Heart Of Gold ( A Midas x Reader Fortnite Fanfiction)

Chapter 31- A Dark Past (Part 1)

 "So, are you going to tell me what that was all about, or not?" you ask, effectively breaking the uncomfortable silence. Nothing but bird tweets answer your question, and, having got used to this for the last 20 minutes or so, you give up, swinging  your legs back and forth, back and forth from the precariously balanced branch that you sit on, leaning against the thick, gnarled tree trunk for support. The heels of your shoes just barely skim the exquisitely groomed hair upon Midas's head, who is sitting below you, on the grass, cross-legged, staring at his lap. Since you arrived via motorboat at this place, he has not said a word, instead choosing to distract himself with the ordinary, yet dull notions of Mother Nature.

You are both in Weeping Woods, away from the chaos, screaming, shouting and chaos. Instead, you were now engulfed by beautiful, tranquil silence, surrounded by nothing more than the quiet, gentle, sound of silence. However, try as you might to come to peace with this beautiful setting, you could not, and the very reason for that problem was sitting below you, winding a piece of broken grass around his finger to make a band. The colours of his hand and the earth clash horribly, but, he doesn't seem to realise, his eyes blank and lifeless as the piece of grass unfurls from his finger, falling to the floor in gentle spirals-  a mere puppet of the wind.

Groaning, you place a foot on a thick branch below you, using the branch you currently occupy to swing your body round, until you are facing the tree. Using the branches like a rung as one might use a ladder, you clamber from branch to branch, closer and closer to the ground, until you fall with a thump on the wed, springy earth, cushioning your fall with a neat forward roll across the clearing. Midas barely looks up as you plonk yourself next to him, dangerously close, and yet, not close enough for him to register his astonishment. 

"Midas?" you ask, eyes falling on the piece of grass that fell from his hand. Curiously, you extend a hand, palming it in your fingers as you bring it closer your eyes, holding it up to the light.

It is now gold. Pure, heavy gold, uncomfortably burdensome and harsh against the soft, spongy flesh of your palm. You drop it in shock, spinning to Midas, hearing  the loud clang as it collides with the  ground besides you, snapping several blades of grass and a twig in the process.

This time Midas hears you, and slowly raises his hooded eyes to meet yours, face thrown into dark shadows that dance across his face eerily, a constant motion of darkness across the surface of his strangely pale skin. His eyes look dull and lifeless, simply dead,  as if everything that he has been holding in, everything that he has tried to oppress (of which you know nothing of) has suddenly rushed back to his surface, visible in every nook and cranny of his face. But he still looks as beautiful as ever, still looks so incredibly breathtaking and handsome, so handsome that you internally inhale, not understanding how someone can be so evil and yet so stunningly attractive. 

You gingerly reach out, gently touching the side of his face with your cool, soft fingers. He doesn't move, his eyes widening at the simplicity of your touch, the effortless motion of your skin against him. As his eyes widen, you start to see the pain that his eyelids hide, the pain and anger that they enclose beneath their folds. You shiver, closing your eyes and, for a split second, you can almost hear a woman scream, very very faintly, the sound so agonising and disturbing, so horrifying and full of pain that your eyes snap open, met with the sight of Midas still staring at you, eyes widened with fear and horror. He can hear the screams too, you realise in terror, staring deep into his eyes, desperate for them to give something, anything away that would give you a clue, something to show you what happened, what awful thing happened that would justify a scream as disturbing and sickening as this. 

Another voice joins the woman's, unmistakeably a child's voice. He is screaming too, very faintly, but screaming nonetheless, his high-pitched, undeveloped voice harmonising with the woman's in the most sickening, incomprehensible way, a soundtrack of terror that keeps you awake at night.  It rings in your ears, so undeniable and real that you feel like you are going to be sick. Midas hasn't moved his eyes from you however, his expression immobile as his eyes widen even further and now, now you realise that his expression is not from awe or for attraction to you, but is made from a tortured, broken soul. A tear wells in his eye, delicately slipping from his eyelid and down his cheek, a tear which he doesn't bother to wipe away. It may only be one tear, but that tear is enough for you to realise the truth. These screams aren't real as of today, but once they were, they were real. On a dark, stormy night, they were real.