Chapter Text
He was separated from Irulan as soon as they were pulled out of the infirmary by soldiers. Paul struggled uselessly against the cuffs securing his hands behind his back, and he watched his friend’s startled eyes boring into his, willing him to be brave and pleading for help at the same time. There was nothing he could do as he was ushered into a dark room while she was steered down another hallway, both of them too stunned to utter a sound.
Irulan.
Why would they take Irulan away?
The heavy door closed quickly behind him, trapping him in a familiar blackness. Even with his eyes still adjusting to the dark, he could tell immediately how the room resembled the very prison cell he’d seen the inside of after his capture from Arrakis, back when he had desperately tried to resist his destiny as Feyd’s bride. Now, however, he was so much more than that. At least he thought he was. With Feyd’s ring on his finger and his child growing below his ribs, he assumed it would have been enough to earn him just an ounce of dignity.
His heart sank at the idea of being back where he started. Pushed around by Harkonnen men, yelled at, stared at, laughed at, spat at.
No.
He refused to believe that things would get as bleak as that. Not again. Feyd was still alive, pulling through, getting stronger. He would have his husband back by his side in no time, and then, he would be naturally shielded by his love and protection.
I can’t freak out over a simple questioning, the boy told himself, trying to keep his limbs from trembling. I can’t seem nervous about this. I have no reason to be nervous. I saved his life. I did nothing wrong.
Did Irulan?
Was there something he was missing? While it was possible that his stupid, sleep-deprived pregnancy brain had rendered him too trusting, too naive to see what was going on right in front of him, it was more likely that the Harkonnens were dragging the princess into this just to toy with his mind - to make him question his own allies.
“Don’t worry. I won’t let Feyd do to another soul what he did to his mother. I won’t let him kill again, ever.”
Irulan’s words came back to him in an instant of doubt and confusion. Had she made a promise of Feyd’s downfall all along? Had she willed his assassination to - almost - happen? Or had she merely sworn to keep her eyes on the na-Baron, let her Bene Gesserit vigilance provide a guarantee that he would not get away with turning again, should he be inclined to give in to moral decadence and corruption.
Whatever she had meant that morning, as he parted from her and joined Feyd on his Arrakeen patrol, there was nothing to suggest that her intentions were anything but good. In his heart, Paul knew: Irulan was good. Her kindness and loyalty had shone brightly during this dark time. The turmoil he had landed himself in was none of her fault; she just happened to be caught up in the mess that he’d created, not by marrying Feyd, but by falling in love with him, offsetting a most delicate balance across the Imperium. Plenty of people wished to see him fail, Feyd’s family included.
I must remember who the real enemy is.
Thundering footsteps sounded on the other side of the door now. The boy held his breath and tensed, picked up the faint sound of Harkonnen voices: “Yes, my lord Rabban. Right this way.” He only had a quick moment to prepare himself before the key turned in the lock and the door pushed open, bathing him in warm, yellow light. As he blinked, the heavy feet entered the room and came straight at him.
“Well, well, well. Look what we’ve got here. The palace rat finally got caught in the trap.”
Paul scowled at the Beast’s ugly tone, took a repulsed step backwards though it did nothing to stop Rabban from invading his personal space.
“How dare you talk to me like that?” The boy barked back and gave the much bigger man a warning glare. “I’m Feyd-Rautha’s wife!”
“Silent, rat. We both know you’re nothing but a dumb whore choking on my brother’s cock when the spice goes to your brain.” The bald head looming over him wrinkled as Rabban grinned. Lips stretched and parted to reveal rough, uneven teeth. Then, a colossal hand came out of nowhere, took the young Atreides by surprise. As he received a mighty blow to his cheek, Paul lost his balance and fell miserably to his knees, unable to hold up his hands in front of him. “Get up, rat. You’re coming with me.”
*
The air in the chamber was stifling, or so Irulan thought when she glanced upon the rows of solemn-faced women, each draped in obsidian robes, standing in an arc around the central dais. At its heart, elevated and austere, sat the Reverend Mother. Her piercing gaze seemed to strip the young princess of her composure, peeling away every carefully guarded thought.
Irulan, resplendent yet vulnerable in her flowing gown, stood at the center of the room. Her hands clasped tightly together, betraying her unease, especially as the Reverend Mother leaned forward slightly.
“My child.” The witch’s voice cut through the silence. Low, deliberate, and weighted with authority. “I trust you understand why you are here.”
Irulan nodded, swallowing hard.
“Yes, Reverend Mother.”
“Then you will also understand that only the truth will be tolerated in this chamber. Truth, no matter how delicate or precarious. Do you agree?”
Veiled eyes landed upon her again, demanding absolute submission.
“Yes, Reverend Mother. I agree.”
The words came out quieter than Irulan intended. She glanced nervously at the assembled sisters, their impassive faces offering no solace.
“Good. Then let us begin. Tell me, child. How well have you come to know the young Paul Atreides?”
Though it was an easy question, Irulan’s throat went dry.
“I… I know him well, Reverend Mother. As you know, I took him in during the early stages of his pregnancy. He’s my friend.”
Her mentor’s brow arched imperiously.
“Let me rephrase: Has Paul confided in you?”
“He has,” the young woman confirmed almost too quickly. “Many times. I was there for him when no one else was. He trusts me and I trust him.”
She paused at a sharp inhale that was almost imperceptible, yet enough to send a shiver down her spine.
“I see. Has he confided to you any doubts about his marriage? Any wishes to get out of it?”
The question hung in the air like a trap. The princess couldn’t help but hesitate.
“No… Reverend Mother. Not for a long time he hasn’t.”
The sombre, mysterious figure sat back, her expression harder to make out this time.
“And yet, rumours swirl. Some say you are too perceptive for your own good, dear. What truths have you observed about him and Feyd Harkonnen?”
Irulan bowed her head, thought of the only truth which would surely please the sisterhood.
“Paul Atreides has grown to love Feyd Harkonnen very deeply,” she reported neutrally, whilst masking her own personal bewilderment. “He considers his husband to be his protector. His companion. His destiny.”
Whispers were exchanged all around the dais. Indeed, her sisters were happy with the results after a year of experimenting - of watching their chosen host body suffer just to preserve their desired bloodline. In the end, what did it matter who was hurt along the way?
“This hasn’t always been the case. Has it?” Asked the Reverend Mother, bringing the chamber to silence once again.
“No, Reverend Mother.” You know damn well it hasn’t. Irulan wetted her lips and willed her tone to be demure instead of sarcastic. “As you may recall - Paul strongly objected to the marriage. He and Feyd got off on the wrong foot when Feyd had him kidnapped and imprisoned here at the palace. Feyd was the violent usurper seeking his bride's humiliation at first, not his love. He provoked such hatred in Paul that he was willing to kill or be killed by him during the na-Baron’s birthday celebrations.”
The memory was like taking a kick to the stomach - and yet, it would only get worse from here.
“Ah, yes. The Arena duel is one unpleasant image that stands clear in my mind’s eye,” remarked the older woman though she had egged on Paul’s punishment every step of the way. “We all know that the boy would have readily killed Feyd-Rautha, had we not stopped him. What I want to know is - what happened after?”
“After, Reverend Mother?”
“It is no secret that Paul continued to oppose his marriage, even up to the point of him walking down the aisle. You found yourself alone with the boy and his mother shortly before the wedding ceremony. Talk me through that. What was said?”
The princess felt her pulse quicken. The chamber seemed to close in around her, the weight of expectation crushing.
“P-Paul was in a state that morning,” she stammered, not knowing where to start. “I knocked on his bathroom door because I heard vomiting. At first I mistook it for nerves, but… It turned out to be the result of Feyd-Rautha abusing him the night before.”
“Abusing him how?”
Mortified, the blonde woman pressed her lips together, hesitating. There existed no tactful words to describe the crimes that had initiated their union.
“Forgive me, Reverend Mother. I was under the impression you were familiar with… I mean, surely you must know. Do I have to-”
“Please,” the witch’s tone sharpened, slicing through her awkward fumbling. “Forget what I know. I am requesting to hear your version of events. Remember, in this room, you are required to speak fully and plainly.”
Despite the instruction, Irulan choked on a gasp and sputtered out in the vaguest term possible:
“O-orally.” She faltered and lowered her gaze, found that watching the floor was slightly less overwhelming. “Feyd-Rautha abused him orally - after his own bachelor party.”
“Orally? As in verbally?”
She had to clear up the confusion.
“N-no, Reverend Mother. I mean, he - he forced himself on Paul back in his room a-and… used his mouth for his own convenience and pleasure.”
“I see.” When the princess dared to look up again, she was horrified to find that there was a faint, humourless smile tugging at her mentor’s lips. “Going forward, I am going to have to ask you to be more upfront than this. However, let us not dwell on that night alone. Tell me what happened when Jessica showed up.”
Jessica.
Of course she wanted to know about Jessica.
Irulan was hasty in her response, knowing that even the slightest hint of procrastination would be cause for conjecture.
“Paul got angry when he saw his mother. He confronted her with his feelings of betrayal.” She could tell by the look on the older woman’s face that it was not Paul’s reaction she wanted to know about. “Lady Jessica, she - she was most upset to find her son in so much pain. And yet, she maintained that his union with Feyd-Rautha was meant to be. She could not change anything, even if she wanted to. She begged Paul to have faith.”
The Reverend Mother leaned forward again, her smile vanishing as her eyes sparked with interest.
“Did she say anything else?”
Irulan needed a moment to think back on the conversation.
“Just that… it would not be like this forever. I suppose she was trying to leave him with a glimmer of hope.”
“Either that,” replied the witch through a low, deliberate hum which carried to every corner of the chamber. “Or perhaps, she was making him a promise which she intended to keep. By having the na-Baron killed.” A murmur rippled through the chamber anew, but was quickly silenced by the Reverend Mother raising her hand. “Moving on. The boy - did he disclose more abuse to you after the day of his wedding? Did he open up to you often?”
The young trainee was left shaken by the swift and careless changing of topics. She brought her hand to her chest, shrinking slightly as she realised she could barely contain her revulsion.
She knows it was Jessica.
All she needs to do now is decide whether or not she wants to prove her guilt.
“We didn’t have many opportunities to catch up in the weeks and months that followed,” explained Irulan and cleared her throat to make her voice less gravelly. “Throughout their honeymoon period, Feyd-Rautha more or less kept Paul to himself. He barely left the bedroom.” She was forced to remember all the times she had asked around for Paul, going out of her mind with concern for his well-being. The rumours of his captivity only aggravated her fears, leading her to imagine the very worst - but even then, her imagination could hardly do the reality of Feyd’s cruelty justice. “Nevertheless,” she breathed, her expression careworn. “I know for a fact that the abuse continued. I know Paul was raped. Daily, if not hourly. I know Feyd-Rautha violated him, and that he took pleasure in doing so. I had no way of helping him, or getting to him. I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t say a word.”
Tears were rolling down her cheeks as she let out the guilt she had been holding in for so long. She broke her composure and fell forwards, sobbing lightly into her hands.
“My child, why are you crying? Feyd-Rautha was tasked with getting Paul Atreides pregnant,” the Reverend Mother pointed out heartlessly. “He is a Harkonnen at the end of the day. He may be a little rough around the edges, but he got the job done.”
Got the job done?
Irulan wiped at her face, smearing her wetness across puffy cheeks and her bitter, cold frown.
“This isn’t right,” she wheezed, daring to meet the steely eyes piercing her from behind the veil. “It didn’t have to happen this way. I have seen Paul covered in bruises from head to toe after Feyd-Rautha got territorial with him. I have seen bitemarks and angry, raw fingerprints around his neck. Why did we not protect him? Was this really part of the arrangement?”
It occurred to her then: She had just given her questioner the reaction she was looking for. The lament in her voice articulated helplessness and her eyes revealed a rather desperate resentment towards Feyd Harkonnen. By spilling her tears and letting her emotions betray her, Irulan had walked right into the trap and implicated herself.
Here was her motive - her reasons for treachery. Sympathy. Indignation. Righteousness. Defiance.
The Reverend Mother had not asked her to talk about the sexual assaults because she cared or accepted any responsibility. No. All she had meant to do was establish Irulan’s feelings of injustice and identify her desire for revenge. The one she shared ever so foolishly with Jessica.
The question that followed seemed to confirm her misstep:
“Paul’s abuse affected you deeply, I assume? The two of you are close. I am certain you are considered one of his dearest friends. It is only natural that you would share his anguish - after all, you witnessed much of his ordeal first-hand.”
The witch’s words were carefully selected to give the impression of kindness, though there was none. Her voice may as well have cracked down on the princess like a whip, making her flinch with every syllable incriminating her further.
Irulan knew she had to regain her self-control fast.
“Yes, it’s true. I was upset by what happened to Paul. But let me assure you, Reverend Mother. I know my place. I never once questioned his marriage to Feyd. Only the way in which it came to be.”
A dangerous silence followed. The Reverend Mother watched her without blinking, her eyes sharp as a hawk’s, her presence oppressive.
“And do you, child, approve of their relationship now?”
“Wh-what do you mean?”
Her thin smile returned, carrying no warmth.
“Do not insult me, child. It’s a simple question. Do you approve? Or, do you find their love inappropriate?”
Irulan’s hands clenched tightly at her sides. She felt the cold, expectant gazes of every sister in the room. If she answered truthfully, there would be hell to pay. If she lied, the Reverend Mother would know.
She wondered: What would her mentor do with the knowledge of her dishonesty?
*
Paul was shoved forward with his arms still twisted painfully behind his back. The vast hall echoed with the sound of stumbling steps, yet the boy’s pulse roared even louder in his ears as they reached the Baron’s private wing.
“Wait. Let me get a good look at him before we go in,” said Rabban and stalled the guards unexpectedly. Paul tried to take a step backwards as the Beast leaned in, but was kept in place by the men clasping their large hands around his shoulders and digging their fingers into his trembling shoulder blades.
“Get away from me!”
The older Harkonnen saw his unease, chuckled with delight.
“Ah, yes. You might be a twig, rat, but this is good. He’ll like what he sees.” An evil smile was beginning to take form - a forewarning of cruel intentions. The same hand that had slapped him was now reaching out to brush his dark-brown curls back and stroke his burning, bruising cheek. “Uncle will be pleased,” he remarked. “He likes them roughed up.”
Paul winced as his heart jumped to his throat.
“Fuck you!” He hissed and craned his head back with disgust.
“Shut it, rat. Your mouth is too pretty for cussing,” taunted the armour-clad brute and squeezed his fingers around his jaw forcefully. “Now, walk with me. We’re gonna have a lot of fun with this. Trust me.”
He was marched through the private chambers ahead and pushed around until they reached a large, tiled backroom which immediately alerted the young Atreides to an unpleasant dampness - one that made his skin crawl and grow instantly cold, with the bitter darkness enveloping and disorienting him until his teeth were audibly chattering.
What is that smell?
Smoke could be seen wafting over a voluminous tub. Once the many guards and servants stepped aside, allowing the handcuffed boy to walk, or rather, be yanked through the crowd, a distended, hefty figure came into view, partially submerged in a filthy, black liquid. The way the Baron floated through the dark grease, occasionally puffing on his hookah pipe and filling the air with his exhales, made him resemble something far more bizarre than the monster he really was. A deformity. A freak of nature.
Paul gulped as it hit him: I’ve never faced Father’s killer before. Not like this.
“Ah! Here comes the twink ripe with my nephew’s child,” announced the mutant-like man and backed himself against the tub. “I’ve not seen you since you have grown… rounder.” The brunette shivered as he felt beady eyes on him, studying his body with a satisfied groan. “Impressive how that slender frame of yours can hold Feyd-Rautha’s strong offspring. Let’s see if you are still able to walk in a month’s time. Bad news for you, boy. Harkonnen pups are rarely born under eleven pounds. You will be absolutely wrecked.”
The remark was followed by a lewd chortle. Paul could hear the Baron’s men laughing obediently behind his back. He had no time to wonder whether the swine was being cocky because it was true or simply because he enjoyed making him uncomfortable. When he looked to his right, he saw the lady Fenring standing quietly by the wall, half absorbed by the dismal shadows. Though he gathered that she was only here for the sake of neutrality, she still remained a strong, solemn Bene Gesserit presence. The only person in the room he trusted hadn’t shown up to ridicule him.
I have witnesses, the boy thought to himself, in search of a silver lining. The Bene Gesserit won’t let anything happen to me or my daughter.
He looked the Baron in the eyes as he was addressed again:
“Sorry to drive you out of the infirmary like that, boy. I trust your accommodations have been… adequate?”
More chuckling broke out across the room. Paul responded unhesitantly:
“If by ‘adequate’, you mean the bruise on my cheek, then yes. Thank you for your hospitality.”
Margot Fenring glanced briefly at the mark on his cheek, stone faced. She must have known that he’d brought it up for her benefit, because he wanted the sisterhood to know about Rabban manhandling him.
“You will address the Baron as your lord, rat.” Rabban was suddenly all over him again, ignoring his delicate condition as he pushed him roughly to his knees. “You’re already in deep shit as it is!”
“For what?” Growled Paul in return, unintimidated for now. “I didn’t do anything!”
“Is that so? My brother’s crash - it’s curious, don’t you think? The timing, the place. The fact that you weren’t with him when it happened!”
The boy shook his head and scowled in Rabban’s direction.
“I would never betray Feyd like that! Besides, you’re ignoring the fact that I helped rescue him. We never would have found him in time if it wasn’t for-”
“What, rat? If it wasn’t for the fact that you knew exactly where to look?” Rabban let out a half-grunt and sneered as he began to walk circles around the pregnant adolescent on trial. “My baby brother was lost, alone and near-death in the desert, surrounded by nothing but the wilderness. And yet, you expect me to believe that you came out of a clear blue sky and managed to, miraculously, locate him? Just like that?”
“No! Not just like that,” spat Paul, tracing the Beast with his eyes and refraining from looking away. “I had to expose myself to spice and use my powers to track him. I put myself in jeopardy for him. I subjected myself to Feyd’s pain, just to feel him. It was a calculated risk - I put my own child in danger, all because I love my husband and couldn’t bear to lose him!”
The emotion and sincerity in his voice only encouraged the older Harkonnen to huff mockingly.
“Witch!” He called suddenly, turning his bald head in the direction of Margot Fenring. “Tell me - is what he claims to have done possible? Is he that gifted?”
The lady Fenring did not startle at his tone, but bowed her head and attested:
“The young Paul Atreides is the product of Bene Gesserit genetic breeding, sire. I promise you - his powers are plentiful. His pregnancy has only led him to form a special bond with the father of his child. Therefore, it is entirely plausible that he could have-”
“No,” interrupted Rabban and dismissed her assertion with ire. “That is not the case! Love is not a factor in this marriage! Look at him!” With his finger pointed at the kneeling brunette, he hissed: “You! You have wanted my brother dead since the day you arrived!”
“Oh, please!” Retorted Paul with his cuffed hands clenched into fists. “You dare to dismiss my love for Feyd? You haven’t even been to see your brother in the infirmary - not once!”
He realised with sadness - and not for the first time - that Feyd’s family didn’t care about him. Rabban wasn’t nearly as interested in justice as he was in punishment and power play.
“You insolent, little-” Fingers dug into brown curls without warning, forcing Paul’s head back and forth. “You already tried to kill Feyd once - on his birthday! You were envious of his glory and greatness! You wanted it for yourself! Didn’t you, rat?”
The boy let out a whine as he struggled to free himself.
“Let go! Fuck you, Rabban!” He tossed like an animal caught in a trap, tried to push against the other’s legs, to no avail. “I said-”
The lady Fenring took a step forward before he could use the voice on his aggressor. Somehow, his eyes were immediately drawn to the signals she made with her hands:
You musn’t attack or use your voice on anyone in this room. No matter what. I can’t help you if you disobey.
His eyebrows raised with surprise, and yet, her instruction was clear - from one witch to another: This was a test. One he desperately needed to pass.
Rabban seemed to pick up on the message as well. Though he couldn’t decode the Bene Gesserit sign language used to warn him, he saw the change in the skinny lad before him.
“Oh, I see! The little bitch was told not to misbehave. Not so brave after all, are you?” Gloating like some hideous troll, the Harkonnen pulled his hair one last time, hard enough to make him fall forward. “I bet you felt brave when you set your Fremen dogs after my brother! When you thought you could have him stabbed and blown to pieces without us finding out! When you thought you could feed his remains to the worms-”
“Enough, Rabban!”
Finally, it seemed the Baron was fed up with his nephew showcasing his stupidity in public by drawing all the wrong conclusions. The hookah was abruptly tossed aside as the overweight man reconnected his suspensors and let himself be hoisted out of the tub - floating in the air, dangling carelessly as the thick, tar-like substance dripped off his bloated body parts all the while making disgusting, slippery sounds, Vladimir Harkonnen raised a hand and gestured for Rabban to cease talking.
“Uncle?”
Unwilling to observe the absurd nudity on display, Paul turned his head and remained close to the ground. Only when the Baron re-submerged himself in a shallow basin filled with clean water did he rise to his knees and chance a look.
To his horror, the monster was staring straight at him.
“It should be plain for anyone to see,” noted the grotesque man through a menacing purr. “This boy is no killer.” When Rabban opened his mouth to object, the same hand lifted again and demanded his silence. “To put it simply - he doesn’t have what it takes. Look at that scrawny thing. Look at him. All one sees is weakness.” Realising that his uncle was humiliating and not defending him, Rabban snorted with contentment. “I reckon he’s only good for one thing. A rough fucking,” added the Baron, drawing more laughter from his men. “Feyd would know, wouldn’t he?”
As he mentioned Feyd’s name, Paul wanted to tear his eyes out.
“You go from accusing me of treason to calling me weak?” He jeered. “Make up your mind, why don’t you?”
The Baron smirked, but didn’t rise to the bait. He gestured for the guards to bring his nephew’s bride a little closer, leaned back and watched as Paul was yanked forward again.
“No, he didn’t plot his death,” muttered the enormous man under his breath, pretending there was no interruption. “But I think he knows who did.”
Smelling blood, Rabban stepped up to the basin.
“What was that, uncle?”
“Make yourself useful for once, Rabban,” groaned his uncle, throwing the ball back in his court. “Get him talking. I would like a name before my bath goes cold.”
*
Paul never thought he would live to fear the sight of water.
Growing up on Caladan, he had always been surrounded by entire bodies of it, living side by side with the beautiful rivers and seas scattered across rich landscapes. When he had started a new life on Arrakis, he realised how much he had taken the element for granted. Despite it being such a scarce resource on the desert planet, he found it to be a topic of obsession: Everything the Fremen did, whether installing windtraps and condensers to gather moisture, recycling it through stillsuits, or using deathstills to finally reclaim the liquids from their dead, they lived and breathed to preserve water.
Where he grew up, water would fall from the skies in abundance. Selfishly, he had tried to share with Chani the experience of getting caught out in the rain, feeling it soak through all layers of clothing. He had also described the sound of waves crashing and breaking upon shorelines. The feel of the gentle ocean breeze. The taste of salt when he licked his lips. The reflection of the sun dancing in the tiniest of ripples, forming a sparkling light that moved with the waves. Of course, she had hardly believed him. By the time he had told her about his favourite childhood activity, swimming, she had looked at him and straight up told him to cut the crap. Chani couldn’t imagine diving into a pool of water, found the idea of there being enough of it to treat it as a pastime ludicrous.
He replayed the sound of her voice telling him: ‘I know you’re lying to me, Usul’. With an ache in his heart, he longed to be with his friend one more time - if anything, just to share with her the irony. Water was sacred. Water was life.
Water could also mean the very opposite.
“I’ll ask you again, rat. Who sabotaged his ornithopter?”
Rabban positioned himself behind his back, pinned him against the basin. His knees were scraping against the floor, his legs fighting madly to remove all pressure from his baby bump. He tried, but failed to conceal his panic as the hand returned to tug at his hair, bringing his face just a little closer to the surface. The Harkonnen was so much bigger and stronger than him, there was nothing he could do to loosen his grip.
Worst of all - the water he was threatened with was still harbouring the fat, naked beast watching him with an increased appetite.
“I told you,” rasped the brunette helplessly. “I don’t know anything!”
His resistance was welcomed with a smirk.
“Wrong answer.”
Paul thrashed, but little did it help. His head was shoved into the water, the shock hitting him like another one of Rabban’s blows. As the liquid engulfed him down to his shoulders and muffled the world around him, he kicked and squirmed, desperate to resurface. The hands in his hair and on his neck continued to hold him down firmly, to the point of his chest tightening. The shallow breath he’d been holding was running out far too quickly. He clawed at his handcuffs when he felt the edge of the basin digging into the top of his abdomen, hurting him.
The first plunge was the briefest; a mere taste of what was still to come.
“This is going to keep happening until you tell me what I wanna hear,” barked Rabban as he pulled him back up from the depths and gave him a shake. “But between you and me, rat… I hope you don’t. I can do this all day.”
Paul only detected half of his mockery over the sound of his own gasping - a noise visibly savoured by the Baron.
“I like you on your knees, boy.”
His spluttering was interrupted with another question:
“Was it the Fremen? Yes or no, rat.”
“I swear, I don’t kn-”
Bubbles gave away his cries as he was dunked again, before he could manage to draw a breath. Paul felt his entire body screaming for air. He closed his mouth and tried to fight his instinct to open it again, knowing it would be his undoing. He had immediately lost track of the seconds and already, the pressure in his lungs was becoming unbearable. An agonising burn spread through his skinny chest, proving the Baron right for calling out his pathetic weakness.
As soon as he was pulled up for air, Rabban spun him around and grinned as he took in the pleading, startled eyes. His thoughts could be read like an open book: So easy to break… This is just perfect. The Beast grabbed him by the jaw, forced their eyes to meet.
“Repeat after me: I musn’t lie.”
Paul was still coughing and heaving, having accidentally swallowed a mouthful of the bathwater. He couldn’t find his words. He caught Baron Harkonnen ogling his lips, glistening with wet. The red must have been quite a contrast to his paling skin - more than enough to awaken the predator in the oversized man.
“Say it!” Rabban pinched the back of his neck and brought Paul’s smaller body closer to his own.
“I-” He blinked. His eyelashes stuck together, rendered jet black by the water. He tried to overcome the distraction - the danger - of the Baron’s eyes studying his movements, catching every little detail. His words came out unintelligible and shaky: “I’m n-not l-lying…”
Rabban lost his patience.
“You just don’t learn, do you?” A violent slap to his contused cheek sent another jolt through Paul’s system. “You expect me to believe that you were able to use your powers to track my bleeding, unconscious brother from miles away? And yet you can’t rely on your visions to identify the coward who attacked him?”
Biting into his lip with pain, the boy croaked:
“It doesn’t work that way. My visions are unrelia-”
He was cut off by yet another whack to his face. It sent his head flying backwards, his lips parting, bleeding, drooling.
“Not too hard, nephew. He’s even more ravishing now that he’s pregnant. Don’t ruin him for me.”
“Sorry, uncle.”
“Hmm… He looks like forbidden fruit. Feyd would kill me if I took a single bite.”
Blue eyes were darting from side to side, struggling to focus. For a split-second only, Paul spotted the lady Fenring backing herself further into the wall. If she had been deliberating whether or not to intervene, now was the moment she confirmed her neutrality by doing nothing at all.
“He’s a filthy liar is what he is!”
“Wash him clean, then.”
This time, there was barely any tussling as Paul was flipped over and pushed face-first into the basin again, making a great splash. The fear that had hammered through his mind, wild and primal, was beginning to dull. His vision began to darken at the edges and for a terrifying moment, he wasn’t sure if he would be pulled up in time. Then, the realisation hit him with a new wave of dread. What if Rabban didn’t know when to stop? What if he didn’t care?
His body jerked vigorously, but he was only tiring himself out faster. The burning in his lungs returned, a cruel reminder of his waning resilience. Every muscle in him was screaming in protest by the time Rabban’s hand relented, slowly - waiting until it was almost too late. And then, finally, came his release. It was so sudden, all he could do was spit out water as he was yanked backwards. He slumped against the floor, wheezing and retching. His breaths were too short, too superficial, sending his head spinning by giving him that final push towards oblivion. Water was dripping freely into his eyes as they rolled back in his head, darkness offering him a merciful break from his tortures.
He won’t stop until he has a culprit… Just give him a name. Any name. Is anyone truly deserving of your silence?
He came to very slowly, firstly recognising that he was no longer on the floor where he blacked out. Someone had moved him, propped him up against the tub again. Now, the basin was empty, the water drained, the Baron gone.
No, not gone.
Behind him.
On him.
Paul let out a whimper as he felt the warm, moist breath tickling his neck.
“He’s awake, uncle.”
“I see that.”
Woozy though he was, his ailment was quickly surpassed by a pressure to his ribs as he was squashed against the basin’s unforgiving edge. The fear weighing on him was nothing compared to the excessive density of a mammoth body threatening to bear down on him.
“S-stop,” muttered the boy and grimaced as his hands unwillingly touched the naked skin and flesh rubbing directly against his spine. “Get off me…” His words were already faint and breathless. “For the sake of Feyd’s child…”
He twisted his head around to search for the Bene Gesserit - the only other person in the room who cared to protect the unborn Kwisatz Haderach. Surely enough, Margot Fenring dashed forward at the sound of Paul’s wheezing.
“My lord,” uttered the woman with the golden hair and reached out her hands, though there was nothing she could do to dig Paul out from underneath the fat tyrant. “You promised you wouldn’t hurt the baby-”
“Quiet, witch,” groaned the Baron as he brushed Paul’s hair back and exhaled suggestively into his ear. “His ribs will carry the load, not his stomach. No harm shall befall the child,” he assured the lady Fenring, pointing out the fact that only the boy’s rib cage rested against the tub while his belly remained untouched. “Besides,” he growled, addressing Paul in a husky, taunting tone. “You can make it stop any time you choose, twink. Just tell me what you know.”
Rabban squatted down next to the skinny brunette and observed his reddening cheeks with smugness.
“Either that,” he quipped. “Or, if you’ve got enough air in your lungs, rat...” Black eyes sparked with cruel amusement. “You can command him with your voice. Force him to obey you.”
Paul turned his head again, avoiding eye contact with the Beast. If he was encouraging him to use his powers to get out of this, there was probably a good reason not to do so. It felt like a trap was set up for him very deliberately. He remembered Margot Fenring’s warning, promised himself he wouldn’t break the only rule given.
He couldn’t afford to offer them any more free ammunition against him.
“You’re - out - of - your - mind,” he gasped, teeth grinding as the Baron used his suspensors to gradually lower himself further onto his back, adding more and more of his massive, inhuman weight in order to replace discomfort with near-suffocation. Paul choked as he was no longer able to draw a full breath. “I - can’t - talk - if - I - can’t - breathe…”
Just for that, the Baron made himself a little heavier, increasing the lad’s burden.
“If you have something to say,” he commanded, his pitch dark and careless, “then say it.”
Panting with effort, Paul tried to push against the other man’s bulk, but it was like trying to move a mountain. Little by little, he could feel his ribs squeezing together, reshaped by the edge of the basin.
“Wait!” He pleaded uselessly when each breath felt like a monumental effort. “J-just… give me… a moment…”
“You’ve had plenty,” grunted Rabban and rose to his feet. “In fact, I think we’ve given you more time than you deserve.”
To the boy’s horror, his legs were suddenly kicked away from underneath him. Paul let out an agonised scream as the weight he had been carrying on his knees was rapidly shifted to his chest. He proceeded to cry out, ribs groaning under the strain, the tightness in his chest blossoming into a sharp, stabbing pain. He wriggled weakly but, unfortunately, couldn’t move an inch to divert the ache.
“Ssstop… P-please…” His lungs strained against the relentless compression, forcing a strangled sob from the back of his throat. “You c-can’t… do this… You can’t…”
Naturally, the Baron ignored his objections. When he leaned forward and shifted more of his weight, a sickening crack filled the room.
The boy howled as the pain exploded through his side. The rib that had snapped in half was sending waves of agony radiating through his body, each breath now a torment. His mind began to race as he renegotiated his loyalty to all of those responsible for Feyd’s betrayal, the people he considered to be his own flesh and blood.
I can’t breathe.
He’s going to kill me.
And yet, he couldn’t bring himself to admit that the Fremen, led by Stilgar, had joined forces with his mother in designing Feyd’s demise. It would only provide the excuse Rabban needed in order to start an Arrakeen war, having spent so long looking for one. He refused to watch his friends get killed off, one by one, while their homes were destroyed, their freedom stripped away along with their land, their resources.
Another drop. Baron Harkonnen burrowed into him, and another rib gave way with a wet snap. Paul’s scream turned into mindless blubbering as the pain became all-consuming. It felt like shards of glass scraping his insides every time he dared to fight for breath. He wanted to hold on, to keep fighting, but it was too much. His resolve wavered.
This is what I foresaw in my vision, before we left for Arrakis. He grew slack with defeat as he realised. I saw myself getting crushed. It was the Baron. He held me down, smothered me, right before-
No. He decided that this would not take a dark turn, not in the way that he had dreamt it. He would break the curse and remove the man sinking down on him, before it was too late.
“Hawat… It… w-was… Hawat…”
He heard himself spilling the name of his father’s friend though he could hardly believe that the words were coming out of his mouth, nor that he would be the one to smear the old man’s reputation for good. Tears pricked in his eyes, his overwhelming sense of guilt making him almost immediately regret the disclosure. And yet, Thufir was dead and could not be punished for any crime. He had chosen his own fate when he put his blade through Feyd.
“What was that? Did the rat finally start squealing?”
Rabban leaned in, pretending not to have heard. Paul emitted a miserable, rattling sound as he gathered the strength to repeat the name:
“Thufir… H-hawat… c-crashed… his… ‘thopter… in… a… s-suicide… mission…”
“Hawat?” The armour-clad Harkonnen narrowed his eyes dubiously. “The Mentat?”
The boy had wrongly expected the admission to stop the Baron from inflicting more damage - the shock of more ribs breaking all at once threw him. He wailed anew, the horrible sound echoing off the cold stone walls.
“Who aided the old fool?” Asked the Baron, his snarl deadly as he crushed him continuously. “Who knew about this? Last chance, slut.”
Paul let his tears fall freely, the fight drained from him. He wasn’t sure how much more he could endure. The taste of blood was filling his mouth. The veins in his head were ready to rupture and succumb to the extreme pressure.
“N-no one,” he lied, convulsing at the violence with which he was squeezed. “Just g-get… off… me. Please… No… more…”
“I don’t believe him,” interjected Rabban who threw another curveball and pulled out his blade in a sudden fit of anger. “Clearly, my brother’s whore holds no regard for his own life. He pretends to be stubborn, but I’ve seen Feyd get through to him before.” Though the lack of oxygen had slowed his brain, Paul swiftly picked up on the threat, realised what he was referring to. “Watch me, uncle. I’ll cut through his fucking clothes and let my knife ravish his tight, little-”
“No!” The boy shrieked, forced out the word along with several specks of blood. “Don’t!”
When he heaved for air, the Beast looked down at him and gave a sly smile.
“Did that motivate you, rat?” The blade was directed in between his parted lips, with the tip dipping into the fresh blood that coated them. “Prefer to take it in another hole? Is that it?”
The perverted, sordid undertones broke something inside the brunette. There was no way Paul could put himself at risk of another assault, not when his unborn child had already felt too much of his trauma. Rabban was perfectly aware that he’d exploited his biggest trigger, proving once and for all that this callous, twisted deviance of his ran in the family.
There was only one way out of this.
“Get that thing out of my face!” Paul hollered as his survival instinct finally kicked in, using up the last of his energy to activate the voice. To the Baron, he roared: “GET THE HELL OFF OF ME!”
He had no idea how he’d summoned the strength to command them both, but it worked. Once the huge, oppressive weight began to lift off him, Paul slumped forward, coughing and whistling until his vision swam.
The chuckles that were shared amongst the spectators alarmed him that, rather than protecting himself, he had, in fact, self-sabotaged by giving the Harkonnens exactly what they wanted. He shivered at the sound of Rabban’s creepy drawl sneaking up on him, pulling him back under by reiterating what he already knew:
“Stupid bitch. Big mistake using your witch powers to offend the Baron. Big mistake.”