𝙈𝘼𝙍𝙏𝙔𝙍 || Feyd-Rautha

03 | Pets

CHAPTER THREE
P E T S

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Days pass by until she lays eyes on the na-baron again. Until then she is left mostly alone.

The time passes in a thrumming haze within the confines of her opulent but suffocating quarters. The air is heavy with the scent of perfumes and incense, masking the underlying stench of decay that seems to linger in every corner. Allya moves through the room like a ghost, her footsteps muffled by the thick carpet beneath her feet.

Her dreams continue haunting her, a never-ending procession of fragmented memories and half-formed visions. In the depths of her sleep, she feels her mind wandering, drifting between imaginary and someplace else.

Faces blurred and shifted, merging into one another in a kaleidoscope of unending watchfulness.

She dissects her thoughts with an unnerving precision, attempting to gather some sense, some authority, some meaning even; in the tangled threads of her subconscious. What could it mean for her? To dream of endless deserts and seas, stretching towards the horizon; their droplets shifting like whispers in the constant wind? What hidden truths lay buried in the images of figures, cloaked in shadow, their eyes burning with an aberrant, blue light?

Perhaps it is a message from within. An unknowing sense of self, returning to lay claim upon her.

As the days went on, Allya was allowed to venture beyond the confines of her chambers, under the prying eyes of guards and servant-folk. They led her through winding corridors and opulent halls, each step a tentative exploration into the unknown. The world surrounding her was a matted, strange one, tainted in the depths of its own shadows.

The windows cast a muted light upon her, a dizzied ray of black and white. Above the palace, the sky gleamed a knowing grey— a colourless empyrean, casting its shade upon the polluted grounds.

The halls themselves were engraved in dark hues of marble and stone, their ancient surfaces bearing the weight of nameless inhabitants. Rarely did she encounter other residents of the palace, and when she did, they were mostly servants— young, sly-eyed women with faces marked by deprivation and toil. They passed her with lowered eyes, their gazes skittering over her like wary creatures, their whispers fading into the shadows as they disappeared around corners and down darkened hallways.

They did not speak to her. She did not speak to them.

When they dressed her, they clad her in dark, thick fabrics, each added layer weighing down her body. As they tightened the sash at her waist, her back would curve. Feeling the small petals of slick stone, fastened to her lace, as they dug further into her irate skin.

Sometimes, when left alone, she would pull at the bodice until it cut her fingers. Small tears would appear along her waist and hip, but Allya did not mind.

The tightly knitted fabric felt like a dungeon, like being buried alive. She only wished to be freed from such physical restraints.

It was another attempt by the Harkonnens to lay further claim to her, she ventured.

Soon they might blacken her teeth and tear her eyes out.

It would not be beyond them.

Perhaps they'd even find pleasure in her fall from grace. Discovering within them an eagerness to witness her undoing.

That thought made her want to hold her breath until her lungs scorched.

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