As the two blades clashed, it occurred to Princess Irulan that she was watching a war of fates. Like twin flames before her, they glinted bright against the burnt orange of the Arakkis sunset. How strange, she thought to herself as the battle unwound before her, for my pulse to be so steady without the need for interference. She'd have thought she'd feel more in this moment but was as if she had sunk inside herself and was watching her future from the bottom of a well. She imagined a rippling sun above her as water breathed around her, the vision superimposed over the dueling men so that she was in two places at once – half here and half there.
"Are you prepared?" the Reverend Mother had asked.
"You've been preparing me my whole life."
Indeed, Irulan's whole life had led to this moment – all of the hours she'd spent as a girl sitting still as a rock as she learned how to manipulate her heartbeat, the countless meetings she'd observed from behind her father's throne, her education at the hands of the Reverend Mother, whose lessons even the Emperor knew little of. Learning to keep her expressions flat had been the easy part: it was calming the fire within her that took nearly a decade. No matter how well the Princess learned to control each muscle in her face, the Reverend Mother could tell with a glance when Irulan still burned from within.
It had taken the Princess years to fully accept her duty as eldest daughter of the Emperor. She'd always been capable. Had she been born a man, she would have inherited the throne from her father and then ruled as she saw fit. The days of biting her tongue when her father proved himself fallible would eventually have ended – she would have learned from his mistakes and been a stronger ruler for it when the time came for her ascension. But she had not been born a man, which meant she was to be passed from her father to the heir of one of the Great Houses, to be Empress in name only. And should her husband, too, prove to be fallible… well… it was her job to lead him from behind. Or more precisely, from her back.
Although she'd spent her childhood studying battles that changed the course of history, this was her first time watching combat with any real stakes. As of the past hour, she was a prisoner of war, along with her father and Feyd-Rautha and their surviving men. The Baron was dead, and she guessed so was Glossu Rabban. The initial blast of light and dust before the Muad'Dib strode aboard the ship where she and her father's soldiers waited was shocking and real, but now that they stood on the balcony of the Southern temple, and she could feel wind on her face and see the rust-colored sky through the ancient stone arches, Irulan felt her courage come back to her. She hadn't wanted to die cloistered in that windowless ship surrounded by stale, dusty air. Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen stepped forward to fight Paul in her father's stead, and the rules of logic snapped back into place: should Feyd-Rautha win the battle, she and her father would be free from any immediate danger, and they'd cement their alliance with House Harkonnen through a marriage between herself and the Harkonnen heir; should the Muad'Dib prevail, she would use her hand as a bargaining chip to secure their safety. Either outcome guaranteed both her and her father's survival, and with this certainty, Irulan felt somewhat at peace.
Would she belong to Paul Atreides, the Muad'Dib, and remain on Arrakis? Would her days be filled with wind and sweat and sand? The portrait of his face that hung in her father's grand hall swam back to her. She allowed herself a closer observation of the fighters. He looked just like the painting she'd studied with sudden interest over the past few weeks, though perhaps a bit taller. He was still small, but he had clear power emanating from him. There was also a lightness – an ease to his step. What he lacked in bulk, he made up for in scrappiness. She'd be lying if she said he wasn't handsome. Young, but handsome. And young was good, she told herself. Moldable. Feyd-Ratha, on the other hand, was psychotic but predictable. Controllable. Thanks to Margot Fenring, she had knowledge of what drove him. It wasn't productive, Irulan reminded herself, to compare the two men, either of whom she'd be tasked with appeasing while delicately pulling at his strings. It made little difference to kneel before Paul or the Harkonnen: she'd be stuck on her knees either way.
The duel began to look more and more to her like an ordinary spar between soldiers. Irulan let her vision cloud. Paul was holding his own despite his obvious disadvantage in size. Perhaps she wouldn't have to mold him. Against all odds, he had proved his formability as a military leader, and in a way, the Princess respected the small desert mouse. She observed his quick, graceful movements as though from through an undulating film. She slowed her breathing, feeling the sensation of her hair floating upwards toward the surface, a cool darkness surrounding her.
A pained gasp yanked her back into the light. The Muad'Dib fell away, leaving a boy in his place. Color drained from his face as metal sank through flesh to carve at bone. Feyd-Rautha's eyes gleamed as he twisted the knife, and the boy jerked violently against him. A grin spread across the Harkonnen's face, parting his lips to reveal a row of glinting black teeth, as he turned them both around to give all spectators a view. Feyd-Ratha met her father's gaze and cocked an eyebrow before stepping backward. Paul moaned as the blade pulled free, and his hand flew to his abdomen as if to keep himself from spilling onto the sand-covered stone.
A scream, and the Princess turned to see Paul's mother grasping for her son – blue eyes wild – as her Fremen attendants held her back.
Several people in the crowd were weeping. Irulan's eyes wandered to "the pet" (as Feyd-Rautha had called her). The girl's jaw tensed tightly as if anger alone could keep the tears from falling, and the Princess felt a flicker of annoyance. She was going to lose him either way, thought Irulan, before she noticed her own clenched jaw. In that moment, Irulan realized that for all her analysis, she had never envisioned a future where Paul Atreides lost the war, never truly. Why? Because for all her posturing, she couldn't let go of the idea that it might all one day mean something. She had prepared herself indeed, prepared herself to be the wife of a champion, of a hero, of an underdog like her whom she was foolish enough to think might fall in love with her – might make her fall in love with him. A handsome face. A gentle touch. What a sacrifice I prepared myself to make, she thought bitterly. Not a sacrifice. A fantasy, like the ones her younger sisters got told at bedtime while she all she got was recitations of family trees. A girl's tale. With a man whom she knew she would eventually grow to trust – with a man who, unlike her father, would be able to teach her something new. The Muad'Dib.
Irulan looked back to see the boy stumble, confusion tugging at his brow. He was dying and he didn't understand what had happened. Irulan shuddered when she saw the glistening ropes of viscera – smeared with blood and yellow – hanging from his outstretched fingers. Paul swayed and nearly fell backward, but his opponent caught him. "You fought well, Atreides," rasped the Harkonnen as he pressed his forehead to Paul's and guided him to the ground.
It was this butcher who was to be her bridegroom. This monster, who, rumor had it, slew his household servants on a whim and served them up for dinner. Despite her years of training, the Princess had yet to truly master the Voice. And even with complete control, she'd heard tell of the Baron's use of Cones of Silence to protect himself and his men from this form of command. The Baron was dead now, but she couldn't gamble on Feyd-Rautha's ignorance of this tool. So what would she do if he decided to slaughter her like one of his staff? She was hopelessly unprepared. Defenseless. Breathe, she told herself, what you lack in force you make up for in resourcefulness. And then another, raspier voice spoke inside her head: Just like the Muad'Dib. And I stuck him with a knife. She shuddered as she watched them.
The boy's eyes widened and he coughed, spattering red against Feyd-Rautha's pale face. Unfazed, the Harkonnen brought a hand to the back of Paul's neck, holding him steady. He was looking at the boy with such gentleness that the Princess's lips parted in surprise. The wind was hot on her face. She felt suddenly furtive as though she had witnessed something intimate. And then it was over. Paul's lids fluttered shut. Feyd-Rautha lay the boy on the ground, cradling his skull as one would do with an infant. And then he stood, raising his bloodstained blade in a gesture of victory.
Paul's "pet" stepped forward, brandishing a knife. Feyd-Rautha turned to face her, and they circled each other for a moment, and then she swung at him, yelling, as he dodged her blade. The killer eyed her with amusement – all tenderness gone. She swung again, missing. He let her attack again and again, toying with her until she began to lose steam. She was clearly exhausted – done in by grief. She's not really fighting, realized the Princess, she's provoking him. She wants to die beside him, and felt shame for not once considering the woman until this moment – her dreams and her pain. In another life, with a different outcome, they would have been rivals. Would the Princess have batted an eye at the other woman's loss? We must all make sacrifices for duty, she imagined telling herself before quickly reducing her to a footnote. She felt the shame in her cheeks. The Fremen woman was panting now, but she kept on going. She was brave, determined, it seemed, to cause something, whether it be her death or his – to make it all mean something. Why was nobody stopping her? All Irulan could see of Feyd-Rautha was the back of his bald head, but she imagined him cocking an eyebrow at her like he had her father, challenging her. Moments later, he lunged forward.
"Chani!" someone gasped.
So that was her name. Irulan couldn't tell where the blade had sliced, but she knew the Harkonnen had dealt a killing blow. Relief washed over Chani's face as she sank to her knees. Her hand clutched her throat as she crawled toward her lover, letting the blood flow freely once she'd settled into the crook of his arm and swung a leg over him as if they were lying in bed. Irulan knew she would dream of the Fremen girl's face.
Feyd-Rautha turned to her father now, his expression unreadable. As he stode toward them, Irulan took an instinctive step backward. Feyd-Rautha's eyes met Irulan's for the very first time, and a smirk tugged at the corners of his lips. What expression would he have as he stuck her? Irulan's skin broke out in gooseflesh. Feyd-Rautha's smirk became a full-fledged smile, and the Princess couldn't help but stare at his gleaming black pearls. Feyd-Rautha knelt before the Emperor, taking his hand and kissing his ring.
"My lord," he rasped, keeping his eyes low. "Your challenger is dead. I have killed him."
"You have done a great service. For me. And for all who owe their peace to the Great Houses," said the Emperor.
"My lord." The killer kept his eyes low.
"I hope that I can honor you," her father paused as if for emphasis, "with the gift of my daughter's hand."
"A generous offer," replied the Harkonnen, his gaze lifting to meet the Emperor's. Despite the show of submission, he was clearly the more dangerous man: a coiled snake. His eyes met Irulan's once again before drifting down to her breasts. If he wanted a reaction, and she could tell that he did, she would not give it. He didn't wait long before losing interest. "I accept," he said, addressing her father.
"Rise, Champion," said the Emperor to Feyd-Rautha, who got to his feet before them. She had to crane her neck to look at him. When her father joined their hands, his skin was surprisingly warm. She smelled sweat and hot metal on the wind as he stepped beside her, and realized it was the scent of Paul's blood. And then she smelled the shit. She nearly retched. If ever there were a time to control her breathing, it was now, for the Princess had an unsettling feeling the Harkonnen could read her as well as she could read him. There would be time to plan later when he couldn't feel her pulse through her fingers. Irulan sank back into the well as her father addressed the stunned crowd. "May all those who fought tonight disperse. You have no leader. The Muad'Dib is dead." He continued, "Already, the Great Houses are poised to attack. You are outnumbered. You are surrounded." Then he paused. "Yet," he paused again and Irulan resisted the teenaged urge to roll her eyes, "I believe in mercy. Go back to the desert. Bury your dead. Go back to the desert," he said again, "and I will hold off the Great Houses' wrath." With that, he turned and exited down the stairs before anyone could change their minds about the apparent stalemate they found themselves in.
Irulan looked at the Fremen soldiers who stood around them – the shock and the horror on their faces. The shame. How could one possibly describe the expression of a group of people who against all odds had found strength in the power of faith, only to watch the object of all their prayers slain unceremoniously before them like an animal? In the end, we're all just meat, thought Irulan, even The One Who Was Promised. They wouldn't fight, thought Irulan. Not tonight. The Fremen were a people of honor who respected the rules of war. They would shuffle off, demoralized, most likely to spend another several decades licking their wounds in the desert.
She had nearly managed to forget about Feyd-Rautha's presence beside her, but then his fingers were on her face, stroking her cheek. He brought his thumb to his lips, tasting the tear she hadn't realized had fallen. Irulan shivered in revulsion and a separate feeling she couldn't identify. Loneliness? Loss? She looked once more at Paul and Chani lying motionless on the ground. Chani had taken the effort to lie on top of Paul so that his intestines were shielded from view. She really loved him, thought the Princess, chewing the inside of her cheek. She would do the woman justice, she decided, as she conscribed her to history – doing her best to capture with clarity Chani's beauty, care, and strength.
"Come," said her intended, who was looking at her now with unmasked curiosity. He took her wrist and placed her hand on his arm before turning her back in the direction of the ship.