Midas is king and he holds me so tight
He can sense it: her silent disagreement, and he lifts one scaled, massive brow as he peers at her across the sky. It's a feeling he doesn't like, but one he doesn't know how to address without delving into things he doesn't quite want to go into. He chooses to let it be, not because he's convinced that he's right, but because—because he doesn't have any better answer, and he's a coward.And a fool.
He hadn't realized the fire had licked her soul (as badly as the water had washed her out)—should've fucking known better, but instead he's left standing by the grave's door and peering after her like a concerned idiot. It's too tempting to crush the moushroom in his paw, to curl his claws in on it and pulverize it, but after several seconds all he does is exhale. In the moist spring air it turns into a white plume.
Coming, he sends her way, coiling back on his powerful hindquarters before launching himself back into the sky. His voice lacks enthusiasm, his flight lacks ferocity; he glides in in silence, again touching down, and his head cocks to the side. I'm sorry. I didn't realize.
His claws dip into the small puddle as he (gracelessly, one foreleg still held up with the mouse in it) hops around to keep the little eagle in his sights. Do you want to talk about it?
and turns me to gold in the sunlight
Aamu
