Chapter Text
"As every divided kingdom falls, so every mind divided between many studies confounds and saps itself."
― Leonardo da Vinci
Under the light of a full moon, with the restless wind tussling the blue waves of Caladan, the first child is born.
The cry ripples through the chamber. The tension which had filled the space is allowed to self-soothe for only a moment. A breath is shared between Leto, then the midwives pull taut to the bed where Jessica lays. Her breath remains held. She is waiting for something, more than just the healthy cry of a healthy newborn child.
The child continues to cry, but it is not mindless nor panicked nor idle. It is a voice filled with promise. All those present within the chamber. Jessica notices the way the eyes of the midwives drift to regard the child. She sees Leto’s gaze drift between her and to the baby in question, eyes entranced and fixed upon the life brought forth and shared between them. There is awe in the soft storm of his gray eyes.
Yet Jessica is still waiting.
The midwife who cradles the firstborn looks down, a small sound slipping past her worm-like lips. “There is another,” she says.
The wait subsides.
In haste, the first midwife cuts the tether binding the firstborn to the mother, and steps aside to allow another midwife to take her place. She makes no move to offer the firstborn to Jessica, not yet, but rather darts across the room to clean and wrap the child in soft silk and fabric. Amidst the pain that comes from the birth of the second born, Jessica hears, “...clutched at the heel.”
To be born together, such a gift , she thinks. But, perhaps, envious to the firstborn. Clutching at the heel…wishing to be born first .
But who is the first? Who is the second?
Jessica arches her back, a cry slipping past her as she feels the second life leave her body. The room goes back to holding its breath. Leto clutches his concubine’s hand tightly, allowing her nails to dig into the back of his hand, and his bearded lips press to her fingers. From the corner of her eye, she is observant - aware of his fears, seeing the fast thoughts racing past his eyes, and knowing full-well his lungs are burning with air deprived of them.
When the second child cries, the voice is equally as strong. Quiet, yes, but no less commanding.
An ease forms in Jessica's shoulders. Her body aches in the agony of childbirth, yet there is an internal ease settling in her bones; intertwining through its crevices, joining with the veins pumping through her body. Her eyes close, and by her will the pain in her body subsides.
Although fatigued by the exertion of birth, she finds herself ponderous. She borders on the edge of satisfaction and uncertainty. Defiance, she thinks, before birth, even .
“My Duke,” says the midwife, “my lady.”
Finally, Jessica opens her eyes, and looks up at the two midwives standing before her. Each one cradles a baby in their arms, carefully cleaned and swaddled. The babies cry out, eager for the skin of their mother. Beside her, Leto breathes out in awe. He kisses her knuckle tenderly, then each finger.
“You have born a daughter and a son,” says the first midwife. “Well done.”
“Jessica…a son and daughter,” Leto says, his expression swayed with utter emotion. Joy beyond joy exists in his gaze now. A son he so desired, a daughter he would treasure.
Jessica has no need for the validation of the midwife. But she does find herself smiling in regards to the father’s happiness. For you, Leto, I have defied my orders. I give you this joy freely, with a cost that does not matter. “Give them to me,” she commands.
It is only appropriate that the midwife hands the firstborn to the mother first, whilst the second goes into the arms of Leto. It is the girl Jessica holds first. A tiny thing, whose little fingers curl around the fabric of her swaddle, and whose eyes remain closed in frustration against the warm light of the room. Jessica thinks of this little girl’s cry. The volume it carried, the gravitas. A voice with potential. Jessica’s fingers caress the rounded cheeks of the little girl. Even before birth, she had posed defiance, and unto birth she posed it still.
Even before you drew your first breath, you made your first decision, Jessica thinks with a smile. It is the kind of smile where secrets are tucked in the corner of a mouth. And with your second, you chose to be born first.
After a moment, the babies are swapped in her arms. Leto cradles the girl closely, his fingers caressing her rounded cheeks, and his eyes filled with adoration as he murmurs softly to her. Jessica adjusts her son in her arms. His eyes are opened, staring fixed with curiosity to his mother. The boy has the same shade of green as his mother; not quite like emeralds, more akin to a forest or spring grass.
You came clutching to her heel, Jessica thinks. Did you desire to be born first, or did you not wish to be left alone? She ponders these questions, and soon her mind strays to the Bene Gesserit and the Reverend Mother. Doubtless, Her Reverence is aware of what transpired here today - the birth of two rather than one, a set of them versus that of a singular daughter. Had Jessica not fulfilled her duty, to her heart and to her Order?
I have completed my duty, she assures herself, and I have proven myself beyond a shadow against a sun .
As Jessica’s mind twists with these deepened thoughts, of plans within plans, Leto’s mind is of softer matters. His heart is racing ever still. It had pumped madly for fear of Jessica and the babies she carried, but now its flutter is one of relief. Jessica had done it. She had borne him a son he so desired…and a daughter. Thufir Hawat had made mention in the Bene Gesserit and their interest in daughters. It was a cautionary set of words, accompanied by a shadow across the Mentat’s eyes, and a conspiratorial lean in his body.
In spite of this, Leto trusted his concubine.
On this day, Jessica has given him a son. A boy who would inherit the dukedom of Caladan, who would carry the name Atreides past Leto’s death. It would not die with him, sinking like a rock into the depths of untreaded waters. It would live on. Here it would stand, here it would remain. It does not slip past Leto’s observations that what Jessica did here today was an act of something. Love, perhaps, or defiance. But he finds his heart swelling regardless, for Jessica had heard his desires for a son, and she had delivered one to him.
And a girl, Leto thinks, staring down at the little restless thing in his arms.
Gradually, his daughter’s eyes open, and then her eyes find him. His daughter’s eyes are a deep gray, half-visible through her squinted gaze, as if she were assessing him. There is a certain focus to those eyes, almost scrutinizing. It is a temporary thing, for soon the girl’s eyes open fully, and her fussing quiets and her eyes now blaze with curiosity. Those eyes flicker to her father’s face, then to the midwives standing close at hand, across the room, finding Thufir in the corner, and the ceiling…everything, everywhere, all at once, blazes her curiosity.
Leto’s smile, he realizes, is so wide his cheeks have begun to ache.
“Do they have names, my Duke?” inquires the midwife.
It is Jessica who speaks first, with utmost confidence - no moment of hesitation. “Paul,” she says. “Paul Atreides.” Her green eyes, like a forest with no end, turn to the girl in Leto’s arms. “Eurydice.”
~`~`~
There are moments where Lankiveil reminds Abulurd of Giedi Prime. As he sits beside the diamond shaped window, the fire crackling across the room, Abulurd finds himself admiring the swirling white winds and snow engulfing the world outside. Through it all, he can see faint outlines of the city; the lights twinkling like stars amidst it all. The peacefulness is hardly akin to his home planet, but the engulfing shade of white does. It reminds him of his planet’s black sun, and the muted colors of his homeworld.
Abulurd once thought his planet was beautiful, were it not for the fact it was built on the backs of countless dead and countless more to come. His skin bristles unpleasantly and his knuckle clenching on the armrest of his chair. But all of that is behind them - all of them.
From out of the corner of his eye, Abulurd observes his youngest son playing by the fire. There is a translucent barrier dividing the curious fists of the baby from the flames in question. The little two year old is clutching at his toys, attempting to throw them into the flames, only to bounce off of the barrier. Frustrated, he tries again, this time at a different angle. Only two years of age, and yet he is already so clever.
He is Harkonnen , Abulurd thinks miserably.
In his exile, Abulurd had strived to make a new name and new identity for himself. On Lankiveil, the rewrite had been so simple and yet so tricky to navigate. By appearance alone, it is clear to gauge him as a man of Giedi Prime; his unusually white features, his hairlessness, and the uncanny quality of his general self. But Abulurd has worked hard. He has proven himself on this planet. He has taken the maiden name of his wife, Rabban, in disgust against his own name, and found a home here as its planetary governor. Abulurd Rabban.
Years upon years of ceaseless work, endless service to the Emperor, duty-bound to his people of this planet, and his loyalty to the happiness he has procured, has led to a happy life. It is a rare thing for a Harkonnen…but he is no longer Harkonnen, is he?
His demibrother can have the spice and Arakkis - all of it. It doesn’t matter to Abulurd. He has the low-maintenance, self-sustaining whale fur trade. It is a simple, humble life. It lacks the cutthroat, bastardized nature of Giedi Prime and House Harkonnen…and Abulurd is content by that.
A small shift transpires in his eyes as he looks once more at his youngest son. Feyd-Rautha, named for his wife’s father.
His oldest son is still on Arakkis, running the spice system, and serving as the na-Baron to Vladimir. Glossu Rabban, who stayed behind after his father’s exile, and who looked at him with disgust and shame.
Abulurd rises from his chair and goes to kneel beside Feyd-Rautha. The little toddler lifts his dark eyes to his father, babbling about something or other, and proceeds back to his game.
May you grow into a better man than I and your uncle and all Harkonnen men who came before you, my son , Abulurd thinks.
A great surge of wind rustles against the side of the mansion. Abulurd looks up, staring at the snowstorm outside; now blinding the view outside in an almost unbearable whiteness. Come tomorrow, Abulurd will go into the city and see what damage has been done. There has been a lockdown, of course. The storm was predetermined and, by proxy, all harvesting ships were docked. The harvesters are home, safe. Abulurd’s people will endure.
But the storm rages on.
Not long after, it is not solely the storm that rustles the house.
Abulurd is the first to hear it from his study. The sounds of something breaking down below, then the shouts and cries of his guards. His bones turn to ice as he stands. He rushes across the study, breaking the decorative glass case hung over the fireplace mantle where a knife resides. It was gifted to him by his people upon his good service done to this planet. It is sharp and dangerous, in spite of serving for decorative and status based purposes. But it is the only weapon Abulurd has.
With his heart pounding in his chest, Abulurd opens the study door and runs through the hall. The noise down below is loud and feverish; clashing blades, thudding bodies, and distorted shouts filling the space.
Thora. I must find Thora, Abulurd thinks desperately.
He is no fighter. He has never claimed a life, at least not with his own hands. But to protect his son and wife, he is determined to try.
The broken windows and open doors permit the storm’s reach to outstretch into the halls of his home. Snow fills the halls. The wind whips madly in every direction in the enclosed tunnel, forcing shards of glass and debris into his face and lungs. The bodies of his guards litter the floor, staining the snow red.
It is the scream of a woman that spurs Abulurd into a faster pace, despite the pain of shards imprinting into his face, then the snow biting into his flesh. The door to Feyd-Rautha’s nursery is open wide, so Abulurd need only stagger forward into it.
The sight that awaits him is sickening.
Thora. His wife, his love, lays upon the ground. Blood pours ceaselessly from the stump of her neck. Her body twitches, her nightgown stained with blood and stab wounds across her torso, and her head is in the hands of her killer.
“Glossu,” breathes Abulurd.
His eldest son stands there before him, clutching Thora’s head in his large, calloused hands. The boy who he had left behind on Arakkis is now a man. He is exceptionally large in stature and muscle, adorned in fine black armor dusted in snow and painted by blood. His smile is like his uncle's, cruel. Twisting his own mother’s head between his hands, he finally looks up to face his father.
Carelessly, Rabban throws the head of Thora across the room. It rolls in an expression of frozen pain and terror to the feet of Abulurd. He feels his lip quiver as he looks at it, then at his own son. Beyond this room, he can still hear the massacre transpiring through the corridors. Broken windows, guards being slaughtered, the screams of his servants.
“Your own mother?” Abulurd says, his voice quivering.
Rabban’s back straightens. “I am no son of yours or hers,” he says, his voice rough and thick. He glances towards the crib at the center of the room where Feyd-Rautha is standing, clutching the rim of it and peering over to watch it unfold. He is crying. “Nor is he.”
Nor is he .
“You won’t take him,” Abulurd says.
“I do not serve you. I serve the will of my Baron,” Rabban says.
Abulurd shakes his head, feeling nausea overtake his stomach. He is unable to move forward, too terrified and too frozen to do so. He can feel his wife’s head by his slippered feet and feel her helpless eyes pointed up at him.
The wind of the storm presses against his back, as if trying to press him forward to fight. But the chill freezes him in place. The grip on his knife weakens.
Rabban moves forward. “My brother will be better off on Giedi Prime, with his family. Not spending his life freezing and trading whale fur,” he says.
“He’s just a boy, Glossu!” Abulurd shouts.
“And what a gift I give to my brother. He will never grow up as a man under your shadow,” Rabban says, grabbing his father by the throat. When Abulurd attempts to bring the knife forward, Rabban seizes it from him. “It is better to be fatherless.”
Abulurd’s pleas come out stumbled and quick, desperate as he hears the cries of his son rise higher and higher. But the blade finds root in his abdomen, again and again, and soon Abulurd’s words taste like blood. Rabban lets his father’s body drop to the ground, facing the head of his wife. Abulurd is still alive, still choking on his own blood, as he watches Rabban take Feyd-Rautha from his crib.
Rabban steps over his father’s body.
“No survivors,” Rabban says to someone in the hall.
Abulurd dies in the doorway, his face studded with glass and his lungs filled with blood, and his back a frozen sheet of ice.
~`~`~
Vladimir Harkonnen stares down at the child set before him, seated before the throne. The toddler is remarkably calm in spite of what he has endured. Good . This means he will be strong - calculated, a worthy heir. The child looks up at his uncle with utter curiosity, seemingly having entirely forgotten about his mother and father.
Rabban watches the quiet exchange unfold. He is unsure what his uncle is feeling or thinking at the moment, regarding the child. The order had been singular and precise. Bring your brother home and leave none alive - let the stain on this family be scourged and cleansed. Rabban had done exactly that, yet his uncle has said nothing so far. Soundless, beady eyes calculating, the Baron's attention rested solely on Feyd-Rautha.
“There is a bittersweet tragedy to this, of course,” Piter De Vries says, spidery fingers curling in front of him, “for the child to have lost so little, and gained so much.”
Rabban spares a biting glance towards the Mentat. Contempt fills his eyes. “It is better for him to be fatherless than to know his father was weak. Abulurd deserved death and more for shaming our family,” he spits, his tone carrying the sharpest of edges.
“The mother, too, I presume?”
Rabban looks forward. “She was the first.”
Thora may have been his mother, but he had no love for her. She was just as weak as his father, with a soft heart and the lacking will to do what needed to be done. Perhaps if Abulurd had married a proper woman, one who understood the Harkonnen name, things would have been different. Then again, perhaps she would have died all the same.
The Baron finally looks up from his throne, his dark eyes finding his first nephew. “Remind me again the name of the boy.”
“Feyd-Rautha,” says Rabban, stepping forward.
“Feyd-Rautha,” the Baron says, testing the name on his tongue. “Lovely Feyd.”
Rabban’s head bows.
“My brother would have wasted you both in the ruins of that ice planet. It is better you are both here, ruled under me, and to inherit the power of my Arakkis. My spice. My Dune,” the Baron continues. “Sons of Harkonnen.”
A deep inhale settles in Rabban’s body, pride swelling there as he looks up to meet his uncle’s gaze.
“And you who killed your own father to deliver this gift,” the Baron says. “You have cleansed the stink and disease from our family line.” Slowly does the Baron rise from his throne, the long robe slithering below him like a tunic of smoke. “ Beast Rabban.”
There are no words to describe the utter sense of pride and delight that fills Rabban in this moment. He bows his head humbly before his uncle, beheld in his reverence.
“Go, now. Return to Arakkis,” the Baron says, “the boy stays here.”
Beast Rabban turns, then, leaving behind the little boy with curious eyes sitting at the base of the throne. He can hear his uncle calling for servants to take the boy away, to have him cleaned of blood and rested in his new chamber - a chamber worthy of an heir.
As Rabban steps into the break of dawn, advancing to his shuttle, the black sun rises over them in the hour of Feyd-Rautha’s coming. And the planet is encompassed in white.
~`~`~
Seven days have passed since the birth of Caladan’s twins. No expense is spared in regards to the celebrations held within the castle walls. Gurney spends hours upon hours each evening singing ballads he has composed for them. Duncan is drinking merrily. Thufir, though commonly opposed to Jessica on principle, even smiles in regards to his Duke's joy.
Jessica has always known Leto to be a kind man, carrying a certain light that often drew people to him. Since the birth of Paul and Eurydice, it has burned even brighter. Jessica finds herself warmed by him feast after feast, night after night. For each one, he has toasted her, and she sees the love in his eyes radiating like a duo of suns. As for the newborns, they make appearances each night, to be held by their parents, and to be fawned over by the servants and guards and people of Caladan who attend. Their appearances are short-lived, on account of still being so young and so small.
And when the feasts have ended, Jessica goes to their nursery to watch them sleep. Their cradles are beside each other. Jessica had toyed with the idea of them sharing a space together, but ultimately decided against it. They shared in a womb and they shall share a life together, but it is temporary. Soon, there will be yet another divide, and Jessica does not wish to make it any harder for them.
Even now, Jessica knows they are living on borrowed time.
She is waiting with held breath, for each night that passes, for the envoy to come. By the seventh evening, they finally arrive.
It is within the throes of nightfall, when the castle sleeps. Jessica foresaw their arrival and stands waiting in the open space. The no-ship arrives without pomp or formality. Thufir knew they were coming, as well, and informed Leto of it. Leto, ever trusting of his Bene Gesserit concubine, had simply stated, “I don’t want to know why they are here. Jessica will handle it. They are her people.”
Leto preferred to keep the Bene Gesserit at arm’s length from his person. Their deeds and their plans were intricate in design and difficult to fathom. Unlike other men within Leto’s position, he trusted his concubine to handle these matters - alone, without a shadow behind her.
The no-ship arrives carrying a small group of Jessica’s Sisters, but most predominantly of all there is the Reverend Mother, Gaius Helen Mohiam. She is wearing her long black robes, headdress, and veil, shrouding her face and hands. She towers over Jessica in both stature and authority.
There is no time wasted on idle small talk.
The Reverend Mother’s purpose is plain.
Soundless as the air, Jessica guides her through the long corridors of the night. Moonlight pools through the circular windows of the castle, casting ominous light and shadows against their figures. Their feet glide almost soundlessly against the stone beneath them.
When the nursery is reached, it, too, sits in silence. All that fills the space is the sound of sleeping breaths between Jessica’s son and daughter.
Jessica stands back, watching as the Reverend Mother moves between each cradle to observe them. With her back turned, Jessica cannot gauge her face, but by energy alone she can feel contempt and dissatisfaction.
“You were told to bear only daughters,” the Reverend Mother says, hovering over the cradle of Eurydice.
“Have I not done what was expected of me?” Jessica counters, allowing herself a small step towards Her Reverence and beside the cradle. Her hand reaches out, touching the rail in a protective motherly gesture that does not go unnoticed.
“Do not be so petulant. It is beneath you,” the Reverend Mother snaps. “Through your pride, you almost cost us the Kwisatz Haderach. Were it not for the defiance of one, you would have failed.”
Jessica’s eyes lower to the swaddled girl, whose eyes have slowly begun to open; peering up at the two figures above her bed in an expression that cannot be discerned.
There is a small needle-like sensation in Jessica’s chest.
“I have succeeded, then?”
“In spite of your best efforts to the contrary,” the Reverend Mother says. “I have half a mind to take the girl now, to refute you your right to have her for what little years would be given to any other.”
Regardless of her best efforts to conceal her emotions and her feelings, Jessica feels a wince ripple through her shoulders. This garners the satisfaction of the Reverend Mother, whose chin tilts up through her veil so she can better look down at her student. The needle-like sensation trickles from Jessica’s chest to her stomach, notably her womb.
Her eyes flicker to Eurydice laying in her bed, watching them through half-lidded eyes. She is too tired to stay awake, yet too curious to fall asleep. Little does she know what is being debated above her.
Fleeting memories of Leto’s joy throughout the week fill Jessica’s mind. She sees his warm smile as he cradles Eurydice to his chest, humming sweet songs to her, and promising her the world.
“The girl will stay under the roof of House Atreides, but not for long,” the Reverend Mother says, then turns to level her gaze towards the second crib. The contempt in her eyes flashes like venom in a snake’s fang. “The boy is yours to keep for however long he will breathe.”
The boy is mine .
“But make no mistake, Jessica,” the Reverend Mother continues. “There shall be repercussions for your deeds and attempts to thwart our plans, in favor of your pride . Our plans are laid through centuries. If you cost us this, there are others.”
“You have no need for my son, then?”
“Not yet.”
Jessica follows Her Reverence through the door, then back to the no-ship. The arms of the Reverend Mother are empty and the Sisters who linger there observe in silence.
“How long will I have with my daughter?”
“A month. A year, three years,” the Reverend Mother says, turning to face Jessica in full. “Treasure what little time you have with her, and think well upon what I have said today. This is only the beginning.”