Title: desert creatures
(Dune crossover/AU)
Author: workerbee73
A Gift For: sweetwatersong
Rating: PG-13
Pairings: Alia Atreides (Natasha Romanoff)/Duncan Idaho (Clint Barton)
Summary/Prompt Used: In some folklore tales, the hero is challenged to hold onto someone and never release them, regardless of the shape the other person takes. Natasha won't let go, no matter what he becomes.
Word Count: ~1,150
Warnings: Vague references to violence, drug use, and sexuality; implied underage relationship (if you have concerns, I encourage you to read the Author’s Endnote at the very bottom of the fic for a more detailed explanation, as this is a direct reference to the crossover source material, and, in this instance, ‘underage’ is a fluid concept.)
Author's Note: This fic draws heavily from the second book in the Dune series, Dune Messiah, by Frank Herbert. NOTE: There is a longer author’s note at the end of this story, containing more detailed (spoilerish) information about the source material. Feel free to read before or after, depending on how unspoiled you want to be. So much love and gratitude to my darling beta, who never gave up on this fic and without whom it never would have seen the light of day.



Banner by frea_o




Come on and let it out
Before you run away from me
Before you're lost between the notes
Just as you take the mic
Just as you dance, dance, dance


- Radiohead, “Jigsaw Falling into Place”


*


You have always been running.

How many lives now? How many taken? How many times remade? Red stretches out before you as flecks of ice fall from the sky; a waking dream. All fades away until there is nothing left but the voices inside you; buried down deep and longing to get out.

You pay no more attention than would otherwise be required, no more than to note that there are enemies in your midst, that there have always been, and that what has been taken by force must be guarded with care.


You pay the Guild Ambassador’s attendants no mind; you pay no attention to the Ambassador himself. All is veiled intent, all is deceit, all is treachery. You learned this in your mother’s womb. But then a man steps forward and the world falls silent. Those inside you fall silent and all you can hear is your heart beating, beating, beating.


They know him as Swordmaster and friend and loyal guard. You know him as something else. You’ve watched those hands line up a shot from a mile away; you’ve seen that face in your dreams.


Ghola, ghost, apparition.


Weapon. Traitor. Abomination.


Brought back from the dead.


He looks up before he leaves and his eyes lock with yours—impossible, for you are well hidden in the rafters of the throne room—and yet, he sees you. You forget how to breathe. The recognition in his face mirrors your own.


Three stories up and a clear line of sight.


I know your name.


*


His face stirs up strange memories. His voice stirs up even more. You train harder and longer and push yourself further than ever.


Eleven blades. Eleven blades and no net. No swordmaster has conquered more than seven, and yet your fifteen year old body is more lethal than a legion of Sardaukar.


You are a weapon. It was always thus.


He finds you there—naked, exhilarated, aroused by your own raw power. His eyes don’t linger but they don’t look away. He sees past the beauty and the myth. He isn’t swayed by the rumors or the allure. He holds your gaze as an equal.


He is gone far too soon.


*


He calls you a child; he steals a kiss. You are ashamed to admit that you wish it had lasted longer.


I took only what was offered, he says, and there is no arrogance, only unrelenting self-assurance.


A voice speaks inside of you—it’s not the first time. You curse him and threaten him and storm off in a rage but you cannot stop touching your lips. Fingers slip inside your robe that night and you indulge in a different memory altogether.


You cannot afford distractions. Weeks pass and there is no end to the plots against your family, against your legacy. Your vision is incomplete, hampered by a future that is always changing. You are of no use unless you push harder and go further.


It was enough spice to put you in a coma, let alone a trance, yet somehow you remained conscious, limbs slow to react but mind sharp. Fragmented on a razor’s edge, you see everything.


He finds you in the temple. It is the first time that you have ever seen him afraid.


What have you done? he says over and over. What have you done?


He carries you back to your room; you are too weak to fight. He is missing the point. He has always missed the point.


You take his face between your hands.


I brought you back once, you tell him. I can do it again.


I know you were sent to hurt me. I don’t care.


He looks at you as if he wishes it were true; you press your lips to his in a promise. He is a threat—of this you have no doubt—but you no longer feel fear.


It was always thus. He was always the most dangerous.


To you.


You tell him that you trust him; tell him that when the moment comes you know he will not strike, that he will be true. His heart is as wide as the sky, as deep as a chasm in the sietch. You’ve seen it before; you know how this story ends.


I trust you, you tell him and kiss him again. I trust you, you say, and whisper his name.


Clint.


*


The moment comes; his hand is stayed.


Your heart keeps beating, beating, beating.


*


Your enemies are dead. The empire lies in tatters; your brother, your god and prophet, is gone, taken back by the desert. His children left helpless and his name tarnished and only you remain. Only you and those inside you who would wage war for your very soul.


There is only one you trust.


I have been here before, she tells you. I know the way out.


We are the same.


He stands beside you now. Two lifetimes. Two lifetimes and he remains by your side. This man created to destroy you; this man who was ordered to kill you but refused.


He reaches for your hand. Fingers calloused and strong, they could swallow you whole. If only there was a place to hide, you say, far away from the burden of the gifts you bear.


He tells you not to be afraid and the way he speaks—the way his smile grows crooked, the lazy cadence of his words, his head inclined towards yours—it speaks in volumes what is hidden in plain sight and at last, you know this to be true:


Memories can be regained. What was lost can still be found.


“Will you come with me?” you ask.


“Wherever you lead.”


And the meek shall inherit the earth.


You give him a gift on your wedding night. Not your body; you gave him that centuries ago. This gift runs deeper. A crysknife unsheathed. A slice on your palm, and a slice on his. Red against red. Debt erased and reborn, and the promise of redemption; always redemption. Children have affection but this is more. This is life; this is everything.


This is your oath. These are your vows.


He kisses the hand pressed to his and kisses your lips as well. He whispers your name.


Natalia.


The night air sits hot and still; the world rests on your shoulders. But you do not have to bear it alone.


I will find you, he says. I will always find you. It’s a promise that works both ways.


For love is as strong as death.




*********


Author’s endnote:
For those unfamiliar with the Dune series, a brief synopsis might be helpful. Set over 20,000 years in the future, Paul Atreides is the emperor of the known universe. Enemies of the Atreides conspire to kill the emperor by cloning an Atreides warrior and close friend of Paul’s, Duncan Idaho, who died many years before. This clone, or ghola, is implanted with a trigger that will compel him to assassinate the emperor; however, when the time comes, Duncan refuses to obey and spares Paul’s life. He also regains all the memories of his former life. He falls in love with Paul’s sister, Alia, and they end up getting married.


Alia is the much younger sister of Paul. She is also pre-born—meaning that, due to a religious ritual her mother underwent while pregnant, she awoke to full consciousness in her mother’s womb, carrying inside her all of the knowledge and memories of everyone in her bloodline. So while she is very young age-wise (15 during the events of the book), she is also strangely old.


In this story, I’ve adapted the events of the book so that the Duncan ghola has been sent to kill Alia instead of Paul (drawing off the obvious C/N parallels), and also assuming that one of the ancient memory-lives that Alia carries inside her is in fact Natasha. For Duncan, I have also assumed that when he was cloned that a bit of someone else’s DNA got mixed in, that perhaps those who created Duncan also collected the genetic material of various warriors over the centuries and that maybe—just maybe—a certain archer got thrown into the mix. Thus Clint lives inside of Duncan the way that Natasha lives inside of Alia.


One more thing: The last line is lifted from a passage in Song of Solomon that seems very appropriate for the last scene and for the story in general. The full passage says: Set me as a seal upon your heart, as a seal upon your arm, for love is strong as death, jealousy is fierce as the grave. Its flashes are flashes of fire, the very flame of the Lord.