#not me answering this a month later brrrrrrrrr

[deficd]

@fasciinating from here!

Arrakeen weeps.

Her heart beats steady for the thrum thrum thrumming of Fremen blood, water between grains. In between the Spice and the stratosphere; in between everything and nothing. A wicked fate thwarted beneath Romulan heel, all fire-from-above, making the Sietches mourn.

Feyd-Rautha sings at the funerals, warms the green in his veins on every pyre. The palace has become a mausoleum of his own making, and how lonely the making of his ghost. Each footfall, a warning in stone. Echoing, echoing all of his pretty intentions.

He circles Spock like a ter'ak blood-drooling for a meal. All empty stomach and midnight mouth. The crysknife shines so pretty in the moonlight; it's singing too. Yearning to unravel a fate that neither of them mean to get swept away in. Rivers always run.

"Ye-eess," with a grin cut arc-shaped, touching the eyes, a drawl that severs just after the teeth. The coruscation of his own dathe'anofv-sen mocks the twin moons, held steady in a palm thirsting for reprisal. He's shattered mirrors before, he can do it again.

"Hayaliiit, crawling out from under your rock," parrots the holy hymn stolen from dead Fremen tongues, "I don't think your teeth are sharp enough."

Not for gnawing; not for this.