The Death of Duty

Chapter 7 - Only I Will Remain

Feyd-Rautha had stuffed the gag back into my mouth, and he held his knife to my throat as he walked us down a long hallway, my body pressed to his back in a sexual power struggle that he no doubt orchestrated.

I knew exactly where this hallway led—who it led to.

Voices echoed off the walls the closer we got toward the end, and I desperately wished I was anywhere else. Dead, buried, six feet under, body burned, thrown to the desert, I didn't care, just not here. Where I was a weapon against my people—against Paul.

At the end of the hall, the threshold had been blown apart; a once-proud, chiseled door that had no doubt been a priceless work of art had been decimated, lying in ruin on the floor.

We approached, passing the Fremen warriors Paul had brought with him. There were gasps and feet shuffling.

Feyd's knife slipped against my neck a fraction—a warning. To me, and to them.

Finally, we entered the massive throne room. Up a grand staircase in the middle of the room sat an ornate chair designed for the ruler of this city. In a room full of powerful figures—the emperor, the princess, the baron, Reverend Mother Mohiam—my eyes were instantly drawn to Paul.

He had his back to us, facing the protective circle the Sardaukar had made around them all. I had little doubt that Paul could take them all on at once and survive.

He and the emperor were speaking, but I could barely make out their words. Though, the emperor's sentence ended with "Muad'Dib."

They still did not know Paul Atreides and Muad'Dib were one and the same.

Feyd's grip tightened on me, waiting for the opportune moment to reveal himself, and the leverage he held.

Whatever the emperor had said set Paul off, and he shouted. "And why is that?" His voice echoed off the walls, shaking the foundation of the palace.

Feyd pressed himself tighter against me, the cold blade digging into my skin further. He was inches away from my jugular.

"I hope we're not late," Feyd finally announced, the low grating tone seductive, just as he had intended. To him, it was all about seducing his opponent. Sexually, violently, torturously, painfully. It wasn't even about sex—it was about power.

Feyd stopped in the middle of the room, a safe distance away from Paul.

Every cell in my body ached as Paul slowly, so slowly, turned around. As though he knew what awaited him. As though he had felt my proximity.

Tears threatened to fall, just another cosmic joke the universe was having fun with. Not only had I been turned into a threat to my own people, but I couldn't even control myself enough to abide by their ancient customs.

I was no Fremen. I was a foolish, noble-born girl who should have turned herself into the Bene Gesserit years ago to fulfill my fate. Then all of this could have been avoided.

When he finally faced me, I wanted to crumple to the floor. For him to see me like this... I had failed him. I was despicable in every way. He had asked me to stay away from the palace, to not allow myself to be seen. But somewhere, I had slipped up and allowed myself to be taken prisoner.

He couldn't see me like this, degraded and disgraced, a sexual and political pawn and prisoner to our greatest enemy.

Paul's eyes landed on mine instantly, and through his mask and hood I could see the terror that twisted his features beneath. He frantically examined my face, the blood that coated it, and then his eyes dropped to the knife Feyd held at my throat.