The longer this conversation goes, the more certain Magnus is that there are core elements that he is just not understanding. His frown deepens when she tells him that he is dead—that he has been dead, and he cocks his head to the side, one ear flicking forward. “He was dead?” he asked carefully, trying to weigh his words and sort through the details of what seemed like a hopelessly complex situation.
“I’m sorry, I’m not sure that I fully understand. He seemed perfectly alive.”
His smile remained, but it was puzzled, even more so when she continued. He shook his head and gave a small, helpless laugh. “I am not sure that my help would be much help in this situation.” Magic had played a substantial role in his life, dipping in and out of it; particularly when it came to death. His family was just particularly difficult to kill off. Atrox had risen from the grave twice. He had been pulled back from the saltwater grave. Makai had been brought back, although Magnus was as of now unaware of it.
So he chalked it up to that—the strange, enigmatic magic surrounding death.
At her concern for him, he rolled his scarred shoulders. He was not used to dealing with concerns of his own well-being; it was always secondary. “I’m doing alright,” his voice was whiskey and smoke, and it did not show the true extent of his exhaustion. “It’s been a long day, so I’m a little tired, but I have felt worse before.” He had felt his skull crushed, his own life bleeding it out on a beach. He had felt the rigors of war and the pain of watching someone you loved walk away. What was a long day in comparison?
magnus
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