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“You’re getting to be very tall, my darling.”
The words are spoken softly, approvingly, but Feyd cannot help but hear the edge of bitter complaint in his uncle’s voice.
He is getting tall. There can be no denying it—already he stands several inches above most of the women slaves. If Rabban is anything to go by, he likely will attain an impressive height by the time he is grown and the bulk to match.
It is impossible to feel tall or strong when his uncle’s hands are upon him. Vladimir Harkonnen is ludicrously, terrifyingly huge in a way that scarcely registers as human. There is nothing clumsy or awkward about the man, nothing comical or bumbling about his size. Even in his nudity, without the aide of his suspensors, the Baron’s body is as deliberate and terrible as a weapon.
“Thank you, Uncle,” Feyd says.
Bejeweled fingers rub lazy circles over the nape of his neck just above the edge of his leotard. It’s almost a massage. Feyd wonders if it’s meant to relax him, or if the heavy hand so close to his throat is a silent threat, reminding him to play along with the all-too-familiar game.
They are seated at a table in the Baron’s parlor, side-by-side to better view a projection of a recorded bullfight. Before them is a spread of desserts and twin glasses of sweet wine—richer and headier than Feyd-Rautha is usually permitted.
A treat. A bribe. An apology, in its way.
A thumb caresses his shoulder, kneading at his trapezius. “The new training is paying off,” hums the Baron. “I can feel the muscle you’re putting on.”
A terrible thought freezes the smile half-formed on Feyd-Rautha’s face and he goes cold despite the heat radiating off the man beside him. He feels sick, frightened of this routine in a way he hasn’t felt in a long time. He’s bigger now than he was just a few months ago… it takes more to go to his head… more to put him to sleep and keep him from waking…
As if sensing his thoughts, the Baron waves his hand and beckons the serving boy to refill Feyd’s cup. Feyd forces himself to sip the wine slowly instead of swigging it down all at once. He can feel his uncle’s eyes on him, watching, assessing, black and endlessly hungry.
He knows I know. How couldn’t he?
Feyd snatches another sweet off the platter. It’s sticky and moist, with a gelatinous center—easy for someone to lace with a drug. He eats it greedily, even licks the icing off his fingers, and ignores his uncle’s startled little laugh.
“You like that, Feyd?” the Baron asks. His voice has taken on a hint of strain, a dark and anticipatory huskiness he can barely conceal.
“Yes, Uncle,” Feyd intones. And then, with complete sincerity, he adds: “ Thank you .”
He has often wondered if his uncle keeps up this whole song and dance out of a twisted sense of mercy. Terrible as it is to serve himself up time after time, Feyd is grateful that he is allowed to pretend that he does not know what is happening. The sham of ignorance is a hook upon which to hang his dignity. If he were made to acknowledge it—if the unspoken rules were ever said aloud—that might well be the end of him.
All at once he feels the drugs kick in. They’re coming on strong, making his eyelids sag and his limbs feel heavy. The ghostly footage of the bullfight seems very far away, the burning weight of the hand on his shoulder fading to a distant pressure.
Thank God! he thinks with a surge of miserable relief.
He pitches forward, is caught, is helped to his feet. “You drank so quickly, Feyd,” rumbles the Baron. “Was the wine too strong for you, hm? Why don’t you lie down, my darling… a-h-h, there we go.”
Feyd is lowered gently onto a divan. His head lolls to one side, but he keeps his eyes open for as long as he is able. Across the room, the matador-slave is gored in the side and tossed through the air. Horn and hooves follow him down.
The Baron is a shadow hovering at the edge of his vision. Tomorrow he will be doting and kindly, and Feyd will request favors of him that he’s been waiting to ask for one of his uncle’s sweet moods to come over him.
Darkness tugs at him. He resists its pull until he is sure it will take him completely.
One day, he tells himself. One day it will be my game we play.