#feydrauth-a

"Pride. Honestly, Piter - what does pride have to do with this? Do you think I'm not taking it seriously?"

He waved a hand over the map, with its tiny and colorful markings contrasting the gravity of their situation. The Baron's death had been months in coming, yet Feyd hadn't expected everything to immediately fall apart upon his passing.

A brother gone rogue, and it was all they could do but hope he was too blundering to manage organizing a challenge to the succession. A rival house on the Eastern Sea that was no doubt licking its chops at the chance to seize on the chaos plaguing the land - his land, now.

Frankly, he was surprised Piter was still here, and recognized that he should be grateful for it. There was a reason that Vladimir had kept the man in his inner circle, and he'd claimed Piter had proven his worth in plenty of surprising, unrevealed ways. Feyd's gaze shifted to the slender man, and he inhaled slowly. Recanted, inwardly.

"But go on."

So Feyd has misunderstood. Piter turns to the side and licks his lips, a time-buying nervous tic. He's just as glad as Feyd that the Baron is dead, but he'll have to start all over again with learning how to communicate with subtlety to the Harkonnen he reports to.

"Not personal pride, m'lord," he explains carefully. "The pride of your station. You have spoken at length about how to anticipate threats from your esteemed family and from the Landsraad. I do not exaggerate when I say, now, that neither of us will survive the regime change if we do not also consider the perspective of New Giedi's people."

His strange violet eyes narrow as he privately offers himself pity. He is not a noble. He, too, is part of the perspective of New Giedi's people. To be here with Feyd-Rautha is to be behind enemy lines. To help Feyd-Rautha maintain control is to sabotage the interests of his own class. Oh, the burden of schmoozing for riches!!

"Many thought your uncle a tyrant," he says. He shrugs. "Either that, or I cut out a lot of tongues for nothing, eh?"

A funny joke. A funny joke? The conversation must go on!

It is. It would be. For a moment there's only panting breaths, the ebbing stillness of a duel quickly won, the hush of sand disturbed where Feyd-Rautha kneels defeated. Only the moons bear witness.

The crysknife draws a prick at the hollow of his bared throat, the only blood drawn this night. Twin blades, no doubt poisoned, lay dashed well enough away for Paul to feel comfortable in forgetting them. He would not die tonight. Yet, neither of them should be here. This isn't what he'd seen. What had shifted? What had broken the glass?

❝ You’ve made your decision. I won’t waste my breath. ❞ "I have?" Playful incredulity crept into his words, even as he could feel anger rise in his throat like bile. Months had passed since their good-bye in Middlesex Fells. The brisk New England winter had settled over everything, bringing with it barren branches and numb fingers. The seasons had changed, but some things had stayed the same - the loose leather cord around Paul's neck peeking out from behind the lapel of his jacket, that collection of delicate rings adorning his slender hands, and his walk home along the harbor after his shift. It was frustrating that all of those minute things could stay unchanged, unbothered, and yet it'd been so easy for Paul to discard their friendship. "Listen," Feyd's breath spilled from his lips in a pale cloud, and he spoke rapidly, as if it'd deter Paul from interrupting. "I want you to listen. And I'll listen too, but you can't just shut me out. You owe me more than that."

"I owe you?" Incredulous himself, Paul pulled the woolen collar of his coat tighter, his body half-turned from Feyd as if ready to leave. In the weak light of the clouded winter sun, he looked unhealthier than when they'd last met. Seeing him again had proved jarring.