein na-Duke Paul Atreides is not the Bene Gesserit's only prospect for the Kwisatz Haderach. Raised by Paul's side as his playmate and servant, Chryse, the Bene Gesserit's cuckoo child, will forge a new future for her master.

(previously posted on AO3 as Themis)

PART I: JESSICA

Lady Jessica focused her intent gaze on the Reverend-Mother’s... gift. This gaze, to which the minutiae of observation was second nature rather than practiced pretense, followed the lines of the girl-child’s high cheekbones up towards large eyes that appeared to overwhelm the face they were set in.

She’d seen that look in those eyes before. Perhaps a thousand times over, a million times over. Reflected in the mirror back at her on Wallach IX, reflected in the shadowed eyes of the girls she barely remembered. The girls that one by one fell, until amongst a hundred girls there stood five Bene Gesserit.

Jessica’s skirt rustled against the floor as she stalked closer, circling the child, examining every angle.

How interesting.

Such control in the child’s bearing, belied by such fear.

Paul had always been fascinated with off-world animals in the filmbooks; the agrarian creatures that inhabited Caladan for over twenty generations bore no thrill to her clever son. Jessica had never understood his fascination as the filmbooks rendered such organisms dead to her. Mere simulacrums of life with soulless eyes.

Perhaps one such simulacrum stood before her now in the form of a human girl. “Reverend-Mother, does she have a name?”

“We call her Chryse. However, if that name does not suit you, Jessica, you may name her as you wish. It is of no consequence to us.” Reverend-Mother Mohiam’s demeanor certainly hadn’t changed in the slightest from the days when she served her overtly. When Gaius Helen Mohiam spoke, everything from her inscrutable countenance to the even tones of her voice commanded subservience. “You will not harm nor bring harm to the girl-child. It is our one order.”

Jessica watched as Mohiam brushed her fingers against Chryse’s jaw to tilt her still face up towards the sallow light of the glow-globe. Not even a muscle twitched in her smooth facade. Jessica wondered what sort of chaos lay beneath, whether the girl would be like the jagged rocks under the beckoning surface of Caladan’s oceans. Only a fool would dive into the dark water blindly.

There was no other option but to acquiesce. “You have my word. She shall not come to harm under my care or the care of House Atreides.”

“Good.” A look passed between them, lasting only a second. Within that second lay an eternity.

The Reverend-Mother strode from the room with an economical gait, not sparing another iota of energy to look back.

Jessica knew then the precise nature of this “present”.

How many men had failed in the making of the Kwisatz Haderach? How many years, decades, centuries had her sisters carefully tended the most sacred plant, a mind that could bridge space and time. If Paul failed -

She stopped that fearful thought in its tracks, held it in the cradle of her mind’s eye, then let it pass through.

The Bene Gesserit were patient like mountains were patient. Time was an endless resource. It was better to cultivate many plants of good stock than to nurture a small garden and watch as its leaves shrivel and diel. Chryse was not and could never be the Kwisatz Haderach. Perhaps that fact ought to have assuaged Jessica’s fear. Yet - if Paul should die while he was only eleven, the House of Atreides forever extinguished, the child seemed poised to become the next vessel to carry the bloodline of the Kwisatz Haderach. Only ten years old, and she had mastered the prana-bindu like an adept three times her age. Who knew what sort of terror she had been bred to create?

Her son had already shown promise even without her training. Paul might flourish, grow into a man, grow into the mind that the universe needed. That would never come to pass if Chryse supplanted him.

Mohiam must have felt some minute degree of affection towards Jessica. If she hadn’t, the Reverend-Mother would not have left the girl in her care. The blade was double-edged; the Bene Gesserit cared not for which of the two survived, only that one of them did. Motherhood had softened Jessica to the point where she felt some empathy for her poor charge. Not enough empathy to entirely stay her hand, but enough that she wanted the girl to live. Enough that she intended to lift the burden of killing her from Paul’s narrow shoulders.

“Come here, girl.” Once she was close enough that the Bene Gesserit-trained woman could stretch out a single, finely-boned hand and press her fingers to the weapon’s temple, she bade her stop.

Jessica brushed her mind carefully up against Chryse’s, wary of the mind traps the girl had surely been taught from birth.

There were no traps. Not even a token protest.

Chryse had fewer defenses than a newborn infant. Her mind was splayed out in the open; even the slightest whisper of Voice guaranteed complete obedience. The Bene Gesserit had truly forged a weapon of a girl. She hadn’t a psyche of her own - where there should lay a personality was instead filled with iron bars of mind conditioning. Jessica’s heart ached for her. No child deserved to live like that.

A moment passed wherein she further plumbed the depths of her mind. Jessica knew then that Chryse could never use a Voice of her own. The same breeding that had left her mind wide open had left her unable to Speak. But of what use to the lineage of the Kwisatz Haderach was a girl entirely unable to use the Voice and critically susceptible to it?

The vision came on suddenly, as the waves did against the shores of Caladan. A figure whirled amongst dozens of men as they fell to their knees. The lady knew those movements by heart even though they felt wrong. It was the Weirding Way, without a doubt. At the same time, every action was utterly alien. Chryse moved through the battlefield like a valkyrie of old with hands that created ruination with every twitch. Her deficit of Voice was more than made up by her complete mastery over the physical realities of others. Lungs collapsed inwards; hearts refused to beat; nerves froze. Blood. Oceans of blood.

Without meaning to, her fingers fell away from the girl’s temple in astonishment and the vision dissipated like morning mist.

The Kwisatz Mother had bred an abomination.

The laws of nature should have forbidden such a being from coming into existence. No doubt, she wouldn’t have without the careful guidance of the Bene Gesserit. What infinite combination of genes could produce a person who could bend human bodies to their will? A weapon to be wielded against the very molecules of anatomy? Chryse had quite a bit further to go before she would become the war goddess Jessica saw in her vision, but her raw talent remained a cudgel poised over Paul’s head and ready to end his life.

This was an unacceptable outcome.

Forgive me, Jessica thought; forgive me for what I must do. “You will never harm Paul Atreides. You will never allow harm to come to Paul Atreides. You will always remain loyal to him and never betray him in the slightest. You will lay down your life for him.” She swallowed down her guilt as she watched her Voice take root in the blank shell of the young girl’s mind. That Chryse was now freed from Bene Gesserit absolute control was a small consolation for the crime done against her. For Paul to live, this girl must be subjugated.

Her wide, dark eyes blinked. There it was - a tiny spark of life in her young, solemn face. Chryse was just a girl. A young one, at that. Innocent. Guilt ensnared Jessica’s heart and held it in a chokehold. The sisterhood had not completely uprooted her weak personality, but there was no doubt that their conditioning program left permanent scars. Jessica’s Voice would not have affected Chryse nearly as much without it.

The lady resolved always to be tender to the girl. At a minimum, she could improve the quality of Chryse’s life. Jessica told herself this as she called for servants to take the girl, bathe her, dress her, and prepare a chamber for her near Paul’s. Was it so selfish of her to want her son to live? At any cost? Paul’s new companion would always be treated well and never punished. There were worse fates. For the Kwisatz Haderach, the Bene Gesserit could commit any number of sins.

But Jessica knew her mind and herself. This was a blood debt that she could never repay.

Paul would be safe, and the girl’s powers would never be used against him. That would be her consolation.

-

Her palms smoothed over the muscled plains of Leto’s back. The Duke was her husband in all but name, and Jessica reveled in how he relaxed at her touch. At the school on Wallach IX, she’d learned everything but the warmth of trust and partnership built from deep, mutual love. There was no room in the lives of the Bene Gesserit for any kind of love besides the love of the sisterhood. It was this trust and love that had led Jessica to birth Leto a male heir instead of the daughters she’d been commanded to produce.

Leto reluctantly pulled himself away from her to pick through some papers strewn across his desk. “What’s this I hear about a new handmaiden joining our household?” 

Involuntarily, Jessica inhaled. “Ah, my new charge. Chryse. An orphan, Bene Gesserit trained but not suited to the task. Reverend-Mother Mohiam, the Imperial truth-sayer, has entrusted her safety to me.” She kept her hands out of Leto’s line of sight so he couldn’t see the tension in her white knuckles. Ever so slowly, the lady exhaled. Again, guilt. The guilt threatened to consume her whole.

Her husband had always been far too intuitive for his own good. “She is young.” Sometimes a conversation with him was like playing chess. Every word, every tone, every movement playing off those of the other. Jessica enjoyed such a conversation far more when the stakes were not nearly as high. Perhaps he knew even subconsciously what she felt, what she had done.

Jessica let the silence in the air hang.

Leto sat at his desk, his brown eyes never leaving her smooth face.

She conceded first. “It will be some time before the girl will serve as my handmaiden in truth, but is she not of an age with Paul?” Not quite a lie, not quite a truth. A certainty presented as a question even though she had already decided the answer.

With no other child from her in sight and no political marriage alliance contracted to provide others, her son remained at the forefront of his father’s concerns. “Paul must keep his attention turned towards his lessons. I trust you, Jessica. He cannot be distracted.” Leto was known to others as inscrutable and honorable. She could read every emotion that flickered across his handsome face. He was worried; that much was plain. He was worried about what the legacy he’d built and the enemies he made might do to his kind son. His only son.

Even though he would never know it, the solution to his worries was close at hand. “My love, every child needs a companion. There are no children of an age with Paul on Caladan and certainly none suitable for his station. I’ve seen his loneliness. I know you have too.” The truth in her words was undeniable. Only eleven years old, and Paul had never known a friend his age on Caladan. He glued himself to his filmbooks and the stories of Duncan Idaho and Gurney Halleck. Leto cared for more than just raising an heir. Jessica knew he loved Paul. He worried about his well-being. Her husband would grant her this wish. Check.

“What better place for a friend than a girl in his mother’s service? They won’t have to be parted for quite some time. And there is no better judge of caliber than the Bene Gesserit.”

His resigned sigh echoed in the quiet of his study. Checkmate. “You’re right.” Leto’s footsteps as he got up and drew closer to her were a comforting rhythm. She knew that rhythm by heart.

“I do tend to be.” The impulse to feel the rhythm of his pulse beneath her hands overtook her, and she let it. Jessica reached out to press herself to him. Her Duke responded in kind as he gently drew her arms around his neck and brushed his forehead against hers.

It was more than enough sometimes to breathe in the same air as her beloved. To know that she shared space, time, and life with him.

Leto pressed a kiss to her mouth. Without any further words, he left the room.

Her fingers pressed against her closed eyes as if to alleviate the burden she’d taken upon herself. All of this would be justified in the end. Jessica had to keep faith in that.

Reposting this unfinished dune fic i started during the 1st movie and orphaned on ao3! Seems as if there's interest. LMK if you want on the tag list.

[dyinggirldied]

Cuckoo imagery and symbolism!

What if Jennette was brought up and passed off as countess Rosalia's daughter instead of the ward of duke Alpheus?

Since countess Rosalia is married, I'm surprised we have no mention or even hint of a child or cousin to Jennette (for the life of me I cannot remember for sure if Ijekiel is distant cousin to Jen or not but he doesn't count here sshhh)

But what if an AU where countess Rosalia DID give birth to a child roughly around the same time as her sister does. Once Penelope passed away due to childbirth complications, Rosalia adopted the newborn baby as the "twin" of her own newborn.

Countess Rosalia gave birth to a boy but plot twist: he had albinism. His appearance is a mixture of his parents with the only exception being his white hair and red eyes.

This sets off a truly fun (not fun for those involved) situation.

We have a boy, the eldest son who doesn't look or feel like he is a member of the family, who stands out next to his dark hair/brunette with blue and/or green eyes family despite being the legit full blood born son of the couple and feels neglect by his parents' attention to his 'sister'.

Then we have Jen, the exact copy of her mother and thus, aunt in appearance but is secretly hiding her jeweled eyes, her status as the tyrant emperor's illegitimate daughter. Jen who in spite of her look was the true one not born out of the couple, who feels jealous of her 'brother' because he is loved by his mother, her aunt, the woman she sees as her mother, has once believed was her mother.

Picrew for illustration (https://picrew.me/ja/image_maker/165901)

[dc-sideblog]

Sylph Dick Grayson

He is a spirit of the air in its purest form. Being in the sky is so natural for him that it's like he's a part of it, like he is it. There is no other possibility than the Flying Graysons being air nymphs

Revenant Jason Todd

Before the Pit. Before the League found him. Something brought Jason back to life while he was buried six feet under. Whatever came back isn't as human as what went in. He's not a zombie, not a ghost, but he is something other. Something risen and undead and vengeful

Vampire Cassandra Wayne

For someone who values human life above all else. Who is gentle with the criminals she beats and does just enough to stop further harm. How could she possibly justify having to prey on others? Having to suck the life out of humans to sustain her own existence? How can she ever believe that she is worth that harm?

Changeling Tim Drake-Wayne

Tim is a cuckoo bird, he is a mythical changeling child who took the place of one of Bruce's real sons. He stole his spot and his clothes and his love and isn't Tim a little bit strange? In the way he moves? In how he acts, when he thinks no one is watching? Isn't there just something a little bit off?

Demigod Duke Thomas

They don't know much about Gnomon or how Duke came to be, not really. They know he gets more powerful every year. They know some days Duke wakes up and has abilities he didn't have the day before. They know those same abilities just keep growing in strength. Every day Duke is a little bit less human than the day before and no one knows when or if it'll ever stop.

Dragon Damian Wayne

Ra's al Ghul is something ancient from the time before time and his hoard is the stuff of legends. Damian's line is a proud one, cunning and noble and strong. He may have left the fiery, mountaintop palaces of his birth but their legacy has never left him

[batfambrainrotbeloved]

"Its just... different"

Words had always been hard for Tim, so many years of "Children must be seen not heard" even when he did manage to communicate his needs, they were never respected so why bother?

But he'd never regretted it more than now, all his fellow and former robins gathered around a table in the cave, already having consumed enough sugar combined to kill an elephant.

Now they were starring at him.

Jason broke the silence first, as he pulled a can of shitty off brand soda away from his lips "Oh so you're just built different- the silver child eh"?

Dick pouted, though it had less effect with his hand stuffed in a bag of gummy worms "Don't be mean, we all had different experiences with Bruce, of course its different- but were all still his kids, no metal colors needed"

"Says you golden boy" Steph teased, half hanging off her chair and a foot almost knocking over Cass chip bag, only stopped by the fact Duke snatched it and moved it further along the table.

They didnt get it.

Damian sneered "As if- Drake barely counts as fathers son, he is simply the cuckoo chick put in the nest" Well at least Damian was half right.

Dick opened his mouth to correct him again but Cass held her hand up, making the table fall into silence. Tim felt her eyes starring into his soul as her hand fell to point at him.

"You agree... not feel.. you are Bruce son"?

Tim nodded, you'd think for someone who didn't learn language until she was fifteen, he'd have a better grasp at what he needed to say. But she hit the nail on the head.

"No i'm not-"

This did get a reaction out of his siblings, Jason practically crushed the can in his hand, Steph half fell off her chair, Duke chocked on his drink and coughing harshly.

Dick looked plain distraught and Damian unusually stunned.

"Tim... you know you're family" Dick said, already sounding chocked up and shit, he caused that.

"Of course"! Tim was quick to defend, hands up (not a threat, calming) "Im just not his kid-"

"Then what you're our fucking cousin- I swear for the smart Robin you sound like a dumbass" Jason snapped, but his eyes held something deeper that looked so much like Bruce. (he was worried, over tim- that wasnt good, worry could spiral)

"No i'm not a cousin i'm- our relationship is... different" Tim shoulders hunched, they were hell bent on getting awnser's that he didn't know how to give.

As soon as he said that, any sembelance of peace was destroyed and the cave dissolved into several loud debating shouting matches.

Well- this was suprisingly an improvemnt, Tim was quiet- he knew how to slip back unnoticed and let them tire themselves out. (They always did, and then he could pick up the pieces after)

A bag of chips was shifted before his eyes, Duke had moved and now sat next to him. Big brown eyes looking almost sad. (they want to care for you, helps him them feel useful).

Tim took the chips.

"I didn't see Bruce as my dad either-"

Tim nodded, keeping his eyes glued on the bag.

"But it's.. different for you isn't it"? Duke said, voice slightly strained.

"I was young- but I remember when the second Robin vanished, I remember when people now ran away from Batman instead of towards him"

The cave had quieted down, but Tim was laser focused on Dukes every word.

"Everyone knew of someone who had suffered from.. that Batman, people understood, but most were just scared" Duke met Tims eyes, and he had to force himself not to look away "Then you came"

Tim nodded, his mouth felt dry, the chips were too salty weren't they. He wanted to run but he couldn't (thats a trigger, running, dissapering- he had to stay, until the waters calmed again)

"He wasn't fixed either... but he got better, I thought it was just over time, having a new kid to focus on but that wasn't it was it"?

The cave was silent, only Dukes soft voice and the ocassional flutter of bat wings from afar.

"Bruce wasn't your parent... you were his"

There it was. Out in the open, but finally someone could put the words to it.

"Yeah thats... yeah-" Tim was definently chocked up now, but it no longer felt like his lungs were closing up.

He understood. Tims role in the family, it had never been Jasons or anyones replacement because he was never a kid (he hadn't been for a long time)

A sob to his right made Tim stiffen right away ready to fix help, but he came face to face with Dicks trembling form. Big blue eyes overflowing with tears.

Tim instantly switched, it wasn't time to deal with his stuff- he turned to Dick, hands out once more and his most calming voice- a placating smile. "Dick hey i'm okay, its fine- whats wrong"?

"what the fuck..." he could hear Jason mutter, he sounded horrified, but okay- Dick was his priority right now.

Dick reached out, Tim prepared himself for an octupus hug- yet none ever came. He starred as hands clamped down on his shoulders.

"Dick"? Tim didn't know what to do- he didn't like not knowing, this was new- it was weird. He just needed wanted to help.

Dick put his hand on Tims cheek, tears still flowing, but he had stopped sobbing. "Tim... i'm so so sorry"

"Wha- What for"? How had he messed up?

"You were only a kid"

Tim stayed silent as Dick pulled him into a tight hug as if he would melt if he let go.

"You were only a kid" He repeated, like a matra, for himself or Tim he didn't know.

Tim wrapped his arms around Dick and squeezed back, he could fix this, but it just needed some time. For his families sake- he had to be the patriarch. (Because Bruce wouldnt couldnt, but someone needed to) __________________________________ Once again, always love your posts and though this is more loosely based on your prompt than exact I still found it fun to write.

But I might end up making this a mini fic if I feel like it later

Oof. Y'all, can I get more comparisons of Tim being Bruce's dad? Not in the literal sense, but as in Tim's role in their relationship.

The other kids were adopted by Bruce. The man took care of them and saw them as his kid.

Tim? Tim adopted Bruce as his to take care of. He ensured that man survived and maintained essential upkeep tasks (like sleeping, receiving medical care, eating, etc.). The relationship eventually morphs into being more mutual on taking care of each other, but it starts the exact opposite of Bruce's relationship with the rest of his kids.

I just want Tim, trying to explain to his siblings why he has a different relationship with Bruce, and they come to the conclusion that he basically fathered Bruce out of his all-encompassing grief.

[themerrycourtier]

Queen Mary Is Listening

Lady Shaftesbury was born in 1875 as Lady Constance Grosvenor, elder daughter of Earl Grosvenor, son of 1st Duke of Westminster. She married 9th Earl of Shaftesbury (1869-1961) in 1899. He was Chamberlain to the Princess of Wales’ Household from 1901 to 1910, Lord Chamberlain to Queen Mary from 1910 to 1922, and Lord Steward from 1922 to 1936. 

She was always known as ‘Cuckoo Shaftesbury,’ and when Cuckoo was expecting a child, Queen Mary insisted she be told the name as soon as it was known. Lady Shaftesbury sent a telegram, which read: ‘Dottie, Ma’am, Cuckoo.’

Pope-Hennessy went to see Lady Shaftesbury at the Connaught Hotel [on Monday 1 October 1956].

The Queen had one strange attribute she had never observed in anyone else - ‘almost frightenin’, you know’ - that of being able to hear what everyone was saying to each other at a dinner-table of 30; ‘She never misused it, or repeated things wrong, but she always knew exactly what was goin’ on, so I used to be pretty careful; other people who didn’t know, weren’t.’

-- Exerpts from The Quest for Queen Mary, James Pope-Hennessy, ed. Hugo Vickers (pp. 126-7)

[jomiddlemarch]

Which break themselves in swearing

“I made a vow to my father on his deathbed that his line would end with me,” Simon said. He’d uttered each word as if it were another vow, one he was binding her within like a spider trapping its prey. Daphne wished there were not such a distance between them, that they sat across from each other in the soft light of the morning room, Simon’s hand within reach; she would have touched him lightly before she spoke. She understood more than he knew and now she must find a way to tell him what he could never have known—revelation and freedom, the poles inverted, the moon rising gold in the East.

“Simon, do you know the story of the cuckoo in the nest?” she asked.

“Daphne?”

“The cuckoo lays its egg in another bird’s nest, you see,” she said. Would he see? He hadn’t made an irritated retort or cutting remark but he pressed his lips together tightly and there was hardly any light in his dark eyes.

“Daphne, there’s no time for this,” he said. He didn’t say for this nonsense though she heard what it cost him to keep from it. She smoothed one hand along the silk of her gown, let herself recall the scent of the dust, the roughness of the cotton cloths she’d flung back from the chair. How brittle the old sealing wax had been and somehow still imbued with its vivid hue.

“I found letters in the desk. The Duchess’s desk,” she said. When he was silent, she added, “Your mother’s. I did not mean to pry but I admit, I was curious.”

“What of it? I fail to see how this pertains to what I told you just now,” he said. Lady Danbury would likely have scolded him for it and Anthony would have cursed, but she was his wife.

“They were bundled together with a blue silk ribbon,” Daphne said. “I thought they must be precious, love letters, billet-doux. I thought I would see how a Duchess wrote to a Duke.”

“You meant to make a lesson of it?” he asked.

“No. Maybe a little. But they weren’t what I expected,” she said.

“I can’t imagine my father encouraged any paeans or romantic encomiums,” Simon said. “He wasn’t a man given to poetry or pretty words.”

“They weren’t addressed to him,” Daphne said.

“You must be mistaken—”

“I was not. I am not. Your mother wrote to someone she cared for, dearly, someone she trusted with her honor, her heart, her deepest desires,” Daphne said. “Your father.”

“You’re talking in circles, Daphne! You just said the letters weren’t addressed to him and now you are and I fail to see what any of this has to do with what I told you,” Simon exclaimed.

“Your father wasn’t the Duke of Hastings, Simon. Your mother took a lover. You are the cuckoo in the nest,” Daphne said, as simply as she could. He might shout, might stalk out of the room, or lower his voice to a whispered hiss to express the most furious imprecations, but she would stay quite still, quite steady in the face of it. None of it could touch her; she only spoke the truth.

“I can’t believe it,” he said. It, not you. He looked away, his gaze focused somewhere she could not follow, for what seemed like a long time. She thought back to the letters, the Duchess’s elegant hand and the even more exquisite script of her lover, how ardent the missives had been and yet so tender, so passionate and yet so practical, the planning of the assignations, the carefully guarded hope that an embrace would lead to conception, the fervent shared wish for a child. She thought back to taking tea with Mrs. Colson, the woman’s voice as she’d said sometimes it’s not the woman’s fault.

“It’s true,” Daphne said. “You are the heir to the Duke of Hastings but you are not his son.”

“Did he know? Did he guess? It that why he treated me so cruelly?” Simon asked, a little wild. She couldn’t blame him.

“I cannot imagine he did. The letters seemed entirely untouched, the ribbon knotted tight. There was dust on them a half an inch thick, it gave me the most undignified sneezing fit,” Daphne said. “I cannot believe he thought you anything other than his son. But that is not who you are.”

“Not who I am,” Simon repeated.

“You are the Duke of Hastings,” she said. “You are Simon Basset, the Duke of Hastings and your honor is intact. You had already fulfilled your vow when you made it. You ended his line.”

There was a silence between them then, one they shared. My soul seeks after yours, the Duchess had written to her lover and Daphne understood what her husband’s mother meant. She thought the other woman would have been glad to know her only child, conceived in such a secret love, was so proudly, openly cherished.

“If there is no vow to honor—”

“Then you must choose what it is you want. For yourself. For us,” Daphne said. She wanted a child, children, a house-full or even just one, but he’d been so adamant. She would not assume, she would not keep quiet when she could ask. When she could begin as she meant to go on, remembering what had drawn them together, their talks in ballrooms and gardens, promenades paced by his remarks, her comments, their laughter.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I know what you want me to say—”

“I just want you to be honest, Simon. Truly. There’s nothing else to want if we don’t have that first,” she said.

“I want a bloody brandy,” he said, making her smile.

“I want to read those letters,” he added, making her nod.

“And I want you there with me, your Grace,” he finished, making her cry, just a little. “You see, I made a vow…”

[dukereviewsmovies]

Duke Reviews: Rudolph, The Red Nosed Reindeer

Hi Everyone, I'm Andrew Leduc And Welcome To Duke Reviews Where We Are Continuing Duke's Yultide Reviews...

Well, With Christmas Movies Behind Us For The Year, It's Time To Move Into Christmas Specials And What Better Way To Start Then To Look At The Original Christmas Special, Rudolph The Red-Nosed Reindeer...

Now, Unlike Some Of The Movies I Went Over In November, I Feel That I Really Don't Have To Go Over The Plot Of This Special As Everyone Knows It By Now And Anyone Who Doesn't Probably Lives Under A Rock...

So, Without Further Ado, This Is Rudolph The Red Nosed Reindeer...

The Special Starts With Newspaper Pages And Snowflakes Before We're Introduced To Our Narrator, Sam The Snowman, Played By Burl Ives...

Who Talks With Us About Christmas Town...

No, It's Not That Christmas Town...

But The Christmas Town That Sam Is Talking About Is At The North Pole Where The #1 Citizens Are The Clauses Who Live On The First Castle On The Left, Matter Of Fact The Only Castle On The Left..,

Cutting To Inside The Castle We See Mrs Claus Telling Santa To Eat Up As The Kids Expect A Fat Santa For Christmas Eve....

Some People Might See This As Skinny Shaming But Me I See This As Sending A Good Message Saying That Says After The Holidays, Santa Loses Weight In An Effort To Not Get Diabetes...

Telling Us About How Much He Loves Christmas, Sam Tells Us About The Year Of The Big Snowstorm And How They Couldn't Have Done It Without Rudolph, Which Leads Sam To Tell Us Our Story But Not Before Giving Us An Intro And A Title Card...

Starting A Few Years Before The Big Snowstorm, In Spring No Less, We See The Donners Give Birth To A Little Buck Named Rudolph Who Is Born With A Red Glowing Nose...

However, In The Movie Rudolph And Frosty's Christmas In July, It Was Revealed That Rudolph Wasn't Born With The Nose But Was Given It By The Spirit Of The North Pole Known As Lady Boreal In An Effort To Protect Santa From The Evil Wizard Winterbolt Who Had Just Woken Up When Lady Boreal's Powers Started To Wane And Weaken After Being In Her Human Form For Too Long...

But Getting Back To Our Story, Santa Arrives To Meet Rudolph Only To Discover His Powers For Himself...

Coming Up With An Idea To Hide Rudolph's Nose, Donner Teaches Rudolph How To Be A Reindeer, While Teaching His Son To Beware Of The Abominable Snowmonster Of The North Who's Mean, Nasty And Doesn't Like Christmas..

But Aside From The Abominable, We Cut To Santa's Workshop Where We Meet Hermey, Who's An Elf Who Wants To Be A Dentist Which Catches The Ire Of The Foreman...

(Start At 1:42, End At 1:56)

Growing Up Over The Years, Rudolph Has Gotten Tired Of Hiding His Nose As The Mud His Parents Place On It Isn't Very Comfortable, But Donner Believes That Self Respect Is More Important Than Comfort...

I Would Play The Other Part Of The Song But I Couldn't Find It On YouTube, Sorry...

With Christmas Coming And Going As Always, Soon It Is April Which Is When All The Fawns Come Out To Be Inspected By Santa And When The Elf Choir Practices In Front Of Santa...

Whoa!, Whoa!, Whoa!, What Happened To The Elf Foreman?

His Voice Just Went From Gruff To Squeaky In 10 Seconds, Why?, Was The Actor Unavailable? Did They Have Another Actor Originally Do The Voice? Somebody Give Me Answers!

(Start At 0:14, End At 1:49)

With Santa Leaving, The Foreman (Whose Voice Is Gruff Again) Tells Them That The Performance Was Terrible As The Tenor Section Was Weak...

I Don't Know, Foreman Defiantly Sounded Good To Me...

But One Of The Elves Tell The Foreman That Hermey Didn't Show Up...

Working On Dolls Teeth, The Foreman Marches In To Tell Hermey That Despite Trying To Find A Way To Fit In He'll Never Fit In And To Come To Elf Practice Before Slamming The Door Shut...

Believing The Foreman To Be Right, Hermey Runs Away...

Back At The Reindeer Fields, Rudolph Makes A Friend Named Fireball, Who Introduces Rudolph To A Doe Named Clarice...

Walking Over To Her As The Coach Comet, Won't Get To Rudolph And Fireball For A While, Rudolph Talks With Clarice...

(Imitating Hannibal Lecter) Hello, Clarice...

Asking Her To Walk Home With Him, Clarice Tells Rudolph Yes, As She Tells Him That She Thinks That He's Cute...

Leaping Into The Sky 2 Times, Rudolph Butts Heads With Fireball Which Causes Rudolph's Nose To Fall Off...

With His Secret Revealed, The Reindeer Not Only Make Fun Of Rudolph But Santa Gets Mad At Donner As Comet Tells Everyone To Not Let Rudolph Join In Any Reindeer Games...

Followed By Clarice As Rudolph Promised To Take Her Home, She Doesn't Care What Everyone Else Thinks And Says That His Nose Is Better Than That False One He Was Wearing...

(Start At 0:19, End At 2:14)

But When Clarice's Father, ? Enters To Tell Rudolph To Stay Away From Her, Rudolph Finds Himself All Alone Again, That Is Until He Runs Into Hermey Who Tells Rudolph That He Doesn't Need Anyone Because He's Independent Which Leads Rudolph To Declare The Same...

Okay, I Realize Rudolph Is Not A Girl But Since He's Voiced By One I'm Playing This...

Originally This Wasn't The Song For This Scene, Originally It Was This...

Walking For A While, Rudolph And Hermey Hear The Roar Of The Abominable Snowmonster Which Causes Hermey To Have Rudolph Douse His Nose For Now...

Continually Walking Till Morning,They End Up Meeting Yukon Cornelius, Who Is Searching These Areas For Silver And Gold Which Leads Us To Our Next Song...

(Start At 0:08)

With The Abominable Catching Up With Our 3 Friends, Yukon Creates An Iceberg So They Can Get Away From The Abominable But With No Land In Sight Our Friends Have No Idea Where They're Headed...

Eventually Hitting Land, Yukon, Hermey And Rudolph Find Themselves On An Island With Flying Lions And Talking Jack In The Boxes...

Correction Charlie In The Boxes...

(Start At 0:40)

With Rudolph Asking If They Can Stay On The Island With Them, Charlie Takes Them To King Moonracer (Who Is The Flying Lion In Question) Who Unfortunately Tells Them No But Asks Them That Once They Return To Christmas Town To Tell Santa About Their Island Which Rudolph Promises He Will...

For This, King Moonracer Allows Them To Spend The Night...

Oh, How Generous...

With His Friends Deciding To Return To Christmas Town, Rudolph Decides To Strike Out On His Own To Save His Friends From The Abominable Snowmonster...

But As The Years Pass, Rudolph Grows Older And Realizes That You Can't Run Away From Your Troubles Which Leads Him To Decide To Head Home...

But In Returning Home, He Discovers An Empty Cave Which Leads Santa To Point Out That Them And Clarice Have Been Gone For Months Out Looking For Him...

But While Going Out To Find His Parents The Storm Of The Century Hits...

But Again, In Rudolph And Frosty's Christmas In July, It Was Revealed That The Storm Was Created By Winterbolt In An Attempt To Get Rid Of Santa Forever As There Could Only Be One King Of The North....

Searching For His Parents, Rudolph Realized That They Could Only Be One Place, The Cave Of The Abominable Snowmonster...

Oops, Wrong Cave And Wrong Abominable Snowman...

Anyway, Entering The Cave, Rudolph Attacks The Snowmonster Only To Get Whapped By A Piece Of The Cave...

Well, Not Exactly As Hermey And Yukon Cornelius Arrive To Rescue Their Friend And His Family With Hermey Distracting The Abominable While Yukon Drops A Big Rock On Him...

Getting Rudolph And His Family Out, They Find Themselves Confronted By The Bumble Again Only To Discover That Hermey Took Out All Of His Teeth...

Pushing The Bumble Back With His Dogs, Yukon Goes Over The Edge Of A Cliff Along With His Dogs And The Bumble...

And This Is Supposed To Be A Kids Special!

With Everyone Going Back To Christmas Town, Santa Apologizes To Rudolph And Tells Him That He'll Find Homes For All Of The Misfit Toys On The Island Of Misfit Toys While The Foreman Apologizes To Hermey Telling Him That He Can Open Up A Office Next Week After Christmas...

Hearing A Knock On The Door, We Discover That Yukon Survived...

And So Did The Bumble Who Only Did What He Did Because He Wanted A Job...

Wow, I Didn't Know Unemployment Was A Problem At The North Pole...

Asking How They Survived, Yukon Kind Of Gives A Dumb Yet Funny Answer...

While Everyone Gets Ready For Christmas, Santa Gets News From His Eye In The Sky Weather Reporter, Who Tells Him That The Storm Won't Let Up And Christmas Will Have To Be Cancelled, But As Rudolph's Light Shines Santa Decides That Rudolph Is Their Answer...

With Rudolph On-Board For Helping Santa, We Get Our Next Song...

(Start At 0:11)

With Santa Fattened Up And The Sleigh Filled They Take Off With An Up Up And Away...

Okay, Is Santa Superman?

Meanwhile On The Island Of Misfit Toys, Charlie, The Spotted Elephant And The Doll Have All But Given Up This Year But When They See Rudolph's Nose, Everyone Gathers Up So They Can Board The Sleigh...

(End At 1:46)

Fun Fact: When I Was A Kid, I Had A Hard Time With VHS Remotes And Accidentally Taped Over A Little Bit Of The Ending With The End Credits Of A Care Bears Nutcracker And My Mom Still Bugs Me About It To This Day...

But That's Rudolph The Red-Nosed Reindeer And It's A Good Special...

Sure, It Has A Few Things That Show What Time It Came From But It's Still A Good Christmas Special, I Love The Characters, I Love The Story, The Sets Are Well Made And I Just Say See It...

Till Next Time, This Is Duke, Signing Off...

[berniesrevolution]

Ozy

If there’s some future day when the federal government guarantees a quality job to everyone who wants one, an increasingly popular notion as we arrive at the 10-year anniversary of the global financial crisis, historians can trace the program back to a guy who plays the blues harmonica.

William Darity Jr. is an economist and the director of Duke University’s Samuel Dubois Cook Center on Social Equity. If you ask him about his musical proclivities, you’ll get a glimpse of his winning smile, bracketed by deep creases on either side of his mouth, and he might tell you that he’s performed with blues bands at festivals and at too many bars to count.

But he’s better known as someone who has authored or co-authored hundreds of economics journal articles, not to mention a macroeconomics textbook. And even more striking than the volume of this musically minded economist’s scholarly output are the questions he’s chosen to explore.

Darity has published papers on skin-shade gradient and unemployment, and on the desegregation of the economics department at MIT, his alma mater. He is a vocal proponent of reparations for Black Americans, and in late 2016 he wrote in The Atlantic a criticism of Barack Obama’s unwillingness, on political grounds, to support a reparations program.

UNTIL RECENTLY THIS AMBITIOUS PROPOSAL HAD BEEN VIEWED, IN DARITY’S OWN WORDS, “AS SOMETHING OUT OF CLOUD CUCKOO LAND.”

Darity’s devotion to equity and racial justice is rooted in his childhood. His mother grew up in Wilson, North Carolina, which sits 40 miles east of Raleigh along Interstate 95, and when he was a child, his family made regular visits there to see his grandmother. He observed the town was clearly divided by railroad tracks: White people on one side, Black people on the other. While he noticed the divide in living conditions on either side of the tracks, he also observed that not all White folks and Black folks had the same standard of living as one another.

His own life circumstances, meanwhile, were quite comfortable, and he concluded that was the upshot of having been born to successful parents. “If the only reason why you really have the opportunity to start life in a more comfortable place is because of which family you’re born into, then it’s ultimately a matter of serendipity,” Darity says.

From the time he was a child, that troubled him.

Fast-forward half a century and he has an impressive record of devising and advocating for policies that would give a leg up to folks who did not win the birth lottery. “He’s about big and bold ideas,” says Bruce Orenstein, Darity’s colleague at the Cook Center and an award-winning filmmaker who’s currently documenting discriminatory practices in the mortgage industry. Even as they research distressing topics, Orenstein says his colleague remains laid-back. And he always knows when Darity is in the office, because of his distinctive, joyful laugh: “It makes me want to get up out of my seat and go down the hall.”

(Continue Reading)

[truesportsfan]

Greg Schiano carries big regret into his Rutgers ‘second chance’

For his band name, prefers “Second Chances” to “Unfinished Business.”

Schiano traveled through a wormhole in December and turned back time eight years to the end of his beginnings as a head coach. He brought home with him a band of more than a dozen coaches, trainers and administrators who once made Rutgers football prideful to New Jersey, relevant in New York City and pesky to national powers — but never fulfilled its championship goals.

“I left,” Schiano told The Post, “and I shouldn’t have left.”

Schiano, 53, is sitting in a black leather chair in the same (mostly empty) Hale Center corner office once filled with his memories. He is repurchasing a house he built in 2007. He is just back from a familiar coffee run to the QuickChek on River Road in Piscataway.

CEOs like Schiano — hands in marketing, budgeting, maintenance and all aspects of athletics, not just football — don’t deal in the wasted energy of hypotheticals.

But Schiano can’t resist here: If Rutgers was invited to leave the crumbling Big East for the Big Ten in January 2012 — instead of 10 months later — would he have turned down a five-year, $15 million contract from the NFL’s Buccaneers, as he did offers from college football titans Miami and Michigan?

“Yes,” Schiano said.

This answer is emphatic. Others, over the course of an hour-long conversation, are deliberate, marked by long pauses and thoughtful creases on his face.

“I ran from something, not to something,” he continued. “That wasn’t my dream to be the coach of the Tampa Bay Buccaneers. I didn’t like the way the horizon looked for us here.”

The Schiano era (2001-11) produced bowl berths in five of the final six years and an NFL pipeline anchored by Ray Rice and the McCourty twins, but he left behind what might have been his best team and best recruiting class.

In the time since, Schiano was fired after going 11-21 with the Buccaneers; spent two seasons as Ohio State’s defensive coordinator; landed a head-coaching job and lost it in one day to a Tennessee fan mob ill-informed about unsubstantiated hearsay he knew of Jerry Sandusky’s child sexual abuse at Penn State; resigned for family reasons as the New England Patriots defensive coordinator after two months; and sat out three football seasons.

In the time since, Rutgers is 35-56 and bowl-less since 2014. So, it’s not all picking up where he left off.

What Schiano built to last instead crumbled for many reasons, starting with the university’s refusal to give another coach the same power he wielded. Spring practice opens in two weeks and the depth chart has no cemented starters.

“The last eight years has been, ‘Get your dukes up,’ ” Schiano said. “Nothing surprises me anymore. Maybe that’s a bad place to be, but life teaches you. I feel like this isn’t a coincidence. But, man, did a lot of crazy stuff have to happen to get me back here.”

The Empire State Building was lit red Nov. 9, 2006, when Rutgers beat Louisville in a battle of unbeatens and climbed to No. 6 in the BCS rankings.

Thursday night games at Rutgers brought New York’s pro athletes across the bridges. A streak of 18 straight sellouts ended in 2009, after the stadium’s capacity was expanded from 41,500 to 52,454.

Rutgers’ average attendance in 2018 was 20,071, and eyeballed crowds looked smaller last season.

“Ultimately, you have to win,” Schiano said. “This is an event-driven area. When your games become events, it was a Who’s Who? on the sideline. It might take a while, but we will do that again.”

In Schiano’s first day back, Rutgers sold more new season tickets (excluding renewals) than it did the rest of 2019 combined, according to the athletic department. The number tripled over the next three months.

Rutgers AD Pat Hobbs (l.) and Greg Schiano.Robert Sabo

Six months before kickoff, there are midnight office huddles and Saturday morning staff meetings.

“I feel like I never left,” said recently returned Kevin MacConnell, who worked at Rutgers from 1986 until leaving for the Buccaneers with Schiano. “It’s 11 p.m. and he’s holding conversations with five of us, jumping back and forth, and I’m thinking, ‘Oh my god, this is the way it was. This is when we get our best stuff done.” ’

Except it almost never happened.

Rutgers fired Chris Ash in September, slow-walked its replacement search and tried to spin the narrative when scared off just before Thanksgiving by Schiano’s honest assessment of needs.

Then a crazy thing happened: Tortured fans united and bombarded the email accounts of university president Robert Barchi, athletics director Pat Hobbs, New Jersey Gov. Phil Murphy and other VIPs, threatening to cut off allegiance and revenue — some six-figure donors — if Schiano wasn’t rehired.

“I am not sure that I will be able to maintain my enthusiasm,” wrote a 36-year season-ticket holder with a prominent position at Rutgers New Jersey Medical School.

The Post obtained signed emails through an Open Public Records Act request:

“We are sick and tired of being the laughingstock of not only the Big Ten, but of all of college athletics.”

“We have been all-in for a long time, but today our confidence is shaken.”

“Fire Pat Hobbs. Hire Greg Schiano. Save Rutgers Football.”

Negotiations resumed.

Schiano signed a record eight-year, $32 million contract with pledges to upgrade facilities and $7.7 million (a 155 percent increase over 2019) to spend on assistant coaches. The Wyckoff, N.J., native vows this “incredible staff” will help Version 2.0 be more efficient, understanding and content.

“Part of my insecurity as a coach was I felt like I had to do everything,” Schiano said. “Some of the things I felt I had to do, quite frankly, I had to — or they wouldn’t have gotten done at the level we wanted. Maybe that’s because we had a 25-year-old doing a 35-year-old man’s job, but that’s what we could afford.

“I feel like we’re close to getting things into systems that will allow us to be not such a Greg-centric program.”

MacConnell, now Schiano’s chief of staff, helped prepare Rutgers’ first pitch for expansion to the Big Ten and ACC in the 1990s. It fell on deaf ears.

Schiano privately laid out his vision to join the Big Ten as early as 2002 and chirped in the ear of commissioner Jim Delaney when possible.

“Eight years, a lot has changed,” MacConnell said. “But I walked in the building today and video of the [2006] Louisville game was on. That is still my greatest night ever. If you had said this [reunion] to me a year ago, I would’ve said, ‘How is that remotely possible?’ It’s because we all trust him.”

Hobbs is fundraising at unprecedented levels to benefit other sports, but Schiano says a football-only field house with an indoor practice facility rolling onto its state-of-the-art grass outdoor complex is needed to recruit in the Big Ten. Estimated price tag: $150 million, at least half of which has to be privately fundraised, per his contract.

“It’s not a little thing we’re fixing to do,” Schiano said. “I only would have come back if I believed the same thing I believed when I took it the first time: We can be the very best. I know people think I’m cuckoo.”

Greg Schiano waves as he is mentioned by New Jersey Gov. Phil Murphy during the State of the State address.AP

It’s enough if the local high school players and coaches think he is sane. He already changed his pro-style offensive philosophy to incorporate elements of the spread and entice top quarterbacks.

“If we could recruit a top class at Rutgers back then, why can’t we do it now?” Schiano said. “I hope I don’t have to prove that we did then was real. We should be in that ballpark, and then go flying past it.”

New Jersey is the recruiting lifeline, but Rutgers has more scholarship players from New York — “the high school football in New York City has gotten so much better,” he says — than any other Power Five conference team.

“In that way, we already are New York’s team,” Schiano said. “I’m sure the people up north [Syracuse] won’t like that, but I don’t particularly care.”

College football’s 150th anniversary just passed with Rutgers — hosts of the first game — mired in irrelevancy.

“My goal hasn’t changed one bit. My purpose has changed a little bit with age,” Schiano said. “I want to get there, but I want to get there while we are building into people. I was so driven that it probably had an adverse effect on reaching that goal.”

But the climb is more challenging now with annual games against Michigan, Ohio State and Penn State, right?

“I hear all the arguments,” Schiano said. “If you are from here, like I am, then it appeals to you. If you are not, it may not appeal to you.”

Those same fans who rallied for his hire carry accelerated expectations. Scrap the usual grace period — incremental improvements — given to a new coach.

This is Schiano’s 12th season at Rutgers. Or is it his first?

“We decided we were going to spend the rest of our careers here. Then things changed,” Schiano said. “That’s why I call it a ‘second chance’ to do my dream job. Usually, you don’t get that.”

source https://truesportsfan.com/sport-today/greg-schiano-carries-big-regret-into-his-rutgers-second-chance/

[normalbrothers]

duke needs to be a cuckoo child though like that is not tommy's son, he's just some random kid esme dug up from somewhere to fuck with him

[thevampiremarie]

THE KNIFE OF MUAD'DIB (Paul x OC!Reader x Chani)

Wherein na-Duke Paul Atreides is not the Bene Gesserit's only prospect for the Kwisatz Haderach. Raised by Paul's side as his playmate and servant, Chryse, the Bene Gesserit's cuckoo child, will forge a new future for her master.

(previously posted on AO3 as Themis)

PART II: PAUL

He pressed play on the filmbook viewer again. Before Paul’s eyes, the swamps of Ecaz came back to life, the projected mist swirling through his room so thick he could barely see his hand through it. The boy could almost taste the sweet moss and rich earth on his tongue if he breathed in.

What would it be like, to wander those marshes and see the fogwood bend to his thoughts? To watch weavers knot krimskell rope with their practiced, scarred hands?

Paul swallowed thickly. He’d never be allowed to go off-world until he was older. He passed his hand through the fog again and pretended he could feel beads of water gathering on his palm.

Father had started him that day on his lessons with Hawat. He remembered the weight of the Duke’s hand on his shoulder as his father brought Paul to the study chamber where the old Mentat waited. Before he could turn and ask his father to stay, he was gone. Not even the Duke had time enough now for his heir.

As soon as the thought crossed his mind, Paul felt ashamed of himself. Father had enough on his plate. What sort of son did he make, gathering resentment? A poor one.

The filmbook switched to the glittering gems that miners could find on Hagal. He sagged back into his chair and watched the images flicker on his wall.

Mother liked to smooth his hair back with a single palm and say in that still-water calm tone of hers that he would be greater than his father someday. Paul brought his knees up to his chin. The lonely dunes of Arrakis replaced the scenes of shining jewels trundling from the depths of Hagal mines.

No one could be greater than Father.

He’d watched the Duke turn down the dimly-lit hallway before the Mentat retainer rapped the table with his wizened knuckles to call his attention.

Thufir Hawat was pleased as always to see him, if a bit gruff in his mannerisms.

He’d set Paul to a variety of tasks that were difficult, at best. Thinking that felt like admitting defeat.

How was he supposed to be the heir to House Atreides when he couldn’t even memorize the endless formulas and calculations Hawat laid out in front of him?

Mother always told Paul he was good at remembering and liked to play games with him over breakfast. What had changed in their dining room that day?

She had endless patience and endless persistence. Thufir had comparatively less of the former and about the same amount of the latter.

He bit back the urge to throw the cup next to him filled with day-old tea at the wall.

Day in, day out. Filmbooks, lessons, meals with Mother.

Even if Paul wanted to leave the compound to explore the same pastures and beaches he’d wandered a hundred times over as a little boy, the chafing security team his father insisted upon would have followed him around.

He wasn’t a little boy anymore. Paul was too old to play around in the sand like a baby.

Last week, he’d pestered Duncan to start his combat training. “I know you think you’re old enough,” the swordmaster had said. “But you’ll have to wait a little longer, Paul.”

It wasn’t fair.

Paul unfolded his lanky frame from the chair to carelessly pick through the steel toy figurines of an Atreides legion on his side-table, now arranged in a battle against a battalion of porcelain Imperial Sardaukar.

The Sardaukar, crouched behind their defense of a stack of filmbooks, were losing.

He could imagine how glorious the battle would be!  Paul Atreides with Duncan Idaho and Gurney Halleck by his side, victorious, a field of felled enemies before him-

With a random twitch of his hand, he accidentally swept the Atreides soldiers onto the floor.

Paul despised his occasional clumsiness.

The boy bit back a sigh as he bent to collect the fallen figures.

He studied one of the toy soldiers, the battle lance in its hand and the shield on its wrist. Perhaps he ought to steal a shield from the training room. The weapons were kept separately, locked up where only the swordmasters could get them, but the swordmasters kept the shields in locked cabinets. If Paul could show Duncan he knew how to use a shield-

A conspiratorial smile came to his face. With a shield, Duncan would have no good reason not to begin his combat training. The Ginaz swordsman might even cheer him on for his ingenuity.

With that pllan in mind, the young boy turned off the filmbook viewer and slipped out of his chamber, careful not to make a sound as he padded along the gray stone hallways towards the closest training room. The cupboard that housed the shields was only loosely padlocked; shields were hardly the most dangerous things in this wing of the manor.

There was no key to be had nearby. Not that Paul expected one - it wouldn’t be nearly as impressive if he’d simply unlocked the cupboard with little fanfare.

Mother liked to repeat odd little sayings to him with an expression on her face that told Paul he really ought to understand them more than he did. He figured it was some sort of weird Bene Gesserit thing. Sometimes the sayings stuck; other times, they didn’t. “My mind controls my reality.”

He’d come to resent that one. It’s not like if he thought hard enough, Father would see him more often, Duncan would start his combat training, and Thufir’s games would come easier.

The padlock was standard, with knobs and buttons that had to be arranged in precisely the correct pattern and order for it to open. Each time it closed, the pattern and order would change.

Paul had opened these dozens of times if he thought about it.

In his hands, the lock came apart quickly. The remnants were put to the side softly so no servant walking past could hear him rummaging in the cabinet.

Some of the wrist units were dusty, old things probably made in the year he was born. The new shield units were… there!

He reached out and grabbed one that looked like it might fit.

Paul was far too intent on measuring his prize to his wrist to hear the barely-there sounds Duncan made as he snuck up on the boy.

“Paul.”

The swordmaster’s voice, low and rumbly, scared him. Paul tried to hide his instinctive twitch, but from the self-satisfied look on Duncan’s face, he hadn’t succeeded.

Oh no. The shield. The Atreides retainer had already seen it in his hand. He tightened his grip on it and tried to square his shoulders to look Duncan straight in the eye. Much to his dismay, Paul had to tilt his gaze up.

His voice sounded tinny and high in response. “I got it, didn’t I?”

“I’m impressed. You did.” The older man made no move to take the shield from the boy’s death grip. Duncan looked at him sternly for one long moment. A fond chuckle followed, and he reached out to ruffle Paul’s hair. Paul hated it when he did that but could never duck out of the way fast enough. “And you thought stealing this would be a good idea… why?”

He set his jaw and tried for some of Father’s severity and larger-than-life presence. “I know how to use the shield. I’ve got one. You needn’t worry about my safety now, and you have to teach me how to fight.”

One of the man’s scarred eyebrows raised. “Do I?”

“You do!” Why wasn’t Duncan taking him seriously? “I order it.”

“Young master, when you can look me in the eyes without looking up, and your voice drops lower; I’ll consider following your orders. In the meantime, I only follow the orders of your father, the Duke.” The good-natured tone in his gruff voice did little to mitigate the sting of his words.

Paul slammed the shield down on the empty weapons table in frustration. “It’s not fair. I’m not a little boy anymore. And- and if you don’t teach me to fight now, when will I learn? How long do I have to wait?” No, it wasn’t enough for the swordmaster to chastise him like he was a baby. Of course, Duncan had to just stand there and not say anything back to him at all. The lack of response made the boy feel infinitely worse.

“For my father, the Duke, to decide I’m ready? He doesn’t- he doesn’t know me. He doesn’t even see me every day.” Paul’s words hung heavy in the air between them, and he knew instantly that he’d made a mistake.

He’d gone too far to back down now.

The warrior broached the distance between them in two long strides.

His large, scarred hand clasped Paul’s jaw in a tight grip, forcing the boy to look up at Duncan’s face instead of staring, shamefaced, at his bare feet.

“You’re a good kid, Paul, so I’ll say this once, and we’ll be done with it. Duke Leto Atreides, your father, is the best man I have ever known. Everything he does, he does for the prosperity of House Atreides. For your prosperity.” Unbidden, tears began to form in the boy’s eyes. He did his best to will them to stop.

“You don’t know anything about what your father, my lord, has done. What he’s sacrificed.”

Even in Duncan’s grasp, Paul kept his jaw tight and shoulders back. His pride wouldn’t allow him to do anything else.

“The Duke may be too busy fending off the Harkonnens to chastise you properly, but I’m not. I’ve allowed you to be a little shit right now in my training room. Do not expect me to permit this behavior going forward.” His tutor let go of him suddenly, and the boy staggered back. “You will sit your studies. You will behave. You will learn how to fight when we deem you ready to learn. Above all, you will not disrespect your father like that again.”

Resentment bloomed in Paul’s chest, hot and heady. He tamped down on it with the control Mother taught him. “I understand.” The bitterness was replaced by painful embarrassment. How immature must he have seemed to the great Duncan Idaho, lashing out like the baby he professed not to be?

Father… Shame coated his throat. His father was out there somewhere in the Imperium, risking his life fighting Harkonnens, and Paul was here in his mother’s wing, throwing tantrums.

The swordmaster’s bearing softened slightly at the sight of Paul’s embarrassment and shame, scrawled plainly across his charge’s face. “I get it. I understand what you’re feeling.” Duncan clapped him on the back. “You’re the heir. One day I’ll serve you. Better you get that outburst out of your system now than let your father see any of it.”

The floor suddenly became very interesting.

He tucked his chin to avoid the older man’s regard.

“I don’t reward bad behavior. You know that. I am, however… impressed that you managed to get into one of the cabinets without the code.” Paul caught a glimpse of the shield in Duncan’s hand as he lifted his head.

He caught the shield band in one hand before he had even realized the man had tossed it at him.

“Get used to wearing that all the time, as we do. You’re smart. You’ll figure it out. We won’t be starting live edges. I will see you in this training room every day for practice on your sayaw forms. If you behave, we’ll spar with bokkens.” Elation ran through him. Paul had thought himself well and truly in trouble for a moment there.

Forms training every day was a far better outcome than nothing. He would make Duncan proud. And Father would be proud if Duncan gave him good reports on Paul’s progress.

The Ginaz swordmaster strode from the room. Before he exited, he stopped in the doorway. “Paul…” The boy could see no traces left of sternness left on his rugged, tanned face. “You’ll be alright, kid.”

Paul watched him go.

He thought of the filmbooks. Ecaz. Hagan. Arrakis. All the places he could go one day. Paul looked at the shield in his hand. He would do his best in the classroom with Thufir. He’d show Duncan that he deserved to fight with live edges. Resolution formed in the depths of his mind. Paul would surpass them all.

-

Mother had found him later that week in the same training room. Duncan left much earlier, while Paul elected to stay behind. Pattern after pattern, he whirled on the training mat, weaving around imaginary opponents. The sayaw forms were the foundation upon which the Atreides Eskrima rested.

His skinny limbs ached, and he could feel sweat trickling down his back under his loose tunic, but Paul kept going. Duncan had called the forms a type of dance. While he hated the dance lessons his mother kept him in, the rhythm of the sayaw forms was far more appealing.

A fight had the same beats as a live pulse, he’d found.

The new training regimen gave Paul something to do, a goal to work for. But when he wasn’t training with Duncan or struggling through Thufir’s mind games, the emptiness would creep back in.

Paul would watch filmbook after filmbook on the countless planets of the Imperium. Even anything with information of what lay beyond the Imperium. Anything but the hollowness of the Atreides manor.

Even the promise of live-edge dueling shortly did little to stave off the immense pressure Paul faced when he was alone with himself or the lingering fear that he would never live up to that pressure.

He attempted to take Duncan’s words about his father to heart. The bitterness that welled up inside Paul remained. The Duke deserved a better son, he thought. But he would have to make do with me.

When Mother came to him that afternoon, he could feel the tiniest bit of terror emanating from her serene countenance. Her face was calm as always - yet the slight razor-edge of her fear sent a chill down Paul’s spine. “Paul.”

“Mother,” the boy said, pulling out of his lowered stance to stand up straight, wiping his brow with the edge of his tunic.

She pressed her lips together. “Come. There is someone you must meet.” Without another word, his mother turned away from him sharply.

Curiosity and dread warred for dominance in Paul’s thoughts. His mother, Lady Jessica, was Bene Gesserit and fearless. What could frighten her?

Dutifully, he followed after her. Just as Duncan had taught him that week, he took extra care to make his steps as silent as possible.

The lady stopped abruptly in front of her presence-chamber. Paul could see his mother’s reluctance to enter, though she conquered that reluctance after a moment and pushed the door open. A slip of a girl sat on the bench by the far wall. Her face was blank and hollow under the light of the glowglobe. He thought she looked awfully skinny, even more so than him.

“Paul, this is Chryse. She will be joining our household as my new handmaiden, though she is still in training.”

The boy looked over Chryse once more. His mother rarely took on new handmaidens and always ones that came to her fully trained. Perhaps that knowledge should have put him on guard, but Paul somehow knew he had nothing to fear. The girl’s dark almond-shaped eyes, too large for her face, met his gaze.

He straightened up under her scrutiny. Paul wanted her to… be impressed. “Hello.” The boy tried for the deep resonance of his father’s voice but only sounded gravelly. He winced.

“Hello.” Someone else might have been daunted by the expression on Chryse’s face - like a frozen-over lake on Lankiveil. Lankiveil’s eternal winter was inconceivable to Paul. He’d only seen snow in the filmbooks.

Even around him, his mother’s own look never defrosted. The boy was used to it.

Lady Jessica stepped forward as if to come between them. “She will be joining you for some of your lessons. I’ve already spoken to Duncan. I hope you will come to regard her as a… companion.”

A new sparring partner! Well, that made the girl’s presence chafe less. Paul disliked his mother’s implication that he required a companion. He was doing just fine without one. Then an unexpected wave of giddiness swept away his dislike. Sparring with Duncan was unfairly one-sided. Paul enjoyed the thought that he could have an opponent against whom he might win. Maybe when she wasn’t attending to his mother or in lessons with him, Chryse would watch filmbooks with him. Paul could show her everything he knew. The girl might command his Sardaukar figurines while he fought her with his Atreides legions. He wasn’t entirely sure how girls acted typically, but his mother’s new handmaiden seemed like she’d be willing to play with him.

Thoughtlessly, he darted over to her and grabbed her hand. Paul dragged her with him as he skipped towards the door. Mother made an odd choked sound in her throat at the sight of the two of them, but he ignored her.

The girl stopped suddenly just before the doorway. He turned towards her and his mother. Why the delay? “Well, come on! You haven’t explored our wing much, have you?”

Chryse looked to his mother for a moment as if silently asking for permission. When she received a nod, the girl turned to look at him once more. “No, I haven’t.” Her voice quavered. To Paul, she sounded like she didn’t speak often. Weird.

“Let’s go!” His mother let them leave her chamber without any words in protest.

The younger girl’s hand was cold in his, but as her palm warmed, she began to match his tight grip.

 When Paul looked back to see if she was paying attention to him, he saw the slightest smile on her face directed at him.

Man tumblr was tweaking when I tried to post this the first time. I had three chapters of this story completed before I dropped it and I'm now writing the 4th. Thanks for reading!

Tagging: @redskull199987 @itsemy01 @blahzaiblahsheep @herebereblogs

[passionfruitsonvenus-blog]

If I were a madman, jaba dibi-dibi-dam

Decades ago, Michel Foucault wrote https://freetools.seobility.net/de/seocheck/check?url=https%3A%2F%2Fvipmovies.to%2F&crawltype=1 a study of https://www.skydiveaz.com/about/2018/04/27/default-calendar/arizona-state-record-2018-fai-wingsuit-world-record-camp ir mental illness, "History of insanity in the era of another cl http://www.authorstream.com/oewweep/ sicism." He put in a very particular way on how to treat of views transformation of mental disorders. Long trip we went out trepanation of the skull and inhibit bonds - comfortable in hospitals, drug treatment. a side effect of these considerations is the point that this - that nobody is normal. Each of us in some way by the different "ideal" figure of normality - and you can say that if several people call it little ... crazy madman Ken Kesey. Rebel, hippie, drug addict, famous for undergoing electroshock treatment just to see "what it is." In 1962, when he wrote: "one Flew the Cuckoo's nest" was made as a place - when they work - and well-dressed. History McMurphy struggle worth ambiguous, allegorical - completely run books are squeezed t in the habit of criticizing us, not only in the mind, but also the whole, and by his learning and the power of the doctrine of the age. In general, as the Greeks had already developed the filming of some time - after all anarchists are he loves the cinema now, ye rebels; shall we crazy; in all, and raging he that is least is really different. Already in 1975, the director of Czech origin from the Milos Forman, are well known in the rear of the camera so that he went out to the filming. And it was made. And he wants to http://www.basenotes.net/members/26270542-mechanix It is done. I created a true masterpiece. It's a movie about the fight. The main character, Mark, Patrick McMurphy, is locked in a mental hospital as "antisocial person '.Rzeczywiście is criminal - but do not give in to close the prison, and pretend psychiczną.W disease hospital waiting for a meeting with all of the" flesh "types of disorders - big in India would probably autistic mute, and overturning the entire deviants Zen. the staff is - the sadistic sister Ratched at the helm. https://www.deviantart.com/maxmaxjones the battle begins - but by degrees, a child in school antics have become a battle highest value. McMurphy eyes our "promoted" to the next level weakness Ombudsman - Ombudsman individual and all of creation is unusual. He who is not the patient, is the same as that of normal people. Hence in order to humanity, which is mainly based on an assault salad ... Allegorical two people - actors, and they managed to play great. Nicholson has been created - I'm not afraid to say - the performance of the outstanding quality of life. This is an industry almost animal envy him a strong disintegrant framework. He runs cries gloom and n is large, the whole frame - stolen from behind. At the same time, the archetype is the essence of masculinity watching the match is like playing basketball, fish at sea, while others, the lust was real lucky - I give you death; The "magic" So it becomes Nicholson in coach, and mentor, father and priest to life - by the end become as a sacrifice for our religion przebudzenie.A antagonistka it? Remember the lady in the window next to the caller poczcie.Złośliwą officials, while the first-floor apartment on one of the radio turns. Controller on the bus. Mrs. cool director. The case herein is the feature of all these characters, my sister, my soldiers that Ludovico had played with his hand glittered in the Fletcher wydestylowała Ratched. And this commandment have an absolute surrender is silent, each one of all the neglect of my - Fletcher plays in a simple way, as it takes away the face of any emotion at all. We are dealing with a perfect robot - one of the more than a zestawionym "crazy" Nicholsonem.Cały the image of these monuments - and each of the holy np.wspomniane off the match before watching a fishing trip of all, the game of basketball, above all because of the grand chief at last - everyone should know, however, does not have a feature directed by the knowledge ... (accepted by him and later used in the "van" in 1984) - the film is a comic drama about the expansion of the air, tyczącego final decisions. Well, it's working "Lot ..." interpretation of the events at every level - and compared with the analysis of mental cases; the fight against the apotheosis of "systems"; struggle out of "free escape Freudian analysis of human (Id-Nicholson in the fighting, she Superego Ratched Duke, which I lost). Forman created excellent in the film 'exit' in life and remaining forever. Thus, the normal, are you? What's more, there is - or, if it can not be seen, and his heart shall be lifted.

[artsandclarts]

DISCWORLD: WYRD SISTERS

The sixth book in the Discworld series, published 1988. In 1995 it was adapted into a BBC Radio 4 radio play. Later in 1996 it was adapted to a theatre play by Stephen Briggs. It was also a turned into a six part animation in 1997,

SYNOPSIS

“Things like crowns had a troublesome effect on clever folks; it was best to leave all the reigning to the kind of people whose eyebrows met in the middle.

Three witches gathered on a lonely heath. A king cruelly murdered, his throne usurped by his ambitious cousin. A child heir and the crown of the kingdom, both missing. The omens are not auspicious for the new incumbent, for whom ascending this tainted throne is a more complicated affair than you might imagine, particularly when the blood on your hands just won’t wash off and you’re facing a future with knives in it…”

QUOTES

“Only in our dreams are we free. The rest of the time we need wages.”

“Unlike wizards, who like nothing better than a complicated hierarchy, witches don’t go in much for the structured approach to career progression. It’s up to each individual witch to take on a girl to hand the area over to when she dies. Witches are not by nature gregarious, at least with other witches, and they certainly don’t have leaders. Granny Weatherwax was the most highly-regarded of the leaders they didn’t have.”

“The duke had a mind that ticked like a clock and, like a clock, it regularly went cuckoo.”

“Granny Weatherwax was often angry. She considered it one of her strong points. Genuine anger was one of the world's greatest creative forces. But you had to learn how to control it. That didn't mean you let it trickle away. It meant you dammed it, carefully, let it develop a working head, let it drown whole valleys of the mind and then, just when the whole structure was about to collapse, opened a tiny pipeline at the base and let the iron-hard stream of wrath power the turbines of revenge.”

“And, with alarming suddenness, nothing happened.” 

“‘Right,' he said uncertainty. His mind was grinding through the problem. She was a witch. Just lately there'd been a lot of gossip about witches being bad for your health. He'd been told not to let witches pass, but no one had said anything about apple sellers. Apple sellers were not a problem. It was witches that were the problem. She'd said she was an apple seller and he wasn't about to doubt a witch's word.” 

“Magrat knew she had lost. You always lost against Granny Weatherwax, the only interest was in seeing exactly how.”

FOR MORE INFO VISIT …

Terry Pratchett Book

Goodreads

Discworld Wiki

[the-book-challengers]

2017 Book Challenge Final List

Book with pictures: Through the Woods by Emily Carroll

Book of letters: Dear Committee Members by Julie Schumacher

Book you’ve read before that never fails to make you smile: Holidays on Ice by David Sedaris

Book with one of the four seasons in the title: The Winter People by Jennifer McMahon

Book by a person of color: The Vegetarian by Han Kang

An Audiobook: The Elementals by Michael McDowell

Book published in 2017: The Bear and the Nightingale by Katherine Arden

Book with a cat on the cover: Ghostly: A Collection of Ghost Stories by Audrey Niffenegger

Book set in two different time periods: Love, Dishonor, Marry, Die, Cherish, Perish by David Rakoff

Book you bought on a trip: High-Rise by J.G. Ballard

Bestseller from a genre you don’t usually read: In the Woods by Tana French Book by an author  from a country you’ve never visited:  We by Yevgeny  Zamyatin    

Book recommended by a librarian: Geek Love by Katherine Dunn

Book with a title that’s a character’s name: Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier

Book with a  non-human perspective: Saga Volume 7 by  Brian K. Vaughan and Fiona Staples 

Book with subtitles: The Awkward Thoughts of W. Kamau Bell: Tales of a 6’ 4,“ African American, Heterosexual, Cisgender, Left-Leaning, Asthmatic, Black and Proud Blerd, Mama’s Boy, Dad, and Stand-Up Comedian by W. Kamau Bell

Book written by someone you admire: Wishful Drinking by Carrie Fisher

First book in a series you’ve never read before: Storm Front by Jim Butcher

Book involving travel: Ghostland: An American History in Haunted Places  by Colin Dickey

Book that’s been on your TBR list for way too long: A Head Full of Ghosts by Paul Tremblay

Book where the main character is a different ethnicity than you: A Bride’s Story Volume 1 by Kaoru Mori

Book by/about a person who has a disability: The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time by Mark Haddon 

Book by an author who uses a pseudonym: The Cuckoo’s Calling by Robert Galbraith

Book set in a hotel: A Gentleman in Moscow by Amor Towles

Book becoming a movie in 2017:  Murder on the  Orient Express by Agatha Christie          

Book set around a holiday other than Christmas: Trick ‘r Treat: Days of the Dead by by Michael Dougherty, Fiona Staples, et. Al. 

Book about food: Cook Korean!: A Comic Book with Recipes by Robin Ha

Book with an unreliable narrator: Dark Matter by Blake Crouch

Book with a red spine: The Batman Adventures: Mad Love by Paul Dini and Bruce Timm

Book with multiple authors: The Best American Science Fiction and Fantasy 2015 by Joe Hill and John Joseph Adams

Novel set during wartime: The Girls by Emma Cline

Book involving a mythical creature: Fables: Deluxe Edition Book 1 by Bill Willingham et. al

Book you loved as a child: The Phantom Tollbooth by Norton Juster

Book about an interesting woman: The Thrilling Adventures of Lovelace and Babbage: The (Mostly) True Story of the First  Computer by Sydney Padua         

ADVANCED CHALLENGES:

Book recommended by an author you love: The Haunting of Hill House by Shirley Jackson

Book about a difficult topic: Rosemary: The Hidden Kennedy Daughter by Kate Clifforf Larson

Book with an eccentric character: The Unbeatable Squirrel Girl Vol 1-3 by Ryan North and Erica Henderson

Book based on mythology: Norse Mythology by Neil Gaiman     

Book that’s  mentioned in another book: And Then There Were  None by Agatha Christie          

Book that takes place over a character’s lifespan: Life After Life by Kate Atkinson

Book from a genre/subgenre you’ve never heard of: Meddling Kids by Edgar Cantero

Bestseller from 2016: The Big Sheep by Robert Froese

Book about an immigrant/refugee: Capital by John Lanchester

Book with a family term in the title: The Dead Duke, His Secret Wife, and the Missing Corpse by Piu Marie Eatwell

Book over 800 pages long: Johnathan Strange and Mr. Norrell by Susanna Clark

Book you got from a used book sale: Horns by Joe Hill

TOTAL: 47 (35 regular + 12 advanced)

2017 BOOK CHALLENGE - 90% FINISHED

[thevampiremarie]

THE KNIFE OF MUAD'DIB (Paul x OC!Reader x Chani) Part III: Duncan

Wherein na-Duke Paul Atreides is not the Bene Gesserit's only prospect for the Kwisatz Haderach. Raised by Paul's side as his playmate and servant, Chryse, the Bene Gesserit's cuckoo child, will forge a new future for her master.

(previously posted on AO3 as Themis)

(Note: I invented some stuff/added some new terminology to make up for worldbuilding that didn't happen in canon. If you have questions just send me an ask!)

PART III: DUNCAN

Duncan did not consider himself an unnecessarily stubborn man. Though he was initially wary of including Lady Jessica’s young Bene Gesserit handmaiden in Paul’s combat training, a year had proven that Paul flourished with the addition of a sparring opponent who matched him in strength and size.

One, two, three. His pupils’ current sparring bout played out in front of him in the training room. The sound of each blow and each block echoed off the walls like a heartbeat. “Arms up, Paul.” Duncan cautioned.

At the reminder, the youth straightened up and his gangly arms, now starting to finally bulk out to Paul’s poorly-hidden satisfaction, came up to properly defend his head and torso. His black curls stuck to his forehead with sweat while a fierce expression furrowed his young brow.

That expression brought a fond smile to Duncan’s face. Paul’s father looked like that when he fought.

Since he had added full contact sparring to Paul’s training, Duncan was pleased to note that the boy continued to earn that privilege with his devotion to every lesson. His scrawny charge appeared early in the training room with eagerness written across his open face every day.

Of course, he still got into mischief and roped his companion into it frequently - that was just Paul’s way. His attitude had greatly improved since that final, fateful temper tantrum and since his lady mother enlisted that girl into her household.

At twelve, Paul had begun to settle into the features that Duncan imagined he would retain into adulthood. Though he could hardly match his tutor in stature or build now, he was growing like a weed. The boy would easily be as tall as him one day, if not taller.

He could still remember the squirming little bundle Leto had pressed into his arms mere hours after Paul’s birth. When the infant’s eyes had met his, he saw the same emerald green eyes of the Duke and his father before him. Duncan felt privileged to have been able to watch that baby grow into a capable, earnest boy.

Paul was, in a way, the son of his heart.

Even though he seemed to be growing into the very image of his father, Duncan could see himself in Paul too. When he was only a toddler, Paul did his very best to imitate the swordmaster’s mannerisms. That child had been so sincere that all who saw him couldn’t help but chuckle.

Now, Paul had grown to unconsciously mimic the way Duncan carried himself, the length of his stride, the way he gestured with his hands. There was no better legacy the warrior wished to leave behind than this youth, a true child of the three of them - Leto, Jessica, and Duncan.

He had taken to combat with the same ease his father had, at nearly the same age, the swordmaster thought as he watched with fondness and pride. Paul darted, quick as a hunter-seeker, past Chryse’s strikes only to counter with his own.

That his liege had entrusted Paul’s training to him was a great honor. The boy in front of him, fighting with a keenness much older than his age, could yet match his noble father in excellence. Whether or not Paul would exceed him remained to be seen.

One did not so easily clear the bar set by Leto Atreides. The Ginaz swordmaster remembered how at newly fifteen, coral disk in hand, he had been sent to join Duke Mintor Atreides’ household and accompany his son and heir, na-Duke Leto Atreides. 

His lord had always been different. Leto had been a mere teenager when they first met, itching to prove his might against the Harkonnens in battle, yet he was wise and principled in a way that Duncan had never known.

Ginaz built master swordsmen and tacticians, not people. Not lords.

After their first spar, after the way Leto clasped his hand and pulled him up from the ground after the na-Duke had sent him sprawling, Duncan knew he would follow that man to the edge of the Imperium and beyond.

There might have been shame and failure in defeat at the hands of a different man. There was no shame in his heart when Leto raised him up, as there was no shame in bowing to the might of the wind.

Later that night, Leto had clasped their calloused hands together, and Duncan remembered thinking, he is half of my soul.

Even the Emperor knew of the then na-Duke Leto’s integrity and the effortless way he commanded respect and loyalty. Thufir Hawat, the most fearsome Mentat in the Imperium, had sworn his fealty to Leto as he had to Mintor and Paulos. The legendary bard-warrior, Gurney Halleck, was plucked out of the Harkonnen slave-pits by Leto and pledged his life to him in return.

The Duke earned every ounce of allegiance given to him.

From that first day on, the Ginaz swordmaster knew he would follow House Atreides until the end of his life. For what was glory, if not serving Leto and his family with all Duncan had? To give his life over to the keeper of his soul?

He would die for his lord without question. The Duke knew this and pressed a more difficult task upon the swordmaster - to live for him, should Leto die first, so that Duncan could protect Paul.

One, two, three. The two children danced around each other on the floor mats before Paul pushed Chryse back far enough that she could not reach him without an answering attack that would do real damage. She stopped for a moment, her gaze darting around the room to catalog everything like a Mentat, and waited for Paul to catch his breath.

“Again,” Duncan commanded, his voice harsher than it should be.

A sigh escaped him at the sight of her barely concealed flinch. He really shouldn’t have barked at her like that. Chryse had never done anything to Paul or Duke Leto. Her presence had lifted Paul’s spirits and challenged him to strive further by all accounts, including his own. The retainer watched the children fight a while longer before halting practice for the day. The two of them gathered cups of water and returned to the mat to stretch, Paul’s carefree chatter filling the room.

Duncan had only lived this long through trusting in his instincts. Around Bene Gesserit, his instincts told him that there was something terribly wrong with these women.

All that said, he and Jessica had come to a consensus many years ago over their shared lord and lover. She made Leto happy. When the woman presented his soulmate with a son and heir, the Duke had never been more pleased. Duncan would die to protect that happiness. He would never go so far as to call her a friend, but they were cordial with one another, and he served and protected her as was his duty.

Though it didn’t matter how cordial and respectful she was to the swordmaster or how many smiles she brought to Leto’s face, Duncan trusted any member of her order about as far as he could throw one.

Her little handmaiden unnerved him in the same way they did.

The day Chryse joined her household, Jessica had pulled him aside. He remembered being taken aback by the wild, desperate fear in her eyes. That smooth voice of hers had only the barest quiver when she informed him of the girl that the Imperial truthsayer delivered in-person to Caladan.

At her words, the swordmaster straightened up while one of his hands strayed to the long sword, sheathed at his belt. “Is she going to pose a threat?” He growled out. That truthsayer be damned. The whole Bene Gesserit be damned. He would protect Leto and Paul at any cost.

He counted the time she took to respond in heartbeats. With each beat that passed, ire set deeper into his bones, and he stepped closer to the lady to press for her answer.

Jessica looked away from Duncan to her pale hands as if examining the tendons that lay beneath the skin. In the moment before she answered, her imperious expression twisted into what looked like shame. Duncan blinked, and the guilt was gone so fast, he wondered if he’d imagined it. 

“...No.”

Their gazes met. He trusted her to protect their family. Jessica knew that. While her trepidation alone was enough to mark this unknown girl as a threat in Duncan’s mind, he had faith that Jessica would never let anyone bring harm to House Atreides. To Leto.

Duncan perused her face, looking for any hint of a lie. She seemed truthful enough. “Alright.” He stepped back. That was hardly a satisfactory answer, but Duncan would let it lie as Jessica was indiscernible once more.

She neatly tucked her hands behind her back, out of his sight. “Her name is Chryse. She is to be my handmaiden when she grows older, but for now, I’d like her to accompany Paul to his sparring lessons with you.” Duncan knew Jessica well enough to know when she was giving a command, one framed diplomatically as a request.

The urge to refuse that command was strong, but he instantly understood what she meant under her poised words. Jessica would never jeopardize Paul and Leto by allowing a known threat into their house. This girl was an unknown. Should anything happen under his supervision, Jessica knew he would protect Paul. Duncan did not doubt that she’d arranged other minders for the little handmaiden when he wouldn’t be there.

He would obey his lady’s command, and the two of them would guard Paul against this unknown.

Chryse was quiet, quieter than any child of her age he’d ever known. They had met for the first time when a giddy Paul had dragged her behind him, both to show off his new companion and to seek Duncan’s approval.

She and Jessica shared the same placid countenance that all Bene Gesserit had, a countenance that unnerved him every time he experienced it. The ice in her face only melted when Paul looked to her to ensure her attention during one of his rambles about the latest filmbook he’d seen or when Paul asked her some sort of open-ended question with the bright curiosity of a young child.

When anyone set choices in front of her, the girl seemed overwhelmed and lost. Chryse shied away from decisions, and Paul seemed to enjoy earnestly guiding her through them, even if he hadn’t entirely realized he was doing so. Duncan was grateful Paul didn’t have an ounce of selfishness or ill-intent towards her, for her sake.

There was something wrong with her. The swordmaster was sure of it, and that surety set him on edge. Duncan had observed her during their first lesson - when Chryse fought, Duncan felt that combat was intrinsic to her and required no conscious effort on her part. As if she was constructed instead of raised.

Halleck’s beloved Orange Catholic Bible came to mind. Thou shalt not make a machine in the likeness of a human mind.

Hunter-seekers were constructed for combat, too, though those machines had to be operated by someone else, somewhere else. He feared that someone, somewhere, was operating this girl.

Duncan Idaho knew that time was not an enemy, unlike what many other men thought. It was an ally. So he waited, and he watched.

Of course, Duncan had sparred with her himself before so much as letting her near Paul with a bokken. The girl-child didn’t only land one hit - she landed many. She left bruises. For a few moments during the fight, he almost stopped seeing her as a child in his care, not more than ten standard years old. Chryse was another enemy, another Harkonnen or Sardaukar, and Duncan Idaho couldn’t see past that until she was sprawled on the training mat beneath him, the tip of his bokken under her small jaw. One particularly forceful blow and he’d have broken her neck. The child hadn’t responded or whispered a word in protest. She merely continued to look up at Duncan with her large, guileless eyes, like a calf going to slaughter.

In the year since their first meeting, Chryse had managed to put his initial fears to rest. She had a very marked reluctance to physically injure Paul when the two of them sparred and would go out of her way to avoid doing so, even if that action put her at a disadvantage. It frustrated the boy to no end, but Duncan preferred it to the alternative. There were no threats or thwarted assassination attempts from her or anyone else. It seemed like the only people who held Chryse’s reins were them.

But Duncan was not completely heartless. The more time she spent with Paul, the less overwhelmed she seemed. Chryse’s movements were still uncanny, but he watched her slowly become more like a child and less like a weapon, like a winter melted into spring. The girl tended towards a rather endearing wide-eyed naïveté and innocent wonder.

The two of them had grown since their first meeting in directions that complimented the other. Paul wasn’t nearly as restless and dissatisfied as he had been. She grounded him and made him happy in a way the adults in his life simply couldn’t. The boy had continued to guide and nurture her, and Chryse had continued to trust in him enthusiastically. They reminded Duncan of the young vines Jessica tended to in the gardens, intrinsically and unconsciously intertwined as they reached for the sun.

Time was an ally. Duncan had time to continue watching her and ensure she wouldn’t grow into her potential as a threat. Paul had time to grow into his potential as a soldier, a warrior who could defend himself.

A servant appeared in the doorway. “Pardon me, Sir. Lady Jessica requests her handmaiden’s assistance in her presence-chamber.” He nodded his assent quickly and gestured for Chryse to follow after the attendant. The girl hesitated for a moment, seemingly ill at ease. Duncan didn’t miss her unease or the way she tamped down on it with force.

Paul had rounded on Duncan as soon as she’d left without a backward glance, endearingly chattering on about their lesson. “I think I did better today with the grappling? I’m trying-” For the moment, the swordmaster would put away his concerns, and he turned his attention to the boy in front of him.

Paul attempted to duck away from Duncan’s hand but failed to avoid a fond ruffle of his dark hair. “You did well, Paul.” The retainer didn’t give out empty praise - Duncan knew his honesty would benefit Paul the most. Chryse was unnervingly quick at picking up the forms and throws she learned, but Paul even now had a bright mind that could anticipate her moves in advance and adjust instantly to compensate. He had an innate control of every spar; there again, Duncan could see Leto in him. 

“I’m proud of you.”

Paul stopped short at his words. He looked then like the small child Paul had been, a child who clung to Duncan’s every word and often looked for his approval and attention. Before he could respond, the tutor continued. “Listen to me. I know you know that one day, you must be Duke Atreides. To you, that seems far away and impossible right now.” Duncan could see Paul’s uncertainty whenever his future as the Duke was brought up as clear as day, for all of the boy’s feigned confidence and maturity.

The Dukedom was his by right of birth. But the potential and capability to be a great man, a great leader, a great Duke; that was all Paul. No great ancestor or accomplished relative could have given Paul that. While the boy didn’t have an inherently boastful or vain temperament, Paul lacked true confidence in spades. Without it, he would fail.  “I have never lied to you, and I do not intend to start now. When that time comes, you will be deserving of it. I promise you.”

The boy grew somber at the weight behind Duncan’s words, and his green eyes stayed fixed on the man’s face.

The Harkonnens circled ever closer, their military might backed by the obscene riches they drained from Arrakis. 

At the emperor’s command, Leto had been called before the Landsraad that week to negotiate a dispute between their quadrant and an adjacent quadrant.

The Great Houses under Leto’s jurisdiction as Warden of Centaurus Quadrant had risen against the Great Houses of Bode Quadrant. The skirmishes grew bloodier by the day. If House Atreides could not keep the peace, the emperor wouldn’t hesitate to strip them of the wardenship. Padishah Shaddam IV looked for every chance to undermine Leto.

The moment they finished in the training room, Duncan planned to head straight to the war chamber to coordinate the deployment of Atreides troops to the many planets under their dominion, under Leto’s orders. Ideally, they would halt the bloodshed entirely, but judging from the most recent intelligence from Hawat, protracted disputes were the more realistic outcome.

As sheltered as his childhood was, Paul had only known peace. Duncan did not doubt that peace would be in shorter supply when the boy reached the age of majority. Dukehood was his right, and Paul needed to know it. Belief in that right was all that stood between him and his possible destruction.

Paul straightened up under Duncan’s gaze. “Leading our House is your right, Paul. It is what you are owed. You need to own it.” Steel settled in the boy’s gaze, and Duncan grew pleased at the sight of it. Paul would take his words to heart.

When Paul responded, his voice seemed to echo off the walls with a gravity that far outstripped his age. “I understand.” There were still a million and one different ways the boy could falter, and hundreds of thousands of other factors that might end their House. 

But the youth standing before him wore an expression of ancient understanding, some otherworldly wellspring of memory and experience. There was no reasonable explanation for how Paul had come to that understanding right here, right now, but it was so intrinsic that Duncan didn’t question it at the moment.

The moment between them passed, and the peculiar awareness that had taken over this twelve-year-old boy went with it. What in the Imperium had just happened?

As if nothing odd had occurred, Paul bowed as he always did at the end of sparring lessons. “May I be excused?” Duncan silently nodded and watched as Paul dashed from the room, no doubt in search of his mother or Gurney Halleck, or off to his room to put on another one of those filmbooks he liked so much.

The swordmaster had felt the same distinctive unease around Paul that he felt around Bene Gesserit. Duncan knew how to pick his battles, though, and the boy seemed fine and, most importantly, safe enough. Under Jessica’s careful eye, Paul was not likely to harm himself somehow with… whatever that was. It would suffice for now, and later Duncan would press Jessica into a conversation about what sort of alien mess her religious cult had undoubtedly dragged Paul into. While he didn’t have any proof those witches were involved, it seemed highly unlikely that they didn’t have anything to do with it.

If he needed to guard Paul against himself, he would do it. Right now, though, Duncan had a more pressing priority of holding the quadrant together so Leto could return from the Landsraad safely and in victory.

He could feel a headache building behind his eyes. With a resigned sigh, Duncan left the training room.

Ah yes the iconic queer dynamic of "lord and the knight who would die for him and the lord's lady)

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