She sings a song without beginning or end. It is the thread that runs through this world. The water, the earth, the trees, the clouds... She sings, and they fill with being. And as they do, Dune feels a thousand eyes pinned to him. Watching, wondering eyes, keenly aware of his otherness.
He is distracted when she cuts herself. The dreamer bleeds without blinking. Thick, weeping blood that drowns the creatures and the cities far below. The sight makes him feel less like they’re gods and more like night horrors. He extends a dark wing to sweep feather-light across the trail of blood, then folds the blood-tipped appendage closer to his face with a small frown. It is quicksilver. Moonlight on water. Blood, but… not blood.
It occurs to him with agonizing slowness that she is otherworldly. Logic comes slowly in dreams, particularly dreams such as this. Not that it matters where she’s from. What she is. They have this moment and this moment alone: chances are slim he’ll stumble into her dreams again, even slimmer they’ll meet in real life. And even if they did, there’s nothing he could say or do that matters. The real Dune is here and now; the invader of dreams, the crow-winged intruder. And my, what lovely teeth he has.
Her touch might frighten him, if this were not a dream. The heat of her breath makes him think of the way a star dies. The flash of light-- the darkness that follows-- the vacuum, the question mark. It's said nature abhors a vacuum, but that's not true, not really. True nature is love. It embraces all things, even in their unbecoming.
“I did not create you.”
Her humming vibrates through her lips, a siren song, a sun with such gravity he has no choice but to revolve around it. With his eyes meeting hers, he gently shakes his head no. A sly half-smile curls toward her. He looks forward again, debating if he should say anything. What he should say. Finally he clears his throat, and the sound sheds golden sparks where their skin touches.
“Does that bother you?” The question does not resonate with Dune’s voice. The sound is bigger, richer. More nuanced. It sounds like laughter. It feels like shedding a skin; and as soon as that thought crosses his mind, black feathers fall away from his wings and golden ones take their place.
He looks across the landscape she made. All the things she's created-- or is this a memory? The two taste slightly different, in dreams-- at least, they usually do. This one he's uncertain of. This one is new, and it thrills him. He hungers for more.
Slowly he begins to beat his long, powerful wings. The force builds technicolor storms in the landscape below, crushing forests, flattening plains. When he kicks off, without a sound, stardust billows at his heels.
He smiles (a normal-toothed smile, this time) for this is a good dream to be in.
He is distracted when she cuts herself. The dreamer bleeds without blinking. Thick, weeping blood that drowns the creatures and the cities far below. The sight makes him feel less like they’re gods and more like night horrors. He extends a dark wing to sweep feather-light across the trail of blood, then folds the blood-tipped appendage closer to his face with a small frown. It is quicksilver. Moonlight on water. Blood, but… not blood.
It occurs to him with agonizing slowness that she is otherworldly. Logic comes slowly in dreams, particularly dreams such as this. Not that it matters where she’s from. What she is. They have this moment and this moment alone: chances are slim he’ll stumble into her dreams again, even slimmer they’ll meet in real life. And even if they did, there’s nothing he could say or do that matters. The real Dune is here and now; the invader of dreams, the crow-winged intruder. And my, what lovely teeth he has.
Her touch might frighten him, if this were not a dream. The heat of her breath makes him think of the way a star dies. The flash of light-- the darkness that follows-- the vacuum, the question mark. It's said nature abhors a vacuum, but that's not true, not really. True nature is love. It embraces all things, even in their unbecoming.
“I did not create you.”
Her humming vibrates through her lips, a siren song, a sun with such gravity he has no choice but to revolve around it. With his eyes meeting hers, he gently shakes his head no. A sly half-smile curls toward her. He looks forward again, debating if he should say anything. What he should say. Finally he clears his throat, and the sound sheds golden sparks where their skin touches.
“Does that bother you?” The question does not resonate with Dune’s voice. The sound is bigger, richer. More nuanced. It sounds like laughter. It feels like shedding a skin; and as soon as that thought crosses his mind, black feathers fall away from his wings and golden ones take their place.
He looks across the landscape she made. All the things she's created-- or is this a memory? The two taste slightly different, in dreams-- at least, they usually do. This one he's uncertain of. This one is new, and it thrills him. He hungers for more.
Slowly he begins to beat his long, powerful wings. The force builds technicolor storms in the landscape below, crushing forests, flattening plains. When he kicks off, without a sound, stardust billows at his heels.
He smiles (a normal-toothed smile, this time) for this is a good dream to be in.
@Warset
