𝙈𝘼𝙍𝙏𝙔𝙍 || Feyd-Rautha

06 | Mother

CHAPTER SIX
M O T H E R

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In the dim light of her chamber, Allya's thoughts churn like a tempest, tossing and turning amidst the tumult of her mind. The taste of defiance lingers bitter upon her tongue, unnerving her.

She has grown restless. The days pass indifferently. It's all the same to her now.

Though still isolated from the remaining world, she's still visited from time to time.

Once a day, she is force-fed. Slick, warm liquids pouring down her throat— making her stomach churn in quiet aversion. Her insides blossom with disgust as she is forcefully held down by black-clad guards, each of them observing her through dark, grim eyes.

She allows the degradation. She has no choice but to.

But mostly, she is left alone. To wait and to ponder.

Besides the shackles binding her hands and feet— it is not so bad. She sits slumped against the cool wall in silence, leaning her head back boredly. The gag warms her face, making her skin flush a startling crimson.

Her eyes flicker.

Within the darkness of Geidi Prime, a new dawn rises. Shadows befall her chambers, like a second layer of skin. Part of her appreciates the calm it brings to her surroundings. She enjoys the certainty of her entrapment— the assurance of not being disturbed.

Her mind is clear, neither subdued nor faltering. They have not drugged her in a long time. She's almost grateful, even though the initiation itself is rather ridiculous.

Days bleed into nights, and her senses seem to sharpen in the darkness. She becomes attuned to the rhythms of her prison, the subtle cues that hint at the passage of time. The footsteps of guards, the distant hum of machinery, the faint whispers that sometimes drift through the walls.

One late evening, she is visited by handmaidens– the continuous gathering of similar-looking girls. Their pale, formless bodies ushering around her quarters with restless unease. Allya watches them warily, through heavy-lidded eyes. She feels the quickening of their hearts, the urgency in their breaths.

All seem to display a similar biological cadence.

All but one.

At first, Allya struggles to make out who in the cluster of bodies differs from the rest. But soon enough her eyes land on a lone figure. The handmaid's pulse– though brisk and kindling– beats an unusually slow and deliberate rhythm. No glimpse of strain manifests in the flicker of her eyes. No flush of unease is visible in the speed of her movements.

Too subtle. Too refined.

Allya has seen her before, looming amongst the bundle of servants. A shadow, awaiting the final dawn. The difference is subtle, and had Allya not been a trained observer– it might have gone unnoticed to her.

The Bene Gesserit have their eyes and ears everywhere. They always have.

Allya was just too busy to notice. 

The handmaid's gaze meets hers for a brief moment. Her eyes— black and potent— bear a startling nuance. Neither timid nor distant.

With a stained expression, she speaks in silence.

Soon, the tension is erupted by the voice of another; a young, slight girl, taking a step forward, looking down at Allya with a solemn expression.

"Shall we dress you once more, my lady?"