𝙈𝘼𝙍𝙏𝙔𝙍 || Feyd-Rautha

01 | The Gift

CHAPTER ONE
T H E G I F T

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It is still and quiet where Allya settles into the dark. Her body feels heavy, almost overbearing, and her bones and sinews flatten out with each breath that surpasses her lips. The air hangs thick with the weight of solitude, each breath she draws seemingly a labour against the pressing stillness. Her body, normally light and agile, now feels as if it is anchored to the very depths of the earth, every movement a struggle against unseen forces. She feels the lick of something sharp and cold against her mind. A foreign body, taut and precise as a needle, nudging at her insides. Listening to her. Watching her.

It is odd to feel this presence upon her– on the tip of her shoulder— like a blade waiting to be culled, like a bird held back in its flight.

She imagines reaching out to it, to grasp hold of this ethereal presence and pull it into the light. To truly observe and dissect it. But even as the thought crosses her mind, she knows it is futile. Allya's body becomes only heavier and heavier.

'Wait', the word empty from her mouth, a desperate plea into the void.

'Wait for what?' the response reaches to her, both foreign and familiar.

Dark shades her eyes, blurring her vision until it becomes unrecognisable.

'I want to see you first', she tells the presence, the spirit, the prophet. 'I want to see you.'

There is a warmth in her face now.

'You have already seen me, Allya.'

She is silenced when a sudden weight falls upon her. The warmth in her face turns wet and foul, pouring down her nose and lips. She brings her fingers to her cheeks, wiping them against the acrid crimson staining her flesh. Her body convulses, fingers curling into fists against the cold stone floor. The taste of blood fills her mouth, coppery and thick. She wants to scream, to thrash against the agony coursing through her, but her voice is lost to the darkness.

'You have already seen me...'

She awakes with a jerk, her pupils broadening at the sudden change of scene. Dim lights from the ceiling cast a slight gleam above her head, leaving her half-hidden in the dark. She attempts to reach for her face in a careful act of solace, but the metal manacles, tightly warped around her wrists, only allow her to rest her palms against her skin. It feels warm, almost burning. She can nearly sense the black pieces of char, peeling at her limbs, but when she lowers her head, she sees nothing.

The glimpses of dreams, which seem to plague her mindless sleep, have begun returning more and more often.

The Revered Mothers would have called it her inner voice. A remnant of both past and future. An instinct which sharpens her mind and soul.

Her Father would have called it mere imagination, a fanciful notion born out of fright.

Allya closes her eyes once more, even though she knows she won't be able to sleep again. The ground beneath her is cold and coarse, bruising her thighs, and the voices outside her cell continuously echo with disdain. She cannot make out their words, even when she truly tries to. It all becomes the same melancholy melody, stuffing itself down her throat.

Perhaps she should be pleased that the Harkonnen guards leave her alone. She has heard of their reckless cruelty. Of their unyielding hunger.

It would not be so strange, after all. Even here, whilst resting within the fanciful palace walls of Geidi Prime– it is not every day a common-born man gets his gritty hands on a highborn lady.