Midas is king and he holds me so tight
His breath is quick, an unpleasant vestige of a different time. They voted—his mind races through the implications, through the centuries. The prototypes had been few and far between in his day, not a threat as long as you kept indoors or to certain areas during LongNight. But after three centuries scooped up with them, with the Ascended all but eradicated, the Voice trapped, the heralds to feed them falsehoods and the proximity—the wear and tear, the break-downs—It's easy to see them reduced to monsters, a nuisance, and with a sudden influx of powerful, influential Outlanders who completely lack the context...
He's not sure what holds him so still. It feels like fear, like the world will break like glass if he so much as moves.
It's a tragedy hung heavily on his shoulders, and finally he sags. Disappointment fills him. Few things are as unpleasant as having your hopes dashed, your expectations unfulfilled. We should've left. His projected voice is weary, dejected, sorrowful. They were our older brothers and sisters. What right did we have to slaughter them, just because they were inconvenient?
As if he'd known, because he should've, but he'd been a fucking fool. There's no excuses for blind faith.
The next comes out on a ragged breath, a hiss curling around the meaning of his words. What Queen turns against her own?
and turns me to gold in the sunlight
Aamu
