Dune: The Jedi Brother (Male OC)

Meeting The Fremen

The sun was high in the sky, creating short shadows across the rocky terrain. Marcus advanced with deliberate steps, his senses tuned to the changing sands and the wind's whispering, his injured shoulder was slowing him down a bit, but nonetheless, he carried on. The bright horizon appeared to go on forever, each rock and dune a tribute to Arrakis' brutal beauty.

Marcus sensed a presence—a mysterious weight in the air that awakened his instincts as he pushed deeper into the rocky landscape. He kept walking, each step careful and calculated, his gaze scanning the surroundings for any indication of movement.

A few more steps and an uprising of sand indicated the presence of someone. Marcus came to a standstill, his pulse racing as he sensed the approach of another. His hand slid to the hilt of his lightsaber, muscles pulling in anticipation.

The Fremen warrior dropped from a rocky crag in an instant, executing a devastating strike. Marcus' reflexes heightened, directing him to avoid the lethal stabs. His motions were fluent and deliberate as if he were acting between life and death. The Fremen warrior's attacks were powerful, demonstrating their desert-honed prowess.

Marcus, on the other hand, was no stranger to combat. He deflected each blow with the style of a well-trained fighter, despite his badly injured shoulder. His senses directed him, each movement a reaction to the ups and downs of combat. The clang of steel echoed across the empty air.

Marcus felt a shift as the combat progressed. He released a pulse of energy that surged across the air, disarming the Fremen fighter. The lightsaber ignited, its blue glow creating beautiful patterns of light across the rocky landscape.

The Fremen warrior fell silent, defeat written on their features. Marcus kept his sight fixed on the lightsaber. The quiet was a solid presence, a split second between anger and empathy.

More individuals emerged from the rocky landscape as if called by the desert itself. Fremen soldiers appeared from the shadows, their eyes sharp and scrutinising. Stilgar, a figure of authority and power, stood among them.

Marcus lowered his lightsaber, allowing the illumination to fade into the hilt. The tension in the air remained, but it had taken on a new tone—an unconscious acknowledgement of common purpose.

Stilgar returned Marcus' look, a glimmer of respect in his eyes. 

Stilfar: You have great power, outsider

Marcus nodded, his stance firm. He then removed his helmet so that Stilgar could see it was him.

Marcus: Stilgar. It's me, Marcus Atreides. We met in Arraken, a while back.

Marcus felt the weight of fate land on his shoulders as the Fremen approached them. His journey had brought him to this point—a crossroads of pathways where the desert, the Force, and the Fremen met.

Stilgar: I remember, young one. So tell me this, why do you come out here, into our lands?

Marcus: I need your help, all of you. We were attacked by the Harkonnens and the emperor's blades, the Sardukar, in the dark of the night. Many of us were killed, including my father. 

Stilgar: And what of, your mother and brother?

Marcus: I do not know, I just hope they are alive and well. But what I do know for certain is, now that the Harkonnens are back, they will come after all of you and the rest of the Fremen. And they will not stop until all of you are dead.

As the weight of Marcus' words sets in, their silence hangs heavily in the air. The Fremen's implicit awareness is obvious, with each Fremen battling with the implications of their newfound knowledge.