Midas is king and he holds me so tight
He thinks Oheň would've liked him as a dragon.Then he promptly does not think about her again, because it is far too dangerous, and he thinks instead of how the darkened land below him is familiar. The mountains far away on the horizon—the aerial vantage—the closeness to the shimmering stars, the velvet sky—
The feeling of wings—
He beats the air hard; pushes one wing down, the other up; pulls them close.
The world spins around him as he rolls in the air, up is down and down is up, and then he levels out again. His breath is cold and white, streaming between his sharp teeth, and for the first time since he woke up Aamu is alive again.
A rough exhale is his response, a dragon's hummed agreement. But then—
We're over King's End he projects at her: soft, gentle, as ever. Mournful. His blue-eyed dragon-self peers down at the rolling barrows. I like to come out here. Always did.
And slowly he begins to spiral above that calm place of ends and beginnings, an obsidian dream high up in the sky.
and turns me to gold in the sunlight
Aamu
