#the reverend’s consort

[reliquaryofflesh]

Corpse reanimated by a sex demon so now they’re a zombie in heat!!

Prowling around in search of a mate to breed with, chasing and pinning them down and having their way with them, mindlessly fucking them until they’re too exhausted to continue after cumming so many times!

[the-gom-jabbar]

The whole genetics project of the Bene Gesserit may have been dubbed a failure because Paul wasn't a girl but there was nothing stopping Paul and Feyd-Ruatha acting on that sexual tension they had in both book and film.

Paul could have taken Feyd as a third Consort. Just imagine Paul with his Empress Irulan and his wife Chani sitting at his side and Feyd just sprawled on the dais steps just wearing something scandalous like

You were right Reverend Mother Gaius Helen Mohiam, wasted potential.

[ooihcnoiwlerh]

New chapter is up, my Darlings!

Full link to AO3 fic here

18+ only/minors DNI. Tags and CW for this chapter: mentions of matricide; implied/referenced CSA; implied/referenced sexual assault; implied/referenced incest; questionable consent involving the Bene Gesserit; pregnancy; misogyny; marital strife; vague murder plots; eventual smut; sub!Feyd; subspace; oral sex (F+M receiving) face-fucking/riding; collars; pronged collars; leashes; binding (Feyd has his hands tied behind his back for most of the sex scene)multiple orgasms; overstimulation vaginal sex; riding; dom!Reader

CHAPTER TWELVE: PLANS WITHIN PLANS

Idrisa’s waiting for you in the hallway a few meters away from the dead servant and even with her head lowered in deference she catches your look of surprise.  

“I go where my lady goes,” she explains.

You exhale, closing your eyes for a moment.  You’d lined your eyelashes with black gloss earlier; you can feel the remnants of it drying on your cheeks.  “Then can you take me back to my quarters?” you ask.

Idrisa hesitates, glancing down the hallway towards the rooms where people still celebrate, before looking back at you.  “Are you sure, na-Baroness?” she asks, voice small.

“They won’t notice that I’m gone,” you tell her.  “And if they do, they won’t care.  I just need to get away.”  You shake and feel bile rising in your throat and gag, trying not to vomit as a pair of guards pull the dead servant’s body away.  He leaves behind a trail of blood as you keep your eyes on Idrisa and hold your breath, not wanting to breathe in the coppery smell of blood that lingers in the air.  

No one else seems affected by it, not even Idrisa, who ignores the sight before her and inclines her head while giving a curtsy.  “If that's what my lady desires,” she says.  

“It is,” you say quickly, glancing behind you at the double doors separating you from the Baron’s throne.  You can barely make out Feyd’s clipped, furious tone but not any words.  You don’t want to be here when he re-emerges.  You nod at Idrisa, jutting your chin out as if to say, Let’s go.

As your heels click along the dark marble she trails behind you like a pale shadow, her head downcast.

You feel sick.  You need a moment to decide what to do next.

Stay as far away from Feyd as possible, at least until you have answers.  But where to get them?  You sigh and pinch the bridge of your nose as you realize you know exactly where.

Even if they aren’t friends of yours, you still have the Reverend Mother Mohiam and multiple Bene Gesserit sisters on Geidi Prime until tomorrow night.  They’ll have answers and insight.

Answers and insight they deliberately withheld from you .

They must have known, or at least the Reverend Mother probably did.  They’ve had their hands in everything, especially involving looking after their own, which just makes you wonder why they chose to help keep this buried.  Not why they chose to keep this buried from the other Great Houses; if Feyd’s really so important for their selective breeding program, it doesn’t surprise you that they would.  

You’d known that he kills people well before you ever met him.  Many men with his kind of power have killed.  But there’s no way they’d construe him killing a prisoner of war in an arena execution as being the same level of evil as killing his own mother.  They hid this from you, and you want…well, not even to know why they would, because you could answer that yourself, but to know why they’d let him be raised by a monster, why they care so much to preserve his life, no matter how painful it’s been.  Why they chose you for him.  

“The Bene Gesserit Sisters aren’t leaving until tomorrow evening,” you manage as you walk together, and you keep your voice from trembling.  “Can you speak to one of their consorts?  Request a private meeting for me with the Reverend Mother Mohiam before she goes?”

“Yes, na-Baroness,” Idrisa says. 

You don’t know what else to say as she leads you to your quarters and aids you out of your gown, into a chemise and robe.  Was it only half an hour ago that you thought Feyd would be either tearing you out of this gown or simply hitching your skirts up around your hips before fucking you hard and fast?  

“I’ll grab some wet cloth for your cosmetics, na-Baroness,” Idrisa says, and ducks into the bathroom.

You stand there, almost swaying in place, furious at everyone including yourself.  Even at the end of your patience with Idrisa, who gently applies a damp cloth below your eyes to where you’ve wept.

“It’s alright,” you say after a moment, closing a hand around her delicate wrist to nudge her away.  “I can handle that part myself.”

Idrisa drops her hand when you release her wrist but otherwise stays in place, kneading the cloth in her grip.  “My lady is distraught,” she says.  “Is there nothing I can do to comfort her?”

Does she know?  You can’t shake the question, can’t avoid it.  You look at Idrisa and think, she’ll squirm, but she won’t lie.  “Can you tell me about Feyd-Rautha’s mother?” you ask her.

You hadn’t realized it was possible for her to blanche, but she does.  “I am sorry, na-Baroness,” she says.  Your hands shake and you take a step back.  She continues hardly above a whisper.  “Like I said, it was before my time.  I remember hearing she’d died, but I don’t think anyone was surprised when she did.  Her name was,” she pauses, trying to find the right euphemism, “not popular here.”

Of course it wasn’t . 

Idrisa adds, giving you an almost apologetic look, “People called her Abulurd’s whore.  Apologies, na-Baroness,” she adds when you wince.  “I heard she was killed in a home burglary.”

“And is that all?”

Idrisa’s lips part a fraction.  After a moment’s hesitation she asks, “Does my lady suspect anyone in particular?”  Her eyes dart across your face.  

Do you? you almost ask.  “I did,” you tell her.  “It turned out to have been someone else.”

You let the silence speak for itself. Idrisa’s eyes widen before she looks down.  “I’m very sorry, na-Baroness,” she says.  

“So really, no one here has any idea,” you say, finding it almost impossible to believe and yet it makes a disturbing amount of sense. 

“We’d heard no details other than a burglary resulting in a stabbing and that was the end of it. Whatever happened, it happened on Lankiveil, “ Idrisa says.  “None of us witnessed it like…” she hesitates, unsure where to look as she can’t keep your gaze.

“You saw it?” It .  The thing that keeps going unspoken but hovers over your husband, your marriage, your children’s futures.

“Trust me, na-Baroness,” Idrisa says, “I didn’t want to.  None of us did.”

You finally look at each other.  You know Idrisa’s terrified of Feyd, and yet the compassion you see in her eyes is for him as well as you.  You hesitate, then open your mouth, about to ask her what he was like back then.

The door swings open and Feyd strides in, and all at once you remember how frightening he was when you first met him, how much he’d make you feel like prey.  How there’d been something that felt distinctly inhuman about him.

“You disrespected me in front of my uncle,” he says as he slams the door shut behind him.  “He won’t overlook that anytime soon.”   

Your vile uncle can go fuck himself , you don’t say.  You lift your chin and meet his gaze as you tamp down on your instinct to run.

His lips compress into a thin line before he continues.  “I don’t think you understand how fair I am with you.  If you’d been Rabban’s wife and this was his party, he’d be raping you in front of his men right now just for the fun of it.  He’d cut out your tongue for shouting at him, because it’s not as though you need one in order to give him sons.”

“Get out,” you tell him.  You sound more confident than you feel.

“No,” he says.  “If I speak, then you’ll listen.”

Idrisa swallows, glancing nervously at you and at him, looking like she wants to disappear and weighing her options on whether that would be more disrespectful than acknowledging Feyd, before giving a small curtsy and starting to step back.

If he hadn’t had to reach down for his boots you wouldn’t have caught him drawing a blade in time, because he doesn’t look away from you as he strides forward, about to slash the edge across Idrisa’s throat.  But he did, and you have a split second to react, and even if it’s not enough time to run forward and tackle him, you find your voice.

“ Stop! ”  It’s a less angry, more desperate scream from before, but it makes Feyd-Rautha pause, knife centimeters from Idrisa’s neck.

“Don’t you hurt her,” you tell him.  Your voice shakes as much as you do.  “She has nothing to do with this.”

He doesn’t turn his head, but his eyes slide towards her, then back to you, his expression as cold and detached as it was at the start of his arena fight.  Idrisa shuts her eyes.  A tear slides down her cheek.  

For a moment the three of you stand frozen in silence.  Do you take a step forward and try to disarm him, or will that provoke him?  Idrisa certainly can’t move; her fate lies in Feyd’s hands.  He’ll kill her for sure if she tries to evade or resist him.  Feyd, for his part, seems to weigh his options: remind you what he’s capable of and how there’s nothing you can do to stop it, or try not to upset you any further tonight.

Given the turn tonight’s taken, pure spite might motivate him most right now.

“Please,” you blurt out, too scared to take that kind of risk.

A brief flicker of surprise.  You can imagine the thoughts running through his mind.  Why do you beg for the safety of a mere slave?  She’s replaceable .  

“Say that again,” he says, as if he thinks you’d be too proud to beg for the life of the only friend you’ve made here.

“Please,” you say again, slower. “Please don’t kill or hurt Idrisa.  I’m the one you’re angry with”--a statement you’re not entirely sure is even true–“so please don’t take it out on her.”  After a moment you add, managing to keep the venom out of your voice, “husband.”  You try to breathe, fresh tears pooling in your eyes.  How, you wonder, do you try to reason with him?  Why do you try to appeal to his humanity when it’s been called into question that he possesses such a thing?

And yet you stand, silently begging, barefoot and hardly dressed, feeling as vulnerable and powerless as you did on your wedding night, but with another life hanging in the balance between you.

Feyd’s eyes go half-lidded, lip curling in contempt, but he lowers his blade.  For a moment you and you’re certain Idrisa wonders if he’s simply going to swing it back up and slash her across the throat.  The muscles in her face clench up.  He makes no such movement, simply takes a step back.

“ Out ,” he says.

Idrisa sags, letting out a loud sigh of relief that leads to a rattling gasp, tears now streaming down her face.  She lowers her head and scurries away, murmuring, “ Thank you, na-Baron.  Thank you, na-Baron .”  As she leaves she nods towards you.  “ Thank you, na-Baroness .”

She closes the door behind her.  You and your husband stare at one another.  Fear has done nothing to quell your anger.  It takes you a moment before you think you can talk without breaking down.  

“Did you really think I’d never find out?  That I wouldn’t eventually ask?” you finally manage.

“You’d seemed to’ve drawn your own conclusions,” Feyd says, stock-still with his hands at his sides, his grip on the knife looser.  He doesn’t come in any closer.

“You’re right, I did,” you say.  “I’d thought your uncle had her killed to make sure she couldn’t help you.”

“She didn’t help me when she was alive, either,” Feyd snaps, the implication clear, the lines of his face harsh.

How could you think she’d ever have let the Baron touch you? you want to ask.  No mother would ever sit idly by and watch their child go through that.

“She was one woman against Geidi Prime and Baron Harkonnen,” you tell him.  You can’t accept the fact that any sane mother would just allow their son to be raised by a man like the Baron, or that she didn’t know what kind of monster he was.  “There’s no way she just gave you away.”

“How do you know?” he asks, his tone not accusing, not yet.  He sounds almost amused, in a manner you find almost condescending.  It makes you want to clench your fists.  I didn’t think you were still so naive, wife, he seems to be saying.            

“Your father got out.  He defected .  She would’ve known why,” you say.

Feyd tilts his head slightly as he considers your words, looking at you as if you’re the one who’s unreasonable.  “Why did you think I was born in the first place?” he asks.  “Why do you think my mother, a Bene Gesserit witch, chose to get pregnant eighteen years after she had her first son and when she was nearly forty?  It wasn’t an accident. I’ve never heard of an accidental Bene Gesserit pregnancy, have you?”

You look away.  He gives you a moment to respond.  You can’t.

“They always have plans within plans,” Feyd says.  “Their children are never just their children, they’re tools to serve a greater purpose.”  

And they’re always Bene Gesserit first, not mothers or wives or anything else .

“Why do you think they sent one of their witches after a man who was estranged from his own House?  Why do you think he was of any value to them?”

You know what he’s asking.  You shut your eyes as you answer.   “Because his degenerate older brother wasn’t the match they wanted to continue the bloodline,” you say.

When you open your eyes, it’s to the sight of him giving you a grim smile.  “See?  You understand, even if you don’t want to.  Now, why do you think she waited until Rabban was about grown before trying for another son?”

“Feyd,” you start.

“Why?   And why do you think everyone waited until after my father was dead before I was taken in my sleep to Geidi Prime the night after my seventh birthday?”

You don’t realize you’re shaking your head.  Even if she had an agenda, she wouldn’t have just let it happen.  You can’t believe it.

Feyd’s eyes are like a shark’s.  It’s hard to look him in the eye.  “I was only ever a tool for her, for their kind.  They just cared about furthering the bloodline, not what it would cost me to live like I have.”  The thing he never talks about.  The thing he still won’t talk about.  You could scream.  Everyone knows, and everyone’s quietly agreed to acknowledge it.  You finally break, saying it before you’re realizing you’re saying it.

“Did you really kill her because of that or because you couldn’t kill him?” 

The question hangs there after the words spill out of you.  Your ears ring and your heart pounds as you force yourself to look at him. 

His nostrils flare.  His eyes look silver in the harsh light.  

“You killed her after you’d tried and failed to kill him first.”  You can see the rise and fall of Feyd’s chest, his look of warning.  “And I understand why you wanted to kill him.  Anyone would’ve, and should’ve.  He should never’ve been allowed anywhere near you.”

Feyd’s eyes glint.  He doesn’t speak, but he looks stricken, looks livid.  

You try to craft your next thought word by word, unsure where to tread lightly or go straight for the jugular.  “I know it must’ve seemed different at the time, but he was clearly trying to isolate you.  He was trying to make you hate your mother.”

“He didn’t have to try,” Feyd says.  “Did it all on my own, after enough time passed.”

“I…” you start, and stop.  Feyd waits for you to finish a sentence you cannot construct.

“You don’t know what it was like,” Feyd says.  “ You. Weren’t.  There. ”  He enunciates every last word, baring his black teeth in a snarl.

You flinch away.  When you can speak you say, “You’re right.  I wasn’t there.  I don’t know how it feels to go through what you went through.  And you refuse to tell me.”

Feyd’s lip curls.  Something flashes in his eyes.  “You’re saying you want all the details?” he asks.  “Did you want to know how the first time it happened was eight months after I was brought here and two months after I finally accepted that I’d never hear from my mother again?”

“I’m saying that this is more than a marriage; it’s a political alliance.  I’m saying that as your ally I have the right to know things that will impact me.  And as your wife, even knowing that I can’t change the past, it  was still so much worse having to hear it from the Baron than if I’d heard it from you.”  Your chest heaves.  You won’t cry again.  

And Feyd doesn’t respond.  

“You killed your mother.”

“Yes,” he says.  He sounds resigned.

“Do you ever regret it?” you ask.

“I briefly did, at first,” Feyd says.  “Mostly I don’t think about it at all.  Thinking about it won’t change the fact that she’s still dead.”

You look down; the silence hangs between the two of you and grows heavier.  You feel cold.  You wrap your arms around yourself.

“I won’t let you fuck me tonight,” you tell him.  “You’re not welcome in my bed, and I won’t come to yours.”

“Believe it or not, I’m not really in the mood anymore,” Feyd says.  He turns towards the door, pauses, and adds, “We’re expected to make an appearance tomorrow.  The festivities aren’t over yet.  Someone will send you another gown.”  

He leaves, and after he shuts the door behind him it feels like the air has gone out of the room.

Not to your surprise, you have trouble sleeping.  

For some, the party’s still going on, and will continue into the morning.  Feyd’s still going to train, you’re sure, and you don’t envy the poor sods expected to spar with him.  You imagine they’ll be bloated and sweaty, desperately hungover or perhaps still a bit drunk from their master’s festivities.  There will be more festivities tomorrow night, and the night after that, although muted by comparison.  You will be expected to be present for at least part of it at Feyd-Rautha’s side.  You think about how most visitors will be leaving after tonight’s festivities.  You think of the cold, detached way the Reverend Mother alluded to Feyd’s abuse.  You think of Margot Fenring and her coy, knowing smile.  The daughter growing in her womb and the bitter way Feyd talked about plans within plans.  

There’s a sick kind of acceptance in your gut that could almost be freeing.

There’s no one here who you can really trust .

You manage to fall asleep at what passes for the crack of dawn on Geidi Prime, even if through the window it’s all just different shades of sickly grey, only to wake up three hours later feeling not-particularly rested.

Your morning knock at the door reveals not only Idrisa but one of the Bene Gesserit nuns; lower-ranking, you suppose, who’s shrouded head to foot.

“Good morning, na-Baroness,” the young woman says, her voice sounding youthful enough to call the descriptor ‘ woman ’ into question.

“Good morning, Sister,” you say, a burbling cocktail of both hope and dread rising in your stomach.

“Would you like to join her Reverence for breakfast, na-Baroness?” she asks.

“I would, thank you.  When does she want me to join her?”

“In an hour, na-Baroness.  Your handmaiden will know where to take you,” the nun says as Idrisa sets your tray down on your end-table.  She seems so poised, as if she hadn’t nearly been murdered last night.

“I’m looking forward to speaking with her.  Thank you, Sister,” you say as you think that for such a meeting it would be most appropriate to wear something with a hood, perhaps something that covers part of your face.  Feels safer that way.  Perhaps the Bene Gesserit are onto something there.

When it's time, the room Idrisa leads you to isn’t within the guest wing, like you’d expected, but in a neighboring corridor you haven’t been in before.  You wonder, for a moment, if the Reverend Mother is more familiar with this vast Fortress than you are after an entire month of living here, and then a pair of Harkonnen guards open the door for you to step inside.

After a month of breakfasts with the Baron, the spread set out for the two of you is quite modest, even if it’s more food than the two of you combined could put away in one sitting.  There’s a plate of different breads and accompanying toppings, eggs, fruit, and pitchers of juice and distilled water set down in the space between the two of you.  There’s also a pot of tea with sides of lemon and honey.

“Thank you for meeting me, your Reverence,” you say as you sit down, and for a moment the two of you sit in silence.  A Harkonnen slave girl pours tea for each of you before leaving the room.  The Reverend Mother waits until the door’s closed to lift her veil and take a sip of tea.

“I'd heard it was urgent that I speak with you at my convenience,” she says once she’s set her cup down.  “It’s convenient for me now.  So by all means, speak.”

You take a breath, twisting your hands in your lap, thinking about how you’d rehearsed this conversation in your head all night and earlier this morning.

“I must confess I got some rather distressing news last night,” you tell her.  “Something that’s fundamentally changed the nature of my marriage, I’m afraid.”

“Oh?” she asks, tilting her head ever so slightly.  

“Did you know Feyd-Rautha’s mother, Emmi Rabban?” you ask.  Did you assure her all would be alright?  Did you pretend to comfort her when her child was abducted?  Did you care at all when her own son murdered her?

“I spoke to her a few times when she was alive, yes,” her Reverence says, and doesn’t elaborate.  Seconds tick by and she offers nothing else, eyes tracking every minute muscle in your face.  She seems content to let you torment yourself in the ensuing silence, and it works.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” you finally ask.

The Reverend Mother pours herself some more tea. “I imagine it must’ve been the Baron who shared the news with you if you’re only just finding out,” she says.  “If his nephew hadn’t used that bit of family history to keep you in line, he must not have wanted you to hear about it at all.

“Of course,” she adds, “It was a little naive of you, young Y/N, to be so shocked when you knew everything else.”

“It’s not something he ever chose to share with me,” you tell her.  “I’d thought…I’d have expected matricide from his uncle or his brother, but not him, not even in the state he must’ve been in.”

“You’d thought better of him?” her Reverence asks and you flush.  The woman who’d assured you that he could be tempered, that he had a sense of honor, is acting like it’s your own fault for trusting your husband to be above the act of matricide.

“I mean… yes, ” you say, unable to keep the incredulity out of your tone.  “With everything I’ve learned about the Baron I’d just thought…I’d thought Feyd had tried to find asylum on Lankiveil after the assassination attempt and the torture that followed.  I’d thought he’d tried to defect from the Harkonnens.  I’d thought the Baron had been the one to have her killed so Feyd would have no one left to turn to.”

“The thought occurred to him, I’m certain,” her Reverence says.  “But that would’ve been too simple, wouldn’t have gotten his would-be heir to truly embrace his inner darkness. 

 “If he’d had her killed she would’ve been immortalized as an innocent in Feyd-Rautha’s eyes and he would’ve hated his uncle all the more.  But poisoning her image, fanning his separation into hatred, would ensure that he lost her well before she died.  The Baron has a talent for manipulation.”

“I realized that after I found out who really killed her,” you say in your defense.   “Then it made sense that the Baron convinced both of his nephews to each kill a parent.  I can see how he manipulated Rabban as well.”  From your limited interactions, Rabban seems more concerned with his uncle’s approval than his younger brother is.  

The Reverend Mother tilts her head in acknowledgement and gracefully spears a few berries onto her fork but doesn’t eat them.  “It took far less work.  Rabban was already a man by that point, young but too old for the Baron to break in his preferred ways and not as bright.  Good enough to work for his uncle, not promising enough to carry on his legacy or serve our plans.”

You and your fucking plans , you think.  “Is that why you let the Baron cover up Feyd’s matricide but not his brother’s patricide?” you ask.  “Because it doesn’t matter how negative Rabban’s reputation is outside of his own House but Feyd-Rautha,” you shrug, angry, vaguely aware of how petulant and emotional you must seem despite your earlier intentions of treading carefully, and finding you don’t care, “now, if he’s as important to your plans as you say, then he has to be as respectable as a Harkonnen can be in the eyes of the other Houses, the Empire.  He has to be someone close to redeemable, and there’s no redemption for someone who murdered their own mother.”

He killed their mother; his brother killed their father.  Oh, Great Mother, is Rabban going to be sent back here?  You don’t want to be anywhere near your brother-in-law, not when he’s going to be bitter and vindictive over losing his governorship.  He’s going to want to go after his little brother’s toys–and you’re certain that’s how he sees you.  

Please just keep him on Arrakis or send him to Lankiveil.  Fuck it, just send me back to my home planet.  It’s not like anyone needs me to be here right now.

“So you knew all this, and you chose not to prepare me for it,” you tell her.

“What good would it have done you?” her Reverence asks.  “You have no Bene Gesserit training, you haven’t learned to overcome your own fears and desires.  It would’ve clouded your judgment, plagued you with self-doubt that you could temper him and gain his devotion.  You wouldn’t have been any more prepared to bed him and gain favor with him with that information. Without it you’ve been more malleable, more open-minded to the strengths of your marriage.”

I didn’t tell you because you would’ve tried to resist the marriage if I had .  

You try not to think about the machinations of it–not that you’ve ever wanted to picture it, but the image of the Baron’s swollen fingers groping his nephew’s bare skin when Feyd’s a grown man is enough to make you want to throw up, let alone…you suppress your cry of disgust. 

“You knew all this , knew what the Baron would do to him, and still allowed it all to happen,” you say, voice rising in pitch before you can reign it in.

“He needed to ascend to a Major House,” she says.  “We’d have had no use for him as a whaler’s son.”

“But you did as someone driven to matricide?” you demand.  “What greater use do you even have for him beyond siring a boy?  What are you going to do to him when you’re done with him?  What are you going to do to me? ”  Before you can stop yourself, because the thought’s been lingering in a way you cannot ignore now no matter how much you’d like to, you add, “Whose child is Lady Fenring really carrying?”

“ Silence! ” her Reverence snaps and you feel your mouth shut tight, jaw muscles clenching of their own accord.  You’re shocked.  You feel so utterly stupid for feeling shocked.

She watches your face as you glare at her, your anger and fear so transparent it’s embarrassing.  You’d wanted to be poised.  You’d wanted to keep your fears if not abated then suppressed.  You wanted to be able to play a sharp mental game of cheops with a Truthsayer.  You just failed.

“I must say I’m disappointed in you,” her Reverence says.

I feel the same way, your Reverence, you don’t say even if you could; it’s like there’s a vice, like clamps keeping your jaw clenched.

“Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen is going to lead one of the Great Houses, and one of the wealthiest Houses in Landsraad.  If he needs to be brutal to ascend and take his uncle’s throne, then so be it.  It’s entirely expected among his people, and if anything you should be grateful he didn’t adopt his uncle’s tastes for himself.

“I never lied to you about your purpose with him, young Y/N,” she continues.  “It’s always been to combine your genetics with his, create a bloodline with him, and provide a son.”

For me and him or for you?   You take a deep breath.  In.  Out.

“I told you when we first met that you were under the protection of the Bene Gesserit order.  I didn’t lie to you about that, either.  You insult me by questioning my abilities and that I will not tolerate.  You are safer on this planet than anyone else who inhabits it.  You’re acting like a petulant child.”

You feel yourself flush, angry and ashamed of where you are right now.  You still can't’ speak, can’t even open your mouth, but you can feel your lips tremble and feel heat pricking up at the corners of your eyes.

“You have our protection and for all of your husband’s violent past and likely violent future, you have his protection as well, and for that you ought to be grateful.  He’s a vicious enemy and an even more vicious guard dog.

“As for Lady Fenring, it’s nothing personal.  Our Sisterhood needs daughters from every major House.  She and her husband will raise the girl, she’ll receive the best Bene Gesserit training of Landsraad, and neither of you will ever have to think about her.”

Did Feyd know her purpose in taking him inside of her?   Will her daughter grow up knowing who her biological father is?  

Did she use the Voice on him?

And suddenly you feel like the clamps have loosened.  You run a hand over your jaw as her Reverence asks, “Now that I’ve explained everything to you, do you think you can handle a quiet, civil breakfast or will you continue to question me?”

You want to curse.  You want to tell her that she’s full of shit.  Without the Voice’s influence you clench your jaw of your own volition to tamp down on everything you wish you could say.  “I have no further questions to ask, your Reverence,” you say.

“So will the na-Baroness behave in the manner expected of her title?” the Reverend Mother asks and in that moment you hate her.

“Of course, your Reverence,” you say.  “What sort of hostess would I be if I didn’t entertain my guests?”

Your head pounds and your hands shake as you get back to your quarters and find the gown for this afternoon laid out on your bed.  It’s not as provocative as yesterday’s, but you’re no more excited to put it on.  Idrisa silently helps you with the bodice and the new jewelry of fine silver corded necklaces that lay over your chest like a row of chains.  Idrisa assists with your hair; for someone who’s never touched real hair until recently, she’s gotten quite good at helping with it.  Doesn’t even seem confused or repulsed by it anymore.  Your cosmetics manage to cover up the shadows under your eyes.  Neither of you talk much, even though there’s a lot that needs to be said.

“I’m sorry, Idrisa,” you tell her as she puts away your cosmetics and you’re ready for her to escort you to the Banquet Hall.

She looks bewildered as she turns to you.  “Oh, no, my lady,” she says.  “There’s nothing to apologize for.”

I could’ve gotten you killed, you think, wondering what else she's been through that makes her so quick to try to forget last night when the two of you are flanked by two guards once you reach the main hallway.  She’s probably trying not to think about it when the doors to the Banquet Hall open and Feyd’s already there in long black robes with a silver chest plate, standing by the door awaiting your arrival.

The politics of marriage, you think to yourself, as the two of you match the body language you’d shared in front of everyone last night; no more and no less affectionate.  Even though a trained and watchful eye can see that the way he gives you a quick kiss on the lips and how you rest your hand on his arm is stiffer than yesterday, as is your posture.

You wish you could drink.  Instead you make polite little smiles at everyone who acknowledges you, as visitors stop by to show their respects, bid the na-Baron a happy belated birthday and to offer their congratulations on your nuptials.  The tables are laid out with platters full of imported delicacies and you pick at a few, but your breakfast sits like a brick in the pit of your stomach.  Feyd’s appetite is marginally better, and he nurses the same goblet of wine, twirling it absently more than he ends up drinking from it.  Finally he leans over and whispers in your ear, “I’m going to one of the private pleasure rooms and you’re going to join me.”

You raise your eyebrows, incredulous, as you look back at him.  He holds your  gaze, nothing in his flirtatious or suggestive.  He simply rises from his chair and holds out his arm.

You clench your jaw, remember all your etiquette training, and rise to take it.  Not everyone’s going to notice the two of you leaving together, let alone leaving together in the same direction, but those who do will interpret what comes next.

You know the Baron sees.  You can feel his smirk like a trail of slime. He's probably thinking, Good; my nephew’s breeding his brat-whore of a wife into submission .

Feyd leads you past two guards who wisely don’t react beyond lowering their heads in respect and down a hallway where there are opaque slots in the middle of each door.  Some are black, some are white.

“White means unoccupied,” he says, and presses a button to open one of the doors.

The room’s fairly sparse, you notice as the two of you step inside; there’s a bed, a nightstand, a chaise.  A small chest of drawers, the contents of which you don’t want to know.  All the anger from the previous night, from this morning, comes flooding back.  You want to slap him for this humiliation, for having the audacity to drag you in here.

The door closes behind you and the  two of you stand opposite each other, the bed a threatening presence at your side.  You speak first.

“I don’t want this,” you tell him.  

“I know,” he says.  He doesn’t come in any closer or make any effort to undress.  Instead he stays where he is and you cross your arms, waiting for him to speak again.

“You spoke with the Reverend Mother Mohiam this morning,” he adds.  It doesn’t surprise you that he’d know this; every guard in this Fortress reports to him.

“I did,” you say, your tone clipped.

“I imagine she told you everything,” he says.

You shrug, looking down, your arms folded across your chest.  “She said enough,” you respond after a moment.

“About my mother?”

“A little.  We spoke a little bit about multiple topics.”

“Such as?” Feyd prompts.

“Your uncle, your brother.  Lady Fenring.”  Feyd’s jaw tightens and his eyes narrow for a moment.  “You know Lady Fenring’s carrying your child, too?”

“The bastard in her womb belongs to me less than it does to her cuckhold husband,” Feyd says. 

“I’m not jealous,” you add.  

“There was nothing to be jealous of,” he says, the tone in his voice leaving an implication that has you furrowing your brow.  Do you mean what I think you mean? You open your mouth to ask, but he speaks first.  “So what else did you discuss?”

“What else did you discuss yesterday?  With the Baron?” you ask.

“Plans within plans,” Feyd says wryly.  Of course; plans within plans within plans .

“Such as?” you ask.

His mouth twitches upwards.  It's almost a smirk.  “I’d wondered why after centuries of tension it was only now that we took down the House of Atreides.  I’d thought it was in retaliation to them being gifted Arrakis.”

“Was it not?” you ask.  “Even if it was the Emperor who handed Arrakis over to them in the first place?”

Feyd’s eyes glint.  One of the corners of his mouth twitches upwards again.  “Why do you think he handed Arrakis over to them, then?” he asks.

That…you shake your head.  The Houses Corrino and Atreides were allies.  The Emperor and the Duke were friends.  “I don’t understand.”

“Sure you do,” Feyd says.  “The other Houses can find us as brutal and unforgiving as they want, but the Emperor was the one who gave us the orders, lent us his soldiers, and had us wipe out the House of Atreides in the dark.”

Impossible.  “ Why?” you ask, voice higher than intended.  

Feyd sighs.  “Uncle withheld that bit of information from me, if he knows at all.”  

You try to think.  How far does this go?  Who else knows and what are they hiding?  What did they have to gain from massacring an entire Major House?

“And what do you suspect?” you ask.

He considers something, and his response throws you off.  “The Atreides boy–the Dukeling.  Did you know him?”

What does he have to do with anything?  He was years off from inheriting Caladan.

“You mean Paul?  Not well, but he and I spoke a couple of times over the years.  He’d be turning twenty-one around now,” you tell him. The interactions were brief, polite, and uneventful, a potential match between the two of you always unlikely.  The Duke had clearly been hoping for one of the princesses’ hands in marriage for his son and your father had been hoping for someone a bit more intimidating than the skinny, affable Duke’s son.   ( Of course, he did end up getting what he’d been hoping for, much to his chagrin .)  “Why?”

“The Duke’s Bene Gesserit whore was meant to bear a daughter,” he says.  “That daughter would’ve been my wife; it had all been planned out.  She refused the order and gave the Duke a son instead.  Screwed up all their plans.”

The Reverend Mother told you about their years of planning, selective breeding.  How plans had recently changed and the new plans involved feeding you to the heir to the Harkonnen throne.  

Your brow furrows as you ask, “Did the Baron tell you this?”

“I've known since before I met him.  I remember hearing my parents arguing about it around my fifth birthday, when the Dukeling was born,” Feyd says.  “Thousands of years of planning out the window.  From what I could gather, they decided they could choose either the Atreides boy or myself to continue the bloodline they want.”

You think back to this morning.  You think of Margot and her growing number of daughters who aren’t her husband’s.  You remember what Paul Atreides’s face looked like when he was nineteen and making polite small-talk with you about the similarities between Y/P and Caladan and for a moment you imagine what he’d have looked like as a girl.

“I’m not certain exactly how or why,” Feyd continues, “but I wouldn’t be surprised if those witches impacted the Emperor’s decision. It’s almost funny how often they’re spotted lurking in the shadows when powerful men fall.”

“If they had something to do with it, do you know why they chose your House?” you ask.

Feyd shakes his head.  “Not yet,” he says.  “But I know this: Uncle wants a Harkonnen on the Imperial throne.  He’s wanted it his entire life, more than anything else.  And he thinks we’re closer to it than ever before.  He might even be right.”

You collect yourself, try to think, and when you do you can’t help but be selfish.  You flex and clench the fist of your right hand to avoid bringing it to your belly.  “Did he say where I fit within these plans within plans?” you ask.

Feyd doesn’t look away, but he also doesn’t speak for a moment.  He seems to look at every curve, angle, and slope of your features as if trying to commit the sight to memory.  “Your place is by my side, Y/N Harkonnen,” he says.  “As my wife, as the mother of my children, as the bridge between Harko and the rest of Landsraad.”

All very nice words.  Not a real answer.  “I notice you didn’t say if those were your uncle’s plans or not,” you tell him.  

“I know you did,” he says.  “What he thinks about you doesn’t matter.”

You take a step back, unable to help the incredulity within you.

“How does it not matter?” you ask.  “After everything he’s done, after everything he’s done to you, you still do whatever he wants.  If he decides that I don’t fit within his plans, then how can I believe you’ll keep me safe?  After everything you’ve done?”

Feyd recoils and he looks like he’s never been more insulted in his life, and he does not deserve to give you the reproachful look he’s giving you now.  “You think I’d go back on my vows?” he asks.

“You mean them now, but what about after he’s born? What about after I give you more children?  As I get older and I start reminding you more of your mother?” you demand.

“You don’t remind me one bit of her and that’s not going to change,” he says.

“But how do you know that?” you ask.

He doesn’t try to touch you, but takes a half-step forward.  “Because when you talk about our son you don’t talk about the greater plans for him.  You talk about him like he’s our child, not any part of an agenda.  You talk about nurseries, not who you’ll breed our son with. Because you don’t.”  He pauses.  “Because you aren’t one of them.  You belong to me, not them.”

You look at him as your heart pounds.  You shouldn’t be so naive to believe him, but you’re certain he means it.  The next thought that comes to you is one you can’t shake away.  It’s a risk; walls have ears.  But it’s a question you’ve been wanting to ask for weeks, and one you can’t avoid anymore.

“I read up on Harkonnen wedding vows,” you say.  “You made a vow to protect me, keep me safe.”

“I did,” he says.  “I will.”

“And our children?” you ask.  Feyd’s spine goes rigid.  “Will you keep them safe?”

He knows what you’re asking; he says nothing.

“Will you keep him away from our son?” you ask.  “No matter what?”

He looks at you, his jaw clenching for a moment as he looks down, lashes fluttering.  You wait.  

Finally he speaks. “When I ascend, my coronation needs to be honest.  The rank needs to be earned or I’ll never truly have the respect of my people, let alone the other Houses.”  Not quite an answer to the question you asked, but to what you really mean.  You take a breath, nervous.  “But my priority will always be the future of the Harkonnens, not what will soon be past,” he adds.  “That’s you and that’s our children.”

Yesterday showed you that Feyd isn’t always forthright, but he doesn’t lie when you ask him a direct question.  It’s something, a step in the right direction, and certainly a better one than last night.  

“Alright then,” you say on an exhale.

“Alright then,” Feyd echoes.

“Shall we?” you ask, gesturing for the door.

Feyd looks at you and his eyes flicker to your neatly-arranged hair.  “Not yet,” he says, and closes the distance between the two of you and tugs a few strands askew before burying his hands in your scalp, scrunching with his hands, and then releasing.  He shifts the silver strand adorning your hair just a little askew.

“What are you–?” you start, and he moves his hands down to pinch your cheeks.  You squawk and slap his hands away.

He gives a small smirk.  “Trust me, Y/N,” he says, “you’ll want them to think we were fucking instead of talking.”

And so you keep your head held high as you leave the room and re-enter the Banquet Hall, primly ignoring the few pointed looks you get.  They don’t linger, anyway; no one wants to get their throats slashed by the na-Baron for gawking at his, as far as they know, freshly-fucked wife.

The festivities continue, albeit a little muted compared to last night, and without further incident.  When it seems like an appropriate time to take your leave, you take a few minutes to thank everyone for sharing in your company.  Even, begrudgingly, the Baron, who gives your mussed hair a pointed look and a snide comment about how you must need some rest.

You don’t go into Feyd’s bedroom.  As the hours tick by, you realize he won’t be coming into yours, either.

You’re hit with twin feelings of relief and doubt.  You know you’re going to have to share a bed with him again; everyone has made it abundantly clear that it’s a part of your obligations as a married woman.  He’s going to Arrakis soon; you don’t want him to leave with memories of a newly frigid wife. You don’t want to lose any more of the momentum you’d been building with him that you’d created in no small part through near-constant intimacy.

And still, you stay alone in your bed, not even wanting to touch yourself.

The following morning you could almost swear that things are normal again, or as normal as they were before the Bene Gesserit arrived.

Feyd calls on you to train with him early in the morning again.  He double-checks to make sure your shield’s activated before having you practice with Korvo, and then with him.  

Breakfast is a bit different, though.  The remaining distinguished guests join all of you and the spread is even more vast than usual with dishes both savory and sweet.  You’d noticed over the course of the past month that Feyd almost always eats the same thing for breakfast: eggs and a savory porridge cooked in bone broth.  This morning, however, he doesn’t have much of an appetite, perhaps because of the couple seated across from him.

Among the last remaining guests are Count Hasimir and Lady Margot Fenring, the husband looking a little like a rat in fine robes with a velvet brocade, his beautiful younger wife in a fetching blue dress that’s formal enough for the occasion but looks comfortable enough for her trip back home.  

“Her Reverence has departed early, along with the other Sisters,” Margot explains to you.  “But she appreciated the hospitality you showed.”

I snapped at her and she used the Voice on me last time we spoke, you think.  “We appreciated her guidance,” you say, knowing she probably knows what transpired between you two.  Presumably so does her husband.  You glance over at the Count a few times and wonder, does he like the idea of his wife fucking other men and carrying their children?  Or does he merely tolerate it?

“Did your brother give reason for not attending your birthday celebrations?” he asks.  “Surely he attended your nuptials, at least.”

“He did,” Feyd says, “but his presence wasn’t required for either.”

You hesitate, wondering if it’s going to exacerbate rather than ease his tension, before finding his hand under the table and brushing your fingertips against his knuckles in a silent invitation to take his hand.  He doesn’t look over at you, but after a moment’s stillness, takes your hand in his and sets it on his leg.  

Since it’s the na-Baron’s belated birthday and another chance to show his statesmanship, the Baron delegates the two of you with seeing off your foreign visitors afterwards.  It also conveniently saves him the strain of having to continue staying upright and making small-talk instead of lounging in what Feyd has described only as “the tub” in a tone that makes you glad you’ve never seen it.

Count and Lady Fenring are finally leaving–you bid them farewell for the last time alone while Feyd sees off a representative from the House Corrino.  After what he told you about the Emperor, you assume his reasoning for this is two-fold.

Hasimir Fenring’s in the Emperor’s ear as well.  You wonder what he’s going to report about you as he kisses your gloved hand.  You wonder what Lady Fenring really thinks about you as you smile at each other for what you hope will be the last time for the foreseeable future.

“Your visit has been most educational,” you tell her.

She knows what you mean.  You don’t even have it in you to hate her all that much.  You don’t think she’d ever have done anything with Feyd if given the choice, and that makes it somehow more fucked up.

And then they’re all gone, docked and shipped out, and things can go back to normal.

None of this was ever normal, though.  And even with the understanding you think you’ve reached with him, it’s never going to be the same.  

Neither of you talk much at dinner.  The Baron shares some of the more salacious details about Count Fenring, knowing neither of you want to hear it.

“He’s not just sterile, he’s impotent,” he says, picking up a piece of lamb by the bone and dipping it in a cream-based sauce.  “The man’s testicles are purely decorative, and on top of that he’s hardly an intimidating man to look at, but he commands respect and why?  Shrewd political mind.  It will get you farther than just muscle.  Bodies age and break down but that’s all fine as long as you keep a sharp mind, Feyd.  Remember that.”

“I will, Uncle,” Feyd says, ignoring the sauce for his own lamb.  “But I don’t think my body will be breaking down any time soon.”

He looks like he regrets it the moment he says it, because the Baron smirks.  “Oh, certainly not yours , nephew.  You’re still a handsome young man.  Eventually, though, age comes for everyone.”  He turns to look at you with the closest thing to an affable smile he possesses.  “Believe it or not, young Y/N, I didn’t always look like this.  I was never as attractive as Feyd here, but I was leaner, had a more defined jawline.”

There’s something unsettling about him trying to be friendly towards you, especially as Feyd looks downright thunderous as he stares at the knife clenched in his fist like he’d rather use it to cut his uncle rather than his meat.

“Well,” you say, shifting in your seat, “as you said, my lord Baron, the sharpness of the mind is the most important thing, and you certainly still have that.”

Something’s wrong.  It was far easier to overlook when there were multiple other people to entertain at dinnertime but the tension between Feyd and his uncle is palpable, even as the Baron ignores it.  It lingers and follows you after dinner, when you and Feyd walk together to your quarters, and you know a conjugal visit is in order and you know that perhaps it would be more prudent to just let him fuck you first and then interrogate him when he’s spent and pliant.  But with everything Feyd’s talked about, the way he spoke of the Baron, sends whatever desire you might have been trying to build up cratering. 

So when you get to your bedroom door you turn to him and blurt out, “Can we talk first?”

Feyd looks at you and nods, his movements serpentine in their grace as he follows you inside and you shut the door behind you.  He waits, and for a brief moment you think about speaking evasively before dismissing the thought entirely.  This is neither the time nor the place to play coy.

“What did your uncle really say about me?” you ask.  “On your birthday?  What are his plans within plans for me?”

Feyd doesn’t look surprised at the question.  A muscle twitches in his jaw.  Dread rises in the pit of your stomach, threatening to evict your dinner.  His eyes look darker than usual.  

“After you bear my son, my uncle wants me to wed the princess Irulan,” he says.

And even as you can’t say you’re surprised you can’t help but gasp, hand flying towards your belly, because whatever conversation they had about this didn’t involve the words annulment or polygamy and Feyd doesn’t need to spell that out for you.

Feyd’s lips part just a fraction at the look on your face and he reaches a hand out, stopping for a moment when you flinch, and then moving slower to cup the side of your face.  His palm is warm.  

“I won’t,” he adds.  “ You’re my wife, and I’ll have no other.  You’re not going anywhere, Y/N Harkonnen.  You’ll be my na-Baroness and them my Baroness and perhaps even Empress.  We’ll have more children after this and you won’t have to worry about him .  Neither of us will.”

“You said your coronation would have to be legitimate.  You said you’d have to earn your ascension to the throne,” you tell him.  “You were so adamant that it was the only way to take over,” you tell him.  Your heart beats like a rabbit’s, chest heaving, feeling like you’re about to throw up.  You force yourself to look at him as he uses his free hand to cup the other side of your face.  He looks so calm.  How can he look this calm?

“I’ll say this only once,” he says.  “He’ll be gone by the time you’re in labor.”

Your eyes dart across his face, looking for a sign of anything that could contradict the conviction in his voice and you find none.  He means it.  

“Care to explain how?” you ask.

Feyd tucks in his bottom lip for a moment and exhales.  “Better not,” he says, “for the sake of plausible deniability.”  He pauses.  “At least, not yet. ”

You take a breath.  “Is that why he didn’t want us to have time to be alone together on your birthday?” you ask.  “Or were you never planning on telling me about this, either?”

“I wasn’t sure how I would, or when,” Feyd says.  “But you said it yourself that you’re my political ally as well as my wife.”  He tries to give you a smile; it’s a twitch of the lips.  “I wouldn’t withhold information about a potential assassination from my greatest political ally.” 

He kisses you once, slow but not deep, as if feeling out how receptive you are to it, and trying not to seem too disappointed that while you don’t resist, you barely reciprocate.  

“Not tonight, then,” he says.  

“We can,” you offer.  He can hear the reluctance in your voice.

“Not for nothing, Y/N, but I tend to enjoy it more when you aren’t morose and I must assume dry as a bone,” he says.

You sigh, looking down.  He’s not wrong.  You haven’t been aroused once since his birthday party a few nights ago and this conversation hasn’t helped in the slightest.  “Tomorrow night,” you tell him.  “Tomorrow night, your bedroom.”  We can do whatever you want, you almost add before he leaves, but you don’t want to offer something you’re not sure you can fulfill.

The following morning you get up early to train with him.  If anyone dared comment, they’d note that you seem a little aggressive with your offense when sparring.

During breakfast it seems like Feyd has an appetite again.  The Baron probably notices.  He also probably notices that the air between the two of you feels less tense than it has for the past couple of mornings, and of course he narrows his eyes in sidelong glances at you.  You ignore it, offering a couple of vague pleasantries about how efficiently-run Feyd’s birthday festivities were.  

“So,” you ask Feyd as you set down your distilled water.  “What’s the process like?  Moving to Arrakis?”

The Baron sits a little further upright.  “You told her about Arrakis, boy?” he asks.  You glance away from him, thinking, He told me about much more than that you sick man.  

Feyd glances at you before answering, his tone unfazed.  “If I’m leaving her behind for months then she should know why,” he says.

The Baron looks between the two of you as if he can get more answers from a single glance, and you look down at your food and spread a pat of butter onto your toast.  So far your appetite hasn’t changed.  It probably won’t for another few weeks.

When you get back to your quarters you write to your parents to give them the news of your pregnancy.  You want them to hear it from you first rather than a formal announcement from Geidi Prime a couple of weeks from now.

In the letter Mother sent you, she had asked, her tone vague but concerned to the point that you could imagine her voice faltering as she dictated the words, if the Baron was being kind to his niece-in-law.  You’d laughed bitterly when reading it, knowing what she was asking.  He has never shown any untoward interest in me, you’d responded, thinking, that’s not the problem at all .

You’re going to take to Feyd’s bed again tonight, as you told him; even as you’re still not looking forward to it, you’ll power through.  You don’t want the bed to grow colder.  You don’t want him to get frustrated and find other bodies to fuck, even as you know that will likely happen anyway in your upcoming months of separation.  You were able to get leverage with him in the first place by catering to his desires.  That’s how you’ll keep it.

And that’s what you tell yourself when you strip and shower that evening after dinner, and don’t bother to dress after drying yourself off, padding naked into his bathroom and past it into his bedroom.

You’d wanted to feel arousal, and you’re certain you’ll get there eventually.  You weren’t aroused the first couple of nights of your marriage but he’d gotten you sufficiently wet enough for him to fuck, even if it was a rough passage.  

Feyd’s sitting naked on the edge of his bed with his elbows resting on his knees.  “So what’s keeping you from getting wet tonight?” he asks as soon as he gets a good look at you.

“How would you even know that?” you ask.

If he had eyebrows you’re certain he’d raise them at that.  “I’ve gotten to know your body pretty well, pet,” he says, and you don’t normally mind the nickname but tonight there’s no appeal to it.  “If you’re wet I can practically smell it.  When you’re feeling desire it shows, and when you’re not it shows even more.”

“I don’t know,” you tell him.  “It’s not important.”

“Last time we fucked you were drooling and practically begging for my cock,” he says.  “I’m not interested in going from that to you only tolerating it and I want to know why that is so I can fix it.”

You sigh, trying to think, trying to find the words, embarrassed when you do.  Because it sounds so shallow and petty when you do. “I guess it’s because I’m yours but you’re not mine,” you say finally.  It’s not something you ever allowed yourself to think about, not even as a child who knew you’d have to get married one day and knew you might not like or even know the man you’d marry. 

But now you are married and you think you’ve gotten to know the man you’ve married pretty well, especially over the last few days.  You even like him sometimes, despite everything.  

Feyd blinks and tilts his head, his lips curled into a faint smirk.  “You think I’m not yours?” he asks, his tone shifting.  Teasing.   You bristle.

“Don’t make fun of me,” you say.  “Not right now.  Not after everything that’s happened.”

“I’m not.  I’m just surprised, pet,” he says.  He rises and stands, walking slowly towards you, his movements almost serpentine.  “You really think I’ve ever willingly given as much of myself up for anyone as I have with you?  Servants and enemies alike fear my very name, run from my shadow, tremble before me.  But you have me in a way no one else does.”

You hesitate.  You didn’t expect his words to send heat through your lower body.  You lick your lips before you realize you’re doing it.  

“Do I? ” you ask, your voice deeper than normal.

Feyd senses the shift within you.  He can probably smell just like he says.

“Use me,” he says.  “Take as much as you want from me, as much as you can.  I can handle it.”

You glance down at his full, plush lips.  They curve into a real smile when he notices where you’re looking.

“We can start there.”

The collar’s heavier than yours.  There are prongs on the inside–they’re dull, they won’t pierce Feyd’s throat, but they’ll still dig into his skin, potentially even break it.  You look at it and look at him and your heart beats faster.

You glance back at the armoire; the leash isn’t the same fine silver chain but a heavier length of metal chain.  It’ll be an effort for him to comfortably keep his head up after a while.  It’ll be an effort for you to hold it after a while.

“You sure I’m ready for this?” you ask him.

“I wouldn’t have suggested it if I wasn’t,” he says.  “Do you think you’re ready?  More importantly, do you want this?”

You picture him on his knees wearing nothing but the collar you’re holding and you answer without a drop of hesitation, “ Yes .”

He guides your hands as you unfasten the collar and wrap it around his neck, when you fasten again, but he brings his hands to his sides and keeps them there when you clip the chain to the center of his collar.  You take a step back for a moment to get a better look at him, how he stands proud while naked and leashed, your handsome plaything, and thinks he looks perfect.

Or rather, almost perfect.

“What else do you want to do?” he asks when he sees you thinking.

“I want to tie you up,” you admit.  “The way you’ve tied my hands behind my back.”  The memory of the way he’d fucked you relentlessly from behind with one hand pressing your head into the mattress and the other holding up your hips as you’d felt utterly, deliciously powerless flickers.  You want him to have the same feeling.

“Alright,” he says, unfazed.  “I can talk you through it.”

And as it turns out he’s a decent knot-making instructor.  He crosses his arms in an X across his back, turning his head to look at you as best he can while you stand behind him and cinch the ropes in–not tight enough to cut off his circulation, but to keep the knots intact.  You smile as you circle around him once it’s done, caressing his biceps, his shoulders, the parts of his back not marred by scars before crossing in front of him.  His pectorals look especially prominent this way, pressed forward and impossible not to play with.  So you do, groping the warm flesh, pinching the stiff peaks.

“On your knees, Feyd,” you say softly.

He’s far more graceful than he ought to be as his knees hit the floor in one long smooth movement.  You gasp at the sight, nearly dropping the chain as you take in the way the long, pale muscles in his thighs look as he kneels before you.  You look at the elegant lines of him from an angle you only now realize that you’ve never seen before.  Feyd’s eyes dart everywhere, zigzagging across the different planes of your body, and you smile as you take a step forward and cup your own breast, watching how Feyd’s pupils dilate, how his semi-stiff cock finishes filling out.  You stare back at him as you trail your hand down further, in between your legs, idly stroking and rubbing, letting your fingertips collect the growing slick down there before pushing two fingers inside.

You see his breath hitch, chest expanding, as you pull your fingers back out and step in close, just above him.  His mouth falls open the moment you bring your fingertips to his face; his head tilted back as he gazes at you with the same delirious, worshipful look he’d had a week ago.  He laps at your honey coating your fingers, gaze burning into you, his cock hard.

You grin down at him as you tug on the chain.  He closes his eyes for a moment, lips parted and twitching upwards in a brief smile.

You know what you want; when he’s licked you in the past it’s always been when you were on your back or on all fours, and never with the same domination as when he’s gotten you on your knees for him.  You know the physiology will be different, and trickier to navigate, but you’ll both manage.

Feyd moans softly as you grip the back of his head with your free hand, nuzzling against your bare cunt, his nose against your bud and his tongue reaching out to lap at what he can access.  His forehead rests against your mons for a moment.

“You’re so eager for it,” you tell him as you try to sound like you aren’t eager yourself, like you aren’t fucking dripping for this.  “So desperate.  You’d beg for this, wouldn’t you?”  You don’t wait for an assent before adding, “You don’t have to.”

You shift your feet, legs going wider, and slide one thigh over Feyd’s shoulder. 

He moans again, desperate, breath ragged, as you grip his skull tighter and grind your slit down onto him.  

If you didn’t have all night, you’d be embarrassed at how quickly your momentum builds the first time, moaning shamelessly, breath hitching, as you ride his mouth.  You think about how the first time he ever put his mouth here that you’d wished he had hair you can pull but realize now that you can manage just fine.  You think about how it’s been over a week since he’s licked you here, and nearly that since he’s touched you at all and that could be why you’re getting so close so fast.  And then you can’t think at all.

You have to hold onto his head and neck for support when you come and you gasp for air, raising your hips off of him enough to breathe.  

“You could come just from this, couldn’t you?” you ask, dazed, hardly able to speak, pulling him off long enough for him to groan an assent.  “Don’t.  Not yet.  I’ll take care of you when you’re finished here.”

And with that you bring his face back in, nails digging into the back of his head as you move his mouth for a moment, dragging his eager tongue inside of you.  You can’t help the snarl in the back of your throat as you feel his nose against your clit, building yet again, so close.

He seems to forget he needs his mouth and nose to breathe, and a couple of times you nearly do, too, grinding his face into your privates as you dig your nails into his skull, tugging on his chain as you keep your thigh draped over his shoulder, the metal digging into your skin as the muscles in your inner thigh squeeze his cheek .  “That’s it. Fucking take it, Feyd,” you hear yourself say at one point.

You wonder how he can enjoy being nearly smothered in between your thighs, but when you manage to get a glimpse southward, he still looks achingly hard, precome glistening at the tip.  Well, alright then .

You’re just as much of a desperate whore for this as I am, you think, and collapse forward for a moment, and bring your leg down, sliding it off his shoulder, realizing that if you keep going like this you won’t be stable enough to stay upright.  You take a deep breath, spread your stance, and tug Feyd’s collar down so he has to sink down lower, going from kneeling to sitting on his haunches, tilting his neck.  You switch his chain from one hand to the other, dragging your nails down the back of his head as you yank his chain forward.  

How is he still going with this kind of enthusiasm?   You feel like you're pushing yourself nearly as much as him when he’s the one being put to work.  Can he lick your cunt, his face buried in it, for hours?  Can he last longer than you can doing this?

Well, now you certainly intend to find out. 

You don’t know how long you keep going, grinding his mouth against you until you shudder and come, and then releasing him so you can both breathe before you pull him in again.  It’s too much.  It’s agonizing.  It's perfect and it’s actually starting to hurt but you also want to keep going, addicted to everything he’s giving you, and you stumble, legs shaking, vision going white for a second.

“Hold on,” you manage.  “I need to sit down.  I–I can’t…”

You relax the chain, stepping back so you can sit down at the edge of the bed.  Feyd shuffles forward on his knees and for a moment you wish you hadn’t tied his wrists so you could watch him crawl towards you.

My beautiful obedient beast , you think, as he reaches you, sits back on his haunches, and leans in to press an open-mouthed kiss to your pussy.

“Wait,” you tell him before he can.  “Just stay there for a second.  I need a moment before I’m ready again,” you add, still feeling fluttery.  You hold the back of his head in place with your free hand, close to your swollen, slick cunt, his nose not-quite brushing against it, his cheek resting against your inner thigh.  He gives the closest thing a voice like his could make to a whine, desperate to dive back in, not daring to move as you curl your fingers around the back of his head.  You spend several minutes this way, him on his knees, in place, hardly moving a muscle.  You feel his lashes flutter, but otherwise he remains still.

There’s something so deeply intoxicating about having this kind of power, about his warm breath against your cunt, about how obedient and submissive he is.  He’d stay down there all night if you asked, kneeling before you, wanting to but not touching you, not tasting you, until you commanded him.  

You smile, eyes shut, tamping down on a fit of giggles and the urge to say, Down, boy .  You loosely wrap one hand around his throat, just above his collar and then trail your fingers over his scalp.

You finally open your eyes and look down at him.  His bright blue eyes shining with hope, but not daring to say a word, waiting for you to tell him what to do.

“Oh, alright then,” you tell him.  You feel delirious as you tug his chain forward and he dives in, desperate, as if grateful for the chance for you to fuck his face again.  As if you’re the one doing him a service.

You groan, spent and running on fumes at this point but still not willing to let up, curious to see how much more he has in him.  How much more you can handle.  “That’s it, Feyd.  This is what your mouth was made for,” you say, and at this moment you’re pretty sure it’s true.  Your nerves are frayed and you’ve been so thoroughly tasted it’s becoming painful and your muscles feel as taut as if you’d just had a strenuous training session when really all you’ve done is have your cunt feasted on.  And still you persist out of sheer stubbornness until the tension builds again.  You shift and spread your legs a little wider, sitting closer to the edge of the bed and rolling your hips against Feyd’s face.  He can hear your breath hitch, your moans getting more desperate.

You start babbling, unable to keep the words from spilling out every image that pops into your head.  “Next time I use you– ah, fuck!  I, I’m gonna tie your wrists to the bedpost and fucking use every part of your body.  I’m going to ride your dick and then ride your face until you get hard again, just gonna alternate between the two until I drain you.  I’ll never get sick of it your fucking magnificent body and that mouth –”

And then you come, one last time, doubling over as you clutch the back of his head with both hands, burying his face in as deep as it can go, his nose scrunched up against your bud and his tongue buried inside of you.  You hear your own guttural scream as you shudder, moving his head side to side for a moment to wrench every last bit of pleasure out of it before you can come down.

For a moment you hold him there, just enjoying the closeness of him.  He’s still breathing, thankfully.  What an embarrassing obituary that would be.  Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen, dead at twenty-six.  Cause of death: suffocated on his wife’s pussy.   You can’t help but laugh as you pull him off, but the laughter fades as you get a good look at him.

He’s a mess, his face drenched.  His eyes blaze, his cock leaking precome.  He stays where he is as he gazes up at you.  He’s still looking at you with hope and desire.  Did I do good? What else can I do for you?  Do you want me to go back in?  I’ll go back in .

“Wow,” you say softly, thinking, You’re so beautiful like this .  

It takes what feels like a full minute to be able to stand again, your legs trembling, and you give Feyd just enough slack on the leash for him to continue kneeling.  His knees must be in agony right now.  He probably wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Stand up,” you tell him anyway, watching as he slowly manages to rise, biting back a groan at the effort.  “Good.  That’s good,” you say softly, looking up at him once more.  He keeps his head bowed, breath smelling of you and ghosting over your lips as he waits for further instructions.  You smile at him as you unclip his leash and let the chain fall to the floor between you.

You touch his chest again, made more prominent as he squeezes his arms behind his back as if standing at attention.  You decide you won’t untie him just yet as you run your hands down his torso, spread them to his sides and down his hips, your fingertips just barely digging into the flesh of his ass.  You haven’t talked about it yet, aren’t sure how well or poorly he’d respond to being touched there, so you keep the contact brief.  You don’t want to ruin anything when he’s been so good for you and seems like he’s still in that space in which he’s inclined to do whatever you want.  Feyd stays stock-still, like a good soldier awaiting your orders, and you find your voice.

“Have a seat, husband,” you tell him as you step aside to let him, and he does, where you just were, and waits.

You start by standing in between his legs, pressing your breasts together, and leaning down to rub them against his face.  He dives in eagerly, licking, kissing, sucking marks into the soft flesh.  It only briefly feels strange to feel your own slick there, but your mind seems to discard that after coming to the conclusion that it isn’t unpleasant.

“They’re going to get bigger in no time,” you say aloud.  “Will you like that, Feyd?”  He moans an affirmation, albeit a muffled one as you guide his face in the space between your breasts and keep him there for a moment.  “When they’re full and juicy and there’s more to play with?”

He moans again, chest heaving.

“You’ve been so good for me, Feyd,” you tell him as you caress the back of his head.  “So sweet, so devoted.  Are you ready for your reward?  I think you’ve finally earned it.”

And then you get on your knees.  His mouth falls open in a gasp, as if he hasn’t seen you in this position before.

Granted, he’s never come in your mouth before, even as he’s said he’s thought about it.  You caress the tops of his thighs, your thumbs trailing along the insides, before you grip his cock, tilt your head, and give him one long lick from sac to tip.

His breath comes in rapid pants, the salt of precome making the slide of him in your mouth all the easier.  You take him down as far as you can manage, your tongue along the underside of his cock.  Maybe next time you’ll tease him a bit more, take more time with this, but tonight you want to give him his reward.

“A- ah! ” He shudders and gasps as he comes in your mouth for the first time; it’s viscous and briny and you choke a little as you swallow it down but you swallow it down all the same, sticking your tongue out to swipe at what's left around your lips.

You get up and nearly stumble as you settle on his lap, kissing him, reaching for the ropes that bind him because you need him to touch you and you’re certain that he needs it, too.  You kiss your own slick off his lips and taste it on his tongue as he tastes himself on yours and perhaps someone else would find that disgusting.  A while ago that someone probably would’ve been you.  Right now it feels devastatingly intimate as you fumble with the knots and finally set him free, the rope dropping onto the covers.

Feyd’s hands slide over your hips and waist, into your hair.  He buries his face against your neck for a moment, his breath a rattle.  And you’re straddling his hips and his chest is pressed against you and, somehow, despite how overstimulated you are, you need him inside of you again.  It’s been multiple nights.  It’s fine if you don’t come; you’ve lost count of how many times you’ve come tonight, it’s all a blur.  You just want him nestled within you, just like this.

“Do you think you can get hard again?” you ask as you caress the back of his head, which he lowers to your breasts.

“I…” he starts, voice muffled as he holds on to you.  “ Augh, I…” he pauses, shutting his eyes.  “Yeah, I can.  Anything.  Anything you want.”  

“Now that’s what I like to hear,” you say, rocking against him.  It takes a few minutes, all dignity gone as you dry hump him slowly, your slick gliding over his spent cock until it starts to stiffen again, but there’s no one else here to see or judge it.  You can barely think as you raise up on your knees and spit into your palm before reaching down and wrapping a hand around him to work him to fullness.  It brings him face-level again with your breasts, and he takes advantage of the fact for the moments he can.  It makes you smile.  For a man with no particular voices it sometimes seems like he’s downright addicted to your body.

“Alright now,” you murmur once you feel Feyd’s cock hot and rigid in your grasp again and start to slide down.

It’s almost languid at first.  You just want to feel his cock inside you.  You hadn’t thought you’d miss it when it’s been less than a week.  You might go mad with frustration when he’s on Arrakis, you think, rocking slowly down onto him.

But that’s when a thought occurs, and you start to speed up, rising and falling on him with greater fervor.  You’re going to milk this man dry, you think, and giggle to yourself at the thought.  Between now and when he ships out to Arrakis you’re going to fuck him so good and so often he’ll be satisfied for the weeks, even months you won’t see each other.  You’re going to replace anyone else he could ever want in his mind’s eye.  

That’s what you’re thinking as you start riding him harder, faster.  Feyd’s gasps and grunts grow in volume alongside yours, his hands wandering everywhere now that they’re free to, but letting you take full control of the rhythm of him inside of you, letting you slake your lust on him rather than insisting on the other way around.

And as such you didn’t think you’d be able to come again tonight, but you were wrong.

“ Mmm! ” you shudder and shut your eyes as you can feel yourself start to clench up, almost at the precipice.

You nudge Feyd’s shoulder with one hand and he goes down, back hitting the mattress.  He gapes open-mouthed at you, eyes cloudy with lust and you gaze down at him until the pressure makes you shut your eyes again, until it’s too much and you’re grinding on him hard and fast.  You feel his hands cupping your breasts the first crest you wave, and then him coming inside of you on the second and stronger one that has you crying out.

Your mouth, your hands, your cock, they all belong to me, Feyd .  You can’t speak.

You can’t quite stop moving in the moments after you come, hips jerking awkwardly before you still, taking a deep breath, feeling the contracting and relaxing muscles of Feyd’s abdomen under your hands.  It takes another moment for you to come to your senses enough to open your eyes and look at the timepiece on your nightstand, and then you can’t help but laugh when you see that the two of you were at this for over an hour.

You look down at Feyd, who sits back up to meet you for a kiss.

“So,” you say, smiling into the kiss.  “Do you feel sufficiently used?”

“Dunno,” he says.  “Have you taken all you want?”

You nod against his lips.  “For tonight,” you tell him, and give him one last kiss before unfastening his collar.  The skin around his throat is red, indentations where the prongs dug in, and you press your lips there before nipping at it with your teeth.  He just holds onto you for the time being, tilting his head to give you access where you want it, breath coming in soft pants when you use your teeth on him.  You bring your mouth to the shell of his ear and murmur, “If you give me a second, I’ll put everything away.”

It takes some effort.  Your thighs shake as you slide off of him and grab the collar and rope.  You remember as you pick up the chain and walk over to the armoire that he’ll want some water as well.  If you’re thirsty from the amount of noise you made, then he certainly will be, too.

You sense movement and see Feyd shifting to the edge of the bed, about to get up, watching as you set everything back in place.  “Just relax, husband,” you tell him over your shoulder, proud of the fact that you can walk and sound coherent when you feel like you might pass out.  “I’ll take care of it.”

And you do; you wonder if this is how he feels on nights he pulls from his armoire.  You wonder if he feels the same kind of smug pride putting his equipment away while you lay in bed, exhausted and recovering.  You wonder if the reassuring calm as he does it is just as much of a facade, because tonight you’re pretty sure he took you to your limit even more than you took him to his.

You lay back, afterwards.  He nestles in between your legs, his head on your belly as you absently stroke his back and neck.  There will be visible scratches there and along his scalp, conspicuously at the back of his head.  The indentations of the collar will need to be covered; while people will certainly notice the scratches you doubt anyone will dare comment. 

“How soon is too soon to tell everyone?” you ask.

He turns his head, gradually coming out of his dazed, heightened state you don’t have a name for, and kisses your stomach before resting against it once more.  “If I felt it was appropriate, I’d burst out of this room right now and shout it to the whole planet and the Emperor himself that you’re carrying my child,” he says.  “Realistically, I’d say we should wait a couple of weeks, though.  After a doctor’s visit to confirm it.”

“Will you be there for it?” you ask, stroking his cheek and lifting two fingers under his chin to tilt his head towards you.  His cloudy blue eyes brighten a little.

“I’ll be here.  I don’t ship out to Arrakis for another month.”

“And after that?” you ask. 

“I’ll fix Rabban’s mistakes.  I’ll recover our lost Spice.  I’ll extinguish the Fremen rebellion.  And then I’ll come back to you,” he says.

And what will I do before you come back? you don’t ask.  You’ll need to.  You’ve thought about asking to go home, to Y/P, where you can be with your family and foster the life growing inside of you in an actually hospitable climate.  

You shift your legs a little further apart to get more comfortable.  Feyd gives a soft sigh and shifts as well, his breath tickling your bare skin and his arms loosely wrapped around you.

You’ll bring it up later. 

Tag list: @aemondseyepatch @alexandrainlove @richardslady121 @wo-ming-bai @blazeflays @cavillandevanssandwhich Please let me know if you would like to be tagged for future chapters!

[destinymoore05]

Lucy Quinzel Harkonnen

I fancasted Elle Fanning as Lucy. I was trying to go for likeness here. Lucy has her mother (Harley’s) hair from when she was Harleen, because before Harley became Harley, she had bright blonde hair. Lucy is supposed to be a combination of Feyd and Harley in terms of personality.

Lucy has Feyd’s sadist nature and desire for power, and Harley’s obsessive and chaotic nature combined. Lucy in her own right vulnerable and cares deeply about the people she loves, and isn’t afraid to deceive and manipulate by any means.

Lucy & Paul

As a last ditch effort for peace between the Harkonnens and Atreides, Lucy is arranged to marry Paul, by order of the Reverend Mother. Lucy, with her hotheaded attitude of her father, rejects the offer many times, refusing to associate herself with Paul. Lucy was taken to be courted by Paul, as the Bene Gesserit hoped that Lucy would be the one to fix the mess that was made. Her father though, is not pleased at all, refusing to have his daughter wed an Atreides, definitely not Paul. Lucy to Feyd’s happiness, is not personally fond of Paul either.. until she gets to know him. Lucy and Paul’s relationship takes an unexpected turn over the years, Lucy deciding to keep her heritage a secret from Paul for many years, fearful that he would hate her. When Paul joins the Fremen, Lucy does not hear from him, and lives her life as if she never met him. Paul and Lucy’s reunion is not sunshine and rainbows. Lucy having been crowned Baroness consort and Paul emerging as the mysterious Muad’dib whom Lucy had grown to hate. Lucy feels betrayed when Paul and the Fremen begin their reign against the Harkonnens. Lucy had kidnapped the surviving Fremen and subjected them to a life of slavery under her command. Paul visits Lucy in Geidi Prime, learning it was her who kidnapped his spies, he is hurt and betrayed by her actions. Lucy turns the tables on Paul, and they are forced to fight against each other on opposite sides, much to the heartbreak of Paul, who wanted to be with her despite all odds. Lucy and Paul discover that they are cousins, and Paul is part Harkonnen. Lucy is shocked by this, not even knowing this about him at all. She learns that Paul had killed her father’s uncle, the Baron Harkonnen, and that Gurney Halleck killed her uncle Rabban, and is dumbfounded by the revelations. She shrugs it off nonchalantly, saying that Feyd saw them as cowardly to his plans for Arrakis. Paul says he can no longer recognize Lucy personality wise as the woman he loved, when she coldly calls him Atreides, reminding him of her father Feyd.

Anyways.. an fanfic is in the works centering around Lucy and her story 👀

🏷️: @psycheetamore

[stephensmithuk]

The Solitary Cyclist

Farnham is a market town 36 miles SW of London, near the border with Hampshire. It is on the London to Alton line.

In fact, in the Young Sherlock Holmes books, Sherlock lived around here!

"Making love" meant flirting at this time.

Klinger discusses Victorian-era cycling extensively in his Annotated Edition; it had become very popular as safer bicycles arrived. Yes, women were expected to cycle in the outfit Paget depicted.

South Africa had attracted a lot of immigrants due to the discovery of gold and diamonds.

The climatic scene at the "wedding" is one depicted on the walls of Baker Street Underground Station, although I forget which platform it is on.

The prayer-book is likely the Book of Common Prayer, the legally prescribed service book for the Church of England at the time. Now supplanted by Common Worship, it still has some use and you can go to services done by it; it recently had to have formal updates to reflect the change in monarch and the change of Camilla's title; she is now just Queen Camilla, Queen Consort not being used anymore

"Defrocking" i.e. stripping clergy of holy orders for serious offences, was banned by the Anglican Church in 2003, with a lifetime ban on ministry being the highest possible penalty - you could still call yourself Reverend. Due to clerical sexual abuse scandals and an inquiry following those, it is now in the process of being reintroduced.

The fact Violet was married against her will renders the whole marriage illegal.

“No, she's your widow.” That's a line that I can easily imagine James Bond using before shooting someone.

[charlotte-of-wales]

Roles to be performed at the Coronation Service at Westminster Abbey

Buckingham Palace is pleased to announce further details on the Ceremonial roles to be performed by individuals in the Coronation Service at Westminster Abbey.

The Ceremonial roles include bearing the Regalia in the Procession and presenting the items to Their Majesties. Those undertaking these historic roles in the Service have been chosen to recognise, thank and represent the Nation due to their significant service, and include representatives from Orders of Chivalry, the military and wider public life.

The first processions into Westminster Abbey will be made up of Faith Leaders and Faith Representatives followed shortly afterwards by representatives from His Majesty’s Realms. Flags of each Realm will be carried by national representatives accompanied by the Governors General and Prime Ministers. Bearing the Flag of the United Kingdom ahead of Prime Minister Rishi Sunak and Mrs Akshata Murty will be Cadet Warrant Officer Elliott Tyson-Lee, who said: “It is a great and incredible honour to be a part of Their Majesties’ Coronation Service as a representative of the Royal Air Force Air Cadets."

This will be followed by The Procession of The King and The Queen which will be led by the Marquess of Anglesey, the Duke of Westminster, the Earl of Caledon and the Earl of Dundee who will carry the Standards of the Quarterings of the Royal Arms and Standard of the Principality of Wales. Francis Dymoke will carry The Royal Standard.

Mr Dymoke’s claim to undertake a historic role in the Coronation was upheld by the Coronation Claims Office. The title of King or Queen’s Champion has been held by the Dymoke family since the Middle Ages. The King’s Champion would previously ride on horseback into the Coronation Banquet and challenge any who doubted the right of The King or Queen to the throne. There has not been a Coronation Banquet since that held by King George IV in 1821 so the Champion has instead undertaken a different role since, usually bearing a flag or Standard.

Also taking part in the procession will be Admiral Sir Tony Radakin, Chief of the Defence Staff, acting as Lord High Constable of England, an office held for the day only. Traditionally the Lord High Constable is a Great Officer of State and has historically been connected to the military. He will take part alongside the Earl Marshal, the Duke of Norfolk.

The Earl of Erroll will act as Lord High Constable of Scotland. Similar to that of Lord High Constable of England, this role has historically been connected to the military and the Earldom of Erroll through a Coronation claim. The Earl of Crawford and Balcarres will act as Deputy to the Great Steward of Scotland, HRH The Prince of Wales.

The following will then process to the altar carrying Her Majesty’s Regalia:

Baroness (Helena) Kennedy of The Shaws – Carrying The Queen Consort's Rod

General Sir Patrick Sanders – Carrying The Queen Consort's Sceptre

The Duke of Wellington – Carrying Queen Mary’s Crown

The Rt. Reverend and Rt. Hon the Lord Chartres– Carrying The Queen Consort's Ring

Lord Chartres said: “The ceremonies of the Coronation are ancient but they have been freshly interpreted for our contemporary world.”

The following will then process to the altar carrying His Majesty’s Regalia:

General Sir Gordon Messenger, the Governor of HM Tower of London – Carrying St Edward’s Crown as Lord High Steward of England

Baroness (Elizabeth) Manningham-Buller LG – Carrying St Edward's Staff

The Duke of Buccleuch and Queensberry KT – Carrying the Sceptre with Cross

Baroness (Floella) Benjamin OM – Carrying the Sceptre with the Dove

Dame Elizabeth Anionwu OM – Carrying the Orb

The Keeper of the Jewel House, Brigadier Andrew Jackson – Carrying The Sovereign’s Ring

Petty Officer Amy Taylor – Carrying the Sword of Offering

Lord Hastings and The Earl of Loudoun – Carrying the Spurs

Lord President of the Council, Penny Mordaunt – Carrying the Sword of State in The King’s Procession

Air Chief Marshal the Lord Peach – Carrying the Sword of Mercy (The Curtana)

General the Lord Richards of Herstmonceux – Carrying the Sword of Spiritual Justice

General the Lord Houghton of Richmond – Carrying the Sword of Temporal Justice

General Sir Gordon Messenger, the Lord High Steward of England, (also an office held for the day only) is the most senior Great Officer of State for the Coronation, in order to bear the St Edward’s Crown into the Abbey, the most significant item of Regalia. On carrying St Edward’s Crown, General Sir Gordon Messenger said: “It is a huge and unique honour to be appointed Lord High Steward for His Majesty’s Coronation. To be playing a key role on such an important and historic occasion is a source of great pride to me, my family, the Royal Marines, and the Tower of London community.”

Petty Officer Amy Taylor will be the first woman to bear the Jewelled Sword of Offering into the Abbey. She has been selected to represent Service men and women, as a Royal Navy Petty Officer, a tribute to His Majesty’s military career. She said: "Having served most of my senior career as an Aircraft Engineer on 845 Naval Air Squadron at RNAS Yeovilton where His Majesty originally trained and served as a pilot, I am deeply honoured and humbled to play my part in this historic event. Coming from a farming family His Majesty has always been such a great advocate for our community and someone I have admired growing up."

Baroness Benjamin and Dame Elizabeth Anionwu are amongst recent appointees to the Order of Merit, the final members to be chosen for the Order by Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II. Baroness Benjamin said: “I feel honoured and privileged to be part of the historic Coronation ceremony. To be selected to carry the Sovereign’s Sceptre with Dove, which represents spirituality, equity and mercy, is for me very symbolic as it’s everything I stand for and sends out a clear message that diversity and inclusion is being embraced."

Participating in the act of Recognition of His Majesty whereby His Majesty will be presented to the Congregation at the start of the Service will be:

The Archbishop of Canterbury, Baroness (Valerie) Amos LG, Lady Elish Angiolini LT, and Christopher Finney GC, Chair of the Victoria Cross and George Cross Association.

During the Coronation Service the Regalia will be presented to Their Majesties. Those presenting have been chosen on the advice of Government. Those presenting Regalia to His Majesty will be:

The Lord Carrington, Lord Great Chamberlain – Presenting the Spurs

The Lord (Syed) Kamall – Presenting the Armills

Baroness (Gillian) Merron – Presenting the Robe Royal

The Most Reverend John McDowell, the Church of Ireland Archbishop of Armagh – Presenting the Orb

Lord (Narendra) Patel KT – Presenting the Ring

Lord (Indarjit) Singh of Wimbledon – Presenting the Coronation Glove

The Most Reverend Mark Strange, Bishop of Moray, Ross and Caithness, and Episcopal Primus of Scotland – Presenting the Sceptre with Cross

The Most Reverend Andrew John, the Archbishop of Wales – Presenting the Sceptre with Dove

The Archbishop of Canterbury – Performing the crowning with St Edward’s Crown

Those presenting Regalia to Her Majesty will be:

The Rt. Reverend Rose Hudson-Wilkin CD, The Bishop of Dover – Presenting The Queen Consort's Rod

The Rt. Reverend and Rt Hon. Lord Chartres – Presenting The Queen Consort's Sceptre with Cross

Brigadier Andrew Jackson, The Keeper of the Jewel House at HM Tower of London – Presenting The Queen Consort's Ring

The Archbishop of Canterbury – Performing the crowning with Queen Mary’s Crown

On presenting Regalia to Her Majesty, The Bishop of Dover said: “I am surprised, excited and honoured to have been asked to play a part in this historic once in a lifetime occasion. As I make my presentation, both Their Majesties will remain in my prayers as they seek to serve the nation and the Commonwealth.”

[grandmaster-anne]

Court Circular | 21st March 2023

Buckingham Palace

The King, Sovereign of the Order, was present this morning at a Service of the Royal Victorian Order held in St George’s Chapel, Windsor Castle. The Duke and Duchess of Edinburgh, The Princess Royal, Grand Master of the Order, accompanied by Vice Admiral Sir Tim Laurence, and The Duke and Duchess of Gloucester were also present. His Majesty was received by the Dean of Windsor (the Right Reverend David Conner) and the Chaplain of the Order (the Reverend Canon Thomas Woodhouse). Detachments of His Majesty’s Body Guard of the Honourable Corps of Gentlemen at Arms, The King’s Body Guard of the Yeomen of the Guard and the Military Knights of Windsor were on duty in St George’s Chapel. Afterwards The King gave a Reception at Windsor Castle for those who attended the Service. The King and The Queen Consort, Patron, this afternoon visited the Royal School of Needlework at Hampton Court Palace, East Molesey, Surrey, and were received by the Chief Executive of Historic Royal Palaces (Mr John Barnes) and the Chairman of the Royal School of Needlework (Ms P Wood). Their Majesties, escorted by Dr Susan Kay-Williams (Chief Executive, Royal School of Needlework), viewed the progress of work being undertaken for the Coronation by embroiderers and other members of Royal School of Needlework staff, before viewing displays of objects from past Coronations from the Royal School of Needlework Archive and Collection and objects from the Historic Royal Palaces Collection.

Kensington Palace

The Prince of Wales, President, the Earthshot Prize, this morning held a Meeting. The Princess of Wales, Joint Patron, the Royal Foundation of The Prince and Princess of Wales, this morning held a Meeting to launch a Business Taskforce for Early Childhood, NatWest Head Office, 250 Bishopsgate, London EC2.

St James’s Palace

The Duke of Kent, Patron, St Mungo’s, this morning visited the Grange Road Service at 41-43, Crimscott Street, London SE1, and was received by Colonel Simon Duckworth (Deputy Lieutenant of Greater London).

[anarcho-occultism]

Egregiupsaltes

“EGREGIUPSALTES-He is an infernal Duke of immense power and appeareth akin to a man with red skin and horns extending from his ears and chin. He causeth all who surround the summoner to engage in song, dance and other such merriment for as long as the summoner can bindeth him and provides inspiration and talent in the arts of musical composition and stage performance. He is capable of pushing men to reveal hidden secrets that they would otherwise keep concealed. He governeth 20 Legions of Spirits and is summoned by a seal imprinted upon a talisman. Knoweth this should ye summon him: Egregiupsaltes, while oft of good humor, demandeth burnt offerings. If they are not received any personages around thee may be compelled to dance until they burn. Egregiupsaltes also doth from time to time demand a bride, whom he shalt take to his realm if he is given one.”

-Excerpt from De Vermis Mysteriis by Ludvig Prinn, 1269

“NEW YORK, NEW YORK-NYPD sources have confirmed that popular nightclub singer Reno Sweeney was found dead in her apartment this morning at the age of 42. Sweeney, a former evangelist and ex-fiancé of British Lord Evelyn Oakleigh, was found burned to death. The circumstances of Sweeney’s death closely mirror the circumstances surrounding the demise of champion gambler Sky Masterston two years ago, though the cause of Masterton’s death likewise remains a mystery. Sweeney’s funeral is scheduled for next Sunday.”

-Obituary for Reno Sweeney found in the Daily Bugle, April 17th, 1939

“Yes folks, you’ve got trouble! Right here in River City! And that trouble is Satanism! I have found proof—definitive proof—that members of this town have been consorting with dark forces! I want to assure you fine folks that I will work tirelessly to uncover who is responsible for unleashing dark forces on your fair community, so long as I draw breath!”

-Excerpt from a sermon by Reverend Elmer Gantry, 1921

“Blue Rose Case #046-Localized Musical Phenomenon. Seem to manifest in close proximity to teenaged populations (see Rydell High School and Jets-Sharks incidents files). Potential ties to the music of Conrad Birdie under investigation but remain unconfirmed. Known impact on Agent Everett Scott in course of 1959 investigation into alien phenomena. Dr. Scott’s opinion is that aliens in question may venerate a particular infernal entity possessing the ability to create this.”

-Excerpt from a briefing memo sent by UIU Agent Kent Mansley to FBI Director J. Henry Lux, 1961

“The immolation of the gigantic Triffid responsible for terrorizing New York is still under active investigation by authorities. As of this time, police and federal officials remain uncertain as to how it was that the entity formerly known as Audrey II met its demise. Initial rumors that the Justice League was responsible for doing so have been debunked.

Speaking of which, as the Triffid invasion seems to be cast into memory alongside the Mollusc, Kanamit and Furon attacks, we are continuing our efforts to encourage people to help people find missing loved ones. If you are in the Baltimore area and see this woman—Penny Lou Pingleton—please contact the number you see before you…”

-Broadcast by Howard Beale on UBS Evening News, March 16, 1962

“My father’s papers have concealed within them some most foul and infernal documents. I have chosen to destroy them rather than let future generations be forced to confront his mistakes. The ring he had given Anna…was that a token of affection or a curse he sought to pass off? Either way I have ordered it buried in a remote part of Indochina. Hopefully it stays buried.”

-Excerpt from the diary of Thai King Chulalongkorn, written in December of 1868

“No, please, I can get you more sacrifices! I was able to give you a busload before, remember? NOOOO!! AGGGH!”

-Last words of Cory Radison, 2011

“SCP-7172 is not solely responsible for localized musical phenomena. It is estimated that at least 40% of LMPs occur due to the radiation of dimensional energies from the Land of Oz in areas where the boundaries between worlds wear thin for instance. However, SCP-7172 is responsible for a very high number of instances of LMPs including documented instances in:

-Albuquerque, New Mexico, centered on East High School. No casualties documented.

-Salt Lake City, Utah-Centered on the Latter-Day Saints Church Missionary Training Center, effects followed several elders on missions to Uganda, Japan and Norway. 3 casualties documented (2 in Norway, 1 in Japan)

-Cladwell, New Mexico-Effects were felt by the entirety of town. Notably SCP-7172’s impacts were indirectly responsible for the Water Riots of 2011 and the subsequent destruction of the town. Direct casualties: 6 Indirect Casualties: 732.”

-Excerpt from SCP-7172’s file, declassified 2038

“Hehehe, Ol’ Jack hasn’t got anything on me. My sweet muse, my sweet aide, he accepts my blood offerings as good as the fire. And he helps me stay clear of Mr. Noose—more’n he did for Mr. Todd, eh?

Warmest regards,

Mack the Knife.”

-Letter from Mack the Knife to London Police, sent 1890

🎵 Assassins, kitties, prophets—I’ve got range

I made Romans indulge in styles quite strange.

Even if they don’t know all the arts,

Everyone has a song in their hearts.

Theatre troupes, AIDs patients, naval ships,

Revolutionaries, newsboys, even SQUIPS.

I strip away every shred of their doubt

Take that energy, and let it all out. 🎵

[readysetimready]

καί τε παρὲκ Ζηνὸς νόον ἤγαγε τερπικεραύνου, 36 … ῥηϊδίως συνέμιξε καταθνητῇσι γυναιξὶν 39 Ἥρης ἐκλελαθοῦσα κασιγνήτης ἀλόχου τε, ἣ μέγα εἶδος ἀρίστη ἐν ἀθανάτῃσι θεῇσι, κυδίστην δ᾽ ἄρα μιν τέκετο Κρόνος ἀγκυλομήτης μήτηρ τε Ῥείη· Ζεὺς δ᾽ ἄφθιτα μήδεα εἰδὼς αἰδοίην ἄλοχον ποιήσατο κέδν᾽ εἰδυῖαν.

she even led astray the mind of Zeus whose sport is the thunderbolt, … and easily coupled him with mortal women, putting out of his mind Hera his sister and consort, who is much the finest of aspect among the immortal goddesses, the most glorious daughter of crooked-schemer Kronos and the mother Rhea, and Zeus whose counseld do not fade made her his reverend consort, dutiful as she is.

However, the poet strongly highlights the contrast between the infidelities of Zeus and the beauty and institutional dignity of Hera, making the actions of Zeus to be inadequate and absurd. Such contrast is in accordance with the fact that Zeus decides to end his misdemeanor and control Aphrodite’s absolute power. To this effect he makes the goddess to fall prey to the power that she exerts over everyone else, and makes her fall in love with a mortal. In this way, the “irregular” unions between gods and mortals are put to an end. This is inserted in one of the main characteristics of the hymns that have goddesses as the leading characters; the actions of Zeus reduce the initial power of a deity and places the world, particularly the divine world, in its right order.

ALBERTO BERNABÉ HERA IN THE HOMERIC HYMNS

[bronzewool]

Dune is ruining my life.

I have not been able to stop thinking about the series ever since I stumbled across the sequel in the library. And since it's like 1/3 of the length of the original, I picked it up for some light reading just to see if there was something I was missing.

I am frustrated by how much I desperately want to learn more about this world, but I don't wanna read it in this format. The Worldbuilding is fine. The characters are fine. The relationships are fine. The history is fine. The conflict is fine.

I just hate the writing.

Dune Messiah does the same bloody thing in the first book, where it announces the motivations of each character and spoils many plot twists that would have been shocking to learn for yourself. The first chapter even starts with our four central antagonists in the same room talking about how they're going to overthrow House Atreides. So we know who to look out for before Paul even meets them, not that it matters since they're all so bloody incompetent, their plan to overthrow Paul is both way too complicated and laughably straight forward.

It's been 12 years since the first book, Paul got his revenge on the man who killed his father, overthrew the Emperor, and made himself the new Emperor with a devout Fremen army and a monopoly on the Spice extraction.

Except things aren't so perfect. Paul, who is cursed with clairvoyance and has seen the future for all humanity, is trying to avoid the extinction of the human race but, in doing so, has made himself the villain.

"At a conservative estimate, I've killed sixty-one billion, sterilized ninety planets, completely demoralized five hundred others. I've wiped out the followers of forty religions-"

His followers see him as a god and have become a cult who will cut down all non-believers in his name. He has brought water and wealth to Arrakis but is playing the long game, destroying the lives of billions of innocent people for the sake of trillions not even born yet. He's a hard character to root for when you've spent an entire book watching him struggle to earn his happy ending, only to then watch him commit mass genocide in the name of the greater good.

And the book doesn't tell you straight out the gate that Paul is now evil, but let's you digest the consequences of all his decisions. For example, Paul has full control over the Spice trade, a life-extending drug that most citizens have been exposed to at some point. The spice rightfully belongs to the people of Arrakis (even though Paul himself is not a native), but one of the drawbacks to ingesting spice is that withdrawal eventually leads to death. Everyone who takes one step on Arrakis can never leave or must depend on frequent shipments of the stuff in order to keep on living. We are never privy to the innerworkings of the shipment itself or how much it costs, but I couldn't help but compare the dependency on Spice to insulin, especially when Paul learns that someone has attempted to take one of the sandworms to manufacture their own supply of spice on another desert planet.

The book has great moments like that, but it's spliced with chapters of people sitting in a room talking about power, diplomancy, conspiracy, religion, fate, legacy, guilt. And going over those conversations with a Sherlock Holmes level of deduction to uncover hidden meanings, and talking in different rooms with different people.

There is a lot of talking in this book when the plot can be cut down to: Paul's Consort Princess (that he forced into a political marriage right after dethroning her father) has teamed up with the old reverend Mother from the first book to remove Paul from power with the help of a shapeshifter "face dancer" and a space guild navigator who is invisible to the powers of foresight. The Princess secretly drugs Chani, Paul's lover from the first book, with a contraceptive in order to stop her bearing any future heirs. The Guild Navigator presents an artificial human created from the remains Duncan Idaho, who died in the previous book, as a gift to the Emperor. And the shapeshifter has taken on the form of a Fremen.

The innerworkings of their plan are kept hidden from the reader, but the execution is lacklustre when the entire point of the book is that Paul can't lose. Chani is moved back to Arrakis to see a doctor, so the princess can't keep drugging her. The reverand Mother is apprehended early on in the book. Paul knows the resurrected Duncan is a trap meant to be his undoing, and any tension with the shapeshifter is pointless as Paul sees right through his deception, but plays along anyway.

Much like my frustration with the first book, there isn't a lot of narrative tension when it comes to the plot. The only real suprises in the book are, how the conspiracy plans to use Duncan to take down Paul, and near the end when Chani finally gives birth and Paul did not predict her bearing twins as he only ever saw the future of their daughter, and not a twin son who is hidden from Paul's powers and might change the future Paul fought so hard to achieve.

I both enjoy learning about Dune and hate reading it. To the point I'd rather just read the wiki articles. But I can't seem to get it out of my head and hate myself for not enjoying it more when it is so beloved by so many people I respect, and I dont know of its just because I'm not nearly smart enough to fully understand it

[reliquaryofflesh]

Bringing a bimbo to the ritual at the abandoned church (the devil doesn’t mind non-virgin sacrifices on weekends) and trying to get everything set up but he just keeps rolling his eyes at you and giving you attitude while he’s tied to the pew and you can’t help but wring his pretty little neck and kiss him hard on the mouth while you grind your knee into his crotch

[theroyalfanzine]

Attendees of King Charles III & Queen Camilla's Coronation

British Royal Family

The Prince of Wales

The Princess of Wales

Prince George of Wales *

Princess Charlotte of Wales

Prince Louis of Wales

The Duke of Sussex

The Duke of York

The Duke of Edinburgh

The Duchess of Edinburgh

The Princess Royal

Sir Vice Admiral Timothy Laurence

Princess Beatrice, Mrs. Mapple Mozzi

Mr. Eddo Mapple Mozzi

Princess Eugenie, Mrs. Brooksbank

Mr. Jack Brooksbank

The Earl of Wessex

The Lady Louise Mountbatten-Windsor

Mr. Peter Philips

Mrs. Michael Tindall

Mr. Michael Tindall

The 2nd Earl Snowdon

The Viscount Linley

The Lady Margarita Armstrong-Jones

The Lady Sarah Chatto

Mr. Daniel Chatto

Mr. Samuel Chatto

The Duke of Gloucester

The Duchess of Gloucester

The Duke of Kent

The Earl of Ulster

The Earl of St. Andrews

The Lady Davina Windsor

The Lady Rose Gilman

Lady Helen Taylor

Princess Alexandra, The Hon. Lady Ogilvy

Prince Michael of Kent

Princess Michael of Kent

Lord Frederick Windsor

Lady Gabriella Kingston

Mr. James Ogilvy

Ms. Marina Ogilvy

Penny, The Countess of Mountbatten of Burma

Mrs Sarah Troughton-Barclay**

Mr. Peter Barclay

Mr. Edward Tollemnache

Mrs. Sophie Tollemache

Master Ralph Tollemache**

Shand-Parker-Boweles Family

Mr. Tom Parker-Bowles

Mrs. Laura Lopes

Mr. Harry Lopes

Mr. Andrew Parker-Bowels

Miss Lola Parker Bowles**

Mr. Freddy Parker Bowles**

Miss Eliza Lopes**

Mister Louis Lopes**

Mister Gus Lopes**

Mrs. Anabelle Eliot

Mrs. Alice Irwin

Miss  Ayesha Shand

Mr. Benjamin Eliot

Mrs. Catherine "Katie" Eliot

Master Arthur Eliot**

**Prince George of Wales, Lord Oliver cholmondeley, Master Nicholas Barclay, Master Ralph Tollemache, Mr Gus Lopes, Mr Louis Lopes, Mr. Freddy Parker-Bowles, Master Arthur Eliot will serve as Pages of Honour during the ceremony, while Queen Camilla's teenage grandchildren will participate in the ceremony in a different way as well.

NON ROYAL DUKES, Earls and Marquis (All of whom have some coronation role)

The Marquess of Anglesey

The Duke of Westminster

The Earl of Caledon 

 The Earl of Dundee

The Duke of Norfolk

The Earl of Erroll

The Earl of Crawford and Balcarres

Baroness (Helena) Kennedy of The Shaws 

General Sir Patrick Sanders

The Duke of Wellington

The Rt. Reverend and Rt. Hon the Lord Chartres

Baroness (Elizabeth) Manningham-Buller

The Duke of Buccleuch and Queensberry

Baroness (Floella) Benjamin

Dame Elizabeth Anionwu

The Marquess of Cholmondeley

The Marchioness of Cholmondeley

Lord Oliver cholmondeley**

Master Nicholas Barclay**

Reigning Royalty

DENMARK

Crown Prince Fredrik

Crown Princess Mary

THE NETHERLANDS

The King of The Netherlands

Queen of The Netherlands

The Princess of Oranje* ( Precoronation reception only, Source: https://www.royal-house.nl/latest/news/2023/04/17/coronation-of-king-charles-iii-and-queen-camilla)

Princess Beatrix *(Precoronatination reception only, Source: https://www.royal-house.nl/latest/news/2023/04/17/coronation-of-king-charles-iii-and-queen-camilla)

NORWAY

The Crown Prince of Norway

The Crown Princess of Norway

Sweden

The King of Sweden

The Crown Princess of Sweden

MONACO

The Sovereign Prince of Monaco

The Princess Consort of Monaco

JAPAN

The Crown Prince of Japan

The Crown Princess of Japan

SPAIN

The King of Spain

The Queen of Spain

The King Emerettius

The Queen Emeritia

LEICHTENSTEIN

The Hereditary Prince of Liechtenstein

The Hereditary Princess of Lichtenstein

LUXEMBOURG

The Grand Duke of Luxembourg

The Grandduchess of Luxembourg

BAHRAIN

The Crown Prince of Bahrain

BRUNEI

The Sultan of Brunei

BELGIUM

The King of The Belgians

The Queen of Belgium

The Duchess of Brabant*

*reception only

JORDAN

The King of Jordan

The Queen of Jordan

BHUTAN

The King of Bhutan

The Queen of Bhutan

KUWAIT

The Crown Prince of Kuwait

LESOTHO

The King of Lestho

MALAYSIA

The King of Malaysia

The Queen of Malaysia

MOROCCO

The King of Morocco

OMAN

The Sultan of Oman

QATAR

The Emir of Qatar

TONGA

The King of Tonga

NON REIGNING ROYALS

GREECE

The Queen of Greece

The Crown Prince of Greece

The Crown Princess of Greece

GERMANY

The Hereditary Prince of Baden

BULGARIA

The King of Bulgaria

ROMANIA

The Custodian of The Crown of Romania

The Prince Consort of The Custodian of the Crown of Romania

YUGOSLAVIA

The Crown Prince of Yugoslavia

The Crown Princess of Yugoslavia

DUBAI

The Emir of Dubai

Other Dignitaries

USA

First Lady Dr. Jill Biden

Miss Finnegan Biden

[ok2scream]

the reverend mother and her consort

[worldspotlightnews]

King Charles follows royal tradition going back hundreds of years

King Charles follows royal tradition going back hundreds of years King Charles followed centuries old royal tradition as he and Queen Consort Camilla attended the Royal Maundy Service at York Minster, where the monarch distributed the Maundy Money. On arrival at York Minster, they were met at the Great West Doors by the Dean of York, The Very Reverend Dominic Barrington and The Most Reverend and…

[unmutedink]

CAISSA
or
The Game at Chess; a Poem.

(written in the year 1763, by Sir William Jones)

(pronounced ky-eé-sah) Of armies on the chequer'd field array'd,

And guiltless war in pleasing form display'd;

When two bold kings contend with vain alarms,

In ivory this, and that in ebon arms;

Sing, sportive maids, that haunt the sacred hill

Of Pindus, and the fam'd Pierian rill.

Thou, joy of all below, and all above,

Mild Venus, queen of laughter, queen of love;

Leave thy bright island, where on many a rose

And many a pink thy blooming train repose:

Assist me, goddess! since a lovely pair

Command my song, like thee devinely fair.

Near yon cool stream, whose living waters play,

And rise translucent in the solar ray;

Beneath the covert of a fragrant bower,

Where spring's nymphs reclin'd in calm retreat,

And envying blossoms crouded round their seat;

Here Delia was enthron'd, and by her side

The sweet Sirena, both in beauty's pride:

Thus shine two roses, fresh with early bloom,

That from their native stalk dispense perfume;

Their leaves unfolding to the dawning day

Gems of the glowing mead, and eyes of May.

A band of youths and damsels sat around,

Their flowing locks with braided myrtle bound;

Agatis, in the graceful dance admir'd,

And gentle Thyrsis, by the muse inspir'd;

With Sylvia, fairest of the mirthful train;

And Daphnis, doom'd to love, yet love in vain.

Now, whilst a purer blush o'erspreads her cheeks,

With soothing accents thus Sirena speaks:

"The meads and lawns are ting'd with beamy light,

And wakeful larks begin their vocal flight;

Whilst on each bank the dewdrops sweetly smile;

What sport, my Delia, shall the hours beguile?

Whall heavenly notes, prolong'd with various art,

Charm the fond ear, and warm the rapturous heart?

At distance shall we view the sylvan chace?

Or catch with silken lines the finny race?"

Then Delia thus: "Or rather, since we meet

By chance assembled in this cool retreat,

In artful contest let our warlike train

Move well-directed o'er the field preside:

No prize we need, our ardour to inflame;

We fight with pleasure, if we fight for fame."

The nymph consents: the maids and youths prepare

To view the combat, and the sport to share:

But Daphnis most approv'd the bold design,

Whom Love instructed, and the tuneful Nine.

He rose, and on the cedar table plac'd

A polish'd board, with differing colours grac'd;

Squares eight times eight in equal order lie;

These bright as snow, those dark with sable dye;

Like the broad target by the tortoise born,

Or like the hide by spotted panthers worn.

Then from a chest, with harmless heroes stor'd,

O'er the smooth plain two well-wrought hosts he pour'd;

The champions burn'd their rivals to assail,

Twice eight in black, twice eight in milkwhite mail;

In shape and station different, as in name,

Their motions various, not their power the same.

Say, muse! (for Jove has nought from thee conceal'd)

Who form'd the legions on the level field?

High in the midst the reverend kings appear,

And o'er the rest their pearly scepters rear:

One solemn step, majestically slow,

They gravely move, and shun the dangerous foe;

If e'er they call, the watchful subjects spring,

And die with rapture if they save their king;

On him the glory of the day depends,

He once imprison'd, all the conflict ends.

The queens exulting near their consorts stand;

Each bears a deadly falchion in her hand;

Now here, now there, they bound with furious pride,

And thin the trmbling ranks from side to side;

Swift as Camilla flying o'er the main,

Or lightly skimming o'er the dewy plain:

Fierce as they seem, some bold Plebeian spear

May pierce their shield, or stop their full career.

The valiant guards, their minds on havock bent,

Fill the next squares, and watch the royal tent;

Tho' weak their spears, tho' dwarfish be their height,

Compact they move, the bulwark of the fight,

To right and left the martial wings display

Their shining arms, and stand in close array.

Behold, four archers, eager to advance,

Send the light reed, and rush with sidelong glance;

Through angles ever they assault the foes,

True to the colour, which at first they chose.

Then four bold knights for courage-fam'd and speed,

Each knight exalted on a prancing steed:

Their arching course no vulgar limit knows,

Tranverse they leap, and aim insidious blows:

Nor friends, nor foes, their rapid force restrain,

By on quick bound two changing squares they gain;

From varing hues renew the fierce attack,

And rush from black to white, from white to black.

Four solemn elephants the sides defend;

Benearth the load of ponderous towers they bend:

In on unalter'd line they tempt the fight;

Now crush the left, and now o'erwhelm the right.

Bright in the front the dauntless soldiers raise

Their polish'd spears; their steely helmets blaze:

Prepar'd they stand the daring foe to strike,

Direct their progress, but their wounds oblique.

Now swell th' embattled troups with hostile rage,

And clang their shields, impatient to engage;

When Daphnis thus: A varied plain behold,

Where fairy kings their mimick tents unfold,

As Oberon, and Mab, his wayward queen,

Lead forth their armies on the daisied green.

No mortal hand the wond'rous sport contriv'd,

By gods invents, and from gods deriv'd;

From them the British nymphs receiv'd the game,

And play ech morn beneath the crystal Thame;

Hear then the tale, which they to Colin sung,

As idling o'er the lucid wave he hung.

A lovely dryad rang'd the Thracian wild,

Her air enchanting, and her aspect mild:

To chase the bounding hart was all her joy,

Averse from Hymen, and the Cyprian boy;

O'er hills an valleys was her beauty fam'd,

And fair Caissa was the damsel nam'd.

Mars saw the maid; with deep surprize he gaz'd,

Admir'd her shape, and every gesture prais'd:

His golden bow the child of Venus bent,

And through his breast a piecing arrow sent.

The reed was hope; the feathers, keen desire;

The point, her eyes; the barbs, ethereal fire.

Soon to the nymph he pour'd his tender strain;

The haughtly dryad scorn'd his amorous pain:

He told his woes, where'er the maid he found,

And still he press'd, yet still Caissa frown'd;

But ev'n her frowns (ah, what might smiles have done!)

Fir'd all his soul, and all his senses won.

He left his car, by raging tigers drawn,

And lonely wander'd o'er the dusky lawn;

Then lay desponding near a murmuring stream,

And fair Caissa was his plaintive theme.

A naiad heard him from her mossy bed,

And through the crystal rais'd her placid head;

Then mildly spake: "O thou, whom love inspires,

Thy tears will nourish, not allay thy fires.

The smiling blossoms drink the pearly dew;

And ripening fruit the feather'd race pursue;

The scaly shoals devour the silken weeds;

Love on our sighs, and on our sorrow feeds.

Then weep no more; but, ere thou canst obtain

Balm to thy wounds, and solace to thy pain,

With gentle art thy martial look beguile;

Be mild, and teach thy rugged brow to smile.

Canst thou no play, no soothing game devise;

To make thee lovely in the damsel's eyes?

So may thy prayers assuage the scornful dame,

And ev'n Caissa own a mutual frame."

Kind nymph, said Mars, thy counsel I approve;

Art, only art, her ruthless breast can move.

but when? or how? They dark discourse explain:

So may thy stream ne'er swell with gushing rain;

So may thy waves in one pure current flow,

And flowers eternal on thy border blow!"

To whom the maid replied with smiling mien:

"Above the palace of the Paphian queen

Love's brother dwells, a boy of graceful port,

By gods nam'd Euphron, and by mortals Sport:

Seek him; to faithful ears unfold thy grief,

And hope, ere morn return, a sweet relief.

His temple hangs below the azure skies;

Seest thou yon argent cloud? 'Tis there it lies."

This said, she sunk beneath the liquid plain,

And sought the mansion of her blue-hair'd train.

Meantime the god, elate with heart-felt joy,

Had reach'd the temple of the sportful boy;

He told Caissa's charms, his kindled fire,

The naiad's counsel, and his warm desire.

"Be swift, he added, give my passion aid;

A god requests." - He spake, and Sport obey'd.

He fram'd a tablet of celestial mold,

Inlay'd with squares of silver and of gold;

Then of two metals form'd the warlike band,

That here compact in show of battle stand;

He taught the rules that guide the pensive game,

And call'd it Cassa from the dryad's name:

(Whence Albion's sons, who most its praise confess,

Approv'd the play, and nam'd it thoughtful Chess.)

The god delighted thank'd indulgent Sport;

Then grasp'd the board, and left his airy court.

With radiant feet he pierc'd the clouds; nor stay'd,

Till in the woods he saw the beauteous maid:

Tir'd with the chase the damsel set reclin'd,

Her girdle loose, her bosom unconfin'd.

He took the figure of a wanton faun,

And stood before her on the flowery lawn;

Then show'd his tablet: pleas'd the nymph survey'd

The lifeless troops in glittering ranks display'd;

She ask'd the wily sylvan to explain

The various motions of the splendid train;

With eager heart she caught the winning lore,

And thought ev'n Mars less hateful than before;

"What spell," said she, "deceiv'd my careless mind?

The god was fair, and I was most unkind."

She spoke, and saw the changing faun assume

A milder aspect, and a fairer bloom;

His wreathing horns, that from his temples grew,

Flow'd down in curls of bright celestial hue;

The dappled hairs, that veil'd his loveless face,

Blaz'd into beams, and show'd a heavenly grace;

The shaggy hide, that mantled o'er his breast,

Was soften'd to a smooth transparent vest,

That through its folds his vigorous bosom show'd,

And nervous limbs, where youthful ardour glow'd:

(Had Venus view'd him in those blooming charms,

Not Vulcan's net had forc'd her from his arms.)

With goatlike feet no more he mark'd the ground,

But braided flowers his silken sandals bound.

The dryad blush'd; and, as he press'd her, smil'd,

Whilst all his cares one tender glance beguil'd.

He ends: To arms, the maids and striplings cry;

To arms, the groves and sounding vales reply.

Sirena led to war the swarthy crew,

And Delia those that bore the lily's hue.

Who first, O muse, began the bold attack;

The white refulgent, or the mournful black?

Fair Delia first, as favoring lots ordain,

Moves her pale legions tow'rd the sable train:

From thought to thought her lively fancy flies,

Whilst o'er the board she darts her sparkling eyes.

At length the warrior moves with haughty strides;

Who from the plain the snowy king divides:

With equal haste his swarthy rival bounds;

His quiver rattles, and his buckler sounds:

Ah! hapless youths, with fatal warmth you burn;

Laws, ever fix'd, forbid you to return.

then from the wing a short-liv'd spearman flies,

Unsafely bold, and see! he dies, he dies:

The dark-brow'd hero, with one vengeful blow

Of life and place deprives his ivory foe.

Now rush both armies o'er the burnish'd field,

Hurl the swift dart, and rend the bursting shield.

Here furious knights on fiery coursers prance,

but see! the white-rob'd Amazon beholds

Where the dark host its opening van unfolds:

Soon as her eye discerns the hostile maid,

By ebon shield, and ebon helm betray'd;

Seven squares she passed with majestic mien,

And stands triumphant o'er the falling queen.

Perplex'd, and sorrowing at his consort's fate,

The monarch burn'd with rage, despair, and hate:

Swift from his zone th' avenging blade he drew,

And, mad with ire, the proud virago slew.

Meanwhile sweet smiling Delia's wary king

Retir'd from fight behind the circling wing.

Long time the war in equal balance hung;

Till, unforseen, an ivory courser sprung,

And, wildly prancing in an evil hour,

Attack'd at once the monarch and the tower:

Sirena blush'd; for, as the rules requir'd,

Her injur'd sovereign to his tent retir'd;

Whilst her lost castle leaves his threatening height,

And adds new glory to th' exulting knight.

At this, pale fear oppress'd the drooping maid,

And on her cheek the rose began to fade:

A crystal tear, that stood prepar'd to fall,

She wip'd in silence, and conceal'd from all;

From all but Daphnis; He remark'd her pain,

And saw the weakness of her ebon train;

Then gently spoke: "Let me your loss supply,

And either nobly win, or nobly dir;

Me oft has fortune crown'd with fair success,

And led to triumph in the fields of Chess."

He said: the willing nymph her place resign'd,

And sat at distance on the bank reclin'd.

Thus when Minerva call'd her chief to arms,

And Troy's high turret shook with dire alarms,

The Cyprian goddess wounded left the plain,

And Mars engag'd a mightier force in vain.

Strait Daphnis leads his squadron to the field;

(To Delia's arms 'tis ev'n a joy to yield.)

Each guileful snare, and subtle art he tries,

But finds his heart less powerful than her eyes:

Wisdom and strength superior charms obey;

And beauty, beauty, wins the long-fought day.

By this a hoary chief, on slaughter bent,

Approach'd the gloomy king's unguarded tent;

Where, late, his consort spread dismay around,

Now her dark corse lies bleeding on the ground.

Hail, happy youth! they glories not unsung

Shall live eternal on the poet's tongue;

For thou shalt soon receive a splendid change,

And o'er the plain with nobler fury range.

The swarthy leaders saw the storm impend,

And strove in vain their sovereign to defend:

Th' invader wav'd his silver lance in air,

And flew like lightning to the fatal square;

His limbs dilated in a moment grew

To stately height, and widen'd to the view;

More fierce his look, more lion-like his mien,

Sublime he mov'd, and seem'd a warrior queen.

As when the sage on some unfolding plant

Has caught a wandering fly, or frugal ant,

His hand the microscopic frame applies,

And lo! a bright hair'd monster meets his eyes;

He sees new plumes in slender cases roll'd;

Here stain'd with azure, there bedropp'd with gold;

Thus, on the alter'd chief both armies gaze,

And both the kings are fix'd with deep amaze.

The sword, which arm'd the snow-white maid before,

He noew assumes, and hurls the spear no more;

The springs indignant on the dark-rob'd band,

And knights and archers feel his deadly hand.

Now flies the monarch of the sable shield,

His legions vanquish'd, o'er the lonely field:

So when the morn, by rosy coursers drawn,

With pearls and rubies sows the verdant lawn,

Whilst each pale star from heaven's blue vault retires,

Still Venus gleams, and last of all expires.

He hears, where'er he moves, the dreadful sound;

Check the deep vales, and Check the woods rebound.

No place remains: he sees the certain fate,

And yields his throne to ruin, and Checkmate.

A brighter blush o'erspreads the damsel's cheeks,

And mildly thus the conquer'd stripling speaks:

"A double triumph, Delia, hast thou won,

By Mars protected, and by Venus' son;

The first with conquest crowns thy matchless art,

The second points those eyes at Daphnis' heart."

She smil'd; the nymphs and amorous youths arise,

And own that beauty gain'd the nobler prize.

Low in their chest the mimic troops were lay'd,

And peaceful slept the sable hero's shade.

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King Charles and Queen Camilla are attending their first Commonwealth Day service as the reigning couple.

The King, 74, and Queen Consort, 75, joined members of the royal family at Westminster Abbey on Monday for the annual event honoring the 56 countries and nations that make up the Commonwealth. Other members of the royal family in attendance included Prince William and Kate Middleton, Prince Edward and Sophie (the new Duke and Duchess of Edinburgh), and Princess Anne and Vice Admiral Sir Tim Laurence.

During the event, King Charles gave his Commonwealth Day address from the Great Pulpit at Westminster Abbey, in which he remembered his mother, Queen Elizabeth.

"Commonwealth Day was an occasion of particular pride for my beloved mother, the late Queen — a treasured opportunity to celebrate our Commonwealth family, to whose service she dedicated her long and remarkable life," he said. "In succeeding Her Majesty as Head of the Commonwealth, I draw great strength from her example, together with all that I have learned from the extraordinary people I have met throughout the Commonwealth, over so many years."

The King added, "The Commonwealth has been a constant in my own life, and yet its diversity continues to amaze and inspire me as a force for good in the world that demands our highest ambition; its sheer scale challenges us to unite and be bold."

He also spoke at the service last year, standing in for Queen Elizabeth, who missed the event. Queen Elizabeth's 2022 Commonwealth Day address, which she wrote from Windsor Castle, renewed her pledge to continue the promise she made 75 years ago that she will be forever "devoted" to her public work. "In this year of my Platinum Jubilee, it has given me pleasure to renew the promise I made in 1947 that my life will always be devoted to service," she stated in her message.

Queen Camilla honored Queen Elizabeth with her outfit, sporting a sapphire and diamond brooch that belonged to the monarch. The accessory adorned her blue wool crepe dress and coat by Fiona Clare, paired with a feathered beret by Philip Treacy (which she held with one hand to avoid a wardrobe mishap in the wind!).

If her outfit looks familiar, there's a good reason: Camilla sported the same hat and coat for the first state visit of King Charles' reign in November, when they welcomed South African President Cyril Ramaphosa to the U.K.

The Commonwealth Day theme for 2023 is "Forging a Sustainable and Peaceful Common Future." On King Charles and Queen Camilla's arrival at Westminster Abbey, they were met by the Dean of Westminster before they greeted members of the Ngāti Rānana London Māori Club. King Charles also met some of them with the hongi, a traditional Māori greeting where two people press their noses and foreheads together.

The service began with a procession of flags from Commonwealth member states, including a specially designed Commonwealth Flag for Peace. In his welcome, the Dean of Westminster, the Very Reverend Dr. David Hoyle, said that the congregation was together "in this house of prayer and place of a coronation in the year of coronation" to celebrate as a Commonwealth of Nations. Leading a prayer for peace, he added, "We will pray too for our King as we look to the day when we will gather here again in loyalty and affection as people of faith, hope, and compassion; we shall pray for the peoples of Turkey, Syria, and Ukraine, and all for whom the last year has brought great suffering and loss."

The annual event featured musical performances from saxophonist Yolanda Brown, West End stars Roshani Abbey and Nuwan Hugh Perera, and the all-female Amalgamation Choir from Cyprus. Marking Rwanda's role as the current Commonwealth Chair-in-Office, the Rwandan National Ballet, Urukerereza, also performed.

Throughout Queen Elizabeth's 70-year reign, the Commonwealth grew from just seven nations to 54 members. Gabon and Togo joined in 2022, bringing the total number of nations to 56. "In collaboration towards shared economic, environmental, social, and democratic goals, the Service seeks to highlight a vast community that spans every geographical region, religion, and culture, embracing the diversity of its population of 2.5 billion people, of which over 60 percent are under 30 years old," the palace said in a statement.

The Commonwealth Day Service marked the first public outing for Queen Camilla after she had to cancel her planned visit to Newmarket for a pair of royal engagements on Thursday due to inclement weather.