Chapter Text
“The spitting image of your mother,” you hear more than once. Anger radiates from your father every time, yet he says nothing. He cannot in front of so many. How could he explain that the ghost of your mother fills him with such rage?
It’s a day spent in a stadium watching physical feats. It’s not all that entertaining in itself, but the guests are plied with drinks and food enough to not care. They place bets amongst themselves and you’re sure a few of them will end their visit here without a solari to their name. You want nothing more than to steal Irulan for the day, but duty kept her bound to the subjects who desired her attention.
You weave through the crowd and let yourself be distracted by conversation with the lower houses. He watches. You can feel the weight of his gaze every time you smile or laugh or speak or breathe .
“Looks like you’ve got someone’s attention,” one of the daughters giggles loudly. Others turn their heads. You brush it off and continue the conversation you’d been having about the next day's entertainment—an ancient play written before the Jihad.
The whispers of his attention follow you like his eyes. When it becomes overbearing you avoid it all and focus on the events in the arena. Men striking the ground with long poles to launch themselves over raised bars to see how far they land. The tightness in your shoulders eases when Feyd-Rautha finally breaks from the shadows. His looming figure shields you from the rays of the setting sun and the sight of intruding eyes as he stands beside you. “What uses would such a skill have?” he ponders.
“Perhaps none,” you say. “But the strength they must build is noteworthy. These men train with swords and spears just as much as their poles.”
He hums in response as one of the men clears the bar. He lands the furthest you’ve seen, but his footing is poor. He doesn’t shout, though from his limp as walks away it’s evident the attempt injured him. “Perhaps they should train more on how they land.”
You can’t help but laugh. “Yes, perhaps.”
Together you watch in silence as the event rolls into the next.
“I must admit my surprise at your appearance today, my lady. I had thought you preferred a more subdued look.”
A man runs with a spear in hand. Inches from a line they’d drawn in the grass he throws it. “That is my father’s preference.” The tip embeds itself in the ground yards away. “Is it yours as well?”
He does not answer. He cannot. Paul invades the space between you. “Giedi Prime is a desolate place, my lady. Color and beauty do not survive under their black sun.” He is wrong. Beauty raised under that sun stands beside him. “You would be at place in Caladan. The sunset would envy your beauty.” That has nothing to do with what you had asked.
“I had not realized you were a poet,” Feyd-Rautha taunts and a smile nearly bends your lips.
“How could one not be in the presence of such a divine creature?”
“You are too kind.” You step away from him, wishing he’d have kept his distance. Had his stares not been enough? Would he not get the opportunity to humiliate you once again in a few hours? “If you’ll excuse me.” That’s all you leave them with. You can bear him no longer.
*
Fandral keeps a better eye on you. You’re barely down a flight of stairs before he is at your side. It’s a silent return to the castle. He has something to say, you see it in the way his mouth twitches every so often as he sits across from you in the vehicle, but he lets you enjoy the peace for a bit longer.
*
You have no choice in your evening attire. A dress that’s a sister to the ones the other women will wear. Makeup that will be seen from afar. It’s the only thing you don’t mind for the performance.
Despite your early departure, you’re late to the small room off the Great Hall. Fandral doesn’t question the delay. You suspect he knows the reason well enough now. Disapproval colors his cheeks.
Your tardiness is unnecessary. Paul has not arrived yet. Still, the swordmaster reprimands you for it. You tune it out until you’re free. It’s a small comfort to see the woman with your swords again. She offers encouragement with them before retreating with the others. Enviously you watch. How you wish Irulan were here with you.
Paul arrives only minutes before your set to perform. He doesn’t receive the same scolding you had. He only has time to don his own swords while you and the others begin to file out. A small blessing.
You let your eyes unfocus as you step into the crowded hall. It’s better to not see the faces. Or his. Each pluck of a string and swirl of a skirt brings you closer to the end. As the clang echos when your swords meet for the first time, you think of how easy it would be to stab at his skin. The blade is dull, but with enough speed and force it wouldn’t be of much consequence. He didn’t have his shield.
The thought ends as the sword once more slips out of your hand. His hand locks around yours and pulls. His chest presses against your back in a mockery of an embrace. Your eyes burn as they come back in focus. Or perhaps it’s the green fire in his as they bore into you from above.
The music wans and the applause rises. You try to escape his arms, but he holds firm. It’s a quick dip of his gaze that signals his intent. Your face moves an inch in time for his lips to brush against your cheek. Whistles echo in the deafening noise.
Feyd-Rautha watches from his seat at the head table. He’s too far to make out his face, but he’s impossible to not recognize. The degradation weighs heavy in your throat. A day ago he’d seen you as a worthy opponent. How must he see you now?
You’re freed from the cage of his arms. You bow with the others but do not stay. You cannot soak in the humiliation a moment longer.
*
Paul calls for you. You do not stop. Your name bounces off the walls of the corridor as you hope he’ll end his pursuit. But he does not allow such a reprieve. A hand grips your upper arm.
“Let me go,” you hiss, trying to pull free. He does not.
“I didn’t mean to upset you.” He rounds on you, confusion written in the lines of his face. “I was caught up in the moment. I’m sorry.” He means it. You do not care. “Return with me, please. It’s your celebration.”
“I cannot. I must return to my room.”
“Please. Irulan wishes to see you.”
Disgust sours your tongue. How poorly his father had raised him. “I am sure the princess would prefer you to return to her alone. She has had enough humiliation tonight, I think.”
His hand falls away. “Humiliation?”
You scoff. “I understand it may be hard for you to understand, but no woman wants to see her future husband kiss another. Especially not in front of so many people.”
The bastard laughs. When he sees the unimpressed look on your face, he asks, “Have I not made my intentions obvious?” He smiles. “The dance is an old engagement tradition on Caladan.” He chuckles, shakes his head, and adds, “Well a condensed version. The old one was much longer.”
*
Time. That is what you tell him you need. And it is. To reverse it. To retract the knowledge of his impending proposal. To revoke the invitation extended to the Atreides. To undo his very conception. Time is all you need.
He misunderstands your shock for one of pleasure and allows you to return to your room unaccompanied. Fandral waits by the closed door. "Did you know?"
"The young lord mentioned his desire for a marriage yesterday. He asked I not tell you."
"And since when did you serve House Atreides?"
"It is a good match, my lady. You would be safe under his protection."
You push the door open. "You may return to your normal post, Fandral. I require a personal guard no longer."
*
Sleep comes only briefly. The wake in the dark, the image of an achromatic silhouette contrasted against the warm hues of sunrise embedded in your vision. You dress quickly and slip through the corridors. The sounds of the party still linger. It's too easy to go unnoticed and begin the hour-long hike. Every step springs forward a new emotion. Frustration. Despair. Disgust. Terror. Fury.
Solace as you hear a rock skitter across the path behind you. You continue on without looking back or calling to him. He knows you know. Nothing more needs to be said yet. You reach the same spot you'd picniced days before in that blissful silence. Only when the sky begins to color does he finally speak. "The sunrise on Geidi Prime is not so colorful."
"Like its people."
He grins that wide, black grin. "Yes, like its people."
The sun begins to crest over the horizon when you guide him to the canoe still tied to the end of the dock. He does not question as the oars break through the still surface. Even as the overgrown and greying marble pavilion comes into view. He eases the canoe onto the shore and gives his hand to help you disembark. How wonderful it is to touch him again. How dreadful to let it go again.
“My father had this built for my mother when they married.” You take the steps up the once grand gift. “He was so infatuated with her in the beginning. At least that’s what she told me.” You rest your hands against the railings and stare over the water. The marble is cool and coated with a layer of damp. “And then she gave birth to me.”
His warmth soaks into your back, hands resting on the rails beside yours. “He’d been promised a son.”
“One who would marry the emperor’s first born daughter and one day ascend the throne.”
His breath fans across your ear. “Your father was displeased.”
“He drove my mother to try again and again. But nothing. It drove her into madness. Tied rocks to her feet and walked into the water.” She hadn’t tied them well. They found her floating only a day after she went missing. “All for nothing. My father is the one incapable. All he has and will ever have is me.”
“More than he deserves.”
You turn in the small space he’s left between him and the railing. There is no more than an inch that separates your chests. The warmth of the sun makes you sweat. Or perhaps that is from his closeness. It would be a simple thing. A small tilt of your head, a gentle push forward. Lips pressing together. Your heart skips at the thought. The wind rustles through the leaves of the trees and breaks the trance.
"Paul Atriedes is going to ask for my hand."
"And it displeases you."
"Has he not taken enough? And now he wants to tie me to him for the remainder of my days? To submit to him and birth his own heir? How could that not displease me?"
"Deny him."
"My father will not allow that."
"Perhaps we needn’t worry what your father thinks. He enjoys his drink, yes? It is rather miraculous he has not had an accident yet."
Your smile, bright and wide, reflects on his face. How easy he is to manipulate. You hadn’t needed to suggest anything, the violence embedded in his blood coming to the conclusion on its own. “He does indeed. I fear his luck may not last much longer.”