They're sharp as murder, too. They make knives out of them you wouldn't believe.
As for why it didn't swallow me down: they hunt by sound, and a passing troop used a device to lure him away. (The Fremen word for them is Shai-Hulud. Most translate it as Old Man of the Desert, but I think a better translation is Father Eternity.)
So that's the trick of it. You were that close, but it didn't really know you were there. I suppose that's how you ride them, as well? You get onto their backs without letting them hear it.
I think so. I've only seen it done at a distance, but it would have to be. There's a way to walk on the sand to avoid their attention, unless you end up on the wrong type of sand.
Not yet. Or yes. I'm not sure. Someone gave me one, but I hadn't had the chance to ask if she wanted it back before I came here.
All that power and might, and people have still figured out how to take advantage of them. Though I suppose the sandworms don't care, do they? What people do or don't do around them, it doesn't matter to them either way.
That's a curious gift, a knife as sharp as murder.
That is a thought. The Fremen revere the sandworms like gods, but they still ride them. I suppose all religion is like that, in a way. Gods in service to man even while they're worshiped.
It was appropriate for the task at hand, and an honor. It was given to her by her great aunt.
If you gave someone a knife like that, would you want it back?
Not the gods themselves, just the interpretation. The same way that prophecies are about information, yes? Some things just are, and then men take those things and use them for their own ends.
I would expect it back. Not for the sake of the knife itself, but to see if he would return it to me at all.
Or, I suppose, to see which end he gave back to me. The handle or the blade.
I learned from a good teacher, thinking like that.
[It certainly is a lapse. It stands out in contrast to what she's come to expect of him — measured, calibrated, thoughtful responses. No, she thinks: something about that one bothered him.]
What did you do with the knife? The "task at hand". What was it?
[He hesitates only a little before he answers; this is actually a less uncomfortable line of questioning than he worried he'd invited. She wants to talk about knives, not girls.]
A duel. I won. There's a custom with crysknives: they can't be sheathed after they're drawn without tasting blood.
Once the terror wore off. Though it wasn't the killing that bothered me, really, but the circumstance. The part afterward where I realized how powerless I'd been, and how close it had come. That I was only still alive because he'd been stupid and selfish enough to delay killing me long enough for me to kill him first.
It's all right if it bothered you. It's not supposed to be something that comes easily.
I know. I was prepared for that. It's different for a duke's heir than a princess. I knew that it would happen one day. It's not an easy thing, but it's done. I'm all right.
And I'm sorry that happened to you. I am. You shouldn't have had to do that. Someone should have protected you.
What about now? Would you still kill someone for me?
[She should know better than to press her luck, probably, but it's hard to resist when it's that question in particular. Irresistible, when Paul is offering up the answers she wants to hear, and once upon a time someone else didn't.]
She was one of your Fremen, wasn't she? Everything you've said about them is customs and gods and traditions.
I do think it meant something. That she thought you were doing the right thing by protecting your mother, maybe. Or maybe she just liked you. Girls are like that sometimes.
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Why didn't it swallow you down? Were you not to its taste?
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As for why it didn't swallow me down: they hunt by sound, and a passing troop used a device to lure him away. (The Fremen word for them is Shai-Hulud. Most translate it as Old Man of the Desert, but I think a better translation is Father Eternity.)
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Do you have a knife like that?
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Not yet. Or yes. I'm not sure. Someone gave me one, but I hadn't had the chance to ask if she wanted it back before I came here.
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That's a curious gift, a knife as sharp as murder.
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It was appropriate for the task at hand, and an honor. It was given to her by her great aunt.
If you gave someone a knife like that, would you want it back?
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I would expect it back. Not for the sake of the knife itself, but to see if he would return it to me at all.
Or, I suppose, to see which end he gave back to me. The handle or the blade.
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The handle. Of course. She gave me a gift.
[That's a lapse, a too quick, too vehement response brought on by the sickening flip of his stomach at the idea of - no, never.]
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[It certainly is a lapse. It stands out in contrast to what she's come to expect of him — measured, calibrated, thoughtful responses. No, she thinks: something about that one bothered him.]
What did you do with the knife? The "task at hand". What was it?
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[He hesitates only a little before he answers; this is actually a less uncomfortable line of questioning than he worried he'd invited. She wants to talk about knives, not girls.]
A duel. I won. There's a custom with crysknives: they can't be sheathed after they're drawn without tasting blood.
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Was the duel to the death, or just to first blood?
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It was amtal. An old word. It means to test to destruction. I wasn't destroyed.
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Was it the first time you'd killed someone? Dueling with a girl's gift of a knife?
I was afraid, the first time I killed a man. I suppose in a duel you don't have the luxury of being afraid. Or at least not of showing it.
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I wasn't afraid. I was angYes.
I was tired, after. Were you tired?
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It's all right if it bothered you. It's not supposed to be something that comes easily.
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And I'm sorry that happened to you. I am. You shouldn't have had to do that. Someone should have protected you.
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Is that why you were dueling, to protect the girl who gave you the knife?
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[He doesn't have to think about that at all. Of course he would.]
It was for my mother. They wouldn't let her fight for herself. Old customs.
The girl knew the man I killed. I don't know if they were friends. She thought I was going to die, but she wanted me to die with honor.
Do you think that means anything?
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[She should know better than to press her luck, probably, but it's hard to resist when it's that question in particular. Irresistible, when Paul is offering up the answers she wants to hear, and once upon a time someone else didn't.]
She was one of your Fremen, wasn't she? Everything you've said about them is customs and gods and traditions.
I do think it meant something. That she thought you were doing the right thing by protecting your mother, maybe. Or maybe she just liked you. Girls are like that sometimes.
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[The idea she didn't realize that bruises Paul, a little, not at her hands but on her behalf.]
She is. Her name is Chani. And they are? Girls, I mean.
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What did you want it to mean? I'm sure you hoped it meant something.
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I've been around girls. It was more formal, but I have.
Nothing. I was just curious.
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Was she pretty?
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She's beautiI didn't notice. Why?
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Likely all the moreso after you won a ceremonial duel with her knife.
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