A ghost horse

[magnus]

we carry these things inside that no one else can see
they hold us down like anchors; they drown us out at sea

Magnus knew loss, perhaps better than anyone. He knew what it was like to have life stolen from your lungs, to scream out at the world ripping the things that mattered most from your fingertips, to whimper when those things instead dissolved like sand in the wind. He had experienced the highest of highest and the lowest of lows, anguish becoming something of a second coat—the weight familiar on his shoulders.

It was that loss that drove him to the field every day—that knowledge that he had to cling to what he had with all of his might, working to build up the Gates, putting aside his own anger that raged unchecked in his belly. It was that loss that brought him here now, flesh slick with sweat and nostrils flaring, the buckskin stallion taking in large gulps of the autumn-tinged air as he came to a walk.

As he caught his breath, he watched the stallion make his own entrance: the playful antics, sliding stop, high-spirited rear, and even the attention-seeking squeal. It was enough to pique Magnus’ interest and he found himself watching for a beat, heavy-jawed face tilting, gold-flecked eyes narrowing with curiosity.

Huffing lightly, Magnus picked himself up and walked over, stopping a respectful distance away. “I see you are enjoying the pleasant weather,” he offered in his husky tones, his expression friendly and relaxed. “It is indeed a good day for a run.” The sun was beginning to strengthen above them, the watery light growing incrementally in intensity as it washed over them both. “My name is Magnus, by the way.”

magnus