Midas is king and he holds me so tight
Slowly the wind streaming through his lungs begins to carry scents: cold spring, hares and mice, the old, earthy smell of the barrows themselves. They merely tease his instincts, too large to truly care to hunt such small and fickle things, and Aamu himself is not focused enough yet. His wild joy, his sense of casting off his shackles, is curbed by the lingering dread and panic.Seems too petty for them, he responds after a moment, still thoughtful. Their heralds, perhaps, but if they were here—likely it would not have been so benign. The thought is uncomfortable.
Aamu begins to touch down, beating his wings hard to come to a standstill, until he touches down among the rolling graves. Probably just some anomaly. If he doesn't sound entirely convinced, it's because he isn't.
While he probably should think about it, he doesn't want to. Instead he peers at the iron door sealing the nearest barrow, before turning his attention to the tiny mouse hanging limply in his massive paw. That he even got one at all was a bit of a miracle. Carefully he sniffs it. I kind of want to fry it. I'm just not sure if I'll set anything else on fire too. His head turns upon its thick, serpentine neck. The Barrows, mist-shrouded as they are, were probably too wet to catch fire—probably being the keyword. See any water around?
and turns me to gold in the sunlight
Aamu
