It was an old song, written millennia ago for Saint Alia of the Knife, famed Aunt to Leto II, and sister to Maud’dib.
The people had sung it in their market places, and at great celebrations in her honor.
Inama nushif
Al asir hiy ayish
She is eternal
No malice can touch
Duncan had read about her in the Archives left to his care at Dar-Es-Balat by the God Emperor himself in those final days before His Division in the desert.
He’d read about a lot of things that might otherwise have been left to the sands, and was made the wiser in so doing, for he knew more of the history and legacy of Arrakis than any other living Soul by the time of Leto’s re-emergence from the deep Sareer.
And that knowledge made him as dangerous as he was clever.
The last of a long line of men who bore the name Idaho, Duncan had become the most respected advisor in the Court of the Divided One.
It was a name that rather amused him, considering what had happened so very recently to actually unite him that much closer to those who were already his lovers.
Through their Bond, he could sense contentment and peace.
Which he took to be a blessing.
Such moment were all often few and far between.
When he found them, they took his breath away.
Their private wing of the renovated Fortress Citadel, was blissfully quiet.
He could feel the air being stirred by fan blades in the ceiling that mimicked the warm breeze which blew endless across the high walls of the Fortress defenses.
It was likely to be a beautiful evening, as recent storms had cleared the sky, the day’s business was concluded, and there were no official functions to attend for at least the next two days.
Someone outside was singing that old song, it’s music floating in from the Square, but the words had been changed to reflect not the tyrant Alia, but the return of her nephew, the God Emperor, Leto II.
Inam nushif
Al asir hiy ayish
He is eternal
No malice can touch
Lia-anni
Zaratha zarati
Singular and ageless
Perpetually bound
Hatt al-hudad
Al-maahn al-baiid
Ay-yah idare
Adamm malum
Through the tempest
Be it deluge or sand
A singular voice
Speaks through the torrent
Duncan paused, pulling back the Spice Fiber drapes across the archway that led to the bedroom.
Their space had been decorated as a fusion of Fremen and Arrakian styles, in a manner that felt comfortable to all three of them.
Familiar and secure.
The bed lay over under the windows in the light of the setting sun that was fading over the last remaining acres of the Forbidden Forest.
Arrakis was also re-emerging from the past, becoming again the Dune of old, transformed once more by the Sandworms into the great desert it was always meant to be.
No other illumination was necessary to show him everything he need see, and as he put his books down on the table to his right, just inside the room, so he smiled warmly, for there upon the softest white sheets were his Mates, wrapped naked in each other’s arms.
Leto always seemed so very small and fragile when compared to his Fremen Naib, who had for decades held together the last remaining true Sietch at Jacurutu with nothing but a Crysknife and sheer bloody minded tenacity.
Lia-anni
Zaratha zarati
Singular and ageless
Perpetually bound
Indeed they were.
Separate journeys finally intertwined.
Or at least that was how Duncan had reasoned it until Leto patiently explained to him that everything was connected, woven together as a great fabric whose strands touched others in an endless, seamless whole.
It was a considerable burden for one who looked so youthful and innocent, to be so wise and ancient.
A dichotomy between truth and perception, knowledge and expectation.
The famous God Emperor of Dune was no more than a small slip of a boy now to the unknowing eye.
He lay on his back, fast asleep, and seeming all the more vulnerable for so tranquil a pause.
His head, a perfect fit to his Naib’s broad right shoulder, was crowned with tousled dark red hair, through which Macbeth ran his fingers, slowly and gently.
Soothing.
Calming.
It was their way whenever Leto dreamt of the sands, of being once more Shai-Hulud, moving deep beneath the desert’s surface, building the future.
Such dreams were not distress, but instead the painful longing for an existence no other Soul could ever properly fathom.
Inam nushif al a sadarr
Eann zaratha zarati
Forever his voice sings
Through the ages eternally bound
Kali bakka a tishuf ahatt
Al hudad aiman dali
Sacrifice is his gift
One that cannot be equalled
Macbeth slid his left arm around Leto’s abdomen, drawing him closer, their bodies moving sensuously against each other.
The sheets barely covered them, and the Naib’s arousal was more than obvious as he kissed his Emperor’s forehead with tender concern.
Duncan could only wonder at how Macbeth normally seemed so very fierce, so very harsh, angular and sharp edged, carved by the desert winds and remorseless sun. He was ruthless, vicious, unwavering in the defense of both his people and his lovers. But lying there with no other concern save the immediate comfort of Leto’s presence, it appeared as though he somehow softened, his edges smoothing out to lift the burdens from his Soul.
At least for a while.
His shimmering blue, half-lidded glance in Duncan’s direction was a promise of passion that could not denied.
Inam nushif
Al asir hiy ayish
He is eternal
No malice can touch
Lia-anni
Zaratha zarati
Singular and ageless
Perpetually bound
Duncan undid his shirt and let it drift to the floor.
They were indeed perpetually bound.
Bonded.
Forever.
Part of that endless fabric.
As vital as the Spice that was once again flowing from Dune.
As necessary to the universe as life itself.
Eann zaratha zarati
Through the ages eternally bound