TRIGGER WARNING: DEPICTION OF CHILDHOOD SEXUAL ABUSE

Princess Irulan turned in her sleep. The cup of herbal tea still steamed on her nightstand, and although the Heighliner was moving faster than lightspeed, the bedside screen was adjusted to mimic the view of a traditional spacecraft, and the visible stars shifted almost infinitesimally. It was a small room, compact in its design, but when looking out through the artificial window, the chamber took on a cozier quality – more like a child's bedroom than a utilitarian bunk. It had taken the Princess hours to fall asleep. She'd nearly asked for a sedative, but thought better of it, considering she was in mixed company. Instead, she began transcribing the day's events. She took long pauses in between her sentences – wanting to make sure she got it just right. After half an hour of this, she felt somewhat accomplished, even if still a bit uneasy. Accomplished enough to have some tea and fall asleep. Right then, she was dreaming of a young Fremen girl sitting atop her father's shoulders as he pointed out the constellations.

At the other end of the ship, Feyd-Rautha slid open the glass door that sealed off his bedchamber and stepped into the humming metal hallway. He had no desire to rest after the events of the day, and his darlings were grating his last nerve. He needed space. He needed out. He walked carefully. Barefoot, he made no audible sound. He liked stalking the corridors while the world around him slept… at least, that was how he unwound each night back at the palace on Geidi Prime. Why should he behave any differently aboard the Emperor's Heighliner? Still… it gave him a small thrill to be creeping through unfamiliar halls amongst unfamiliar sleepers.

Paul Atreides had killed the Baron that afternoon. It was still just a concept to him – the reality of it all seemed suspended in space as if the laws of gravity had yet to apply. You die like an animal, the boy had said. How Feyd-Rautha wished that he had been the one to utter those words as he watched the light leave his uncle's eyes. He'd tried to get the Baron to look at him as he gurgled and choked, but his uncle kept staring at his cousin. What a shame. Feyd-Rautha thought back to all those evenings in the Baron's bath, how the Baron would fold his fat fingers around his nephew's own hand to lower it under the steaming black sludge, the way the Baron's eyes rolled back in his head when he finally ejaculated – sometimes after seconds, sometimes after an hour of steady effort – his breath coming out of him in choked gasps. A little death. Each time, the boy had watched his uncle's face and imagined it was the real thing. He pretended the shuddering mass of flesh would eventually stop moving. Would just fucking die. Someday, when he got bigger, he'd drown him in that tub and watch until the bubbles stopped bubbling. He'd pull him out just long enough to see the stunned realization in his eyes – that his young nephew's face would be the last thing he'd ever see – before shoving him back under. He was half-hard thinking about it.

But Paul Atreides had robbed him of the opportunity. And then he had killed Paul Atreides. Killing his cousin who had killed his uncle was sort of like killing his uncle, Feyd-Rautha mused, but he still felt cheated. Like a ruined orgasm: no real pleasure to it. Looking at the young boy, it seemed impossible that someone like him could take the life of something like that. And yet he had. And then Paul Atreides had squared up to him as if it were fencing practice. What was it the Atreides boy had said before they crossed blades? May thy knife chip and shatter. Yes. He was going to use that again someday. Without the silly hand gesture, though to give Paul credit, it was the best fight Feyd-Rautha had had in years. Maybe ever. How exhilerating it had been to duel someone of that caliber – someone who wasn't drugged. He'd gotten a taste on his birthday, but the Atreides he slew in the arena would have been no match for Paul. The boy managed to surprise him again and again. It was like fucking, the thrill of it. He knew he'd be chasing that high for a long, long time. Not the high of the kill, per say. There was no real build up, no real anticipation – not compared to twelve years of fantasies. But the fight itself was something else. The knowledge that he might actually go down this time. He couldn't remember having that feeling since he was a young boy. Yes… Paul Atreides had fought well. Even if he lost it a bit in the end. They always lost it a bit in the end.

Maybe if he slipped into the Emperor's bed and gutted him like he had the boy, he would finally feel satisfied. No, he reminded himself, better to wait until the marriage is completed and consummated. And even then, he'd likely need to at least retain at least a semblance of respectability. The other Great Houses had different customs than House Harkonnen, and his ascension required their approval. With his betrothal to the Emperor's eldest daughter, that approval should be relatively easy to obtain, but he wouldn't do himself any favors by deposing the current ruler on his own Heighliner while he slept. There was no real honor to killing a man in such a state. He'd fought against drugged opponents in the arena, but those were executions. Preordained. No. He would find another way to get his pleasure. And this time, there would be no cousin to get in the way.

He hadn't even managed to kill Rabban. What a waste. Feyd-Rautha was the Baron now with no competition, and full control of the empire was within his grasp, yet all he felt was frustration. A hollow victory compared to the way he'd imagined it. There was no way for him to sleep with such a feeling of emptiness in his gut. His darlings had done little to entertain him. They'd tried, poor things, but his mind was still on his uncle. He'd pushed them aside and slit one of their throats in frustration. As a general principle, he tried not to do that, but there weren't any servant girls around. His darlings were doing as well as they could, he reminded himself. He would try to remember to give them a treat once they landed on Kaitain.

Feyd-Rautha smelled sulphur and jet fuel and took a moment to analyze his surroundings. He was standing in a small hallway next to one of the engine rooms, deep within the bowels of the ship – an insignificant location but somewhere he'd be noticeably trespassing. Just like the Bene Gesserit woman from his dreams he'd caught creeping in the shadows on his birthday, though he knew at this point that it had really been the other way around: she'd woven a trap for him and he flew right into it. He'd meant to sink his teeth into her, yet she remained surprisingly full of blood all while managing to drain him dry. And as he finally came back to himself, gasping for air, wondering how he'd ended up lying on his back, she was gone. He never saw her leave. Why did she leave him alone in her quarters? He'd asked himself that until he realized he was lying in his own bed, tangled up in his own black sheets, sweat-soaked and bleeding. He'd have thought it all another dream if it weren't for the red bitemarks that marred his neck and shoulders. He searched for her high and low, but she was nowhere, clearly having gotten what she came for. What did she come for? And did she come? He couldn't even remember the shape of her breasts, just the sound of her voice and the feeling of her body as she rocked against him. A Bene Gesserit.

Just like his bride. He'd seen the Princess talking with that old crone before they boarded the ship. Now that was something he could do tonight. He turned on his heel and walked away from the churning machinery, back in the direction of the main atrium, which he knew forked out into several dormitories. The florescent lights glowed on the cold metal like dull white suns, and he smelled gas and industrial cleaner. He wasn't yet sure what he'd do when he found her. He'd decide when he got there. He felt a surge of pleasure at the new objective. Yes, this was it. There was nothing he could do about today's turn of events – nothing he could do about Paul Atreides or his uncle or his brother – but this – this was something at least – to what? Look forward to? His mind didn't work like that, but it was something to plan for, something to stalk. Something he knew he could eventually sink his teeth into. A Bene Gesserit like the one who'd visited him, who had caught him unprepared. The Princess wasn't his usual type… not that he got a real look at her under that chainmail sack. Unlike the other one, she came off as a spayed pet. But even spayed pets bled. Yes, the other one had dripped with sex and whispered promise, but they were similar enough. And it wasn't her demeanor he cared about: it was her training. A new opponent but the same opponent. A rematch. His heart pounded and his palms began to itch. A sensation washed over him that reminded him of the silent dark of the antechamber before the stone doors opened to reveal the blinding white light and pulsing black sun and the roaring, hungry crowd. He would watch her, he decided. Study her. Catch her as she laid her tricks and traps. She'd be no match for him, not this time. He'd play with her like a toy until she broke, and then what? He wasn't sure - he'd get to that later – but he hoped she wouldn't break too quickly. He craved another good fight. The Atreides pet hadn't wanted a longer game. Not skilled enough to challenge him, not reactive enough to interest him. A pity.

The Princess had some stamina in her – he could tell from the way she refused to blush or look away when he leered at her – but he could see that he rattled her all the same. She'd taken a step back when he approached her before she could catch herself: a desert mouse confronted with a viper. Only for a moment before her armor slid back over her. He would find the spots where metal cracked. He could tell there were cracks – he could sense them – and yet she didn't respond in a way he found predictable. She shuddered at his touch, but when he showed her his tongue, she seemed distracted – far away and out of his reach. What was she thinking about? He would find out. He would find out everything there was to find out about her. And he would get rid of that shapeless chainmail. Maybe he would dress her like the other one. Maybe he'd dress her up like one of his darlings. He peered through the glass of every doorway he passed, searching for her. She was likely to be at the end of a hall somewhere, unless she was in the same hall as her father, in which case he would be at the end and she would be next to him. Feyd-Rautha flexed his hands as he doubled back and turned the next corner before colliding with a figure, who nearly fell over.

It was her.

Blonde hair wet and stringy against her flushed cheeks, her eyes narrowing just enough to blot out any vestige of surprise. "Baron Harkonnen," she said, her tone flat and even. "I'm sorry. I didn't hear your footsteps."

"Call me Feyd," he said curtly. The Baron was his uncle.

"Feyd," she said as if turning the word over on her tongue, testing it out, and he immediately regretted shortening his name for her. Feyd was what his mother used to call him. He didn't want to think about his mother tonight. The Princess eyed his bare feet.

"I don't often sleep during travel," he said, hoping it would suffice as an explanation. He'd meant to catch her sleeping, and here she was awake. "Did I disturb you?" He knew he hadn't.

"No," she said. She looked as if she wanted to say something else. He waited, but she said nothing else, and this was becoming much too awkward, much too mundane.

"I'll leave you," said Feyd and turned abruptly. She didn't call after him.

She wasn't meant to be awake. She wasn't meant to be alert. She wasn't meant to see him while he was seeing her.

She would pay for that, he decided as he stalked back toward his room, and muttered "Bene Gesserit witch," under his breath. She would pay for her little tricks. Not here. And not on Kaitain. Not where she held the homecourt advantage, not where she knew the customs and the corridors better than he did. He would play by their rules and study them as well as he could without drawing notice. And he would even play the gentleman if that's what it took to get him through the wedding and the bloodying of her sheets. But once he got her back to Giedi Prime, for that is where they would live until it was time for his now almost-certain ascension, he would make her regret any ambition she'd ever had to wield power over him. Back on Giedi Prime, where he knew all the hallways and hiding places, where he had an army and an arsenal of tools at his disposal, he would watch her closely without being observed. And he would weave a web of his own.

He felt better. Calmer. He might even be able to sleep. Despite his young age, he was much smarter than his older brother: his uncle had rewarded him for it again and again, by making him heir, by giving him Arrakis, and he had proven himself once more by killing Paul Atreides – had proven himself tonight. Rabban could only wish for a victory as evident as his.

But Rabban was dead.

And so was his uncle.

His uncle who had gifted him with a kiss before a crowd of men who could only dream of such an honor. His uncle who would never kiss him again. Would never test him again. Would never look at him again with those beady black eyes, crinkled with malice and tenderness and approval. And more recently, with newfound respect. The gravity hit then, and Feyd braced himself against his knees, heaving. His stomach clenched again and again, and he gagged, but nothing came out of him except for ropey strings of spit. He hadn't eaten. Hadn't wanted to. Didn't know when he would want to again.