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amayamedeiros · 2 days ago

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Me and the Devil ; prelude

ᴀɴ ᴀɴᴄɪᴇɴᴛ ʜᴏᴜꜱᴇ ꜰᴀʟʟꜱ. ᴘᴀᴜʟ ᴀᴛʀᴇɪᴅᴇꜱ ʟᴇᴀʀɴꜱ ʜᴇ ʜᴀꜱ ʙᴇᴄᴏᴍᴇ ʙᴇᴛʀᴏᴛʜᴇᴅ.

word count: 1.2k warnings: arranged marriage, politics, familial assassination. notes: hii <3 ive decided to revamp and continue this fic from its original [posted on @tremendum ]. this is a re-written version of the fic and will be posted regularly while i work on new chapter updates! feedback very much appreciated :) series masterlist

In a shocking show of mercy, the High Council of the Landsraad has decreed the pardon of the last Bourbon:

After a week-long raid on their home planet Sabberon, the House of Bourbon has been declared dissolved; following the Tsarist-Duchal ruling family's sentencing to death at the Harko Arena on Giedi Prime.

The counter-insurgent attacks enacted by House Harkkonen have been ruled by the High Council as 'Penitent Crimes of Retaliation' following the damning allegations of espionage and theft of Harkonnen technology and intelligence.

The House of Bourbon is succeeded only by the sole heiress and daughter of the Tsar, whose betrothal to the na-Baron of House Harkonnen has been abruptly terminated by the High Court of the Landsraad.

The daughter, who carries the bloodline of both House Bourbon and House Ginaz, has by decree of the High Council of the Landsraad been pardoned of the Harkkonen sentencing of political imprisonment, and subsequently has been determined not guilty of her accused crimes in association with the Bourbon plot. The case’s arraignment is set for a few months' time.

As once-standing political allies to the House Atreides, the Lady Bourbon has been decreed to wed to the son of Duke Leto Atreides by the closing of the standard year.

— Collected Galactic News report sent to Duke Leto Atreides, 10191. Caladan.

A muffled crash of falling plates rolls through the dampened halls of Castle Caladan; a faint gasp echoing in response, soft rumbling murmurs in their wake.

Paul does not bat an eye.

In the corridors behind him, servants pass — they carry with them dishes, plates, crates filled to the brim; Ladies walk by briskly with emerald velvet draped across their arms, returning from the washrooms with dutiful, quiet whispers.

A celebration has been planned with the news of Duncan’s return. Ceremonial, Paul had been told earlier – an acceptance of the Tsarist-Duchal family in a time of exigency, a welcomed embrace from one Great House to another. But something has changed now — the Housestaff walk with wide eyes and whisper in quiet gulps; the guest wing has remained unprepared, the grounds have not been arranged for a large reception, the cooks have not wrought in more than the usual baskets of crabs and seacatch. Hearths die dim in the absence of tending.

Something is not how it should be.

It had just as clearly been written into the faces of those he passed on his way to his father’s study just now; worry, anticipation — change.

Paul knew there was something wrong when he was woken from his sleep earlier than he usually rises for training — though what followed this dismal morning amidst the onslaught of rainfall was not breakfast, nor training, nor lessons; Merely a request to attend his father's study as soon as possible.

Should there have been any such doubt as to the shift in the air this morning, it would easily have been eliminated by the seal stamped upon the message his father has deposited on the desk in front of him to read: A gleaming, unmistakable seal. The High Council's signet.

Teardrops pelt the study’s windows in a violent onslaught. Another crash, this time deeper in the bowels of the castle; The world breathes and stirs around him, though he cannot feel it. Instead, Paul Atreides stands, shellshocked in his ceremonial uniform.

A breath falls almost forgotten from disbelieving lips.

“Married?”

Two solemn faces stare back at Paul.

"Yes,” his Lady mother affirms, eyes cooled in the wet light of morning dim.

The shock of his mother's bluntness has never been quite so abnormal before; though in the moment he takes to swallow down the information, his father clears his throat gently, his mother awaits with a steadied spine. The room shortens; a hazy thought lingers in Paul's mind, though he cannot yet taste it. Gurney Halleck, who sits in the corner, absently plucks the strings of the Baliset upon the wall — far too casual, it stirs the pit within Paul's stomach.

Married.

A far effort to wade through the thickening marsh of his mind. Paul's lips part with a disbelieving huff before he murmurs, "I thought Duncan was returning with Duke Bourbon and his family." Dark brows furrow only the slightest - the fruitful reaping of a lifetime schooling emotions into placidity; a weakened throat constricting as he glances at the message unread before him. "Where is this coming from?"

His words hang, suspended in a silence as tense as it is regretful; beyond the high-climbing cliffs, the sky cries slowly.

A shift of weight from his father, a sigh deep from his chest. "Their house has fallen. Duncan Idaho returns from Geidi Prime this evening."

His words come with no such semblance of comfort — the blood drains from Paul's face, his heart thumping into his throat. Duncan returns from Geidi Prime — not the Bourbon's homeplanet, Sabberon.

It is a valiant fight to not sway upon his own feet, a rushing surrealism hitting his mind in a haze: When the Atreides Swordsman had been deployed, there was not even a whisper or a word of marriage — not a single consideration of betrothal, nor of Paul’s involvement whatsoever.

It was an expedition — to aid an old ally, against the oldest foe that House Atreides has. Paul’s lips purse in the bitter defiance that courses through his veins. The enemy of my enemy is my friend. A foolish thing to think.

It is slow, the realization that blossoms first as a seed of doubt and soon to a flower of disgust. "I am to be wed to..." His sentence is interrupted by a choking of his own saliva, a vicious turn of reality upon him.

Wed, to one of those monsters from Geidi Prime? The bile that rises in his throat is of disdain, of hatred — he is expected to marry a monster?

It is not some act of childish dissent; to be a future Duke is to understand from a young age that marriage is not for love, but for the good of the House, of their people.

Paul has long awaited a future marriage of convenience, of strategy; but to be wed to one of them is an entire new blade of danger.

"A Harkkonen?" Paul snaps, bitter and sharp as the glare thrown towards his father’s windless visage. And as if only some slight error, some amusement sparks within his father’s gaze; with a slight tilt of the head, Leto Atreides declines the accusation of his son.

"No."

Lips part in a puffing sigh of relief, hidden only by the flaring confusion which wraps around his ribs and nestles itself into his beating heart.

Across the room, a Houseworker sets down a teapot and cups with flickering eyes before scurrying out of the room once more. His father, after a glance to his mother, resumes with a firm tone, soothing over the sheets of rain cascading outside.

"She is not a Harkkonen, Paul,” He insists, “Though she has resided on Giedi Prime for nearly four years. She was, up until yesterday, to be wed to the Baron's nephew."

There's another silence, in which the rain slides down glass panes like tears.

"–She's one of Idaho's." Halleck delivers the information rather off-handedly, shifting weight in the corner; Paul, in turn, stares at the man previously occupied with tuning the baliset. A fuzzy sensation as he blinks — one of Duncan’s?

Paul's bewilderment must reflect poorly upon his countenance; his father sighs. "Her mother was the eldest child of the House Ginaz. Duncan Idaho trained with her mother and father at the Ginaz Swordmaster School. It's why he insisted on going to Geidi Prime after Sabberon fell — she is now the heiress; the last of the House Bourbon."

The words soothe only the immediate hackles that a Harkonnen bride brought upon his mind; and although the distrust has begun to slither through his mind, simply Paul nods, clearing his throat.

"–And as part of the High Council's rulings..." His hand gestures weakly towards the sigil atop the message, resigned to the fate which has been inscribed within its contents. "Now, we will marry."

A curt nod affirms the dread coiling within his gut; and the string severs with the glance from Gurney. Paul’s cheeks heat, be it the attention or the frustration of such news. His father, knowing well the troubles of a brilliant young mind, has begun to lay out the battlemaps: "We believe it is for the best. She was nothing but a political prisoner." Duke Leto does not need to duck to catch his son's attention - though in a split moment, Paul meets his mother’s eye; within her gaze is that humming feeling, that flicker of knowledge which sets his teeth on edge.

His father continues. "She is still close with her aunt, the Lady Ginaz. If anything changes along our routes following the Referendum, we will need House Ginaz’s allyship."

It's not a horrible plan of action, Paul's mind reminds him. Gurney plucks a wiry string in the corner; the message sits unread before him, mocking his spiteful stare.

The council of Houses Major, choosing to whom he is to marry; what a twisted, thorny fate. Bitterness is a taste unpleasant as any; and it is made worse when his own Lady Mother speaks up. "Paul. The Reverend Mother found it pertinent-"

But any words she might advise are drowned out by the ringing in his ears, by the words inscribed as he begins to read the message for himself. The ruling is firm — he is to marry you.

Perhaps his mother speaks on, but all that echoes is your name; a bell, hollow and cracked, chiming into an empty hall. His mother’s reinforcement: You will be a smart pair. It is a good match.

The string of fate is severed. A seed of suspicion planted through his mother's insistence: you, a girl from a House fallen from grace, protected by the Landsraad court — a good match. Doubt creeps down his spine — Whispers around his mind, a forgotten promise that lingers only when the shores of conscious pull at the fringes of dreams. Bene Gesserit. A spy for Harkonnen ears. All part of some mechanic political stratagem; and he, in the center of it. Paul, actionless, to be wed to a woman who was made for another.

To be wed to one of the Harkonnen's beasts.

He meets his father's eyes, and they warn him.

Don't push it. What's done is done.

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