#HEIGHLINER

[siryl]

"Spacing Guild's Heighliner" by Retro Visor. More images at source.

[skyfire85]

"Traveling, without moving."

DUNE

[corsair-princess-nenime]

Imagine + Nenime Irulan

NENULAN?!

As we know, Irulan Corrino is the daughter of the emperor and the historian meta-narrator of the events of DUNE

Of course, NENULAN CORRINO IS A NAUGHTY SPACE SPICE-PIRATE RAIDING AROUND THE UNIVERSE IN HER STOLEN HEIGHLINER WITH HER LOYAL NENDAUKAR (neni sardaukar)

[insistent-daydreamer]

the more i learn about dune the more i realize how much last exile took from it.. like whole elements copied 1 to 1.. huh.

[houserautha]

These Destined Ends

Part 1

Summary: Jessica fulfilled the wishes of the Bene Gesserits to produce a daughter. You’re now burdened with the task of not only marrying the na-Baron, but also bearing his child — the Kwisatz Haderach. Will you take your fate into your own hands? Or will it always belong to those who control you?

Pairings: Feyd-Rautha x F!Reader

Word Count: 2.1k

Warnings: none for this chapter. Masterlist of warnings overarching the series

A/N: Hello! If you’re here then there’s probably something wrong with you too, so let’s be friends. I haven’t been able to write anything lately until I saw the latest Dune movie and then all of my thoughts became dedicated to Feyd-Rautha. I must get these thoughts out. Help. Me.

“Chin up.”

Your mother brushes your hair back, bronze, like hers, and lifts your chin. Her gaze is critical. You stare back, thinking only of the things that she will find fault in you. An endless amount, you muse. The slightest flicker of expression on Lady Jessica’s face informs you that she suspects what you’re thinking. Your teeth grit.

“Must you do that?” You hiss through your painted lips. The servants have dressed you specially for the occasion. A floor-length black dress and, settled on your shoulders, a red cape clasped together with the House of Atreides insignia.

Jessica withdraws her hand. Your mother radiates femininity and power, a feat you’ve yet reached. Even the cool way in which she regards you drips with regality.

“Do what?” She asks, feigning innocence.

“Don’t make me say it.”

Jessica’s blue eyes harden. “You don’t have to, daughter. It’s plain enough.”

Mother and daughter stare at one another.

She tried to teach you the ways of the Bene Gesserits, but you failed to take to it. You were too expressive, too…volatile. You struggled to detect the slightest change in voice, you could never sit still long enough to study, and your facial features always betrayed you. The only aspect you succeeded in was combat — there was no need to mask your feelings, your thoughts, able to just completely lend yourself to the blade.

But it wasn’t enough.

“You’re fortunate the Reverend Mother has chosen to see through with this arrangement,” Jessica all but snarls. “There’s hope for you still, in form of an heir.”

The Kwisatz Haderach.

The only reason your mother still spoke to you, affords you any attention at all. The fact that you’ve been painstakingly bred to produce him: a Bene Gesserit of male origin, capable of accessing the memories of his ancestors and see through time and space itself.

A terrible mantle for an unborn child.

In the black of night, you sometimes lay your hand on your abdomen and utter apologies to the egg nestled in your ovary; burdened with horrible purpose. If only you could avoid its fate. But you were not even in control of your own.

“I want to stay here,” you plea finally, pitifully.

Jessica steps away from you, brushes off her skirt. “You know that you cannot.”

“I can help Father,” you insist. “You know that he worries about gaining the approval of the Fremen. I can —”

“Enough!” The Voice. It snaps your mouth shut and renders you mute. “This is bigger than both of us.” Jessica snatches your upper arm, pulls you close enough to feel the heat of her anger. “Your father wanted a son. A heir. But it was my duty to produce a daughter. I ignored the pleas of your father because I understand what it is to serve. Don’t make me regret my decision.”

You swallow your disgust, though it lingers like a foul taste on your tongue.

This isn’t the first time that your mother has told you this. Nor did you think it would be the last.

Perhaps making a home among your enemies would be better than staying here among family.

“Fine,” you say. You wrench your arm from her grasp then turn away. It’s futile, you know the heighliner will be here soon to whisk you away, but you can’t stand to be in the presence of your mother any longer. Fortunately she lets you go.

You’re not even aware of where your feet are taking you until the familiar sound of the baliset meets your ears. Gurney rests lazily on the ground in the massive corridor, back against the wall and string instrument in his scarred hands. He doesn’t look at you as you approach nor when you collapse down beside him.

Usually Gurney’s situationally appropriate songs bring you a modicum of comfort, but today it seems more ominous than insightful.

“I won’t miss your singing,” you say.

He stops playing. “You jest.”

Playfully, you crack open one eye and peer at his baffled expression. You try not to laugh. “I don’t.” A sigh escapes your mouth then, and you slump further down, uncaring if you rumple your gown. “I will, however, miss the singer.”

“Don’t bother appealing to an old man like me. It won’t get you anywhere.”

“Hm,” is all you say, lost in thought.

Gurney sets the baliset to the side. His hand finds your knee and he squeezes. “You will be fine, Lady Y/N. I’ve taught you well.”

“Not even what you’ve taught me will suffice for what I’m up against.”

“Nonsense.”

Both eyes open now, you stare pleadingly at the swordsmaster. “Just come with me. Please.”

It’s Gurney’s turn to sigh. With a groan he heaves himself to his feet and offers you a hand. “You know that I can’t,” he murmurs.

His loyalty to your father doesn’t extend to you.

He is Leto Atreides, Duke of Arrakis, after all. And you are just his daughter. A pawn. A womb and nothing more.

You reach out to ghost your fingers over the scar on Gurney’s cheek. “Tell me about them.”

The Harkonnens.

“There’s nothing you don’t already know or haven’t learned from the filmbooks,” Gurney says to you in a terribly soft voice. It’s unfitting of the great soldier. “They are a cruel people. Do not trust them.”

You nod, irrationally devastated that your final plea to Gurney did not work. But his words were not anything new.

Nothing you learned about the Harkonnens has been pleasant — from their oppressive rule and misogynistic society down to their industrialized homeworld. Your chest aches.

First you were forced to leave the lush beauty of Caladan for Arrakis. You had even grown admittedly fond of the desert planet, just to yet again be snatched from another home.

“Thank you, Gurney. For everything.”

He dips his chin in acknowledgment, then holds out his arm for you to take.

Gurney has been like a second father to you over the years. While Leto was out securing political alliances and holding meetings, it was Gurney who kept you company. He aided in your combat training and believed in you when no one else did. To lose him would be to lose a great friend, indeed.

By the time you return to the antechamber where you’d been, Leto has arrived. He looks as cunning and handsome as ever, and the smile he flashes you is enough to cut you to the bone.

If what Jessica said was true about your father wanting a son and being sorrowful he did not get one, you would never know. He has only ever made you feel loved.

“My beautiful daughter,” he greets you. He smells wonderful. The same way he did all of those years ago when he would tell you stories of your grandfather and tuck you into bed, his beard tickling your cheek.

You breathe him in for one of the last times. “Hello, father.”

“You look marvelous,” he says. His smile falters slightly. “Are you ready? I wanted to ensure that you’ve said your goodbyes before we leave.”

Bitterly, you think, Before I leave. Everyone else will return to Arrakis and you will be moored on Giedi Prime, married to a bloodthirsty monster and forced to grow round with his child.

The thought makes your knees tremble.

The Harkonnens controlled the fiefdom of Arrakis before your family and were unbelievably outraged that it, and the flow of spice, had been stolen from them. You couldn’t even begin to imagine what your reception on their planet will be like. It’s any luck if you don’t get slaughtered upon arrival.

Especially since the Baron’s nephew, the na-Baron Feyd-Rautha — your betrothed — was known for his brutal nature. You hoped stupidly that the arrangement of marriage and promise of an heir would be enough to keep you alive.

At least for awhile.

Feyd-Rautha killed his own mother. Who knew what the status of wife meant to him?

“I’m ready as I’ll ever be,” you answer Leto. He squeezes your hand.

You hug Gurney goodbye then board onto the heighliner after your parents. It’s difficult to suppress the tears threatening to fall as the ship takes off in a flurry of sand and departs.

Normally you’d be completely enraptured with the endless golden dunes, but today you stay rooted to your seat and refrain from crying.

The flight to Giedi Prime happens much too quickly for your liking. Already your heart is in your throat, hammering out your nerves in a steady rhythm.

The view from your seat reveals the strange nature of your new home — a black sun. Never again will you see the stretch of blue sky from Caladan or feel the formidable heat of Arrakis. The entire world outside the ship stood in sharp black and white contrast, all color drained from the surroundings and its people.

You spy hoards of Harkonnens gathering beyond the ship, awaiting the arrival of the na-Baron’s wife and their future Baroness.

Your stomach churns. How could you ever lead such ugly, wicked people?

Jessica’s voice engulfs you. “Chin up,” she says again to your dismay. “You mustn’t show any weakness. Not here.”

You raise your chin the slightest amount. Jessica nods stiffly in approval, and it’s in that moment you understand that your mother’s harshness has been preparing you for this. While you hardly feel the urge to forgive her, an odd sense of calm washes over you.

You are an Atreides. And you always will be.

No one can take that from you.

The boarding ramp disengages and you’re the first one to step onto it. A hush of silence befalls the crowds.

You stride forward with as much confidence as you can muster, focusing not on the leering eyes of the Harkonnens but instead on the Baron’s fortress. A large pathway separates you from it, granting you plenty of time to get your fill. It’s as grand as it is excessively boastful; tall, pointed towers cleverly connected, all sharp lines and edges. It leaves the impression of a finely crafted dagger.

A display of power and wealth.

Behind you your parents emerge and the carefully observant crowd launches into disarray — shouts and yells of anger, of hatred, grate your ears. You know that they take it in stride, however, and their strength fortifies your own.

By the time you’ve crossed the distance from the heighliner to the inner walls of the fortress, your eyes are blurried by the strong contrast outside now given away to darkness. It takes a few moments for you to adjust. When you do, you quickly look over your surroundings.

There’s few decorations or art. It’s cold and impersonal and extremely clinical.

Your slippered feet reverberate off the high ceilings.

Bracing yourself, seemingly, has been for no reason. For it’s not the Baron and his nephew that meet you but rather a line of Harkonnen soldiers. Their faces are stoic.

You bristle. “Where is the Baron? And my betrothed? Do they not wish to receive us?”

The soldiers do not answer.

A man appears then from down the hall, a Mentat by the look of him. He’s pale and bald and clad in black like the other Harkonnens.

“My apologies, Lady Y/N,” the Mentat says. “My name is Piter de Vries. I am here to escort you. The Baron and na-Baron will receive you now in the throne room.”

Leto lays a hand on your arm as if to stifle your response. “Please, Piter, lead the way.”

You can’t help but glance curiously at your father. This entire situation was delicate, you knew, but you wonder at his subservience. It’s an insult not to be immediately greeted by their hosts, especially when your guests happen to be the Duke of Arrakis, his concubine, and their daughter. If Leto agrees with this affront, though, he doesn’t show it.

Leto simply strides after Piter with you and your mother in pursuit.

The fortress boasts sleek walls and floors, polished to perfection. Piter guides you to the throne room a short distance away, the sight of it stealing the breath from your lungs. It’s larger than any room you’ve seen before, outfitted on the far side with steps leading up to a grand dais.

And upon the dais, demanding your attention, is Baron Vladimir Harkonnen. The man is as large as the throne room itself but not nearly as impressive, pale and beastly, his enormous weight supported by suspenders. He makes no movement as you enter.

Your gaze moves quickly, eagerly, away from him.

Standing on either side of the dais are his two nephews. Aware that you can’t stand to face your betrothed yet, you fix your attention on his brother. Rabban, you recall his name.

Rabban is bound with hard muscle and swathed in what you can only describe as thinly veiled anger. At his side, his fists clench and unclench restlessly.

Then, without permission, you look to your future husband.

Feyd-Rautha stands as tall as Rabban but roped instead with lean, attractive muscle. His brow sits above dark eyes and a generous mouth. There’s a frightening intensity to the way he stands, encapsulating both nonchalance and a dangerous arrogance. Clearly this man is used to getting his way and will stop at nothing to do so.

And it’s this man that makes no effort to disguise the way he studies you, starting at the top of your head and trickling languidly downward.

A chill dances down your spine.

When he catches this, catches you watching him — he must’ve known that you were — his lips twitch into the faintest of smirks.

Part 2

[crescentsandcrossthreads]

Sure! 10k+ years of history. Wackadoo humans of every variety he could interact with. Did he know Ibrahim Vaughn Holtzman?

God, those two would have got on swimmingly.

Would anyone be interested in reading a doctor who and dune crossover?? Like the deadly serious writing style of dune but the doctor is just there occasionally

[letsduneit]

rabban: uncle isn't responding to my messages. feyd-rautha: here lemme try calling him rabban: i've hailed him SIX times, what makes you think- the baron, picking up immediately: yes my darling special boy? do you need anything? a heighliner? a party in your honor? a snack?

[boldstarks]

Giedi Prime (House Fenrir Dune AU)

word count: 1498 Words pairing: Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x Bene Gesserit!Reader warnings: none (yet) summary: you arrive on Giedi Prime for the Na-Baron's birthday celebration, but you have another task ahead of you.

Before you arrived on Giedi Prime, you didn't believe a place could be completely devoid of color, but as you stand on one of your father's heighliners looking over the planet, you have come to believe what they say. You peered at the black and white planet below from the bridge as the ship waited for its permission to land on the surface. House Fenrir was one of the many invited to the celebration for the Na-Baron's twentieth birthday and one-hundredth gladiator fight.

Even from outside the atmosphere, you can see the planet is heavily polluted from the fervent industrialization led by House Harkonnen over the centuries.

A nervousness settled in your stomach when you entered the planet's orbit, and your father's reservations about the match weren't easing the anxiety creeping through your bloodstream. Today was the day that you would begin to seduce the Baron's heir.

"We could always go back home," the archduke said. He has joined you at the window.

"It would not serve our house to make an enemy out of the Harkonnens," you reply in a monotone voice.

They were known for maintaining a cruel and tyrannical grip over their worlds. Violence and war were ingrained in their culture, and you had no doubt they would inflict that bloodshed on your people. If their treatment of the people of Arrakis was any indicator of how they treated those who displeased them, you knew they could do the same to Fenrir.

"Wise words," Lady Aurelia, your father's concubine, said.

Lady Aurelia was the closest thing you had to a mother after your own had died of a mysterious illness during your adolescence. You knew she did not see you the same way, though. Your father openly favored you and your older sister, Maron, over her two sons. To her, you were simply an obstacle in the way of her eldest son inheriting your father's title.

"They could reverse engineer our harvesters or simply kill us and take over production, and the emperor wouldn't bat an eye," you said, turning away from the grim image of the planet that you would soon call home if all went according to the Reverend Mother's plan.

"I hate the thought of leaving you in this place," Vulcan says.

Lady Aurelia sighs. "Y/N can take care of herself; I've seen to it."

"Lady Aurelia is right, father. I am more than capable of completing the task that the sisterhood has given me," you tell him.

Your reassurance only causes the worry lines around his mouth and forehead to deepen.

"Your Grace," a servant said.

The three figures at the window turn, and the servant curtsies quickly in respect.

"We have been given permission to land, Your Grace. We await your command," the servant says and curtsies again.

You watch her nervously scamper off. It seems that Vulcan wasn't the only one on edge today.

The landing was relatively uneventful, and the surface of Giedi Prime was just as bleak as you imagined. There were no natural plants in sight, and the air had a bitter taste to it that coated your tongue, throat, and sinuses. It made you miss Fenrir bitterly, with its vast oceans and thick forests that enveloped the less developed parts of the planet.

In the light of Giedi Prime's black sun, your ice blue dress looks silver. It's form-fitting to your body with a halter neck and leaves your arms bare. The look was completed with teardrop-shaped pearl earrings set in silver hardware.

A female servant is already waiting for you when the ship lands. She is pale and completely devoid of hair. She wears a dark-colored dress of a peculiar cut, and she keeps her eyes on the floor.

She curtsies deeply when you step off the ship with your father and Lady Aurelia into Harkonnen Palace's ship dock.

"I have been ordered by the Baron to show you to your quarters before the spectacle, Your Grace," the servant says in a small, timid voice.

Your father opens his mouth to reply, but the girl turns on her heel quickly and hurries toward another crowd of visitors being led by another woman in an identical dress. She waits to let the guests from a house you didn't recognize pass before continuing her beeline to the door.

You see Vulcan and Aurelia exchange a glance before all three of you follow after her.

The inside of the Harkonnen Palace is just as bleak as the outside. It is made up of identical black and white hallways; one could easily get lost in them. The servant girl expertly navigates these identical hallways without raising her eyes. She's obviously been here for quite a while. You wonder what horrible things she witnessed, or perhaps endured, in her employment here.

The woman is completely silent until she arrives at a nondescript slate gray door with a black panel installed on the wall next to it. "This is your room, Lady Y/N, and your parents are right beside you."

She motions toward an identical door to the left.

Lady Aurelia goes to her and your father's door and presses her hand to the panel. The panel glows, and the door slides open.

"What did it just do?" your father asks, puzzled.

"The doors to your quarters are programmed, so you need your handprint to get into them, Your Grace," the girl responds. "The Baron has found guests feel more secure when they are the only ones who have access to their living space."

Your father nods and presses his hand to the panel. Lady Aurelia walks into their room without another word.

"Just knock if you need anything, darling," Vulcan said, following her inside.

Their door slides shut behind them, leaving you alone with the servant.

"How did I find my way around?" you ask.

The girl makes eye contact with you for the first time.

"I strongly advise you not to walk around without someone to escort you, My Lady," the servant girl said firmly. "This is not a place where one wants to get lost."

This wasn't a request; it was a warning. The girl's eyes darted back toward the ground. You place your hand on your door's panel. It warms slightly when it scans your handprint. The door slides open, and you step inside. The servant girl won't meet your eye again before the door slides shut.

If you were anyone else, you would feel as though you had stepped into the belly of the beast. But you're not just anyone; you're Bene Gesserit. You're exactly where you're meant to be.

---------

You sit on an elevated platform that sits slightly lower than the one occupied by the Baron Harkonnen, the Reverend Mother, and your father, the Archduke, along with an unknown count and his wife. The crowds in the stands below are packed with Giedi Prime citizens. The black sun has once again washed the color out of everything. You were provided a pair of small field glasses to view all the fights through.

You're sitting with six other Bene Gesserit sisters that you have never met before. Despite knowing little about them, having some of your sisters here is a comfort.

In some twisted way, you looked forward to having your way with Feyd-Rautha. The Reverend Mother Helen described him as violent, calculating, and isolated. The Baron and his brother, whom they called the Beast, were neither fit to raise an emotionally intelligent, stable child. That only made your job simpler. It doesn't matter how physically strong Feyd-Rautha is; he's sexually and emotionally vulnerable. And you could mold him into whatever you see fit.

The opening fights are lackluster. It's obvious the opponents have been drugged to ensure the safety of the Harkonnen gladiators. You noted this with distaste and nearly rolled your eyes. The Harkonnens claimed to be the most dominant, well-trained fighters in the galaxy, but they couldn't be bothered to truly fight someone without resorting to petty vices and trickery. Nevertheless, the crowd roars with satisfaction whenever blood is spilled on the sand of the gladiator pit.

Now comes the main event: Feyd-Rautha's one-hundredth kill in the gladiator pit. Was this the measure of a Harkonnen man? Slaughtering drugged prisoners was supposed to be a show of power and strength while wearing a shield.

A horn blows, and the crowd begins to shriek and whoop once again. In the arena, a large set of doors slide open, and the Na-Baron emerges from the darkness beyond the doorway, a knife in each hand. He raises them toward the sun and circles the pit. The light of the black sun glints off the blades. He's hairless, like the other inhabitants of his planet. He's dressed in light black armor and practically preens for the crowd before kneeling. He bows his head in respect to his uncle and dedicates this win to the man.

The Baron is satisfied by this display, and the barbarism begins.

taglist: @ariesmai

[peggyao3]

Relic - Pt. 6 "Hungry, all the Years"

PAIRING: Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x Unnamed Ambiguous FMC

SUMMARY: ✧༺༻ Dreams are messages from the deep ༺༻✧ A woman from the unknown comes to Feyd in his dreams and his nights become his days as he flees to the dreamscape to escape the nightmares that haunt his waking hours.

TAGS: 18+, smut, she/her AFAB FMC, vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, oral sex, Porn with Plot, Feyd-Rautha's black cum, Feyd-Rautha's big cock, Praise Kink, Body Worship, angst/hurt and comfort, drama, fluff, Frank Herbert would frown, some politics, implied/referenced (child) abuse ❗, Trauma, mentions of suicidal thoughts ❗, Healing, Strangers to Lovers, falling in love, Vulnerable!Feyd, Emotional!Feyd, Possessive!Feyd, Feyd is a sweet baby who did nothing wrong and I WILL pamper him, nurture not nature, Stockholm Syndrome but in a consensual way, lucid dreaming, implied/referenced cannibalism ❗, implied/referenced murder

WORD COUNT: 3.5k

A/N: I've always wanted to yell fuck you at the Bene Gesserit, so here's to my own dream🥰 Also, me, who's been in awkward long distance relationships throughout all her teenage years: "Aahh, I knew this knowledge would come in handy someday! 🥹"

Reposted from my Ao3 💕| Masterlist under construction ⚠️| Relic Masterlist

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

← Previous Chapter, Next Chapter →

Wallach IX, one week later

"Kneel."

"Excuse me?" Incredulously, the relic stares into the Reverend Mother's eyes.

The anticipation of this day has left her sick to her stomach, her mind hysterical since she was made aware that Feyd remembers her and wants her. By noon, she will be on a heighliner. (A  heighliner! She remembers Feyd's inquiry from their last dream.) And after two days of travel, she will be with him. For the first time ever, she will be truly with him, kiss his sweet lips and be held by him and bawl her eyes out.

This is not how she imagined the hours before her indefinite departure. The reverend mother sits unmoving like a pillar of obsidian in a slant of sunlight, her face hidden beneath black mesh.

"Kneel. This is your final test."

"I'm not part of this order anymore, I won't partake in any tests."

"That is not up for you to decide."

"I will not kneel."

"Do as I say!"

Without a power of will, she falls on her knees, ears ringing, jaws slackening. No hatred has ever burned colder than the rancor she holds in the pit of her stomach right now. From the corner of her eye, she perceives a flash of metal slipping from the reverend mother's robes.

"I hold at your neck the Gom Jabbar. A poisoned needle. The slightest prick, and you will die."

The wayward woman holds the violence of a lifetime on war-riddled Old Earth in her eyes when she inhales, the rise of her shoulders bringing her neck dangerously close to the poison tip.

"Why?"

"That needn't interest you." She has not been and will not be informed about the breeding program, or else, they fear, she might abandon her precious Feyd-Rautha rather quickly. Their union must be under the dangerous premise of love. And yet, the test must be conducted. Most likely it will even make her desire Feyd-Rautha more and let Giedi Prime be more bearable. That and the fact that the sisterhood has purposely been withholding the yearning transmissions from the na-Baron. The relic is ready to do just about anything to get to the man of her delusions.

"Put your right hand in the box. If you pull it out, you die."

"What's in there?" She grates out, peering into the black maw of the unremarkable metal box.

"Pain," Mohiam replies monotonously, having grown almost bored of the ever same test throughout the decades. Of course, the woman will pass. Patiently, the Reverend Mother waits for her to relent, because of course she will. It is a tiresome game. The needle at her neck remains unwavering. 

She is thinking, of course, she could risk death out of spite, but she refuses to die before taking Feyd in her arms. So, she places her hand in the box and earns her place on the chess board as a fully carved figurine.

The box is empty. She moves her fingers around and is soon plagued by a phantom sting which swiftly develops into pricking needles. She lets out a grunt and the sensation becomes a slow cutting, like knives probing into her palms and fingers. Her face twitches, brows furrowing, sweat beading on her upper lip as her body goes rigid, fighting against the urge to pull back. A thousand knives now cut into her palm, ravaging the soft flesh and tearing it to shreds. She screams.

"Quiet."

"Fuck you!" She spits, having already concluded that not the box causes the pain, but an unspoken presence of the Reverend Mother's voice does, explicitly addressing her pain receptors in an increasing onslaught. To know that nothing is in the box doesn't make the pain any less real, nor the nauseating truth that she is being tortured at the whim of a person.

So, she sobs like an animal while enduring the cruel test, scorched, flesh-stripped fingers quivering against the cool metal. She will live to hold Feyd in her arms and she will live to burn down this universe with its thinly veiled slavery and misogyny. On Earth, at least everyone had been equally miserable.

The Reverend Mother conceals her dislike of the unpleasant sounds under her veil, noting how petty it is of the woman to torture her ears in revenge. She is a clever thing.

"You may remove your hand."

She does at an instant, hurtling backwards and standing tall, nostrils flaring as she regards the seated reverend mother. The neurobiologists from Magellan II would have had the time of their lives, dissecting the old woman's brain to decipher the voice. To imagine Mohiam without her ominous headgear on a dissecting table brings the relic an indecent burst of glee through her tormented nerves.

"Did you enjoy yourself?" She spits.

"Not at all. I'd prefer if you used your voice in a different, more useful way. But at least now we know that you are human." The reverend mother pats the box once.

"Oh." She speaks with pure disdain. "A generous conclusion."

"And you may board the heighliner to Giedi Prime. Feyd-Rautha will await you." 

"Yes, I will. And yes, he will!" To think that she's had more agency in a dream than in this new world is revolting.

"Pack your things."

"I want my necklace and I want my Sarcophagus. Don't you even think about denying me that wish," she bristles. "I am a human and I've been one even before your inhuman test. These things are of sentimental value and they belong to me. Give them to me!"

"This attitude won't get you far on Giedi Prime," Mohiam drones monotonously, hands folded in her lap with annoying calmness. Under other circumstances, she would have never let a pupil of hers enter a battlefield as harsh as Giedi Prime so unprepared, but if one can believe the fierce messages from Feyd-Rautha to Wallach IX, she will be protected enough.

"I'm human," the relic rages on. "But you and your pseudo-religious cult, you are not human. You are even worse."

Everything will be better once she is on Giedi Prime.

Giedi Prime, Day 1

For the past few days, Feyd has done nothing but counting down the seconds to this precise moment. But as soon as the shuttle from the heighliner comes sweeping down through the blanket of clouds, hammering anxiety punches against his insides so hard, he feels sick to his stomach. His pulse races against the high neck of his uniform and dizziness forces him to fight for every breath.

He has been walking through a nightmare for two years and the past week has been the awakening. Like a sleeper aware of his own dream, he had screamed, kicked, killed to free himself from the shackles of his nightmare.

When he first heard the rumors, he had cried for three hours in the solitude of his quarters, then plunged his blade into his own thigh to snap himself out of it. There had been real fear in his uncle's eyes when Feyd confronted him, declaring that the relic is his and he will kill every servant, every guard, until he has her, and himself if he cannot have her.

Luckily, the Baron and the Bene Gesserit have been unexpectedly forthcoming.

So, after waking up, here comes reality. Sweet and frightening and lurid.

Feyd's heart clamors so loudly, he thinks he's going to die.

Wind whips around the landing pad and through his clothes when the shuttle touches down 200 meters away and hot exhaust gasses are released from the valves with a hiss. He almost jumps but forces his posture into a rigid lock, feet set shoulder-width apart.

The ramp drops with a mechanical buzzing and Feyd's stomach drops with it. Suddenly, he viscerally wishes he had more time and could prolong the anticipation, the preparation, the hiding. He hasn't prepared himself at all for her arrival, he now realizes, hasn't even considered what to say, how to greet her in front of three battalions of soldiers and generals. What will she think of him when she sees him for the first time in the flesh? Will she be disappoin- Oh God, there she is. 

That must be her. Is that her? It's her!

After half a dozen staff, a figure  exits the ship, clutching her little coffer so tightly in front of her hips, like it's the only thing of identity she has in the entire universe. 

As she slowly walks, her gaze swivels across the mass of bald heads, identical like an army of clones, unmoving, devoid of color and every sense of individuality. She jumps fiercely when the black and white mass suddenly bellows and a thousand pairs of arms fly up, hands clutched over bald heads.

Seeing the troops (all men) lined up in formation, saluting fiercely, a glacial shiver rolls down her spine, reminding her viciously of one of the darkest chapters of Earth. 

She swallows her fear. The first impression isn't that important. This world will have its good sides and Feyd will show them to her. Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen. She believes now that he could have rescued her off every planet in this world.

Yearningly, her gaze bounces from head to head. She had thought she would recognize him immediately and is terribly ashamed when she doesn't. At least, her frantic overwhelm distracts her from the roiling of her stomach. She thought she was going to throw up from anxiety on the shuttle, and she would have, had they not ushered her down the ramp immediately after landing. 

Cool metal brushes comfortingly against the space between her breasts. Around her neck she wears a slender cord of silver links with a slim cuboid for a pendant, about the size of the first phalanx of a thumb.

She is being led down a corridor of saluting men, all grim faces, and wind whips around the long gown she was advised to wear. If only she had decided  to wear something she feels more confident in. She's meticulously prepared what to say to him for the past days, arranging every word in her head to perfection, but now she can't remember a single word of Galach for the life of her– There he is! 

There he is. There he is. There he is!

At the end of the corridor stands Feyd-Rautha in formal military livery, blocky shapes hiding all the softness of his body, only his face betrays him, full lips exactly how she remembers them, soft cheeks dented by the hollow below his cheek bones, gently curved jaws and blue eyes hidden beneath the shadows cast by thick brow bones. He looks like a frightened animal to her, throat bobbing repeatedly with dry swallows.

The deafening roar of salutes dies down to a distant buzzing as she walks through a tunnel towards him, steps quickening, vision blurring. She tries to smile and her cheeks feel awkward doing it, she doesn't know where to look. Feyd doesn't smile back, but his head tilts backwards, jaws flexing as if he's holding back either tears or words.

She cannot hug him in front of all the generals, Feyd thinks. I will break down if she does.

Without thinking, she runs the final meters and hugs him in front of all the generals, arms wrapping around his neck and shoulders, sobbing into the collar of his suit. "Hello." Her accent is thick and lovely.

"Hello."

Feyd knew he would break down. His chin quivers uncontrollably, jaws so tight that he thinks the tendons in his neck might snap any second. He exhales a harsh breath, arms wrapping around her waist, leeching the warmth of her body that sinks through the layers of dress and suit.

Feyd holds her, holds her so tight and her flesh, skin and bones are actually real, her beating heart is real, her soft voice is real. She is real.

"You're here," he whispers almost inaudibly into her ear, face lowered to press against the side of her head, chin hidden in her shoulder.

She cries like she's not ashamed of crying, nodding fiercely, and each nod is an apology and a promise to never leave him again.

Feyd wants to tell her how much he's missed her, how much his soul has craved hers every waking and sleeping hour of every day, how he's been split apart and nothing in the world could soothe him. But he cannot, not now, because they are not dreaming and he is Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen.

"Not now-" he pleads and tries to stop her when her face slips in front of his, her cheeks painted with glittering tears, but her mouth is on his before he can finish, kissing him with salt-wet lips, hands clinging to the nape of his neck.

Of course, he kisses her back. Luckily, his longing is so all-consuming that he kisses her like he wants to crawl into her flesh, so he will never be alone again. With both hands splayed across her cheeks and ears, claiming his woman, none of his people will perceive him as weak.

The soldiers and generals don't know the pair's story, but they salute for their na-Baron, because they know the relic from Old Earth is now property of House Harkonnen.

In a world devoid of color, she would have expected the interior to be vibrant and bright to make up for the lack of it under the sun, but every hallway they have traversed has been even bleaker than the outside, like being swallowed by the underworld, if the underworld was made of concrete and plastic.

The throne room is no different. Curved pillars curl up to the tall ceiling, black within black illuminated by bluish glow provided by floating lights (glowglobes!) Feyd and her and a small entourage of guards and servants are gathered here and she stands in the very front, having refused to let go of her coffer when a servant had demurely offered their hand. She hopes her Sarcophagus is being handled with care.

Feyd is one step behind her and from her peripheral vision, she sees him rigid as a board.

Like instructed, she bows before the Baron Harkonnen, determined not to show any judgment for his harrowing appearance, like gluttony personified with sly, glittering eyes nearly hidden behind folds of fat.

"The relic from Old Earth…" The Baron rumbles and she sees that as her signal to straighten herself.

"It's a pleasure to meet you," she says and Feyd's jaw twitches.

"A pleasure?" The Baron chuckles. "Old earth must have been terrible then."

What is she supposed to say to that? Sweaty palms clutch the handle of her coffer and her gaze is momentarily drawn to a movement in the corner of the room behind the Baron's floating chair.

Nebulous eyes blink at her from the shadows, hidden in darkness, but she can tell it is a thing with too many legs. (Or are they arms?) Eight of them, and they unfurl grotesquely, glossy skin shimmering like jet black rubber. The pair of white eyes seems to be looking directly at her and this thing will haunt her nightmares, although it appears almost tame next to the faceless legions that had welcomed her at the landing pad.

The Baron speaks again, forcing her attention back to him. "I've only allowed this union because my dear Feyd has been in such a somber mood as of late, he has been such unpleasant company."

The thing in the back stirs and wildly scuttles and she realizes they're not arms or legs, they are arm-legs with hand-feet attached to them. Feyd inhales sharply behind her, just loud enough for her to hear. The arachnid creature halts and blinks and then decides to abandon its advance and return to the shadows.

"I understand," she says, determined to hide the fact that she doesn't.

The Baron takes a slow drag from his hookah and reclines, looking at her like she is nothing more than a pesky, necessary evil.

Feyd walks at the side of his woman, feeling lighter the further they get away from the Baron, though his breathing is still that of an animal in distress. He walks stiffly (actually, he prowls), overseeing the entire entourage. His right hand hovers over the blade he carries at the hip under his suit jacket, ready to slay anyone who dares to come near her.

Something terrible has been irking him but he refuses to think about it.

Meanwhile his woman's eyes are all over the bulky, coffin shaped container that is being carried to her new chambers by ten servants, following every step with anxious concentration. She wants to jump forward and help carry it, if only to place a protective hand on her sarcophagus, but she remains at Feyd's side, intimidated by the ten men who kindly do her heavy lifting.

"This is my wing," Feyd quietly explains as they step out of the third elevator. They must be quite at the top of the pyramid shaped building by now. She nods, quite relieved that she will be living close to Feyd. "My suite is right next door."

The corridor is black and austere, walls made of  bulky, thick plastic panels, intersected every now and then by slender windows that give way to the view of grey citiscape and factories as far as the eye can see. 'It's not that different from home', she tries to keep the creeping, crawling dread at bay.

The ten helpers turn into a room which opens to Feyd's hand tapping a panel on the wall.

"Over there, right in the sun is perfect, please. Thank you! Oh- Careful please!" 

With a loud clang the cryo pod is set on the ground in a patch of color-stealing sunlight that slants through the window. The helpers say nothing, merely salute and scurry away in a tight line when Feyd jerks his head. "Thank you!" She calls after them again.

That is one less worry. Exhaling loudly, she sits down right on top of the sarcophagus, unbothered for now by the monochromatic light. Under the confines of her gown, she has been shaking the entire time. The door whirrs shut and they are alone. Finally alone. Feyd stands in front of her, hands clutched in front of his pelvis.

"You don't need to say thank you to the slaves."

"The…? Oh." The corners of her mouth twitch downwards and she draws up her shoulders, pulling her little coffer in her lap.

What a horrible place to be. The only women she has seen so far haven't even looked at her, standing behind the Baron with their faces turned to the ground.

What a horrible place to be a woman.

"Do you know who that man was, in the audience chamber?" Feyd cannot keep himself from asking any longer. She saw his uncle. Knows what he did to him. Somehow, his own shame weighs a millionfold now and Feyd wants to crawl out of his own skin, so she won't have to touch the same body his uncle has touched.

Her attention snaps back to Feyd. "What?" She is briefly perplexed. "You mean… The Baron?"

"Yes. You know that's my uncle I've told you about, right? My uncle is the Baron."

She sits dumbstruck on her cryo pod, frozen before heat fills her face and bile gathers in her throat. She has never been so ashamed in her entire life.

"Oh shit, I-, I assumed the Baron is your father, because of the last name." Feyd had never mentioned his uncle's rank, nor had the Bene Gesserit deemed it necessary to inform her about their family relations. And why would they, assuming the relic is well-informed about the man from her dreams. "I'm so sorry, oh God- Feyd…"

Feyd is so stupidly relieved, he could cry. Looking to the side, he blinks the tears away, fighting the urge to sink his blade into his own flesh to stop the onslaught on his eyes.

"Sorry, I'm so sorry," she mumbles again and abandons her coffer and sarcophagus to wrap her arms around Feyd's middle without thinking about it too long. "Please forgive me."

Perhaps the reverend mother was right. Perhaps she is of lesser intelligence for favoring science over politics. After learning that her Feyd lives now, she had meant to study House Harkonnen until her departure, but had gotten lost in the physics of the three-dimensional incarnation of the Holtzman Effect which allows to fold space at the quantum level and enables faster-than-light travel with the aid of human computers.

Feyd's arms curl tightly around her back, nose buried in her shoulder, pressing her against his earthly prison so she can deliver him from evil.. How stupid he was to bring her here into the devil's den, where she is the easiest target one could possibly make.

"Nothing to forgive…" He wants to call her his darling, his beloved, and even more importantly finally verbally declare his love for her that's been like a wild, scared animal sitting in a cage all the years, but a heavy shyness ties his tongue to the roof of his mouth. Without the protection of the cage, what if this animal will be slain? What if it will slay itself?

I had been hungry, all the Years – My Noon had Come – to dine – I trembling drew the Table near – And touched the Curious Wine … - I had been hungry, all the Years by Emily Dickinson, 1891

A/N: Feyd: I've literally never had a loving interaction irl in my entire life and I'm terrified, but this is my woman🥺

FMC: I'm literally on a black and white planet full of space Nazis, my man is one of them and I'm terrified, but this is my man🥺

TAG LIST: @welliah, @nostalgichoya, @forgedfromthestars, @sweetiee-o, @missbingu, @charmingballoon, @sebastianswallows, @minedofmoria, @flower-frog (I'm so sowwy, the tags are broken and I don't know how to fix them ;-;)

Do let me know if u want me to tag u 👉👈

[lowtaperfeyd]

A Scintilla of Excitement (Chapter 1)

Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x Mentat!reader

author's note: This is the first chapter of the mentat series I am writing! I'm so excited for you to see what else I've come up with for this :D (It has now taken the spot for longest thing I've written.) Also go check out my beta-reader @zzleeper!!!!

warnings: house harkonnen, death, mentions of knives,

wc: 1529

You sat on the cold, metal seat of the ornithopter the Harkonnens sent to come and get you from the heighlinder. The scraping of metal startled you when they screeched unexpectedly.

 How tragic, you thought, my final moments will take place in a world with no normal sun. And no normal sons either. 

The entire two day trip on the heighliner was not so bad. You were allowed to wander the empty ship corridors and explore even up to the staff decks. The only part that was scary were the ‘servants’ aboard the ship. Their bald heads, that seemed to engulf any light that shined on them, made you feel uneasy. 

If this is how I feel when I see people like this, I wonder how I’ll feel when I see the baron. 

They always seemed to look at you as if you were an alien. Which I supposed you were. The color to your skin that made you look more alive than them. It probably scared them just as much as it scared you. 

As you continued to sit there in the cockpit, thinking about the heighliner, you fiddled with your fingers and did not sit fully still. 

“We have a nervous one I see!” Shouted a voice from the front of the cockpit where the pilot was. A voice that had a distinct inflection that just screamed Harkonnen, even if the owner of the voice was whispering, 

“Don’t worry the baron doesn’t play with his food.” The pilot laughed out, “But the Na-Baron, oh boy watch yourself around him!” 

As you sat there, mildly disturbed at what you just heard, the pilot went on and on about the things he had seen the Na-Baron do. Almost like he was proud of him,

“There was this one time Na-Baron took a butter knife off the table and stabbed one of his uncle’s advisors because he didn’t agree with what he was saying!” He exclaimed, “One of my friends was there, he barely survived with just one eye left. Told me all about the story.” 

“That's,” you swallowed so as to not hurl at what you heard, “really something…” 

FACT: HARKONNENS AND THE PEOPLE OF THE PLANET, IN GENERAL, ARE USED TO THIS VIOLENCE AND ENJOY IT. 

INFERENCE: DON'T ACT LIKE YOU HATE THOSE THINGS, BE VERY NEUTRAL ON IT.

HYPOTHESIS: IF YOU CAN ACT LIKE YOU FEEL INDIFFERENT ABOUT THESE THINGS MAYBE THEY'LL PUT IN A GOOD RECOMMENDATION TO KAITAIN. 

“It’s incredible, ” The pilot responded, “But the real question is, why does the baron need another Mentat?”

“Another good question is where’s the store that doesn’t sell chatty pilots?”(Y/N) retorted, feeling a little sick and tired from the traveling and what they had just heard.  

The snap seemed to shut him up just long enough before you landed on Giedi Prime. 

“About an hour before we land on the surface, Mentat.” The same pilot muttered in annoyance. 

Actually, 1 hour, 2 minutes, and 23 seconds. But who's counting or keeping track? Definitely not you. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

As the heighliner ramp went down, it allowed you to fully see the polluted land around Geidi Prime. The black sun changed the red, metallic bracelet you were wearing to a dark and shiny gray, almost sliver, instead of its normal vibrance. You saw the guards and their multitude of weapons and dark armor. 

If they were standing inside, that would be black. You thought, but that isn’t a surprising detail.

“Are you ready to walk down, Mentat?” one of the other workers on the heighliner asked.

“Yes.” You responded courteously, because you had a pretty good idea of what would happen if you disrespected someone with all the guards and important people around. 

The ramp underneath your feet was extremely slippery and steep and forced you to take very slow and precise steps to reach the end. At the rate I am moving I’ll get to the end after the sun goes down. You eventually got to the end of the ramp. But, you only looked at your feet the entire time. Once you looked up you saw a man with a black hood and robes, as well as the lip tattoo you had. 

That’s Piter de Vries. 

You took the final ten steps to walk to him. As you walked you noticed him look you up and down in an arrogant and almost disgusted manner. 

You put your hand out waiting for him to shake your hand. As you did this you said, “I’m (Y/N) (L/N), the new Mentat.”

Instead of him talking your hand he just continued to look up and down. Most likely reviewing the clothes you were wearing and the way you held yourself. Awkwardly, you put your hand down back to your side. 

“Well your arrival in the ornithopter was on time. But, the way you traversed down to the ground was quite untimely.” He remarked, “It must be quite exciting for you to have your first assignment.” He added sarcastically. 

Just a scintilla of excitement, it would be more if I was not here. 

“But, there is no time for talking,” he exhaled, “I can’t have you seeing the baron in such attire.” 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You looked around at the small bedroom you were given. The room had a hospital type of antiseptic-ness. The walls were bare besides small vertical groves and bolts into the walls holding things together. There was a little gray desk that had shelves that were indented into the walls above it. Beside your desk, was the little chest of belongings that were sent before you had departed from Tleilax. 

I’ll unpack that before I go to bed tonight. 

You turned toward your bed, a relatively small bed with dark covers and pillows. On top of that was a black butcher paper package. On the front of it, in clear print was, TO THE MENTAT, (L/N). In the package was a set of black clothes that looked similar to the ones you see de Vries as well as other people wearing, except without the cloak. On top of the clothes was a note from de Vries himself. 

(L/N), I have taken the liberty of getting rid of all the unnecessary clothes in your trunk and replacing them with more suitable attire for a Mentat. In your closet, you’ll find more of the same kind in the package.

De Vries.

What an asshole.

Quickly, you walked over to your closet and sure enough when you opened it. It was like the same outfit had been cloned over and over again. Black shirt, black pants, and a shiny black belt. Three pairs of black, leather dress shoes were in there too. At the back of the closet, there was a small amount of colder weather wear. A couple of insulated black coats and cloaks. 

Unwillingly, you shed your bright clothes from the academy for a dreary uniform instead. The fabric of the shirt was silking and smooth, but the pants itched badly when it met your skin. 

Once you were done, you exited your room to see two, bald headed, slave girls standing outside of your room. 

“Why are you here?” You questioned. 

“We are here to take you to the baron. Under the order of Mentat De Vries.” The girl on the left said timidly. 

“Alright…” you whispered as you closed the door behind you. 

As you walked through the halls of the Harkonnen’s castle you saw portraits of past rulers who were equally as bald as the next. After four minutes of walking, you ended up in front of a heavily guarded door. From outside the room, you could hear the sounds of yelling, screams, and a thud against the wall.  

Remember, indifference, and then you’ll get your way. 

You nodded toward the guard, signaling to him you were ready to enter the room. Slowly, the guard opened the heavy, metal door with a slight grunt. Walking inside, you saw a long table that had chairs on either side of it and a huge spread of food on top of it. But, there was only one chair at the head. The Baron was sitting there enjoying the elegant feast on the table. 

For the baron… all that food. 

You walked past important officials and advisors to Baron Harkonnen sitting in the chairs. You noticed De Vries sitting right next to the baron and opposite two bald headed men. These men were dressed not like the slave or advisors, but men of higher standing. 

The baron’s nephews Count Glossu and Na-Baron Feyd-Rautha Rabban. 

Beside De Vries, there was an empty seat. As you walked to sit in that seat, you noticed the younger man who was sitting opposite of you, the Na-Baron, eyeing you down and biting his lips at the same time. 

He probably picks the member of staff that gets eaten when a couple mess up. Is he imagining me fried or boiled?  

“I appear to be late, I’m sorry about that, my baron.” You apologized as you pulled the chair out and sat.  “Don’t be sorry, Mentat." The Na-Baron jested, "It’s not a good look for you.”

[meingeist]

In The Happy House

on AO3

summary: a collection of star-crossed lovers' tales, from within Leto Atreides I's fief over Caladan; starting from his arranged concubinage with a certain Bene Gesserit witch.

pairing: Duke Leto/Jessica

word count: 2,7k

NO WARNINGS for this chapter. Ratings may very...

CHAPTER I: Twin Euclases

"We now reach the apex of our engineering. Ten millennia worth of careful intervention and politicking; the zenith of which you must now oversee. You ought to be faultless in such endeavour, girl. There is no room for shortcomings."

Jessica is a silken figure, a vision of black, postured straight with her hands joined on her lap, as she sits between two acolytes, charged with escorting her onto Caladanite soil. Before them, Gaius Helen Mohiam, monologuing on the subtleties of her mission. "You must only bear him daughters—the first of which you'll eventually wed to the Harkonnen dauphin. From their coupling shall be born the Kwisatz Haderach."

Gaius' sharp eyes pierce through the lace of her headpiece, as she blankly stares at Jessica. "I needn't explain further how imperative your success remains in the grand scheme of things, girl. You are to see to the prevalence of the groundwork that has been laid for you by generations of foremothering missionaries. In your hands now lie the efforts of your peers, and the vanity of their sacrifice. Failure is inadmissible."

Jessica wilts slightly under the weight of the Mother Reverend's glare. With a bow of her head, she replies, "I exist to serve. I won't disappoint."

At her response, Jessica hears the faint exhale, shaped as a smile, crossing the lips of her seated neighbour, whose eyes hadn't shifted from looking forward. Almost an augury of pride, a token of belongingness. Jessica internally grasps for the memory of that barely perceptible smile, and shelters it close to her heart, as if it could generate strength from the silent support of her overseers.

She reckons the Sisterhood fiercely believes in her. She wouldn't be in her current position, with the future of her Order at the mercy of her will, had it been any other way. They trust her sense of duty, and her unwavering discipline, as well as the boundless potential she cultivates for their gains; let that be support enough for the road ahead. And while she would sooner admit that her teachers steer the next generations with an iron fist, an adamantine armor in the stead of flesh, hardly ever showing any care for her beyond her training, Jessica remains a growing cub within the lion's den, and these women's validation is at the belly of the champion she's been groomed into. Without it, she feels at war with herself. Her conditioning runs just that deep.

As Gaius glosses over the upcoming ceremonials—which Jessica would rather call hand-offs, the latter allows herself a brief moment of distraction, as Caladan's expansive flora grows into view from the window of their heighliner. She discreetly admires the planet's ecology, and natural attributes. Through the thick bush of trees furnishing the forests, Jessica witnesses the vastness of this foreign ecosystem. Rich in music, she bets, from the native fauna coexisting within their natural courses; from little winged creatures singing, perhaps, or the deep growls of furry, tailed beasts; she ignores. She hadn't been made aware of the location of her assignment until they boarded, and flew off the Chapterhouse. Caladan is as foreign as it can get.

She anticipates the wobbling shift from the ecological footprint and climate of Wallach IX—her motherland. Already, she can tell this planet is nothing like where she comes from. Through her window, she notices the lush, flourishing soil. She blinks in slight awe at the dexterous culture of masonry of this House Major, coming into view, and how concordant their architectural establishments are with the nature that surrounds it.

Their landscapes are incredibly biophilic, with concrete perron stairways crossing the ranges of mountains along the capital. It was a sight. Caladan was an organic amalgam of rich pine green, concrete gray, and a sea of blue, from the cloudy heavens, down to the colossal ocean. And among the many uncertainties Jessica could account for, she secretly hopes she'll get to witness such grandor from up close. Maybe dip her foot into the waves crashing against the shore, or perhaps explore the diverse flora—there may even be gardens, if she's—

"Jessica."

At once, the trance is broken, and Jessica spins towards the Reverend Mother, a tad apprehensive at being summoned into focus—something that hadn't happened in a while. Fortunately, her sharp senses had caught onto bits of Gaius' speech. "Yes, Reverend Mother. I shall look into his weaknesses as soon as we familiarize."

She catches inaudible sneers from the neighbours at each her sides; they probably think her youth justifies those small drawbacks. Not nearly enough to disturb the course of her mission, and her implacable drive. Gaius, on the other hand, isn't as merciful, and sends Jessica a stony glower. "Focus. Never less."

Promptly, the young girl lowers her gaze. "Understood, Mother Reverend."

"You're overlooking Caladan;” Gaius notices, as she turns to look out the cabin's window, "you'll acclimatize soon enough." A smirk draws at her lips from under her headdress. "Fascinating planet…With an unshakable fiefdom, which you must somehow helm your way. Our Way. Whatever it takes. Complete servitude, to fully seize his character. Every parameter, whether that be of your environment, or the Duke, must be thoroughly assimilated. Total apprehension of the Council, and the Small Council. No room for surprise; absolute awareness. And of course, full protection of the other party. A knife, moving in the shadows, never to be caught red-handed, to assure the survival of the Atreides Siridar Fief."

As clear as crystal, Jessica thinks, as she raises her joined hands. "The assignment will be settled to the letter."

"I should hope so, Jessica." Another hard look, to go with the fluent, ironclad timbre. "It is no small task. It is…at the very crux of Our Order. That is why you must recall to never stray from Our Way, to never dim your hardlearned discipline. To not fail Our teaching."

At her words, Jessica could almost feel the weight of the heavens being clasped off Atlas's shoulders, just to be topped onto her own. The apprehension clawed at her stomach, but she would preferably throw herself off the shuttle than let fear dominate her, even if only a little—even less in the presence of Fearlessness, made women, standing before her, or sitting at her sides. "I won't betray Our faith, Reverend Mother. Nor will I come short of yours, in regards to my calling. My performance will be spotless."

The priestess's wrinkled stare skims over her figure rigorously, as if for the penultimate time, before she tips her chin softly, once, and acquiesces. “Good.” Then, she turns away, as double doors slide open, revealing other quarters within the sizeable shuttle. Two different Sisters yet appear, stepping in to stand next to Gaius, as the latter prepares to take her leave.

Jessica reckons time has run out. She disquiets internally at her neighbours swiftly covering up, fixing their veils so as to become faceless silhouettes of black guipure. Their landing is imminent, and so, this is as far her path will cross with that of the Sisterhood, for now. “Good luck, Jessica.” Gaius sends her a last look, a hint of a smile, “I have trained you and equipped you to become an exceptional agent of Change. I trust my mentorship will bear many fruits—one of which will ensure the dawn of the Golden Path. Farewell, girl; until we meet again.”

And we will, Jessica swears, is the part left unspoken. But she has no time to consider the matter; for now; their pilot announces the landing at Castle Caladan.

+

Leto is a small ball of nerves, clad in a formal suit—hemmed blood red, to match the colours of his sigils. He's not an easily shaken man; the weight of his Dukedom is credential enough. He's answered his call, and has shown wisedom, extensive skill, and acute proficiency in ruling over his inherited powerhouse. The Red Duke is knowingly appraised across the galaxies for his input in the political game; even by the Emperor—and that, he knows, is a double-edged sword, but even moreso, by the Landsraad. And it is no mince affair, to be put on a pedestal by this faction of powerful men; it may as well be the weight of the heavens clasped off Atlas's shoulders, to be topped onto his own.

But he's found his way to it; he now moderates a respectable, level-headed council, seated amongst trusted, well-seasoned agents. He commands an elite military, full with dexterous fighters. His agro-industrial complex is bountiful across fields—from aquiculture to forestry, and animal husbandry, and the substantial demand for exported goods substitutes in funding for Caladan’s renowned horticulture, and biophilic cityscapes. His people are free from the burden of a military complex, and are communally generative towards the prosperity of their planet. Each of these viewpoints imperative to the prevalence of Caladan, yet indeed met with his drive and effectiveness.

So, yes; ever since his funeral ascension, Leto has indeed been up to the par—and some. And as far as he knows, such was the case for every Atreidae who came before him, up until Agamemnon, and Tantalus himself, who founded the House of Atreus. Therefore, he's not exactly exceptional, in the grand scheme of things. But he's up to the task, he is, and that must count for something—can only be a good augury for the future.

Leto fixes his collar, and sends a look up into the mirror. His dark hair is dressed, curling at his nape, and his beard is freshly trimmed. He's buttoned and zipped into of his many ceremonial sets, which he seldom wears as he spends his days either in his military uniform, or his semi-formal suit. An appropriate grooming was required for the events of today.

After the morning conclave, which had to be exceptionally shortened, it was time to receive precious cargo—as precious as terribly dangerous. The contract of Bene Gesserit concubinage was, according to his Mentat, an advantageous affair. Whereas Leto won't even entertain the whole “safe outlet for sex” aspect of things, he understands how his remaining unmarried, within his position and merits, is a bone to swing in the spatio-political dance. Such prospect of social climbing keeps even the greatest Houses on their toes, humbled and acquiescent.

Therefore, to keep his virtues desirable to the ficklest spirits, the duke is tossed a concubine, to channel his worst impulses out on. Some servile, pleasing flowerpot, with—no doubt—her own agenda to uphold, and unfold. His unfamiliarity with the Sisterhood is at the root of his apprehension—it feels like he is welcoming in some unstoppable catalyst. Nonetheless, he does not cede under mere uncertainty. No; he is going to face the bull and seize it by its horns. While that has gotten his father slain in the literal sense, Leto being a wiser, more prudent man does shelter him from certain kinds of danger. This kind, he wonders yet.

The kind which resembles a midnight shadow, as her silken, windswept figure makes its way off the spacecraft. The Caladanite sun shines over the harbor, where the landing area is located, where the Order’s ship yet awaits to take off. They are surrounded by a range of mountains, furnished with greenery, through which the rays pierce, sliding over the luster of the fine fabrics she is draped in.

As she moves forward, charged with a pair of senior acolytes, who diligently keep their distance, Leto notices Thufir Hawat—his Mentat, stepping to the front of the rostrum. He plasters on a smile, as the sable vision approaches. She stops at the bottom of the perron, as Thufir salutes her with a small bow, from the middle of it.

“House Atreides is gladdened to receive the Sisterhood.” The glib introduction resounds through the harbor, as the faceless acolytes acknowledge the Mentat from a distance, with an almost imperceptible nod. “Welcome to Caladan. I reckon it is a long way from Chapterhouse; we do hope you are well accommodated for the voyage.”

“It is our honour, Thufir Hawat, Siridar Duke Atreides.” Leto’s eyes shift to the dark silhouette of an elder, speaking from beyond a wall of black lace, as the escorting pair proceed in a slow curtsy. “We would hope you'd equally reckon that the pain is more than justified, for we bring you today the object of our agreement.”

All eyes turn to the heap of sumptuous fabrics which stands before the duke. “Justified indeed.” Thufir closures with a tight smile.

Leto peers at the silent figure, trying to catch a glimpse of human features from under her veil; a pale cheek, a frowning brow, a full lip—anything would do at this point to free him from his restlessness. He is unsuccessful in such endeavour, though right on time to consider making the first step toward introductions.

“Welcome to Caladan, my Lady.” The duke addresses her, finally deciding to move from his heightened position. As he walks down the few stairs, he catches her trying to step back and maintain the distance between them; it brings him to an abrupt stop. “I am Leto, the head of the Atreides dukedom, as well as the fief of Caladan. I expect the trip has been pleasant thus far?”

He is unusually met with silence; yet, with the graceful swipe of her nimble limbs, Leto watches her suddenly pull the veil off her face, though it remains pinned into her hair, and now cascades down her back instead. The vision of her now shifts to another layer, and Leto’s eyes meet with the iciest twain of blue. A pair of bottomless glaciers stare back at him, and unfathomably, he cannot seem to free himself from their grasp; cannot seem to break this fragile first contact, nor does he care to, he realizes, bewitched.

Far too quickly, the twin Euclases lower, disappearing beyond fanning lashes, and soon, the top of an austere hairdo replaces the sight, as the girl before him curtsies in turn. A girl, really; from glancing at the elfin features lying on her milky skin, he could not imagine she'd be older than her late teens. He certainly ought to have overviewed this deal more painstakingly—

“The trip was quite comfortable, thank you, Your Grace.” The blunt timbre of her voice echoes swiftly into his ear. “My name is Jessica. It is an honour to meet you.”

Leto attempts another step forward, actively looking for any sign of protest—he perceives none. Once he's close enough, he slowly reaches for her hand. Their fingers touch, and she starts faintly, looking down. He could tell from the shifty eyes, and the plain tension in her body language, that she was holding her breath. He decides to end her supplice and brings her delicate fingers to his lips, sealing a warm kiss against the frost of them. “The honour is mine, my Lady.”

He sees her quickly school her features, as he carefully withdraws. Her eyes avert towards the Mentat, as if she's just processed her surroundings. “It is also a privilege, Thufir Hawat, to come upon the cornerstone of such a prestigious rule. The duke assuredly keeps a gifted elite.”

Leto arches a brow at the shift in conversation; though it isn't lost on him that his Mentat may very well be as cosmically renowned as every Atreidae for which he has been a Right Hand. He watches Thufir nod—nearly enthusiastically, as he crosses his hands behind his back. “It is the ambition of every great Mentat but to serve great Princes.”

The girl—Jessica—blinks at the plaudit, before she turns back to Leto. “I do not doubt the greatness of either.”

When their eyes lock, he finds himself once again vacuumed into the depths of the twin Euclases staring back at him, and he reads in them a stoicism he's yet to encounter beneath such fluttering lashes. Such disarming, fluttering lashes…And such prettiness to her; in her pale cheek, her frowning brow, her full lips. For a second, the sight of her takes his breath away, and he has to blink it off, breaking the contact. “I believe as soon as we are over with the remaining formalities, you're due for a visit of our grounds, then some rest, my Lady.”

Looking away, she exhales softly, and he catches her looking back at her elders, from the corner of her eye. Finally, at his relief, she aquiesces. “As you wish, my Duke."

[moromaitar]

Inktober 2023 Day 12: Spicy.

A Spacing Guild Heighliner arriving above Arrakis, the spiciest planet, from Dune (2021). Pen on black paper.

[epochhistorymagazine]

Dune and the History of the Future

'Some of these histories are easier to trace than others. The novel is written as a history of the events within, and like all good history books it contains a glossary for the general reader. In this glossary, Herbert describes Galach, the language of the ruling Imperium, as an ‘Inglo-Slavic’ hybrid. This presumably hints at a peaceful resolution of the Cold War and a coming together of the Soviet Union and the United States, as well as the assumption that those two powers would take people to the stars. Such an idea might look, at best, strange to the eyes of the twenty-first-century reader, but it would have been difficult to imagine the eclipse of either state in the mid-1960s.' - Will Garbett

[asmalltooth]

She knew now that she’d lived on faraway Caladan in an insulated capsule which had allowed only the most blatant of Alia’s excesses to intrude. I contributed to my own dream-existence, she thought. Caladan had been something like that insulation provided by a really first-class frigate riding securely in the hold of a Guild heighliner. Only the most violent maneuvers could be felt, and those as mere softened movements. How seductive it is to live in peace, she thought.

Lady Jessica and her self-imposed exile —Children of Dune, Frank Herbert