Midas is king and he holds me so tight
He smells the the fresh blood; feels it in his curled paw, cooling rapidly in the breeze. Whatever he holds is bleeding out, and whatever Mabel holds is similarly limp. Undignified. Just flesh: empty. It'll barely be enough to make him notice it in his mouth.Her ferocity echoes in the space between them. He pushes away his own conflict, his own doubts and hesitancy about what influence he might have upon her, relishes instead in her fierce joy, her lethal success, and then—
Then his own dive pans out into a thoughtful glide, his prey dripping blood onto the world below. What is it she asks, truly? He doesn't know.
You did well. It could be this; it could be LongNight; it could be anything—
The flowers rush up to swallow him as the world folds and folds and folds and folds—
Mabel! he cries out through the white noise buzzing in his ears, in his skull, and Aamu drowns in color.
But as the world unfolds again, he is still above familiar ground. It is the barrows of King's End, Meadowreach a distant, colorful blot half-hidden in between the dips and rises of the graves. Mabel? Frantic, the dragon's head whips around, searching for that black-and-white eagle in the vast, frigid sky.
and turns me to gold in the sunlight
Aamu
