Chapter Text
They are at a stand-still, knife to throat and throat to knife, and Paul knows what comes next.
He has seen it.
Knows that there will be pain, and that things will seem to have taken a turn for the worse. And, for a short moment, they will have.
But only for a moment.
So he steels himself, resolve building in the way that he clenches his teeth, face so close to Feyd-Rautha's that he can feel the Harkonnen's breath on his lips – Paul's eyes darting down to that rictus of a smile – when everything...shifts.
In the heat of battle he cannot spare a moment to see what has happened, how the path forward has just changed, but he feels it. His eyes snap back up to his cousin's, only to see a spark that does not belong. It is the confusion caused by what Paul sees in those eyes which can alone count for the fact that when Feyd-Rautha darts forward, he does not move back fast enough and is shocked when, instead of steel or even teeth, it is the sweep of a tongue along his jaw that Paul is met with. He startles back, all grace lost despite himself, despite knowing that Feyd-Rautha is a creature who delights in pain.
Wiping at the moisture, Paul readies to lunge forward once more, except – his cousin is on his knees. Paul's brow creases for a moment in confusion – did one of his earlier strikes connect more true than first realized?
But, no, that is not defeat on Feyd-Rautha's face. That is sly delight. A child making a mess of things for the sheer joy of it, as he raises both blades and then drops them, lifting his chin to expose his throat before smiling the words, "I surrender. And pledge my will to yours, Atreides."
Centuries of bitter war between two houses defeated by eight words while, behind them, the now former Emperor of the Emperium clutches at his robes in horror.
And Paul has never seen this future.