House Rautha

Jewel and Feyd have their son, who I have decided to left unnamed. It’s up to you. Jewel and Feyd are responsible for Arrakis and trying to heal the Universe, all while Jewel is still being praised as the Chosen One and she feels unsure about her place and the title.

I wanted it to kind of reflect Paul’s journey — even though she was born a woman, and tried to resist the Bene Gesserit agenda, she still ends up being the Messiah that ultimately brings about the Holy War.

Tensions are high. Jewel and Feyd live with their son in happiness, both of them working behind the scenes to try and find Rabban, who escaped after the coup. On the eve of their son’s first birthday, his birthday party with friends such as Asha and Stilgar, Rabban launches an attack.

Feyd ends up killing his brother, protecting his family, but not before Rabban can land a devastating blow. Jewel is there with him in his last seconds. He tells her that his nightmares had been haunted by these moments — his death. He says it’s always her, a version of her, that kills him, and that it’s the sweetest death he can imagine at the hand of his Jewel. He tells her not to worry, and that he loves her and their son.

As he takes his last breath, Jewel removes the killing blade and puts it into his hand so that he might die a soldier’s death and ascend to the Heavens. (A la chapter twelve) He lived, and died, his whole life fighting and she wants to give him a chance at peace. This is also another instance of being unable to change fate, as she’s ultimately the one who kills him by removing the blade.

The story ends with Jewel holding their son after Feyd’s funeral. The last line?

After all, nothing could change these destined ends.

Paradise on my right, Hell on my left, and the Angel of Death behind. — excerpt from the Accumulated Book, page 791

You’ve had days to steel yourself for Giedi Prime.

Tucked away in your small quarters, you poured over every filmbook and inscription that your covenant owned about the planet. When they sent you off, you assured them that you knew what you were getting into. “After all,” you told them, “it’s the darkest places that need the most light.”

You expected the barren wastelands, which you observe from the descending cruiseliner, broken apart only by the sprawling industrial plants. But it’s only once you’ve landed, once you’ve disembarked into the oppressive heat, that you realize all of your studying left out one crucial detail — there is no sound on Giedi Prime.

You stand frozen on the ramp while you process this in a series of disjointed thoughts. Giedi Prime is, by all means, an inhospitable planet. There is no vegetation except for the extremely profitable pilingitam tree, which is not found here, in the courtyard of the Harkonnen stronghold. Thusly, there is no rustle of leaves or grass. No animals. No hum of insects. And the droning sound that you initially mistake as the blood pounding in your ears proves to be the dark sun baking the dry, cracked ground.

“Move,” the Harkonnen attendant barks from behind you. Their language, brusque and unnatural, frightens you into motion, scurrying down the ramp.

Sweat already pools under the collar of your habit, rolls down your neck beneath your wimple. You take a few steps before the attendants sweep by, leading the procession to meet the group of soldiers waiting for you a few feet away. Beyond them, the Harkonnen stronghold looms. It projects impossibly high into the sky, a display of wealth and power, crafted from obsidian with threads of lighter grey throughout. It’s a marvelous spectacle. Before you can properly admire it, however, you’ve reached the soldiers, who are all regarding you rather keenly.

You greet them with a small smile.

“Welcome to Giedi Prime,” one of the soldiers says, then as an afterthought, “Sister.”

When you received the news that you would be performing missionary work on Giedi Prime, you were shocked to discover that it included taking residency at the Harkonnen stronghold. No one had ever been given permission to come here with the sole purpose of spreading the Word, so you didn’t know what to expect.

“We’ve been given strict instructions to escort you to meet with the Baron.”

“Very well,” you reply. You suspected as much. After all, he was the one overseeing this enterprise. Curiously, you follow the soldiers into the stronghold, relieved to find it conditioned with air. The interior was sparsely furnished, the only constant being the braziers along the walls emitting a faint, flickering glow.

You stride behind them, hands in the pockets of your habit and smoothing your thumb over the beads of your rosary. It brought comfort to you in times of turmoil. Especially now, when your fear lingered as dually as the sweat cooling on your skin; with no sense of where you were going, you would’ve believed they were marching you to the dungeons instead of a place of importance.

“What is he doing here?”

You snap to attention. The soldier who spoke flanks you to the right, shifting his weight.

One of the other soldiers hisses in reply, “I thought he was supposed to be Off Planet.”

From your position encircled by the soldiers you can’t see who they’re talking about, but the tension is palpable. You muddle through your own fear to make sense of theirs, confused about who could possibly frighten these formidable men.

“Where are you going?” A deep, rasping voice calls out, steeped with authority.

“We are under orders by the Baron to deliver this guest to the throne room.”

“A guest, you say?”

Between the bodies of the soldiers, you catch a quick glimpse of a man but nothing more. “Yes, na-Baron,” the same soldier says.

“Why wasn’t I made aware of this?”

In way of reply, the soldiers at your front step to the side, exposing you to this man. The na-Baron.

Feyd-Rautha.

He’s more handsome than you imagined, which arrests most of your focus. He’s bare as any other Giedi Prime native but possessing of a cruelly elegant nature, with dark eyes and plush lips. A strong jaw is framed by a fitted, high-collared jacket. The trousers he wears boasts reinforced panels along his knees and muscular thighs before tapering into matte black boots.

Feyd-Rautha glowers at you for an uncomfortable amount of time. Finally he declares, “I’ll escort her the rest of the way.”

“na-Baron, sir, we were given strict —”

“I don’t care.” Feyd-Rautha’s penetrating gaze has yet to stray from your face. “Leave us.”

When the soldiers hesitate, a muscle jumps under his eye, almost unnoticeable, and in the span of a single heartbeat he’s unsheathed a blade and posed it under the chin of the closest one. “You question my authority.”

A statement. Not a question.

“Never, na-Baron,” the soldier chokes out.

“Prove it.” Feyd-Rautha removes the weapon, holding it out at his waist instead. “Run yourself through on my blade.”

A strangled sound escapes you. “What? No —”

You’re helpless to intervene when the soldier forcefully steps forward, the blade breaking through his armor and into his stomach with a sickening squelch. The coppery smell of blood assaults your senses. You watch as the soldier staggers, reaching out to his na-Baron for support, who in turn withdraws the blade — you think, in a disconnected way, that it’s over — and then plunges the blade back in again.

In. Out. In. Out.

Horror swallows you and you have nowhere to go as the soldiers maintain their tight formation. You cry at them to move please but they refuse to budge, undoubtedly in an effort not to join their fallen comrade. When it dawns on you that you’re trapped, you spin around, eyes wide.

Feyd-Rautha contemplates the bloody blade, glinting in the light of the braziers, then asks, “Does anyone else wish to prove their loyalty?”

“N-No, na-Baron.” The soldiers genuflect, a gesture unbefitting of this man — this monster — and all but scurry away, leaving you alone and completely vulnerable.

Your entire form trembles.

Feyd-Rautha, with nowhere else to direct his attention now, affixes you with a glare.

“State your name and business.”

You breathe out your name. “I-I’m a missionary.”

“A missionary. How curious.” Feyd-Rautha moves closer. You hold yourself as still as you can, willing yourself not to glance at the blade.

“You killed him,” you whisper. You can’t think to say anything else.

“I did.”

“But why? He wasn’t —”

“Does your god not challenge you? Ask for you to demonstrate your loyalty through hardships? Do you not swear fealty to him every day with your prayers and your mass?”

You swallow, summoning your courage. “You’re going to liken yourself to God?”

Feyd-Rautha’s lips twitch upwards the slightest amount, amused, and a kernel of anger forms inside you at the sight.

“He would never do such a thing,” you continue, invigorated, “He is a kind and merciful God.”

“Then perhaps that is why he must send young women out to spread the word of his greatness,” he rasps, “while everyone knows who I am.”

You look away, ashamed of the powerful hatred that you have for him. You hate that he’s right. More people tremble before the wrath of Feyd-Rautha than worship at God’s feet. The Father of your childhood congregation often said that love was greater than fear, but was that true?

Love embraced you, comforted you. It was a warm, nurturing presence, lulling you to sleep. But fear was a blade at your throat, alerting the senses. You could not be complacent in its care.

“Come with me,” Feyd-Rautha says.

“Are you taking me to see the Baron?”

“No.”

“I must make an audience with him.” You cling to this like a drowning man to a lifesaver.

“I’ll save you the displeasure.” Feyd-Rautha wipes his blade on his pants before sheathing it. “My uncle wishes to appeal to the Emperor. He’s going to…entertain you as long as it takes to appear compliant to his whims.”

In your pocket, you clutch your rosary. “I would like to hear that from his own mouth.”

“Trust me. You don’t.” Feyd-Rautha pauses as if to say more but ultimately does not, rolling his tongue in his cheek. He sighs. “I must confess, my present company leaves me…uninspired. But you intrigue me. This place hardly fosters real discourse, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Oh, well —”

“Join me in my quarters.”

“Your quarters?” You stare at him in surprise.

“It offers the privacy and refinement such a conversation deserves.” The intensity in which he regards you is equally unnerving and flattering.

When has anyone taken an interest in you, beyond the necessary?

Besides, it’s not like you can decline this man. You wouldn’t want to meet the end of his blade, too. And is also your host, in a way, so you simply dip your chin in acquiesce.

Feyd-Rautha, never one to be denied, turns like he expects your subservience. This fans your anger, but you quickly, mentally recite a prayer, searching for guidance. You were here to convert the people of Giedi Prime, weren’t you? Even if it was just a scheme like Feyd-Rautha said, you could do good work. Help people. Though, as you fixed your gaze on the na-Baron’s shoulders, staying a step behind him, you wondered if some people simply could not be helped.

It does not evade you that this man had just killed one of his own soldiers, and was now going about his business as if it never happened. You linger in the doorway of his quarters as he removes his jacket and folds it carefully over a settee. A mesh undershirt beneath reveals the sharp contours of his body and once again you’re forced to look away, should the heat in your cheeks betray you.

Feyd-Rautha motions for you to join him. The antechamber hosts a sunken inner circle with plush couches, which you select purely based on distance from the na-Baron, who has ambled leisurely to a set of floor-to-ceiling windows, his back turned to you.

“What do you hope to achieve here, Sister?”

The question surprises you. “I-I hope to bring salvation.”

“I must admit, the notion of bringing salvation to Giedi Prime seems almost comical.” He pivots slightly, sunlight limning his face. “What do you think it is these people lack? Faith, purpose?”

“They lack hope, na-Baron. Faith offers the downtrodden a light in the darkness, a way to endure the suffering that surrounds them.” The words are strangely reminiscent of what you said only this morning.

“My people thrive on ambition, Sister, not hope. But you speak as if you know their suffering intimately. Tell me, what does your faith teach about the flesh — about living?”

“The flesh is but a vessel for the soul,” you recite, “though I suspect you already knew that. To indulge it too greatly is to invite ruin. True fulfillment comes from rising above worldly desires, finding peace in service to others and to God.”

The na-Baron turns fully to face you. He prowls closer, dark eyes glinting. “Isn’t that denial? To deny the flesh, to reject the gifts of sensation and pleasure, is that not to deny the Creator’s handiwork itself? Are we not meant to embrace what we are given?”

“Pleasures of the flesh are fleeting, na-Baron, distractions from the path of righteousness. To fall victim to them is to stray from God’s will.”

The answer falls from your lips with ease, like petals from a flower. But your chest tightens with each of his questions — have you not wondered these things yourself, late at night? There’s no way that Feyd-Rautha could possibly know this about you, but he’s looking at you like he can see every thought stripped bare, like the proof of your doubt is imprinted on your forehead.

Feyd-Rautha halts just inches away, having joined you in the sunken level of the antechamber. His presence eclipses all else, voice rolling down your spine like an ill-fated caress. “How, then, can you claim to know life? Tell me, Sister, have you ever felt something so deeply it consumes you? Have you ever surrendered, if only for a moment, to something greater than your will?”

“I have surrendered my life to God, na-Baron. There is no greater fulfillment than that,” you reply, your voice strong but hands trembling at your sides. You clutch them.

“A convenient answer,” he muses. “You’ve lived by denial, which is not the same as transcendence. How can you claim to…save…my people if you don’t understand the depth of their desires? Their need to feel alive?”

“I seek to show them a path beyond their transgressions. I have no need to understand their indulgences to do so.”

“Hm.” Feyd-Rautha studies you. Up close, the softness of his mouth is infuriatingly inviting, the obvious strength in each movement calling to your body in a way that you refuse to acknowledge. He does not touch you, but your skin burns as if he has. “You’re afraid. Afraid that if you allowed yourself to feel it, to experience it, you’d discover how much you’re missing.“

“I came here to spread God’s word, nothing more,” you tell him. Unable to stand being so close to him, you turn away. His presence at your back is both daunting and exhilarating.

“Perhaps you’ve come here, Sister — not to save, but to be tempted.”

Sunlight slips through the small window and slants across the floor over the small altar that you’ve erected. It’s a private storage room that your hosts generously have let you carry out your morning and evening rituals in, kneeling on the hard ground and saying your prayers.

You’re not surprised when the door swings open in the middle of meditation a few days after your arrival, preceded by the thud of deliberate footsteps. “You spend a lot of time on your knees for someone who has never known pleasure,” the na-Baron says in way of greeting.

“I see you’re still concerned about my experience,” you reply. The amount of time you’ve had alone has given you ample opportunity to mull over your discord with Feyd-Rautha, and how you would proceed next. Strangely, you were looking forward to this interaction.

Feyd-Rautha steps into your view. He’s traded his jacket and mesh undershirt for a long, asymmetrical tunic; still the same piercing, menacing gaze. Today, however, you accept it gladly, chin thrust in the air.

“I intend to take you up on your…hospitality.”

A ripple of surprise crosses his features, gone before you can make anything out of it. “Do you?”

“You say that I cannot hope to save your people unless I understand their…ambitions.” You didn’t think you could say desires in front of him without stumbling over your words.

“Correct.”

“Then you will show me these indulgences.”

His brow quirks slightly. “I will?”

“And,” you add, ignoring his amused tone, “in return I will share with you the teachings of the Accumulated Book.”

Feyd-Rautha appears to consider this. He crouches down to your eye level, searching your face. The gesture is commanding and subservient all at once. Vulnerable, lowering to your level. But the na-Baron is so effortlessly powerful that he cannot completely divorce himself from it.

“Okay,” he rasps.

“Okay?”

“Did you expect an argument?”

“Well, you’re so fond of having them.”

“That,” he says, “was friendly discord. Not an argument.” Feyd-Rautha’s lips curl up. “You’ll know if we’re having an argument.”

You quickly make the sign of the cross, then rise to your feet, paralleling your former stance with the na-Baron. You can’t help but think he looks delighted at the shift and, heart fluttering, shove the observation aside. “Shall we?”

“You’re going to let me choose first?” He asks. “I thought perhaps we could do more work on our knees.”

“Morning ritual is over,” you say, lifting a shoulder like that explains it.

In reality, you had yet to decide what you actually wanted to teach Feyd-Rautha who, at least in your brief interactions, seemed familiar with the Orange Catholic Bible. You convinced yourself that if he started this transaction then you would find something equally as telling as his.