Work Text:
With no small trace of foreboding, he envisions her hands, those soft, lily-white hands, laced around his throat — squeezing, tightening, choking — and his brow furrows in consternation. Does her training outclass his? Could she indeed overtake him if she wished it, thwart his blade and obliterate him with her witch's powers?
It seems absurd, but even so, he craves that data. He does not want her regard, but her anguish and her pain. That is all. He wants to bask in it, to watch her formidable training bend and waver and finally break beneath the power that he wields, and perhaps — perhaps — if he is so inclined, to taunt her with the notion of regaining control, if only for one agonizing moment.
And then his own training takes over again, Mentat mind smothering such wanton delusions, and he returns to reality, admitting — if only to himself — that it is silly and dangerous, and certainly must never become reality. Quashing the ridiculous thought, he curses himself, curses the notion that he would let emotion cloud reason so.
But within an instant he again begins to succumb to it, stumbling back into that treachery in the back of his mind once more. Would Leto weep to see his woman dead? Would he kneel for the man who killed her? Could House Atreides be compelled to yield to him?
Piter struggles with himself for a moment, startling his thoughts back into submission, for he has allowed himself long enough to stew in these trivial fantasies. He takes a breath. His mind races, then calms, and it is all over in a fraction of a second; the only evidence of his internal struggle is a twitch, a tiny clench of the jaw, and then — nothing. Once again, his mask is fitted back into place.
Reassured at last that his acumen has been renewed, he returns to his work with a deft flourish of his blade. The splatter of fresh, hot blood that graces his hands is a welcome coolant.