╰┈➤ paul atreides x oc
❝ do you always try to murder your suitors? ❞
❝ maybe. ❞
☄. *. ⋆ in which octavia blackthorn's peace is relatively interrupted by the brink of holy war.
---- completed on ; ???
---- published on ; 25/03/24
empire - featuring;...
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the spoon octavia held clinked gently against the inside of her porcelain bowl, as she kept her eyes fixated on the subtle ripples of the clear saline broth before her, her chin propped lazily on her palm. quiet conversation reached her ears, however her brain was doing a feeble job of comprehending it.
the dining hall was extensive as it was, however with the arrival of at least twenty four new faces, more tables were summoned to fill the space under the golden chandelier. the fremen, as they called themselves, were convinced to part with their stillsuits, exchanging them for simple cotton garments from the storage; from what octavia had heard, they had grown up in the desert and were coded to expect harshness, so the suspicious looks they were shooting the sustenance they were offered were hardly baseless.
especially so, as octavia herself had suggested poisoning the lot. but seeing them, talking amongst each other in hushed, but familiar tones, softened her murderous resolve about the fate she thought was befitting to these outsiders. that true hatred was currently geared towards lady clarysse and lord corvus.
her eyes only darted up when her betrothed, as he was now referred to by all who spoke to her (even lucky, though thankfully, the connotation was more spiteful than genuine condemnment to her fate, at least from one soul).
paul muad'dib atreides.
he was more silent than most that had come along with him, but she assumed it was out of his insistent brooding over the fate of the known universe. or he was spaced out, that was also plausible.
a proper look at him gave her mundane details, like the downturned pout of of his eyes in a manner that seemed sleepy, perhaps soulless or bored, or the faint freckles that peppered his face, darkened by the sun– even the prominence of his cupid's bow, as if sharpened for war.
it did not glean anything of real purpose to her.
it was not a fear of speaking to him that withheld her from conversation, it was distaste for how he had spoken of her, and defiance of how her aunt had been carefully surveying them both, perched at the end of the long table, face to face, yet appearing to be unknowing and unregarding of the other.
"is paul your real name?"
the dark haired young man looked up at her, his brows furrowing slightly more as if he was not expecting her to speak– or hoping she would not. "yes, of course it is."
"it's rather mundane." octavia stated, setting down her spoon as she surveyed him. "your associates have such fascinating names...farah, chani, harah, farok, stilgar...yet you are simply," she waved her hand vaguely. "paul."
"it is not i, who chose my name." the young duke stated dryly, any offense he was feeling could not be gleaned from his features, however. it was like prodding a sleeping bear, but the bear was either hibernating, or deceased. "that blame would go to my mother."
