Chapter Text
Being married to Paul Atreides is somehow at once tedious and precarious. Depending on perspective, an observer might truthfully describe Princess Irulan’s new life as humiliating or humbling.
As heir to the Golden Lion Throne, Irulan Corrino has always confidently wielded the authority which is her birthright. Now, after watching her father deposed and being claimed as a war prize, she’s seen her sphere of influence shrink to a small staff who, it’s been made clear, serve her second to their true master’s whims. Accustomed to abundant and bustling Kaitain, Irulan has been suddenly transplanted into a more provincial existence. With little openly voiced complaint, she’s gone from Imperial luxury to an erstwhile warzone, making do in a partially ransacked governor’s mansion. Instead of soothingly burbling fountains amidst manicured gardens, the view out her window is that of a bone-dry landscape which was, until recently, the epicenter of some explosive tug-of-war.
Irulan is adaptable enough, by necessity of her upbringing. Adjusting to her newfound circumstances might come more easily, however, if such a rapid devolution were not also accompanied by the most profound loneliness of her life. She’s had no contact with her father or sisters since the coup that served as her betrothal. As in any royal household, the walls have eyes. Her mother-in-law extends to her cold practicality at best; the rest of the Emperor’s inner circle regard her with suspicion. And she’s exchanged scarcely a word with Paul beyond the rote forms of ceremony which bound them together.
Whatever else could be said about her husband, he is a man who keeps his promises. He’s followed through on everything he said he would give her: safety, her father’s life, and indeed his own name. And that’s the whole of it. There’s no cause to question his preemptive vows, spoken not to his bride but the woman he truly loved: “That Princess shall have nothing of me but my name. No child of mine nor touch nor softness of glance, nor instant of desire.”
His one lie, it seems, was that they would rule together. But it didn’t take a Bene Gesserit’s truthsense to know that this usurper had no intention of sharing power with any ally of his predecessor, much less Corrino blood. She’s to remain a figurehead, a key to the Empire and little more.
No, Irulan is no Empress. She is consort, not queen. Still, she ought to be grateful. There are those who might suppose, in her position, that she’d worship at Muad’Dib’s feet like his Fremen fanatics. She has her life. Her family was spared in exile. She’s even been granted some degree of privilege as befitting her station in the makeshift palace at Arrakeen, the limitations of this desert planet notwithstanding. Yet despite her official status, she’s little more than a forgotten plaything for the new-crowned Emperor, abandoned in a corner to become caked with sand and dust.
He never did call for her, after the wedding. Even then, she should have known better than to doubt an Atreides’ sense of honor. As the weeks pass and turn to months, she barely sees him. He’s busy, of course, restoring Arrakis and conquering worlds. On the occasions they abide by the same gravity, he splits his time between city and sietch. His eyes still strain, she knows too well, to catch a glimpse of his Fremen lover. Though the woman — Chani — fled when he claimed the throne, his heart resides with her still, and his eye has never fallen on his new wife. On the contrary: there are times he passes Irulan in the halls, and it’s like he looks straight through her.
Irulan does not care for invisibility. She’s vexed by the ice that radiates from her distant husband. True, she has never directly faced his cruelty, but she’s growing weary of his indifference. She’s tried every weapon in her arsenal to no avail in her endless quest to summon his attention. She’s Bene Gesserit; said arsenal runs deep. She’s expected to offer anything, trade even her dignity, to secure a place in his bed. She has a bloodline to carry forward, as much for the sake of salvaging what’s left of the Corrino legacy as for whatever the Sisterhood has planned. But Paul sees right through her, whether her plotting or her very presence.
She thinks that maybe, she can see through him, too. Especially at night, there are times he drifts like a ghost through the corridors, appearing colorless and half-alive. In a kinder world, she’d wonder if the man who is Muad’Dib is lonely, too.
The library in the old governor’s mansion isn’t large, but at least it’s here for her retreat. When construction begins on the new palace, she’s determined to nudge the architect toward a grander equivalent. For now, Irulan sits ramrod-straight, staring at the shelves of cracked tomes and filmbooks. Strange, isn’t it, that even in the chaos of betrayal, this place remained untouched? The Harkonnens — her father, even, she reminds herself, nails driving into her palms — set out to burn one kind of history and left another perfectly whole.
The sound of footsteps pulls her from her reverie. To her surprise, the new Emperor wanders the short aisles, lost in thought. It’s the closest they’ve been since the wedding ceremony; Irulan takes the opportunity to observe this man she married. Tallish but not towering, his build reminds her something of a willow: slender and elegant, all sweeping lines, yet firmly planted. In truth, the image matches what she’s seen of him in battle: one who bends easily with no fear of breaking. He’s pale for one who’s lived under the desert sun, though she supposes the constant shield of a stillsuit could see to that. Besides, the Fremen move under light of the twin moons, don’t they? Black waves fall over his face, the tips kissing sharp cheekbones, partially obscuring the strange melange-blue of eyes that see too much. Dark circles testify to the sleeplessness she suspected from his wanderings.
She lets out a small cough, and he starts. The faintest amusement tugs at her lips: to surprise a man it’s said can glimpse the future is an accomplishment indeed, is it not?
“Ah, Irulan,” he utters in simple greeting, and she wonders briefly at the sound of her name in his mouth. There’s none of the coldness she expected. He’s polite, even somewhat deferential. Yet he’s direct with her name, no distancing title. As is fitting, though it galls her: however recent his ascension, he is above her now in station. Above them all, the Padishah Emperor of the Known Universe.
There was never a hope for the daughter of such a one. One way or another, this was always going to be Irulan’s place, bowing to a man who used her hand as a stepping stone to the throne. Bitterness pools on her tongue, so she merely inclines her head without speaking.
He follows the line of her gaze and pulls a worn novel off the shelf. “Unmasking the Spice-Merchant Murderer,” he reads aloud from the cover. He raises an eyebrow. “I take it you’re one for mysteries and intrigue?”
Irulan is already shaking her head, pasting a wry smile on her face. “I’m afraid I lost whatever taste I may have had for such plots at any early age in my father’s court. Such a narrative is far less enticing through one’s own eyes than on the page.”
Paul nods thoughtfully. Irulan breathes a silent sigh of relief: she’s passed a test. Whether he meant it as such or not, these early interactions are her opening to establish a foothold, a chance for her to shape her husband’s expectations. Here, her answer assured him she has no intention of undermining his authority in his own home. By holding up the treachery of her father’s house for contrast, she’s allied herself with the new dynasty. As a Bene Gesserit, she can never be fully her own agent, but it’s not the Sisterhood Paul’s fury burns brightest against in this moment. Little enough time has passed since he forced his predecessor to kneel at his feet; Irulan is sure the thought has crossed Paul’s mind that his lovely wife could very well pose as Corrino spy.
He crosses the remaining space between them to take a seat across from her at the little table. The trickle of light from a dusty window above catches on his eyelashes; Irulan allows herself a few seconds of fascination. Circumstances being what they are, well-honed instinct tells her she’ll have to prove herself on the merits of her mind before even trying for more physical appeal: however, it can’t hurt her chances to let this husband of hers believe she thinks him beautiful. And she does, at that. There’s little enough harm in the unspoken honesty. That part of her has no quarrel with the louder instinct that warns to fear him.
“So if not mysteries, then what?” questions Paul.
Irulan blinks. It’s not that she’s lost the thread of their conversation; rather, she’s perplexed at the direction. She didn’t expect the man who claimed her hand under threat to display such interest in her preferences. With only fractional hesitation, she answers, “I’m a student of history, I suppose.”
He nods, seemingly satisfied. “And are this library’s offerings up to your standards on that subject?”
Longingly, Irulan spares a thought for the sweeping stacks she hid herself away in for hours back home. But this is home now, and it won’t do to appear ungrateful. She once again inclines her head. “Satisfactory, Your Highness.”
His brow twitches again. “I suppose I should know better than to expect a woman of noble birth to voice a direct complaint. Very well. You can leave a list, if you like, with favorite titles from Kaitain, or others we ought to acquire, and I’ll see what I can do.”
Irulan is careful not to betray her surprise. It wouldn’t do to let Paul think she views him as a cruel captor. Instead, she replies with genuine gratitude: “Thank you, my Lord. That’s very generous.”
With that, he rises to go, then pauses and turns back to her. “Is there anything else you need?”
His tone is considerate, gracious, betraying no impatience. The truth is, of course, her present situation leaves a lot to be desired. She has little clothing suited to this wild desert climate, for starters. Items and habits that were part of her everyday are rare or absent luxuries here. She barely has a staff to speak of. And then there are the more important matters, like bargaining for contact with her sisters, ensuring her father’s lasting safety, or negotiating for dribbles of power that should be her birthright. Yet she stays her hand. The time will be right eventually. For now, she shakes her head, then takes a risk to rest one hand lightly on the back of his. Softly, she asks, “My Lord, forgive me for saying, but the weight you carry betrays you. What is it you need?”
There is strategy to her kindness. She has been trained, after all, to widen every open door. Through that same teaching, she’s aware of the atypical relationship between the Lady Jessica and her Duke. Perhaps their template will be the role she plays to their son, this man she wed. Hope flares: he draws his hand back, but slowly; he doesn’t flinch from her touch. She watches his mouth tighten with truth concealed. At last, under his breath, he mutters what she suspects to be a secondary admission: “Only the miracle of favorable negotiations.”
Irulan cocks her head to show she’s heard. When Paul doesn’t retreat, she asks delicately, “With anyone in particular?”
There’s a tightening between Paul’s brows. “My influence over the CHOAM Company remains fragile as long as the Landsraad refuses to recognize my ascendancy as legitimate. It puts us in a delicate spot with those reluctant to move into the future, as it were. Our coffers are starved for commerce, but at the moment, I’d settle for trade restored with Ecaz.”
Irulan taps her fingers against her thigh, considering. Targeting Ecaz makes sense; their allegiance is mutable, and they control key exports. It’s hard to imagine any commander at war relying on mentats deprived of sapho juice, for instance. She’d prefer not to consider what uses he might have for other drugs Ecaz is known for. At last, she pronounces, “A wedding present.”
Once more, Paul raises an eyebrow.
“You could tell them you wish to give me a fogwood chair for a wedding present,” she explains. “Or say that I’ve pressured you for one, if you’d rather; it’s the sort of exacting demand a spoiled princess might come up with, isn’t it?” The corner of his mouth quirks upward. “It allows them to pretend they haven’t chosen sides; such a move could be simultaneously interpreted as maintaining a Corrino alliance or bowing to the new order. The effect, however, should ripple outward; thus, Ecaz sets an example to those hesitant to be the first to openly endorse Atreides rule without undue risk to their own interests.”
There’s a satisfaction to this kind of strategizing, even as she ignores the twinge it provokes. It’s easier not to dwell on the fact of using her family’s standing to benefit the very usurper who unseated them. She can only hope he perceives her not as overstepping but an asset, willing to lay down her pride in service of her husband’s ambitions.
Paul’s gaze on her is shrewd, evaluative. After having become accustomed to him looking through her, such a direct stare prompts a shiver. “Come to the next meeting of my council,” he instructs. “Gurney will come for you; I don’t know yet when I’ll return from the southern sietches.”
It may not be the opportunity Irulan thought to seek, yet she recognizes an open hand when she sees one. It’s a move that evidences unexpected favor, and she’s pleased to be seen as more than merely an extension of her father. Irulan smiles, feels her spine straighten, inclines her head again. “Of course, my Lord. It would be my honor.”
He hums in acknowledgment, then departs, leaving Irulan to scheme as her Sisterhood would wish of her. It seems Paul is full of surprises — whether irony or consequence for a man with the predictive capabilities of the supposed Kwisatz Haderach.