Chapter Text
It is the slow knife that slips through armor.
But Feyd-Rautha wouldn’t call Paul Atredies slow.
He woke up restrained, mag cuffs across his ankles and wrists, another low across his hips. Not uncomfortable, but unmoving. A precaution born of experience.
Feyd should be dead. He had been glad for it, the blade sliding through his armor, Paul’s blood on his hands, his own in his mouth. He dreamt of nothing and he supposed it had been so long since he slept well that it was as like death as he would ever know. Prophesy couldn’t kill a man like him.
Arching his back slowly, Feyd felt his muscles tighten around his wounds. They had been expertly stitched together but he wasn’t whole yet; it must not have been that long since his duel for the throne. Right person; right time; poor timing. He could have killed Paul, he thought, reflecting on the aches that radiated from his body. He should have. But he had wanted to play with his food.
Was it hubris or hedonism?
Feyd swallowed, blinked slowly, and movement next to him drew his gaze. Sitting in the dark, a Freman attendant, a little rat in a stillsuit with a knife in her hand and the door behind her. She stared back at him, unflinching.
Well, he couldn’t move anyway. Thrashing would tear his body apart again. He looked back up at the ceiling, flexing his hands, grabbing onto the sides of the gurney he was fastened to.
Next to him, the rat slipped out the door.
Despite everything, Feyd knew that he had been sheltered at Giedi Prime. He was a product of entrapment, forced into positions under other men that had made him a blade and not a boy. The blood that had constantly been stuck under his nails didn’t mean that he had seen real war, real death. The artifice of sacrifice had honed him into something brutal, uncaring, and--he had thought--something that could not be controlled.
His first fight; his first real fight that meant something, and he had lost. It was a humiliation that built a nest inside of him.
He flexed his hands again and shut his eyes, the gnawing creature built of malice carving out the breath from his ribs.
Lying still in the cool, dry dark, something touched Feyd’s mouth. He opened his eyes--he must have fallen asleep--and parted his lips. A tube slipped in between his teeth and water dripped onto his tongue. He didn’t resist: the alternative would be an intravenous drip of some kind or a med patch. At least with the tube he had some control.
He didn’t know who this Fremen was, but she had brought another with her; a tall man that Feyd barely recognized as being in the room with him and Paul during their fight. Well, he was patient. The Fremen pulled the tube away and retreated, leaving the man to guard him.
Feyd wouldn’t be asking questions. If he was alive it was because the Atreides boy had decided to keep him so. There was little point in knowing more right now.
He drifted back to sleep without fear, as if dead already.
Something must have been in the water, because when he woke up again he was in an empty cell, and had no memory of being moved. He was no longer restrained, and his Harkonnen black armor had been traded for airy, loose-fitting, adjustable clothing, a linen or cotton that was nearly see-through. It wasn’t quite prisoner wear; there were embroidered details, and the colors--though muted--had a hue that hinted at expense. He sat up slowly, pressing his hand against the wound on his chest.
Three vertical slits near the top of the cell let the light in from Arrakis, and another three horizontal slits in the stone wall showed where the door was. It appeared like a flat wall, with no hinges at all. Just some carved grooves that hinted at a mechanism. A half-height hygiene wall separated the facilities from the sleeping area. On the wall opposite the bed, a counter jutted out from the wall; two slabs beneath chairs. A setting for two.
Feyd stood, paced around the cell slowly. It wasn’t small or dingy. It wasn’t cramped. But it was a cell. He was being kept.
Humiliation continued to gnaw at his ribs.
He passed time by watching the lines of the sun travel across the wall.
A slot opened at the door; three bowls were pushed in. He didn’t move.
Escape was impossible. So, he needed something better than escape. He needed something more tangible than to hold onto than hope. He needed to focus. He took the bowls to the table and ate, his nose wrinkling. He drank and almost immediately he could feel the effect this was having on his body.
There was still some drugs in his system. He had rarely tasted alcohol and sworn off drink entirely after he turned fifteen, and now he was eating spiced food and drinking drugged water. At this rate, just eating this stuff would kill him.
The next time the slot opened, Feyd was sitting, cross legged, in front of the door.
“Where is Paul?” His voice was a soft rasp, dull against his tongue.
The three bowls were his only response.
Feyd narrowed his eyes, glaring. He was here for a reason, kenneled like a dog. The purposelessness was worse than the capture.
He glared at the bowls and did not move the tray that held them from its place. He remained seated, the light fading and returning, and with it, Feyd’s own alacrity. The slot opened and when the tray was removed, there was a pause.
“You must eat.” He didn’t recognize the voice.
“Tell him I’m not eating.” It was a hard statement, not petulant or childish, for all it seemed like it.
“Drink the water.” Three fresh bowls were slid through.
“Tell him I’m not drinking.”
The slot closed, but the footsteps didn’t leave. The rat on the other side cursed in Fremen and, after another few minutes, walked away.
The hunger Feyd felt was nothing compared to his regained senses; sharper, faster, a nerve ending made raw.
This went for three days. But purpose had made Feyd a temple of resolution. He would worship at his austerity. If he died, he died. He was here because Paul wanted him here. He should at least tell him why.
On the third day, the slot opened, and the three bowls were changed out.
“Muad’Dib will return to Arrakis in a week,” the Fremen said. “He will speak to you then. Eat.”
“I can’t eat this food,” Feyd said, though at this point he was hungry enough to risk it. “It has spice in it.”
Feyd couldn’t understand the words that the Fremen said, but there was some clear cursing happening. Finally the Fremen spoke in a language Feyd could understand.
“The water is clean.” The Fremen snapped. “Tomorrow you will have bland food.”
Feyd pressed his mouth but didn’t respond as the man walked away. He took a deep breath and reached for the water, annoyed that his hand shook as he took the bowl. He sipped the water slowly.
He wasn’t sure if Paul was returning because of him, but he didn’t care. There was still some control to be had in pretending that he had forced Paul’s hand.