Whitebark Stream rotten apples

Reality or fiction; to her he would leave it, indeed.

To grasp such a power within his own palms, a curse; he did not want it, to sway her mind to left or right, to truth or lies. If she solved this riddle, sought him from the depths of his own demise, he would accept, but should she choose to let herself be lulled into naught but a daydream, he would slither back from the cracks he'd emerged, to avoid the shattering of yet another damned yearning.

He could feel it, that longing, it stung and caressed, a pain and a soothing - and he hated it. Such conflict. But he loved it. He feared, in this drowning of his senses, tugged along by her lattice of mysterious enchantment, that he might get lost and spill over himself--

--end it, he must, before he could not. But a parting gift! So that perhaps, after all, she wouldn't forget...

"Then you will see me again, i'm sure." A gentle quirking of his lips. "And it will not be a dream. Farewell, princess... until next time." And with that, he began to dissolve back to the shadows, to wander and ponder in his newfound curiousity. He prayed it would not become his fantasy, his obsession.