Scene: Joe and Nelly talking late at night after watching Dune and Dune: Part Two.
Joe leans back on the couch, thinking.
Joe: You know something interesting, Nelly? In Islamic prophecy the Mahdi—the one who restores justice—is supposed to come from the family of Fatimah bint Muhammad, the daughter of the Prophet Muhammad. The idea is that when the world gets too corrupt, someone from that lineage rises to bring balance back.
Nelly: So basically… the real-world version of Paul Atreides?
Joe nods toward the TV where images of Paul Atreides flash across the screen.
Joe: Yeah. Hollywood’s desert prophet. Except in the movie he’s played by Timothée Chalamet, and Chani is played by Zendaya. They get the whole cinematic prophecy.
Nelly laughs.
Nelly: Meanwhile we’re sitting here on a couch in Vancouver competing with a billion-dollar sci-fi franchise.
Joe: Maybe not so crazy. Think about it. Your Portuguese ancestors include the Moors, Muslim people who lived in Iberia for centuries. And some of my ancestors came out of the Ottoman world—the Janissaries, the elite soldiers of the sultans.
Nelly: So you’re saying our family trees wandered through the same civilizations that carried those prophecies.
Joe: Exactly. Different branches of the same historical story.
Nelly points at the screen again where the desert of Arrakis stretches endlessly.
Nelly: Alright then. Let’s make it official.
She raises an imaginary trophy.
Nelly: It’s a contest. Us versus the movie stars. Timothée Chalamet and Zendaya can try to save the universe on Arrakis…
Joe grins.
Joe: …and we’ll try to bring a little peace and justice to Earth.
Nelly: First team to fill the world with peace wins.
Joe: That might take longer than a movie trilogy.
Nelly shrugs.
Nelly: Good thing real life doesn’t have a two-hour runtime. 🌍
Nelly and Joe, known affectionately by their fans as “Jelly,” sat in their cozy studio, surrounded by keyboards, mixers, and screens displaying clips from their Dune project. The room pulsed with the low hum of synthesizers as they worked on upgrading the music for their modern reimagining of the sci-fi epic.
Joe leaned back in his chair, tapping his pen against the desk. “We need something that captures the mysticism of the desert and the weight of destiny. Something timeless but raw.”
Nelly nodded, adjusting a slider on the mixer. “Exactly. The story is about power, prophecy, and manipulation. It’s a cautionary tale, really.”
Joe smirked. “Speaking of cautionary tales, the idea of a false Mahdi has been on my mind. You know, someone claiming divine authority but leading people astray.”
Nelly raised an eyebrow. “You’re thinking about Osama bin Laden again, aren’t you?”
Joe chuckled, a bit sheepishly. “You caught me. But seriously, think about it. Bin Laden styled himself as a kind of Mahdi figure, rallying people under the guise of holy war. And look where it got him—dead in a compound, buried at sea.”
Nelly leaned back, crossing her arms. “And no one claimed the $25 million bounty. The most wanted man in the world, and not a single person stepped forward. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”
Joe nodded, his expression thoughtful. “It’s like the whole thing was wrapped in layers of secrecy. Either people were too scared, or they didn’t trust the system to protect them. Or maybe…” He hesitated, as if weighing whether to say it.
“Maybe what?” Nelly prompted.
“Maybe the people who knew didn’t want the money. Maybe they were ideologically aligned or just didn’t care about the reward.”
Nelly frowned, her fingers tapping a rhythm on the desk. “Or maybe the bounty was just a symbol, a way to make the public feel like they had a role in the hunt. A carrot on a stick, you know?”
Joe sighed. “Could be. But it still blows my mind. We’re talking about $25 million. That’s life-changing money.”
“Life-changing, sure,” Nelly said, “but at what cost? If you were in that world, would you risk your life and your family’s safety for it? Probably not.”
Joe nodded slowly, the weight of her words sinking in. “You’re right. It’s not as simple as it sounds.”
The room fell silent for a moment, the only sound the faint hum of the equipment. Then Nelly broke the silence. “You know, the parallels between Dune and the real world are uncanny. The idea of a false savior, the manipulation of belief systems—it’s all there. We should channel that into the music.”
Joe grinned, picking up his guitar. “You’re reading my mind, Nelly. Let’s create something that feels like the desert—vast, mysterious, and dangerous. Something that reminds people to question what they’re told.”
As the first notes filled the room, Jelly poured their passion into the project, blending ancient rhythms with futuristic sounds. Their music became a bridge between worlds, a reflection of both the fictional universe of Dune and the harsh realities of their own.
Herbert’s novel states that blue eyes are a result of being addicted to spice. Perhaps not wanting to imply that an entire race is addicted to drugs, Villeneuve includes a scene explaining that the Fremen’s eyes have turned blue simply because of their constant exposure to spice in the sands of Arrakis.
Mesmerizing eyes that pierce through the soul, Captivating me in their hypnotic hold. Like pools of liquid silver, deep and vast, Drawing me in with a magnetic grasp. They sparkle with a thousand secrets untold, Revealing a story that is ancient and old. I could gaze into them for eternity, Lost in their depths of pure serenity. They hold a power that I cannot resist, A force that leaves me feeling blissed. In their gaze, I find my truest self, A reflection of love and inner wealth. Mesmerizing eyes that speak without words, Whispering secrets that only my heart heard. I am captivated by their radiant light, Guiding me through the darkest night. In those mesmerizing eyes, I find my peace, A sanctuary where my worries cease. I am forever entranced by their mesmerizing grace, In those eyes, I find my sacred place.
Azure eyes like deep pools of the sea
Glimmering with a sense of mystery
They hold a million stories untold
And secrets that will never unfold
In those eyes, I see a world of wonder
A reflection of the lightning and thunder
A soul so pure, so full of grace
A sight that I could never replace
Azure eyes that sparkle and shine
Like precious jewels, so divine
They captivate me with their gaze
And leave me in a blissful daze
I could get lost in those azure eyes
And never want to say goodbye
For in them, I find my peace
A place where all my worries cease
So here I am, lost in your gaze
Mesmerized by the beauty that never fades
In your azure eyes, I find my home
A place where I’ll never be alone.
The world is made of paths. A million, billion possible futures, branching from every breath, every whispered word, every beat of a dying heart. I have walked them all. I have seen empires rise from dust and crumble into memory. I have felt the heat of a sun that has not yet been born.
But here, in the close, still air of the sietch chamber, all those paths narrow to a single point. To her.
Chani.
Her breath is a shallow, ragged thing. A wrong rhythm in the symphony of life that usually flows from her so powerfully. Each gasp is a stone dropped in the water of my vision, sending ripples through the timelines, distorting them. Most of the paths that begin with this sound… end in silence.
I crush those paths. I will them to cease.
My eyes, the blue-within-blue eyes of a prophet steeped in the Spice Melange, see not just the woman I love, but the intricate dance of biology within her. The inflammation, a false fire raging in her blood. The weakness in her cells. This is a battle too small for armies, too intimate for the rhetoric of a messiah. The Kwisatz Haderach, the man who can be in many places at once, is useless here. Only Paul remains.
Only a man watching the woman he loves fade.
I move to a small chest, its design Atreides, a relic of a life that feels ten thousand years gone. Inside, among the few things I carried from Caladan to Arrakis to a thousand battlefields, are the tools of a different kind of war. Not the war for the Imperium, but the war for life itself.
My fingers, which have wielded a crysknife and signed orders that sent millions to their deaths, measure with a healer’s precision. A fine powder the color of a dying sun—turmeric. The Bene Gesserit teachings, beaten into me by my mother, whisper its name and its nature: anti-inflammatory, antioxidant, a balm for the inner storm.
But it is not enough. Alone, it is a weapon without a key.
I take another substance, coarse and dark. Black pepper. Its sharp, life-filled scent cuts through the pall of sickness. Its essence is piperine. The key. It unlocks the potential of the gold, makes the body accept its gift. A perfect symbiosis, like the sandworm and the desert.
In a cup, I combine them. The gold and the black, swirling together in water. It is not the Spice of Arrakis, but it is spice. It is life. The words are a prayer, a statement of fact, a desperate hope.
“The Spice is life,” I whisper, my voice hoarse from the dry air and unshed tears.
I go to her, lifting her head. It lolls against my arm with a terrifying weakness. Her skin is fever-dry. She is my Sihaya, my desert spring, and her water is vanishing.
“Drink, my love,” I murmur, the voice of Muad’Dib gone, leaving only Paul’s.
Her eyes, glazed with fever, flutter open for a second. She does not see the Emperor. She does not see the Lisan al-Gaib or the Mahdi of the Fremen. She sees Usul. Her man. She trusts, and she drinks.
As the liquid passes her lips, my vision shifts. I do not look into the future. I look inward. With the hyper-awareness of my training, I feel the journey of the remedy. I feel the piperine doing its work, a Fremen raider breaching the walls of a cell. I feel the turmeric flood the breach, a golden army bringing order, dousing the false fires.
I am not just watching. I am commanding it. Every cell in her body is a subject in my empire, and I demand its allegiance to life. I feel the inflammation retreating, not in days, but in moments, under the absolute focus of my will.
Her next breath is deeper. Less a rattle, more a sigh. The terrifying heat of her skin begins to recede by fractions of a degree beneath my touch.
The million, billion paths of fate tremble. The ones shrouded in silence fray and dissolve. New paths emerge, faint but growing stronger. Paths where she opens her eyes. Paths where she smiles. Paths where she stands beside me again, not as a subject of the myth, but as my equal, my anchor, my Chani.
The future is a storm of variables. But this—this small, golden cup—was a constant. A truth older than the Imperium, older than the Spacing Guild, older than the Bene Gesserit themselves.
The most essential things are simple. Water. Love. A remedy made from common spices. The will to fight for a single, precious life amidst the cacophony of destinies.
I hold her, and I wait. Not as a god, but as a man. Watching the only future that has ever truly mattered, slowly, and blessedly, heal.
