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Feyd had always dreamed of dueling an opponent as skilled as Atreides was.
That being said, he’d truly thought he had him: Atreides’ grip on his blade was slipping, and Feyd was beginning to mourn the end of fight, when—pain. It bloomed sharp and hot in his abdomen, causing him to lower his weapon. He fell to his knees, Atreides moving with him, and looked down to see the hilt of Atreides’ own knife protruding from his flesh.
Oh, Feyd thought. And then: At last.
He looked back up at Atreides, whose eyes were so bright, so beautifully blue. Feyd struggled not to get lost in their depths. Instead, he glanced down at Atreides’ lips. They were pink, plush, and perfect. Feyd had to taste him. He kept his hand on the back of Atreides’ neck and leaned in, pressing a biting kiss to that hypnotizing mouth. There were gasps from the crowd around them, but for one blissful second, Atreides didn’t pull away, and Feyd imagined what it would be like to have more of this. But he could tell that such a timeline was an impossibility, now, and though he knew he would have enjoyed bedding the Fremen savior, he couldn’t help but feel… content. He had been bested, yes, but he had been bested by the best, and there was honor in that.
Atreides pulled back, then, and the look on his face was complicated, part shock, part resignation, part—longing?
Feyd was fading quickly. He could feel his life slipping away into the ether, but he had one last thing to say: “You’ve fought well, Atreides.”
Atreides blinked, and then, with a grunt, yanked his knife free from Feyd’s body.
Feyd collapsed onto the floor, the last of his consciousness fading as darkness consumed him.