you have fought well

“Do you think the witches thought this through? Me and you?” Feyd asked, voice low.

“Feyd,” Paul warned, gripping the man’s wrist. “Let me go.”

“I’m afraid I can’t.”

“Feyd.”

“I think I was built to be here, with you. I dreamed I was grown in a tube. I saw my whole life, skinned, peeled, left to dry, and my blood was your blood, and your blood was mine, and we were fused. I don’t believe in their bitch magic.” He spat the word. Tightened his grip. “I don’t think I believe in anything. But you,” he stopped, tripped, as if the speech he usually commanded so effortlessly had failed him. His mouth hung open. He leaned closer, breath sweet with the milk he’d drank before coming to Paul’s room. “You are unavoidable, aren’t you?”

Paul went limp. His body pulsed. Everything inside him lit and liquified, scorching. “Does that frighten you?”