As sharp talons brushed against a stone that he did not know felt so raw, he gasped sharply. One would think such a revalation would have come at the time of injury, but here he was, absolutely astounded. Mid-epiphany, he was asked such a simple question with such a big meaning. A question he wished he had the memories to answer. All he had to offer were images. "Teeth. Eyes... too many eyes. Fire and stars. Then, asleep." What was his name? The bird had called him Gullskel, hadn't it?

It wasn't much and frankly, it wasn't helpful at all. Nótt had yet to encounter fire and stars with too many eyes. Some of him hoped he never would, if the perhaps once mighty serpent had fallen so hard because of it. He lacked the vulnerability of his stone being external, but all gods bled. "Fire and stars," he echoed. One moment later and a idea shot off in his head: "star room? Orion?"

"No," he muttered certainly, shifting uncomfortably beneath the talon cage. "Green room. Plants." He wanted to remember. Yet it nearly made him sick. It shook him to feel memories coalesce and slip between the metaphorical fingers. But again, he wanted to know. If he couldn't remember, at least the great bird would. His name was "Midas." He murmured. Tipping his head back to look at the owl. "Me."

The certainty in the snake's voice was rather shocking—all of its words before had been tender and unsure, dancing around old wounds that it was blind to. "Eridanus," he murmured, eliciting a nod from the serpent. Then, suddenly, a name was offered. Midas, king with a golden touch. A name. "Midas," he mirrored, the name tucked away to be forgotten in the next lull. A pleasure, the owl withdrew his talon from Midas's nape. "Nótt."

Then, he struck down. Brittle pyrite crumbled in the way of dark talons. "Dragðu smá stund." The horned owl knew the serpent wouldn't survive. Midas didn't remember enough to be useful and to be saved. It was an act of mercy.

Free one moment and struck into oblivion the next. Midas nearly offered his gratitude. It was withdrawn for betrayal—he could not see the mercy. Nobody could. He slipped away into the end, outside of the realm. The narrative for one piece of the annals ended here. A man who forgot his sins given repent. Good night.

[ exit midas via death ]

Death was swift in her reaping; the broken crown fell easily from verdant scales. He wasted no time in heaving the heavy coils back up into the wreckage of their chrysalis. Nótt took the pyrite into his talons and took to the air, silently approaching the river. The golems would not take innocence. So, without further adieu, in went Midas. Off to another life. Off to be forgotten and perhaps born anew. "Sofðu vel," he blessed. Then, he dissipated into the woodwork from whence he came.

[ exit nótt ]