Chapter Text
The Harkonnen Palace almost made Paul wish he was still in the pleasure house on High Street.
It was so cold, from the guards keeping constant vigil outside Feyd’s quarters and the attendants who marched through its high halls like soldiers, to its brutal construction. Even wrapped in blankets on Feyd-Rautha’s bed, Paul couldn’t escape the chill in the air.
Its only remedy was, in truth, the na-Baron himself. It was only when he held Paul in his embrace that Paul received a reprieve from the constant, bitter coldness that permeated the palace.
It was enough to draw a frown to Paul’s face as he stared out the window in Feyd’s quarters.
It wasn’t much of a window—though it spanned the entire lofty length of Feyd’s quarters, it was barely a hands-width tall—and it didn’t look out onto much of a view. It had been placed at Feyd’s eye height, meaning Paul had to gaze upward to view through it. Even then, he could only see a thin snatch of skyline, just bare inches of gray sky.
Paul wrapped his arms tighter around himself, his gaze unfocused as it scanned cold, brutal buildings. He knew them to be a mix of training halls that expelled unending streams of soldiers and factories that belched black smoke which polluted the air, blocking out the cold light of the black sun.
He’d been in the palace for a week and hadn’t much to show for it. With his lack of resources and power, any plans he had would take time to come to fruition. While Paul laid the foundation for escape at a glacially slow pace, the Harkonnen war machine marched on, as evidenced by the training halls, factories, and the frequent comings and goings of Harkonnen warships and Imperial frigates through Feyd’s window.
It was almost a blessing when Feyd returned, saving Paul from his whirling thoughts and the unending paths that presented themselves before him.
Paul could hear his boots striking the floor before he’d even reached his quarters.
Feyd could walk quietly if he so wished. When Paul was sleeping, he made his footsteps as silent as a panther stalking its prey. Most of the time, he didn’t bother.
Paul was reminded suddenly of a small moment from Arrakis, of a warning from the Atreides family’s mentat-advisor, Thufir Hawat. Paul felt warmth bloom in his chest as he hearkened to the old advice and turned away from the window to face the door.
Feyd stepped into the room, only to stop just within. It afforded Paul a moment to examine him. He wore only loose pants, with an open robe carelessly thrown over his shoulders. His skin was flushed with exertion—he must have been in martial training.
“Feyd-Rautha,” Paul acknowledged.
“You’re smiling,” Feyd said, before barrelling towards Paul. No panther-soft steps here. “Are you so happy to see me?”
Paul had been smiling? He hadn’t even realized. It must have been the memory of Thufir. He missed the old mentat.
He resisted the urge to untuck his veil and conceal his expression. He’d taken to wearing one in the palace, pairing it frequently with flowing robes easily mistaken for gowns. They might have been traditionally women’s garb, but they afforded him precious anonymity.
Paul cleared his throat delicately upon Feyd’s approach.
“You are a welcome diversion.”
The corners of Feyd’s lips lifted. Paul’s subtle insubordination seemed to amuse him.
“The life of a royal concubine bores you?”
Paul felt a twinge in his chest. He’d trained and trained to one day follow his father’s footsteps and yet, now, he was closer than ever to becoming his mother. She’d likely have already forged her escape in his place, though. He was a pale imitation of her.
He listed his head to the side, neither a confirmation nor a denial.
“In your absence, I’ve had time to watch all of your filmbooks twice over.”
Feyd reached out, caught an errant curling strand of hair that had escaped from Paul’s veil. He smelled of sweat and sand. His scent filled Paul with envy, a jealous longing.
“I’ll find something else for you to do then. Some clever friends to entertain you while I’m not here. Trusted ones, who won’t run their mouths,” Feyd murmured, then he flicked the strand of hair away. “You really are a prince. Spoiled rotten.”
Paul smiled, wan. He’d secured the ends he’d hoped for, but Feyd wasn’t plying him with friends and filmbooks out of the kindness of his heart, and they both knew it.
“Go. Shower.” Paul nodded towards the quarter’s washroom. “I’ll not touch you while you reek of sweat.”
..
As his birthday approached, Feyd was spending more and more time outside of his quarters and in training.
Paul feigned disinterest in Feyd’s filmbooks but they contained useful information. He knew about the Giedi Prime rituals that Feyd would be partaking in, of the fight to celebrate his coming of age.
Paul found himself grudgingly respecting how hard Feyd pushed himself in his training. He came back sore every day. The stiff roll of his shoulders betrayed his aches.
“How does this feel?” Paul asked.
Feyd groaned beneath him in answer.
This wasn’t an unfamiliar position for them. Feyd lay prone on the bed as Paul straddled him. In this instance, though, Feyd was lying face down, and Paul was fully clothed. His silk robe pooled around his hips, draped over Feyd’s form.
“Here?” Paul guessed, digging his thumbs into where Feyd’s muscles were tightest, where the nape of his neck met the top of his spine.
“Yes,” Feyd exhaled.
Paul eyed the looseness of his expression. Never in all his years would he have anticipated using his prana-bindu training to knead the na-Baron’s aches away.
As he massaged Feyd, Paul ventured for further information. “Is it true that it’s going to be a fight to the death?”
“Yes.” If the topic bothered Feyd at all, he didn’t show it. He almost seemed to savor giving the affirmation. The corner of his lip curled up. “I face off against three men at once.”
Paul knew. It wasn’t just the filmbooks. The workers in the palace talked. Paul kept himself as quiet and meek as a mouse, inquiring in soft tones after Feyd from his attendants and guards. When he kept his head bowed and his veil covering his face, he learned much and gave away little.
He’d heard rumors they would be three enslaved men. And these people thought the Fremen primitive.
“Are you worried for me?” Feyd asked, misinterpreting Paul’s silence.
“Why would I worry? The na-Baron won’t lose.”
Feyd was supposed to be a great fighter, but that didn’t matter. The filmbooks didn’t say as much, but there could be no other way for it to play out: it was a farce, the odds of the fight fixed in Feyd’s favor. The Baron wouldn’t risk his heir’s life, no matter the importance of the ritual.
Feyd cracked an eye open. He peered up at Paul, but Paul gave nothing away.
“No,” Feyd said eventually, “I won’t.”
It was a sham of a fight but the stakes would be real. The enslaved men would die by Feyd’s hand.
Paul used his fingertips to push Feyd’s tension up and up, melting through the crests of Feyd’s shoulders. Feyd sighed softly, his eyes fluttering before falling closed again.
“It can’t be an easy thing to kill a man,” Paul mused. He continued the forward momentum of his movements, bracing his fingers around Feyd’s neck as he resumed using his thumbs to knead the area beside Feyd’s spine.
“It’s simple enough,” Feyd murmured.
Paul was struck by the strength of Feyd’s pulse against his fingers. A slow, thudding heartbeat. A human heartbeat. A human would regret murder. A Harkonnen beast wouldn’t.
“But it must keep you up at night to know that you’ve ended a life.”
Feyd shifted again beneath him.
“You know better than anyone how well I sleep,” he said, and then he pushed himself up. Paul rose to his knees to accommodate Feyd as he turned over until they faced each other.
“No,” Feyd said, when Paul loosened his grasp. “Keep your hands on me—not there. Where you had them before, on my neck,” he added, when Paul only tentatively touched his chest.
Feyd’s teeth were bared in what might have been a grin, in any other circumstance. Paul knew better than to trust it, though. He was being tested.
Paul could laugh the moment off, play it as a joke—a whore’s thoughtless flirtation crossing a line. But he didn’t think insulting Feyd’s intelligence would be fair to either of them.
So Paul leaned in. Straight-faced, he wrapped his hands once more around Feyd’s neck.
“Like this?” he asked, toneless, even as his heart lurched forward in his chest.
Feyd’s eyes glinted. In the pleasure house, the suspensor lamps had turned his gaze warm and golden. In the cold light of the day, in the Harkonnen Palace, they looked like pools of oil. Black and vast and narcotic, his pupils limned with oil-slick iridescence.
“Tighter,” was Feyd’s request.
So Paul adjusted, swiping his thumbs down to avoid crushing Feyd’s windpipe as he increased the strength in his grip. Slowly, as he watched Feyd in wonder. Why was he asking for this? Was he so convinced of Paul’s loyalty? Or had his own vulnerabilities never even occurred to him?
Feyd’s breath was wrung from him, a puffed exhalation from his lips followed by a little choking catch. Paul had to pause.
Tighter, he’d said. And Paul had obeyed. He had his hands wrapped around Feyd’s neck, as Feyd’s face flushed and Feyd’s limited breath hitched. And yet Paul was under no illusion of control here. Even as he choked his gaolor, he was still a prisoner.
Simple, he’d said. Paul supposed it might be a simple thing to kill a man when it came down to it. But simple didn’t mean easy. He was shaking, a tremor in his outstretched arms.
Feyd gripped Paul’s thigh, bracing, but did no more than that. He could have thrown Paul off, but he didn’t. He coughed, his throat working within Paul’s touch as his lungs instinctively carried out the fight that the rest of his body refused—as he fought for air. His ribs spasmed between Paul’s knees, eerie in their similarity to the final death throes Paul had witnessed as many of his men were killed before him in the assault on Arrakis.
“No,” Paul cried, before letting go of Feyd.
Feyd gasped. A bruise was rapidly blooming on his neck, encircling it like a necklace. Against the desaturation of his quarters, where everything was a shade of black or white or some gray in between, his flush appeared all the more apparent.
“Are you all right, Sire?” Paul asked, unable to keep the resentment from his voice. If only Feyd hadn’t asked him to do such a thing!
“You’re upset,” Feyd rasped, his voice as constricted as if he was still being choked. His eyes were heavy lidded, weighed down. Exhaustion, perhaps. Still, his lip corners curled up.
“You might have died. I don’t see what—”
“—you would’ve killed me?” Feyd asked, stopping Paul short. Heat threatened to rise to his cheeks. Even if Paul had wanted to (and part of him—a large part— had) , he couldn’t.
Feyd’s laughter was choppy and weak. He surged up, saying, “That was a lesson. I’ve many things to teach you, Prince.”
A lesson… Paul wondered what, exactly, he was meant to take away from that. The nature of killing, maybe. Or the mere fact that Paul was so under Feyd’s power that he could hold Feyd’s life in his hands and still be unable to finish him off?
“Ah, do you?” Paul asked, dry. Then he stilled. Feyd’s upward shift had revealed something. His arousal brushed insistently up against Paul’s backside.
He’d known Feyd was perverse, but to this extent? It certainly simplified things, though. Feyd spoke of lessons and teaching, but his was the most instinctive, incorruptible motivation at all: sex. Obvious in hindsight. Warmth spread across Paul’s cheeks. He should have known.
Feyd nodded, unabashed. “Among them, how to have fun.”
Paul was surprised by his own laughter.
“You’ll teach me how to have fun?” he asked. He lowered his hips slowly, a teasing descent.
After settling onto him, Paul gave himself a moment. While Feyd’s breathing went even more ragged, Paul dared to touch the bruises he’d inflicted on him.
It was remarkable, he thought, as his fingertips skated over them. Feyd had incurred hardly any marks or bruises from his martial training. His skin had been flawless, seemingly untouched—right up until Paul had marred it.
“There are ways to have fun without such extremes, Feyd-Rautha,” Paul promised. With that, his hand crept lower, beyond the ring of bruises.
//
“You’re late,” the Baron said, when Feyd reached the throne room.
Feyd had to bite his tongue. He almost hadn’t come at all. Receiving foreign nobility was a dull obligation, a waste of time compared to sleeping in and rolling around in his sheets with his Prince.
Feyd murmured an appropriate, if spare, apology.
He noted two interesting things. First: the mentat Piter’s absence. Normally, he would have been directly at his uncle’s elbow, whispering useless observations in his ear. In his stead, the mentat Thufir Hawat stood. With his shoulders hunched and a cane in his hand, the man-machine they’d stolen from the flaming ruins of the Atreides palace looked aged, but Feyd knew he was as sharp as ever.
Thufir was the mastermind behind Feyd’s three-on-one combat ritual. Moreover, he’d added an element that no one—not even Feyd’s uncle—would be able to predict. His idea of letting one of the men fight at full-strength, his mind unadulterated by the inhibiting effects of the sedating drugs these slaves were normally given, would make Feyd’s eventual win all the more impressive. More real.
Thufir nodded at Feyd. Feyd grinned back at him, before shifting his attention back to his uncle.
“Piter’s not here, either,” Feyd noted, not above a little pettiness.
The Baron scowled. “And he won’t be. He’s stuck in a melange haze. He becomes more and more useless by the day. He mutters to himself about spice and lost whores.”
Lost whores. That could only be Feyd’s Prince.
He’d mentioned his fears of Piter in passing. (“He’s a loose end, Feyd,” his Prince had said of him, as his deft fingers traced maddening patterns in Feyd’s skin, “Something must be done about him.”)
Feyd didn’t understand the nature of the relationship between the two of them, but it bothered him more than he’d have liked. The mentat had known his Prince longer than Feyd. He might know more of the mystery that clouded him. Something must be done about him, indeed.
Feyd snapped to attention as the tall doors to his uncle’s throne room swung open.
The Count Hasimir Fenring swept in, accompanied by his lady wife Margot. They looked diminutive in between their hulking Harkonnen soldier escorts and set against the soaring brutal grandeur of the Harkonnen throne room. His uncle always had liked to make an oppressive impression.
Greetings were made, all innuendos and hidden messages cloaked in rigid formality.
The Count congratulated Feyd on his coming of age, probing after his status as his uncle’s heir. Feyd accepted his congratulations with as little graciousness as possible (which was little enough, given their difference in rank), to the Baron’s stifled amusement. The Count left him alone after that. Instead, he asked after the Harkonnen holdings, a brazen allusion to Arrakis, and a subtle implication at their role in the Atreides affair. Boring.
Feyd tugged at the high neck of his formal uniform. The fabric pulled taut across the bruise at the base of his neck. Feyd pressed his lips together, swallowing a hiss and hiding a smile.
Still, he somehow caught the eye of Lady Margot. Her gaze found him. He stilled, discomfited by her attention. Feyd wasn’t sure what to make of how intensely she looked at him. Oddly, he was reminded of his Prince’s perceptive gaze.
He let his hand fall from his neck. She tracked its descent, then her gaze flitted away.
Maybe not quite so boring, after all, Feyd thought. He allowed his eyes to fall over her, mimicking what she’d done to him.
She was young. Tall, blonde hair, a subtle curvature to her form. Once, she might have been irresistible to him. He was surprised to feel only a stirring, where before there might have been a quake. Interesting.
..
The day of Feyd’s ceremony, Paul awoke first. It was a strange thing. In the weeks they’d known each other, he’d grown used to Feyd waking and rising first.
So Paul pillowed his cheek on his folded arm and took a moment, there in the stillness of the dark Giedi Prime sunrise, to observe his benefactor. Or was Feyd his lover? It was hard to classify Feyd-Rautha.
He looked almost boyish. The dim light softened his sharp features, and his face was bare of any of his usual scowls or smirks. His lips appeared plush and full, parted in slumber, and Paul could not resist reaching forward. His finger hovered over Feyd’s mouth. He’d only just decided against letting it fall any further when Feyd’s breathing shifted.
This was another thing Paul had learned over the days: Feyd went from deep in dreams to wide awake in a heartbeat.
His arm whipped up before Paul had time to react. His hand latched around Paul’s wrist. His eyes blinked open, wide and clear. All this before Paul’s heart had the time to beat twice. Ba-thump, ba—
“It’s just me,” Paul whispered, his voice rusty from sleep. Feyd’s grip softened, and his hand slid over the surface of Paul’s forearm, up his bicep. —thump.
A grin broke out across Feyd’s face—wide and bright, brighter than the feeble sunrise outside. “There’s no just.”
Paul swallowed, his mouth dry, an errant fluttering feeling in his chest. With his hand freed, Paul quested southward as though that had been his intent all along.
“I thought I might wake you happily,” he said, as his fingertips skated over Feyd’s bare torso.
He watched realization cross Feyd’s face, quickly followed by anticipation. Pleasure followed, as Paul’s hand found the front of his pants.
Paul slipped his hand into Feyd’s waistband and wrapped his fingers around his stiffening length. He stroked him to hardness, brought him languidly to stuttered, shallow breaths. He watched as Feyd’s eyelids fell low and his grin softened to something satisfied and feline.
“Happy birthday, na-Baron,” Paul said. He could scarcely believe himself. How had the mere sight of Feyd’s lips driven him to thoughtless distraction?
“Thank you, my Prince,” Feyd rasped. He leaned in and quieted Paul’s fretting at once by pressing a kiss to Paul’s lips.
His sleep-stale breath and chapped lips should have been repellant. They weren’t. Paul melted too easily into the familiar sensation of kissing him, taking charge when Feyd grew close to climax and could do nothing but grapple at Paul, his hands framing Paul’s shoulder and waist.
Feyd came in a shudder, spilling himself over Paul’s hand. As he did, the sun at last penetrated some of the smog, casting a line of bleach-white sunlight across their bed.
..
Paul hadn’t wanted to watch the fight. He’d taken Feyd up on his suggestion all the same.
It was a chance to escape the confines of Feyd’s quarters, albeit accompanied by the two guards who stood outside Feyd’s door. He could breathe in the air, smoke-choked as it was. He even relished in surveying the unfamiliar faces of strangers, though Paul himself wore a veil of interlinked chains that obscured much of his face to them.
The atmosphere in the arena stands was at once oppressive and exhilarating. There was a tangible energy in the air, a palpable excitement as Feyd’s future subjects loudly extolled his strength and skill and assured each other that he’d quickly dispatch the barbarian slaves.
The arena floor itself was empty for the moment, an untrampled spread of bone-white sand. Paul grimaced, imagining what that sand might look like stained with blood.
He lifted his gaze from the sands and looked across the way to the Baron’s viewing box. The arena was so expansive, housing at least a hundred thousand, that the Baron and his guests appeared little more than grains of sand themselves.
That thought filled Paul with relief. It went both ways. He couldn’t be spotted, much less discerned, at this distance. He lifted his viewing glasses to his eyes. One of the guards had been kind (or thought him pitiful) enough to purchase a pair for him, to be reimbursed by Feyd later.
The sight of the Baron ignited a familiar fury within Paul. His expression was drawn for some reason. Perhaps he wasn’t as assured of the outcome of the battle as the rest of the crowd was. Directly at his elbow sat a man and a woman, a royal couple of lesser rank going by the quality of their clothing and the ornamentation of their chairs.
Offworlders, Paul thought. The rich color of the woman’s dress—one Paul might have found unremarkable once—now seemed gaudy, a waste of dye in the austere, monochrome world of Giedi Prime.
Paul couldn’t place their faces, but something about the straightness of the woman’s posture unsettled him. Her gaze bore down at the sands, hawk-like and hungry.
“Who’s the woman next to the Baron?” Paul asked of his guards. He was determined to wear them down eventually, to find the humanity behind the shorn-head, sharp-featured sameness that all Harkonnen men seemed to have.
“Some countess,” Teuvo, the guard to Paul’s right, grumbled. “Pretty, ain’t she?”
“Teuvo,” Rasmus, to his left, hissed. He was the more cautious of the two of them. He refused to speak to Paul directly. Tuevo, of course, had been the one to buy Paul his viewing glasses. Rasmus had simply crossed his arms and scowled throughout the transaction.
Paul glanced, and was amused to see Rasmus scowling again then.
“Very pretty,” Paul agreed, absent.
A countess. Why would a count and his lady have come to Giedi Prime for the na-Baron’s coming of age? Were they Harkonnen sympathizers? Were they searching for a font of power now that House Atreides was seemingly vanquished and House Harkonnen appeared to be the next best alternative?
The thought sickened him. He filed his questions away for later perusal, lifted his glasses again, and stopped cold.
To the Baron’s other side, right where the mentat Piter should have been, was a figure Paul knew from childhood: Thufir Hawat.
Paul’s heart leapt in his chest. He resisted the urge to leap with it, to jump with joy.
Thufir! His family’s old mentat, his father’s loyal advisor. He’d survived the assault on Arrakis! Not only that, but he’d escaped the slave pits and landed himself at the Baron’s right hand.
Paul hadn’t realized just how much he’d been fooling himself until he’d laid eyes on Thufir. He hadn’t truly believed he’d be able to do this alone: to revive House Atreides, to save his men and himself. He’d been floundering, a child playing pretend. He wouldn’t need to fool himself, not with Thufir’s stolid support.
Right on the heels of Paul’s giddy thinking, questions abounded. Chief among them: how? How was Thufir alive? How was Paul going to reach him and let him know that there were Atreides men still suffering in the slave pits—that they needed to plot a path of escape together?
“And who’s the old man with the cane?” Paul asked. He was almost surprised with how level his voice came out as his heart raced in his chest. For once, survival and escape didn’t feel like such an unattainable dream.
“Dunno. Used to work for those Atreides, I heard. But the Baron spared him,” Teuvo sniffed. “Supposed to be real smart.”
“Anyone would seem smart to you,” Rasmus muttered beneath his breath. He crossed his arms, his array of weapons jangling.
Paul laughed. He felt Rasmus stiffen beside him and sensed Teuvo’s shoulders sinking, crestfallen.
“Oh, Teuvo, I’m sorry!” Paul rushed to assure him. “I wasn’t laughing at you, I promise.”
“Don’t care if you laugh at me,” Teuvo grumbled, though he appeared slightly mollified.
It was true. Paul’s laughter had next to nothing to do with Rasmus’s jibe, and everything to do with Thufir. He couldn’t get over his luck. He couldn’t believe how well things were going for him.
The weather seemed to agree with him. The smoggy fog shifted and the bright light of the black sun shone down onto them.
Paul squinted at the sands as the distant sound of great, thudding drums reached his ears. The ritual was beginning. A voice boomed throughout the arena, announcing the entrance of Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen.
The crowd’s constant murmur took on a different tenor, quieting to near-silence, a slight pause, a moment in which a hundred thousand breathed in at once, before everything exploded into a cacophony of excitement.
Paul was swept up in it. He clambered to his feet along with everyone around him. He was tempted to ask Teuvo or Rasmus to tell him what they were able to see from their higher vantage points.
Then he spotted Feyd—a figure in black, striking against the white sands.
He didn’t understand how it was that everyone around him had the capacity to roar. He felt breathless watching Feyd stalk across the arena. He felt a spike of nerves, tracing the two knives held in Feyd’s hands, though he knew the outcome of the fight was all-but-secure.
What if something went wrong?
“He’s going to win,” Paul muttered, beneath his breath.
He felt Rasmus’s eyes on him and shrugged his scrutiny off. Let him think of Paul as Feyd’s hand-wringing lover. (If Paul’s cheeks warmed over, it was only due to the sun overhead.)
He’s going to win.
No sooner had the affirmation crossed Paul’s mind than the amplified voice of the arena announcer introduced who Feyd would be fighting. It wouldn’t be just any slaves.
“From Arrakis, the finest fighters of all—the last surviving men of House Atreides!”
He’s going to win, Paul thought. His heart froze to ice in his chest as he watched three men stumble out onto the sands. If he looked closer, he knew he’d recognize their faces. He’d have memories of them going back to the days when he could scarcely walk.
He’s going to kill them all, every last one of them—my men, my family, my House.
..
“Take me back,” Paul whispered. It was inaudible, his plea swallowed up by both the roar of the crowd and the sudden, high-pitched klaxon ringing in his ears.
Garth, who had been fond of sleight-of-hand tricks and who had once entertained Paul during a long transpace voyage by pretending to pull coins from his ear, lay stricken on the sand. His blood dripped from Feyd’s blade. Feyd’s grin, his achingly familiar grin, chilled Paul to his core.
“What?”
“Please, take me back to the na-Baron’s quarters,” Paul begged, tearing his gaze from the slaughter before him to turn to Teuvo. “I can’t stand here and watch this.”
He was aware, at once, of his own hypocrisy. When he’d thought the men Feyd would be fighting would be anonymous to him, strangers, he’d been able to bear it. Part of him had even been excited for it. But he couldn’t bear witness to this. Every blow to his men felt like Feyd was striking him, every slice of Feyd’s knife a cut straight to his own skin.
“Our princess can’t stomach seeing a real fight,” Rasmus scoffed.
Paul latched onto that explanation with desperation. His heart was a racket in his ears, clouding out much of the clamor around them. He swung around to look at Rasmus, but his gaze caught on the arena sands.
Feyd was stalking his next Atreides victim: a young man, only a few years older than Paul. His name was Cerus. He’d mistaken Paul for another fresh Atreides recruit on his first day after enlisting. He’d made an off-color joke to him before realizing Paul’s identity and apologizing profusely.
“Yes,” Paul exhaled, wrenching himself from the memory, “Yes, that’s exactly right. Just this once, listen to me. Let me go back to Feyd’s quarters, and I’ll never ask you for another favor again.”
Rasmus’s eyes widened by the slightest margin. Any other time, Paul would have been of sound enough mind to notice how this had been the first time that the guard Rasmus had actually listened to him and looked at him.
“I can’t watch this,” Paul repeated. A tremor shook his voice as he added, “Please.”
Rasmus’s gaze flicked to Teuvo. Teuvo shrugged. Rasmus’s lip curled.
“Fine. Let’s get out of here before you soil your skirts.”
Paul could take the humiliation. What he couldn’t take was seeing Feyd, who’d held him in his embrace that morning, kill the last of the men that Paul had sworn to himself he’d save.
Feyd-Rautha was truly a monster, an irredeemable Harkonnen beast.
Paul hated him, but one could hardly fault a predator for doing what was in their nature. He hated himself even more, because he’d been foolish enough to entertain thoughts of taming that beast.
Dark thoughts coursed through his mind. Paul thought he’d lost any persuasiveness his voice had once held during the assault on Arrakis, but he’d hardly even made an effort to test that theory. Why hadn’t he suggested to Feyd that he let his opponents live? For that matter, why had he loosened his grip when he had his hands around Feyd’s throat?
He should have choked that damnable Harkonnen.
Paul could have saved his men. Instead, he’d gotten swept up in the numbing exhilaration that Feyd brought him. He’d become distracted, caught up in frivolous plots and schemes, and his men had paid the ultimate price.
//
Fireworks exploded in the skies over Harko, their booms but a distant rejoinder to the crowds that streamed through the city’s streets. The common folk chanted the same cadences of the Harkonnen forces, appending them and adding their own verses to honor Feyd’s historic victory in the ring.
Though he was the cause of their celebrations, and every other man who spotted him slapped him on the back and offered to buy him a pint of spicebeer, Feyd had no desire to join them. Riding high on the thrill of the unexpectedly challenging battle, all he wanted was to seek out his Prince and embrace him.
He heard the people’s chants through the palace walls and his heart sang with them. He imagined how his Prince might greet him.
He must be impressed with Feyd. His victory really had been in doubt for a moment there. The sober Atreides slave proved himself a more than able fighter. He’d been a tough, well-trained combatant. Thufir’s idea had added an element of peril to the fight. Feyd had even wondered, for a moment, if he might meet his end.
Feyd’s steps were light, and grew even lighter as he approached his quarters. Normally, his Prince made him rinse himself off before they made love. Perhaps this time would be different. Perhaps the skill he’d seen Feyd demonstrate on the sands would make him demand that Feyd take him, then and there.
Feyd’s excitement was only slightly dampened to see his two guards fall in upon his approach, barring his entrance to his quarters.
“Step aside,” he said, kinder than he might have been. Under any other circumstance, on any other day, he might have drawn one of his knives and let their blood join the Atreides slaves’ on its blade for testing his patience.
The less-stupid one (He might have been Rasmus or Teuvo. Feyd could never remember which guard was which.) cleared his throat. “Sire, your concubine is upset—”
“Obviously. He misses me,” Feyd hissed. “Step aside. I won’t warn you again.”
The less-stupid one shifted, inching to the side.
The stupid one, predictably, held fast when he should have ceded. “Sire, it was your fight. He—”
Feyd struck him, bringing the guard to his knees with a single backhand across his face.
“Teuvo,” the less-stupid one blurted out. So this one must have been Rasmus.
Rasmus bent down to help Teuvo to his feet again. Teuvo made a faint gurgling sound. Once he clambered up, there were dual tracks of blood streaming from his nostrils. His nose itself was askew, smashed to the side.
Rasmus still held onto his fellow guard, supporting him.
Feyd’s irritation flared higher at this as a sign of superfluous weakness—he’d shown he could stand on his own. Why bother?
“Take him to get that fixed. It’s unsightly,” Feyd ordered, before waving his hand at the pair of them in dismissal. His knuckles stung, and that irritated him further. What a waste of time. What an unnecessary drag on his mood.
Rasmus nodded, an emotionless set to his face, his eyes averted respectfully. Feyd waited until they’d cleared the door and not a moment longer.
He pushed the door open. His split knuckles bloomed with fresh blood that, before long, would dry to the same rusty, flaking film that already covered much of his bared skin.
Reminded of his fight and heartened by seeing his Prince standing at his favorite haunt by Feyd’s window, a smile once again rose to Feyd’s face.
“Prince!” Feyd called, spreading his arms wide, “Are you watching the fireworks? They’re beautiful, aren’t they?”
It filled him with pride. What a grand scale of display—and all for him, in celebration of his coming of age and his victory. Some part of him, an embarrassing, not-oft awakened part, hoped that the Prince found them impressive too. That he was impressed by Feyd.
His Prince held perfectly, preternaturally still. He was striking, a slender figure in draped silks, silhouetted against the window slat where the fireworks bloomed bright. He turned—but not to look at Feyd. Rather, he turned away from him. The Prince faced out, his shoulders hiked high.
Feyd’s guards' words came back to him. Your concubine is upset.
Feyd’s smile slipped. His arms fell upon his approach. He reached out, only for the Prince to cringe away from his touch.
“Don’t,” his Prince said. His voice, normally so soothing, carried a strange, cold note.
“Don’t what?”
The Prince looked at him, at last. His veil was removed, his expression bared. His eyes, lined with red, appeared all-the-more vividly green. His gaze shone with unshed tears, but even Feyd wasn’t so foolish as to hope they were tears of joy.
“You’re… crying?”
He didn’t understand. This was supposed to be his moment of triumph. This was what he’d been looking forward to all day. The thought of reuniting with the Prince had carried him through when the fight with the Atreides slaves had been toughest.
Feyd wished to thumb his Prince’s tears away before they fell and reached out again, accordingly.
Again, his Prince avoided his touch. This time, he went so far as to step away from him.
“Don’t,” his Prince repeated, his voice wracked with a tremor. There was a tautness to his expression, one not unlike anguish. It alarmed Feyd. “I can’t be with you right now, Feyd.”
“Why not?” Feyd demanded, again stepping forward, into his Prince’s reach. Couldn’t he see that he’d be happier if he just gave in and embraced Feyd? He always seemed to relax in Feyd’s arms when they slept together.
“Stop,” his Prince’s voice rang out in its strength, seeming to echo through Feyd’s quarters, filling its vast, empty space. “Leave me. Leave this room. Go.”
And, suddenly, Feyd was turning away. Suddenly, he possessed one compulsion that blotted out all others. A blissful blankness occluded his mind: he had to leave. He wanted nothing more than to go.
His feet carried him outside of his quarters, and he left the door wide open in his urgency. Something knocked once at the dull blankness of his mind but it was quickly silenced.
Go.
But where?
Feyd kept walking away, stalking through the long halls of the palace.
As the distance between him and his quarters increased, thoughts started to cohere in his mind. One was crystal clear: he’d upset his Prince. Perhaps he could find some way to make it right. He smiled, reminded of an idle worry his Prince had once voiced to him. A lightness returned to Feyd’s steps. Go, go, go.
..
Paul had found his Voice again.
Now that it was too late to save anyone, it had returned to him. He could have laughed at the irony, but he didn’t feel much like laughing. He felt like doing nothing more than curling up in Feyd’s bed, breathing in the scent of sweat and sands. As soon as Paul registered that errant impulse, he recoiled.
No. Feyd had left the doors open. Paul’s Voice had returned. With the last of his men dead, he had no reason for caution any longer. Now was the best time to make his escape. Now was the only time to make his escape. He’d find Thufir. They’d leave and he’d never have to spend another second on this damnable planet.
Paul shed his silken robes and veils in favor of a pair Feyd’s pants and a tunic. He slipped the talon-knife Feyd had given him into his waistband, trying to dismiss the memories it roused of their first night together in the pleasure house.
Already, as he approached the door, he knew something had to be wrong. Why hadn’t either Teuvo or Rasmus come racing in yet?
Neither of the guards were anywhere to be found. As Paul crept through Feyd’s wing of the palace, he encountered no one. No attendants marched through the halls, no cleaners scurried. There was just a single whore slinking about, careful to keep his footsteps as slight as a mouse’s.
He heard the chants outside, wondering if everyone on the planet had joined in the revelry. Feyd was beloved. To the Harkonnen subjects, his slaughter of the Atreides men was something to be celebrated and lauded, just the latest strike in a centuries-spanning feud.
It left a nauseating, bitter taste in Paul’s mouth. How would Feyd react if he knew the truth about Paul?
He pushed the irrelevant question aside. Thufir. Where could Paul find him? Would the Baron keep him close at hand?
A woman stepped out from around the upcoming corner, her appearance sudden and jarring. It was all Paul could do to straighten and act as though he was meant to be there.
As they walked past each other, they both granted each other a spare nod in greeting.
It was a split-second interaction, but time seemed to slow throughout it. Heartbeats stretched as a myriad of little details made their presence known to Paul at once.
This woman was blonde, tall, her face familiar, her dress a rich hue that noted it as offworld made. She was the Countess from Feyd’s ceremony.
Paul hadn’t heard her approach at all. He might have dismissed that as due to distraction (he had much distracting him that evening), but even as she walked away, no footfall accompanied her steps. She was completely silent, cloaking her presence in a way few could. Unless… they had the requisite training. Bene Gesserit? Or some martial faction?
Paul’s steps slowed.
Where was the Countess going?
There was only one place this hallway led. The room Paul had just left: Feyd’s quarters. Why would an offworld noblewoman with either Bene Gesserit or martial training go to Feyd’s quarters after nightfall without an escort?
Paul’s still-aching heart gave an erratic thump.
He glanced at the corner before him. There was his path to freedom. There, Thufir awaited, and commandeered spacecraft, and Caladan.
What did the Countess want from Feyd?
Paul cursed beneath his breath. He turned around, doubling back. Feyd’s gifted talon-knife felt heavier than its weight. It pressed into his hip as he hastened to follow the Countess.
..
In the short time it took to retrace his steps, Paul reached the conclusion that the Countess was here to seduce Feyd-Rautha as some part of a Bene Gesserit breeding scheme.
It was the best explanation.
Assassination was a possibility and, for that reason, he kept his hand close to the hilt of his talon-knife, but it seemed unlikely for a countess to be sent to kill a brutal na-Baron. But the Bene Gesserit had their hands everywhere. Paul knew that better than anyone.
When Paul entered Feyd’s quarters, keeping his steps utterly silent, he saw that the Countess was facing away from the door. The Bene Gesserit hadn’t taught her that, then. She was intently staring down at Feyd’s empty bed. Its sheets were still rumpled from their encounter that morning. Happy birthday, na-Baron, felt like a lifetime ago.
“You’re quite a long way from the visitor’s wing, Countess.”
She must have been surprised to hear him speak. To her credit, she didn’t show it. When the Countess turned to face him, she had a slight, polite smile on her face.
“You’re the little boy from the hallway. That’s a fascinating trick to possess for one so…” She looked him over. “Unassuming. Who taught it to you?”
Gurney Halleck, Duncan Idaho, Thufir Hawat… Paul’s mother, in particular, thought it necessary to teach him the art of subtlety.
So, though Paul’s hand itched for his knife, he didn’t succumb to the temptation.
“You also step lightly, lady.” He recognized her attempt to redirect his attention for what it was. “Again, why have you come to Feyd-Rautha’s quarters?”
A bitter expression flashed on her face. Annoyance. Paul was nothing more than an impediment to her.
“Who are you?” she asked, “Some servant boy who considers himself a guard? Your na-Baron won’t be happy when he hears how you’ve treated me—as though I were nothing but a common interloper.”
“From where I’m standing, that’s exactly what you are.” Paul’s patience was running thin. Definitely seduction, then, if she was counting on currying Feyd’s good favor. He dropped his hand from the talon-knife. “He’s not here.”
“Where is he? Tell me.”
“I don’t know,” Paul answered immediately, honestly. Ah, he thought. He had to tread carefully here. She not only walked like one Bene Gesserit-trained, she possessed the persuasive voice of one too. “But you’ll not find him in an easy mood once he returns. He’ll be out for blood. You’d fare better abandoning your mission now.”
The Countess’s face twisted.
“What do you know of my mission? ” she hissed, and Paul’s resolution to tread carefully was immediately tested.
“You’re here to seduce him, are you not?”
When her face turned a fascinating shade of pink, Paul knew his conclusion had been right. Absurdly, he felt a smile rising to his lips.
“Stop meddling in things beyond your comprehension,” she said, “Begone.”
Paul was guarded this time. He was prepared. He was able to resist the careless, offhand order. But he knew he had to end this while he still had an advantage: she had no idea he also possessed the Voice.
He drew himself up. He recalled the depths of how utterly torn he’d felt at seeing Feyd before him, concerned, reaching out to wipe the tears from Paul’s eyes with his hands still stained with the blood of Paul’s own men. The last time he’d used the Voice, he’d done it unintentionally, unthinking. That wouldn’t work this time.
Paul was careful with his inflection, imbuing each and every word he spoke with the coercive tone of the Voice.
“It’s you who must leave, Countess. Go back to your chambers and remember nothing of what truly happened this night. Instead, remember how you found Feyd and he rejected your advances.”
With a blank expression slackening her face, the Countess nodded. After a moment’s hesitation, Paul added, “Report to the Reverend Mother that he’ll reject the advances of every woman the Bene Gesserit throw his way. He’s under the thrall of another. This is one mission the Bene Gesserit will not complete.”
The Countess nodded again. With that, Paul ordered her away. He was left standing there alone in Feyd’s quarters, wondering just what exactly it was that he’d done, and why.
Paul fingered the hilt of his talon-knife as he stepped forward, and sank down onto Feyd’s bed.
He was still there staring at the wide-open doorway when Feyd returned.
Feyd wasn’t alone, though. He came bearing a gift. He came with his hand twisted in the robes of a sputtering, shaking Piter de Vries.
//
“—found him sniveling in the basement,” Feyd said. He kicked the mentat to his knees onto the ground before where his Prince sat reclined on their bed. “A rat in the sewer. Fitting.”
“And you brought him here?” his prince asked.
It was difficult to tell whether he appreciated Feyd’s gift. Something about him had changed—and not just the fact that he now wore Feyd’s clothes. Somehow, in the black, oversized clothes, he looked both more delicate and more dangerous. A poisoned needle. A tiny flechette.
There was something in the air that surrounded him. His eyes were no longer lined with red. They were set, determined.
“You wanted something to be done with him.” Feyd explained, rendered breathless. “I thought we might do it together.”
“I see.”
“S-sire,” Piter wheezed. He was high on melange. He reeked of spice, of cinnamon and cardamom. It glittered on his robe like bronze thread. Frantically, he looked to and fro between them from his crumpled position on the floor, “This whore’s not what you think he is. Please, spare me. I’ll tell you everything. He’s—”
“—Silence,” Feyd’s Prince hissed. Piter’s mouth clamped immediately shut. His eyes widened in panic as he looked down, as though something—or someone—else had closed his mouth for him.
Feyd knew exactly the strange sensation he was going through. It was what he’d felt himself earlier. His own body betraying him in favor of following the Prince’s commands.
Who was the Prince, really? Piter had been about to say right before the Prince had ordered him quiet.
Feyd gazed not at Piter, but at the Prince.
The Prince wasn’t looking at Piter either. He might have been mere ornamentation in the room for all that they cared about him.
There was a rosy flush dusted across the Prince’s high cheekbones. It might have been from exertion or from embarrassment. Feyd couldn’t fathom it being the latter. With a voice like that, the Prince was powerful. He might have even been more powerful than Feyd.
It should have scared Feyd. Or, at the very least, it should have alarmed him. Feyd was aberrant, though. He always had been. In lieu of fear, he felt solely excitement. He reveled in it, in his anticipation to plum the depths of the Prince and find out what other secrets he might be hiding.
“We don’t have to kill him,” the Prince said. Though he was flushed, his expression was firm. “We just need to… ensure his silence.”
For all his power, he was still so naive. He needed Feyd’s help.
“You know there’s no surer way of doing that than by killing him, Prince.”
Feyd stepped closer, his boot crunching down on one of Piter’s hands, drawing a muffled yelp from him. Feyd dropped to a crouch, tilting his head at Piter as he rolled over onto his backside. All the scuttling and simpering… he was less a rat and more a cockroach. The thought made Feyd smile.
Feyd flicked his gaze up to find his Prince looking at him. His smile widened. “If you don’t want to get your hands dirty, I’ll do it for you. Happily.”
Something flickered over the Prince’s face.
“You’ve already dirtied your hands enough today,” he said, after a moment.
Then he slipped from their bed. He padded over. As he approached, the mentat began to writhe, trying to scramble to his feet while his mute protestations continued. Feyd rose and put his boot on the mentat’s neck.
The Prince breathed out a barely audible sigh at Feyd’s side. Even just his proximity had Feyd’s heart quickening.
“My father once said that any killing done in your name is blood on your hands regardless of if you were the one holding the knife,” the Prince said, in scarce tones.
Feyd stared at him. How honorable, he thought. “Your father’s right.” Better to bloody your knife, my Prince.
“He usually was.”
The Prince reached to the waist of his borrowed pants and drew out his knife—the one Feyd had given him. He did nothing more than weigh it in his hand, placing its sharp point against the tip of his finger as he stared down at Piter.
“But, then again, one of his rare lapses in judgment was trusting in decency when he should have gotten his hands dirty instead.”
He played with the knife, but he might well have been playing with Feyd’s heart. It flipped in his chest as he watched the Prince’s face harden into resolve.
“Take your foot off his neck, Feyd.”
Piter’s silent protestations continued. Fireworks popped in the distance, visible through Feyd’s wide window. As the Prince leaned over Piter, his dark curls tumbled out over his forehead. Feyd was caught on them, on the coils of shadows they cast across his face.
The Prince didn’t bother with his knife. He merely whispered a command in that forceful voice of his. “Choke,” he said.
And Piter did. He choked quietly, without fanfare.
Feyd reached out. He threaded his fingers through his prince’s hair, winding a curl around his index finger as Piter slowly expired before them.
“Incredible,” Feyd uttered into the silence. The Prince was shaking. His entire frame trembled against Feyd’s fingertips.
“I had no choice,” the Prince said, his voice so brittle it seemed it might break. He straightened, disentangling himself from Feyd. He walked slowly over to their bed, both graceful and dreamlike. He lowered himself gently onto the sheets. “He had to be silenced.”
“No, not that.” Feyd didn’t care about Piter. Piter was nothing. He grinned as he approached the bed. “You. You can fell a man with a single word.”
The Prince gazed up at Feyd, his cheeks flushed pink, ruddy with mutiny. He was lovely.
In their first meeting, Feyd had thought him to be some love deity, borne out of spice and lust. He’d been wholly wrong. It wasn’t lust his prince controlled at whim, but death. There was something of it in his eyes as he stared at Feyd, a fatal threat flickering in his green gaze.
Feyd felt the phantom touch of his Prince’s hands wrapped around his neck. His Prince hadn’t killed him then, but he might have. It would have been the easiest thing. It would be even easier now.
Feyd’s heart raced. If he had any measure of self-preservation, he knew now was when he should run. Instead, he lowered himself to his knees before him.
“Who are you, beloved?” he asked, once he’d knelt.
“My given name is Paul,” his Prince answered. He gazed down his nose at Feyd, his expression caged, “And I’m the only one who still carries my family name, thanks to you and your uncle.”
Paul. Paul, whose family had been extinguished by the Harkonnens. Paul, who had broken down after Feyd’s coming of age ceremony, while everyone else had cheered for the vanquishing of three well-trained Atreides men.
“Paul Atreides,” Feyd exhaled. The corners of his lips curled up. “Not a prince, but a duke. My Duke.”
..
My Duke.
That was what Paul’s mother had called his father.
How dare he? Paul wondered, as he gazed down at Feyd-Rautha. How dare he? He wondered, as his blood ran scorching hot.
“I should kill you for what you’ve done to me,” Paul said.
He watched as Feyd’s tongue darted out to wet his lips. The prospect of his imminent demise seemed only to excite him.
“I should order you to choke on your tongue. I should make you fall on the same knife you used to kill my men,” Paul mused.
“Will you?” Feyd asked.
How interesting Feyd was in his inability to flinch. And how wrong Paul was to test him in this way, to continue this Bene Gesserit-like search for Feyd’s humanity by threatening him. Feyd wouldn’t flinch, but it wasn’t because he’d suppressed his primal animal instincts. Rather, he relished in this. He recognized the threat and raced towards it. He looked on Paul hungrily, anticipating.
Paul looked back at him. Feyd’s black gaze arrested him. Paul felt as if he was standing at the edge of a canyon so vast and deep that only impenetrable darkness lay before him. And, still, he felt the urge to leap. Perhaps, he reflected, he'd already leapt.
“I thought of escaping earlier.”
“No.” A broken sound left Feyd’s lips. He surged forward to lay his hand on Paul’s knee, as if he could anchor Paul in place.
It wasn't the threat of pain or death that scared Feyd. It was the thought of Paul running from him.
Paul brushed his fingertips over the back of Feyd’s hand before he’d even realized himself. He stilled, his hand frozen in place over Feyd’s.
“I thought of it,” Paul emphasized, “But when it came time to run, I couldn’t. I came back on the off-chance that I might save your life.” Paul smiled, recalling the Countess’s embarrassment at her plans being foiled. “I found out quickly enough that you were never in any real peril.”
“Paul…”
His name sounded alien on Feyd’s coarse, clipped tongue. Alien, and yet familiar. Paul paused, feeling like he’d been punched. It had been so long since anyone had said his name aloud.
“You cannot leave.”
“You cannot keep me here against my will,” Paul reminded him.
“I only meant that… you must… be happy here,” Feyd said, haltingly. Chewing on the words, as though speaking a foreign language for the first time. “You’ve only to ask, and I’ll make it happen. Anything to put you at ease here. Say the word, Paul, and I’d do it.”
Would that he could rewind time and bring Paul’s men back to life.
Paul chilled, though, at the thought. Matters of life and death were written in stone, final. What was dead should stay dead, or risk unraveling the careful balance of the universe.
Paul looked at Piter.
“What are we going to do with the body?” he asked. He felt ill, all of a sudden. This was the man he’d murdered to save his own skin.
Feyd grinned. He rose to standing.
“Leave it to me,” he said. He reached for Paul, a fleeting brush of his fingertips against Paul’s cheek. Warmth bloomed beneath his touch, spreading across Paul’s skin. Feyd lingered for a heartbeat. “You can trust me,” he promised.
And then, obedient and apparently eager to please, he turned on his heel and marched from the room.
We, Paul had said. What are we going to do with the body?
A na-Baron and his killer concubine. A Duke and his bloodthirsty pet. They were a grotesque combination.
Paul at last tore his gaze from Piter, looking to the quieting skyline outside Feyd’s window. Grotesque, but not unpromising.
Paul would be at Giedi Prime for longer than planned.
Earlier that evening, he’d found himself facing two paths. Instead of escape, he’d chosen Feyd. Now he faced another, bleaker choice. He could sink back into a life of comfort, mourn his losses and silence his voice in favor of warming Feyd’s sheets, or he could fight.
This fight would no longer be for the preservation of his House. That was a lost hope.
This would be a skirmish fought in bedchambers in lieu of gladiatorial sands, with poison and persuasion in place of knives and shields. Paul would exact revenge on the Baron from within his own palace. Once that debt was paid, he’d emerge from anonymity and claim his inheritance. He’d build a new House on Arrakis.
Paul had entertained thoughts of murdering the Baron before, but he’d never felt so capable of it. It had never felt so imminent—and so forboden. In eliminating him, he would be doing to Feyd what the Harkonnens had done to him. If caught, he’d be found out for violating the norms and dictates of kanly. The Great Houses would sanction him and cast him out, if they allowed him to live at all.
Paul shivered, but it had nothing to do with any holes in his resolve. There was no doubt within him that this was the path he must take. The Baron had to answer for Arrakis.
The shiver was a purely physical reaction. He’d been able to bear the pervasive cold of Giedi Prime without Feyd by his side. Paul’s fingers fell to the talon-knife at his waist, a soothing act. He anxiously waited for Feyd’s return.
..
Feyd enlisted Teuvo and Rasmus to help him move Piter’s body from his quarters.
The two guards’ reappearance only prompted more questions, though.
“What happened to Teuvo?” Paul asked. Teuvo’s face was bandaged, a plasteel guard protecting his nose.
At his question, Feyd colored, two pale brushes of pink appearing on his cheekbones. Feyd muttered some excuse, one which Paul quickly saw through.
“Treating your men unfairly will only breed resentment.” Paul nodded at the guards as Rasmus lifted Piter’s shoulders, and Teuvo lifted his legs. Piter’s head lolled like a doll’s. “We cannot allow word of what we’ve done tonight to reach the wrong ears.”
We. The word continued to ring in Paul’s ears. Why had he felt so alone before? He wasn’t. He hadn’t been, this whole time.
“Which is why it’s important for them to fear me,” Feyd insisted, almost sullen. Paul felt something akin to laughter bubbling up in his chest.
“Fear is important. Respect, even more so. Thank you for bringing them, na-Baron,” Paul said. He had to stand on the tips of his toes and brace his hand on Feyd’s shoulder to press a kiss to Feyd’s cheek. He did this all with careful intent. He drew back to see Feyd blinking slowly, his eyes tracking Paul.
“I’ll help them. You lead,” Paul concluded, with a smile. He stepped away—noting, as he went, Feyd’s delayed, circumspect nod.
Good, Paul thought. Let him begin to consider how he might reign as Baron, and how his choices might differ from his uncle’s. Let him start to hunger for it.
Paul joined Teuvo, grabbing one of Piter’s legs.
“What’re you doing? I can do this myself,” Teuvo grunted, though his voice was strained.
“This is dirty work. Not suitable for you, princess,” Rasmus added.
They appeared not to know that this was his dirty work they were cleaning up. Paul spoke firmly, hoping to convey his intentions as he addressed Teuvo, “I’m stronger than I look. You need not bear this weight by yourself.”
“Aye. Whatever pleases you,” Teuvo mumbled. There was a ruddy flush on his cheeks, half hidden behind his bandages, as he cast his gaze away from Paul.
They carried Piter through the halls, while Feyd scouted ahead to ensure they would not be caught. Paul stared at Piter’s sallow features, his blank blue-in-blue gaze. He struggled with his stiffening limbs and realized the importance of this: of bearing the weight of his actions, of facing the corpses he’d made.
They planted Piter in his basement apartment. The scene was already set before they’d arrived. Spice coated his furniture, just as it threaded through his clothes.
“To those who find him, it’ll look as though he was suffocated by his vice,” Feyd supplied, as the four of them gazed down at Piter in his bed. “Overconsumption of melange.”
Rasmus grunted in acknowledgement at the simple beauty of that explanation.
Paul’s breath came short, the cinnamon scent of spice filling his nostrils, expanding some of his senses even as it dulled others. Guilt faded. Piter faded. Feyd-Rautha stood firm, his arms crossed over his chest, his bare biceps flexed—
—and, suddenly, Paul could see the future unfolding before him, as a waking, visceral dream. He saw it as a grandiose hall of paintings, each work depicting a different scene. He saw Feyd’s reign in brutal brushstrokes; Feyd’s arm outstretched in command, the head of the sprawling, furtive Harkonnen empire. Feyd, rising out of the gloom and grime of Giedi Prime; Feyd climbing a swirling spice dune on Arrakis to join Paul, already standing at its crest.
It was a future rife with possibility. It held both the promise of pleasure and tragedy.
Paul tore his gaze away from Feyd, his lungs bereft of air, burning.
“We shouldn’t linger,” Paul murmured.
He felt Feyd’s eyes on him, a prickling sense.
“Yes. The hour’s late,” Feyd agreed. The softness with which he’d spoken to Paul was made apparent when his tone switched. Rough and authoritative, he told Rasmus and Teuvo that their assistance had been necessary and was acknowledged (which was as close to an admission of appreciation as Paul had ever heard from him).
He added that they need not accompany him and Paul back to their quarters.
They walked side by side through the empty, darkened palace halls. Paul chanced a glance at Feyd. When he spoke, he felt it inappropriate to speak above the level of a whisper.
“You didn’t tell them that I was the one who did it.”
A corner of Feyd’s mouth lifted as he cast a sideways look at Paul. “I couldn’t have. What sort of princess kills a man?”
It sometimes slipped Paul’s mind that Feyd possessed his own cleverness and cunning, though they were often overshadowed by his cruelty.
“You’re not going to be upset with them for addressing me like that, are you?” Paul asked, as they rounding the same corner that he’d turned back from earlier that night, rejecting his own chance of escape. “They mean no harm.”
“Upset?” Feyd’s smirk widened. His eyes glinted as he held open his door for Paul. “No. It’s proof that I alone know you.”
“Oh?” Paul’s heartbeat ticked up. He cast a look at Feyd over his shoulder. There was truth in that, an electrifying truth. He’d changed so much from the boy who had been captured on Arrakis. Did anyone alive know him better?
“You’re no princess.” Feyd followed Paul at his own sedate pace, sauntering after him.
“Ah, yes. I’m a duke.”
Paul had to smile to himself. He began to disrobe himself, untying the knot that held his borrowed tunic in place. As his hands closed on the loosened neck of his shirt, they were joined by another’s.
“The power you hold… you’re more than that.” Feyd’s voice was silt and sand, time-softened grit.
From behind Paul, he slipped Paul’s tunic from his shoulders. It made no sound as it hit the cold concrete floor. Paul felt the warmth emanating from Feyd before he felt Feyd himself. Radiant heat, then his chest pressed against Paul’s back. Paul’s breath hitched, unbidden. Goosebumps spread over his skin as Feyd’s lips brushed the crest of his ear.
“You’re mine, Paul Atreides.”
Paul marveled at how no part of him rebelled to that claim. Instead, Feyd’s words cracked open some heated vault within him. Warmth trickled out.
Still, he protested. Obligation insisted. Paul turned to face Feyd.
“I was yours, once. You owned me when you purchased me from a pleasure house.”
There was no remorse in Feyd’s gaze. Why would there have been? He likely saw nothing to regret in his actions.
Paul reached for Feyd’s shirt. He fingered the coarse fabric, spun for use in the sands of the arena, woven to clothe a champion.
“Now? You’re mine,” Paul said. Something crept up and lodged itself in his throat, making his voice soft and quiet as he tore Feyd’s tunic open. Rusty flakes of dried blood and bronze spice motes took flight.
Feyd released a strangled sound. His muscles flexed, but he stood still. Carefully, Paul flattened his hand on his chest. His skin was scalding, as if he was still on the sands beneath the black sun. His heart was hammering, a drum beat against Paul’s palm.
Paul flicked his eyes up to meet Feyd’s gaze. “Are you not?”
“I am,” Feyd said, immediately. His eyes were bright, underscoring the full depth of his anticipation. Something about the expression had Paul’s own heartbeat quickening, matching the beat against his fingertips. “I’m yours.”
“Good,” Paul managed, his mouth dry. He slipped his hand higher, winding it around the nape of Feyd’s neck, and guiding him down with little more than a quick tightening of his fingers.
“You’re mine, Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen.” His lips brushed up against Feyd’s with every word they formed.
“Yours,” Feyd exhaled. He kissed Paul hungrily, as though he couldn’t hold back again, as though the scant contact had broken his willpower. He wound his arms around the taper of Paul’s waist, gripping him tight enough that Paul’s ribs were confined. His breathing constricted, Paul skated his hand up the span of Feyd’s bicep.
Feyd’s skin was filthy, covered in gritty sand, dried grime, and flecked with spice. But Paul had no patience. He would not make either of them wait another second that night. He took Feyd to their bed without delay, leading him hand-in-hand to fall onto their rumpled sheets.
“I’ve learned much from you, beloved,” Feyd confessed, after they’d fallen together. He had Paul pinned to the bed’s headboard.
“Have you?” Paul asked, amused.
“Allow me to show you.”
Feyd’s dark eyes shone with eagerness. Paul took a moment to catch his breath. His lips tingled, his mind made cottony through the spice he’d inhaled, and the spice he’d kissed from Feyd’s skin.
“Please. Show me,” he said, and had to say no more. Feyd abandoned Paul’s lips in favor of lavishing his neck and his collarbones, baring his teeth, digging his sharp canines into Paul’s skin.
“Please,” Paul said again, what might have been seconds and might have been hours later. Paul’s voice was a breathy wreck. An unconscious moan was drawn from him as Feyd’s tongue flicked over his nipple. Yes, Paul supposed he’d taught Feyd something of this throughout their many tumbles.
Feyd ventured lower, trailing open-mouthed kisses down Paul’s chest, abdomen, and navel. His thumb replaced his tongue. His ministrations still lacked refinement. His calloused touch was just on the edge of too rough as he swiped his thumb over Paul’s pebbled nipple, but Paul wouldn’t complain. He couldn’t. His entire body felt primed to respond to Feyd’s touch, ignited, a liquor-soaked rag to Feyd’s flame.
When Feyd dragged down Paul’s pants and took Paul’s cock in past his lips, the rest of the world fell away. The constant, barely noticeable background white noise that had blanketed Paul’s senses and occluded his mind since the arena sands was finally quieted.
All narrowed down to mere sensation—Feyd’s mouth on him; Feyd’s uneven, ragged breathing; Paul’s own desperate attempts to replenish his oxygen.
“Look at me,” Paul exhaled, his fingers alighting on Feyd’s cheekbone. He hadn’t used his Voice on him (He wouldn’t, not again. He had no need to. He wished not to compel Feyd. He wished for Feyd to choose to follow him, as Paul had chosen Feyd).
He hadn’t compelled him, but Feyd’s eyes flicked up. He caught Paul’s gaze through pale lashes made black, darkened with moisture.
“So good,” Paul praised him. “You’re doing so well, Feyd.”
He thought Feyd might cry from that. Feyd’s eyes shone even wetter, threatening tears, before his gaze dropped down again. Paul marveled at that. Then his errant thoughts were cut off. The sensation of Feyd’s throat tightening around Paul’s shaft overwhelmed him. Paul’s mouth slacken, and Feyd wrung a cry from Paul’s lips instead.
All too soon, the mounting flame within Paul grew to harrowing intensity, burning brighter and brighter and building within Paul’s gut, begging for release.
When Paul came, it was with a sigh. Their bed shook beneath them as Feyd clambered to his knees. He swiped the back of his hand across his lips, the way one might after a fight.
“Come here,” Paul beckoned, still breathless and weak. “To me.”
He tasted himself on Feyd’s lips. The salty, musky tang reminded him more of the Caladan sea’s spray than anything else.
“So patient. Is this something else you learned from me?” Paul said, as he broke apart their kiss. There was space between their hips, but the head of Feyd’s cock brushed up against Paul’s stomach. The front of Feyd’s ceremonial pants were damp with pre-come.
“I can wait,” Feyd spoke, through gritted teeth.
“You can. But you don’t need to,” Paul said.
The relief that flooded Feyd’s face was instant. It made Paul feel magnanimous as he spread his legs for his lover.
Feyd pushed into him. When he met slight resistance, he braced one hand at the bed’s headboard, twisted the fingers of his other hand within Paul’s hair. Then he thrusted his entire length into Paul, at once.
Paul felt like he was being split in two. It was a pain unlike anything he’d known, fiery and overwhelming, that quickly subsumed pleasure when Feyd started to move his hips.
Feyd plowed into Paul, unleashing force he’d only previously hinted at. The shift in their dynamics that night—Paul leaving and returning, Paul showing his power—one of these things (or all of them) had broken the scant little reservation Feyd maintained.
Paul used his training in ways he’d never previously imagined. He relaxed his body, softened himself, and forced his form to remain as flexible as possible. It was then that he was able to withstand all of Feyd’s brute force. He took all of him without snapping, to endure it all and even enjoy it.
“You’re—ah—unreal,” Paul gasped, through shaking tones. “A demon,” he fessed, and he knew not whether he meant it as a compliment. His ecstasy was so strange and twisted, his entire body seemingly warped to accommodate Feyd.
Then there was the incongruous tenderness with which Feyd carded his fingers through Paul’s hair. A paradoxical softness in his dark gaze as the bed shook beneath them. Feyd’s cock rammed into the sensitive bundle of nerves buried deep within Paul and sent overwhelming veins of pleasure up Paul’s spine and throughout his limbs.
“Yes,” Feyd huffed. “Yes, Paul. And—ngh—I’m yours to command.”
His words were headier than spice, even more empowering than the Voice.
Paul came a second time that night, a dry orgasm right after Feyd reached climax. It happened after Feyd slipped out of him, his breathing ragged. His seed spilled out of Paul and onto Paul’s thighs, and he swept down to leave a lasting, voracious kiss on Paul’s lips, drawing his hand through Paul’s hair to cradle his jaw. Feyd’s wide, broad hand shook but he still handled Paul gently.
It was then that Paul came again, his pleasure almost teetering into pain, so soon in the wake of the last time.
“I love you,” Feyd said, no doubt echoing pretty words he’d picked up from the palace’s pleasure wing.
Paul laughed, winded. He curled up against Feyd, settling onto his arm. Feyd rested his hand at the taper of Paul’s waist and drew him in, closer. The sky outside was already growing lighter. They’d lasted the night.
“You worship me.”
“Is it not the same thing?” Feyd asked.
Paul looked up from where his head was pillowed on Feyd’s chest. His heart thudded as his eyes met Feyd’s. It seemed feeble in comparison to Feyd’s heartbeat, as it thumped against his ear. It was slowing, a lengthening rhythm, a lullaby drawing him to sleep.
“I dedicate myself to you,” Feyd said, his words wanton. “What would you call that, if not love?”
Paul already knew the answer to that. Foolishness.
He was half tempted to tell Feyd to choose a better deity to worship, one who wasn't flesh and blood and prone to flaws. He decided against it. Feyd’s faith was misplaced, but Paul wanted it all the same. He wasn’t so virtuous as to deny himself this.
He rose up using the last of his dwindling strength and pressed another kiss to Feyd’s cheek. “I thank you for your dedication,” Paul said. He was rewarded with a broad, lopsided grin from Feyd. The sight of it only made his heart twinge slightly.
With that, he collapsed back onto Feyd, his strength depleted.
“We’ve still—” Paul interrupted himself with a yawn, which he belatedly muffled. “—much work to do.” Feyd’s muted laughter caused his chest to quake. His breathing was deepening. Warmth bloomed, brighter than the sun.
“But that can wait until we wake,” Paul concluded, drowsy.
Feyd hummed, a rumble that reverberated through the halls of Paul’s hearing. “Even gods and demons need sleep.”
thufir
Thufir Hawat had lived through generations of Atreides Dukes. He’d seen the House rise to its greatest heights, only to crash and fall. He regretted his current position within House Harkonnen, advisor to those who’d orchestrated the destruction of his longtime benefactors.
He regretted it, but he believed hope wasn’t lost. Thufir believed he could subtly guide the Harkonnen hand to their own eventual demise. It would take cunning and patience. It would take lifetimes for the seeds he’d sown to bear fruit. But it gave him hope, and hope in the future was a necessary thing to have in his old age.
His first plan—to orchestrate the death of the na-Baron—had failed. The na-Baron had taken Thufir’s suggestion and fought the stronger, sober Atreides man during his coming-of-age ceremony, but his strength surpassed Thufir’s estimations. He’d won.
Still, Thufir persevered. The Baron and the na-Baron still held him in high esteem. In the weeks since the spice overdose of their previous mentat-advisor, Piter, they turned to Thufir even more frequently.
The na-Baron came to Thufir one morning while the Baron still slumbered in his chambers, while Giedi Prime’s daily smog still occluded the sunlight and cast the world in shadows.
“I’ve someone who wishes to meet you, Mentat.”
A curious request. What mysterious figure would order around the Baron’s heir? Who could?
Thufir nodded his assent, as he filed the piece of datum away alongside several others. Of note were the na-Baron’s curious bruises that he hadn’t incurred through training and his recent chilled attitude toward his own uncle.
Well, it never had been probable that Thufir would be the only one pulling the Harkonnen strings behind the curtains. He wondered at this untold actor, though. Were they of the Landsraad, CHOAM, or the Imperial forces? He doubted one of the Bene Gesserit would take such an active hand. The witches seemed content to stay in the shadows.
A smile grew on the na-Baron’s face as they neared his quarters. He nodded at the men who stood guard over his door—one of whom, Thufir noted, had a crooked, broken nose.
“Teuvo. Rasmus.”
“Sire!” The guards stood straight, snapping to attention in unison.
There was satisfaction in that exclamation. A level of pride to answer to the na-Baron. Another datum to add to Thufir’s mental stores.
Thufir stopped short when he walked in through the na-Baron’s door and spied a familiar figure tucked away in the corner, peering out the na-Baron’s window.
“Sire. You’re alive,” Thufir gasped, and moved to kneel.
“Thufir, please! There’s no need for that,” Paul Atreides protested, as he rushed forward.
For a moment, as he bounded towards Thufir, Thufir saw flashes of the boy he’d known from Caladan. Then he blinked, and he saw before him a stranger wearing Paul’s face.
There were slight, subtle changes about him that amounted to a total transformation. Paul held himself differently. His hair was longer. He wore clothes that were the dark, loose, martial-inspired fashion that was popular among the Harko commoners. The room’s shadows fell over a new expression Thufir had never seen him wear before.
“He looks like he’s about to keel over,” the na-Baron growled, with no small amount of humor.
“Here. Please sit,” Paul said, procuring a chair that Thufir was only too grateful to take. It lacked decency to sit in front of the man who was now the rightful Duke of Arrakis. Thufir needed it, though, especially as the na-Baron sidled closer to Paul.
The na-Baron only lightly touched Paul’s shoulder. He barely leaned in, whispering a few scant words in Paul’s ear, but Thufir’s mental-computation logged all these minute details. The smallest giveaways—the nigh-imperceptible flush on the na-Barons face, the way Paul’s eyes lingered for fractions of seconds on the na-Baron’s mouth—amounted to an improbable summation.
Not only was Paul alive, but he was in an intimate relationship with the Harkonnen na-Baron.
“...thank you.” Paul’s whisper broke through Thufir’s data logging. Paul’s gaze slid back to Thufir, and the na-Baron’s hand slipped off from Paul’s shoulder.
“How?” Thufir asked. He required more knowledge. He couldn’t begin to understand how this had all transpired. “How did you survive the assault? How did you become acquainted with the na-Baron?”
“I’ll explain everything—”
“Everything?” The na-Baron interjected. He smirked as he crossed the room to take a seat beside a new-looking desk.
“Within reason,” Paul adjusted smoothly. He brightened. “You must explain yourself eventually, Thufir. But we don’t have much time before the Baron wakes. I’d prefer to start with the most important information for now.”
And his Duke’s son told him a scant story of survival, much protracted and shortened, with much excised. Questions still abounded, but Paul moved on quickly.
Paul wanted to find an answer for the attack on Arrakis, he explained. And he wanted Thufir’s assistance in searching for it.
“But, Sire, what of the na-Baron?” Thufir dared to ask, as quiet as could be. The man was sprawled out on his chair, idly toying with a long, tapered knife. Watching them with a bored expression on his face.
What Paul truly wanted, the underlying truth beneath his words, was revenge on the Harkonnens. Was Paul planning to dispense with his Harkonnen lover?
Paul’s eyes slid over to the na-Baron. Perhaps sensing his attention, the na-Baron straightened, sitting up properly. Paul’s gaze softened by the slightest margins. It might have been missed by anyone but a mentat who’d known him from birth but, for Thufir, the change was unmissable.
“What of him? After Rabban and the Baron are handled, there’s every reason to put the feud between Atreides and Harkonnen to bed.”
“Sire…”
“If kept on a short leash, Feyd-Rautha can be molded into a great Baron and an even greater asset to our House,” Paul said, evenly, but in a tone that made it clear he would brook no further argument.
There was truth in that, Thufir knew. Computations showed promising probabilities of mutual benefit if Paul truly had secured Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen’s allegiance.
There were truths and other truths.
Thufir eyed his new Duke of Arrakis. He worried about the boy. He seemed to be unaware that, in so leashing the na-Baron, he’d also ensnared himself.