we are crooked souls trying to stand up straight || any

[magnus]

magnus

howling ghosts, they reappear
in mountains that are stacked with fear

Ever since he had been told of Warrick’s worsening condition, a sickness that spread through his lungs and threatened to keep him from Tephra altogether, Magnus has found himself worrying. It was in him to worry. It was part of who he was—an unchanging part of what made him him. So it is, perhaps, not surprising that the golden stallion had spent his time wandering the borders, tracing the paths that lace through the volcanic isle searching for signs of the navy-tinged stallion who he had met so long ago. 

As each day passed and no sign unearthed before him, his worry, his fear only grew stronger.

So it is something that feels like relief that floods through him when he finally sees the stallion, flanked by a mare that Magnus has never seen and the worried eyes of his two nieces. He doesn’t bother to take his time reaching them. He doesn’t bother to pretend that he does not fear for the stallion or that he was not looking to immediately close the distance between them. Instead, Magnus opens up his stride into a long, leggy trot, his hooves easily finding purchase in the soil, navigating the land so intimately familiar to him.

When he reaches the border, when he reaches the group, there is the faintest sheen of sweat on his neck, his nose dampened, and his gold-flecked eyes burning with concern. 

“Warrick,” his name escapes his mouth quickly, tripping off his tongue and drenched with everything that has gone unsaid. For a moment, Magnus looks for the usurper, the young stallion who had since grabbed hold of power in Tephra, but he dismisses the thought, instead focusing all of his attention before him.

Guilt seizes his heart in his chest, his throat tightening, and he says the only thing that he can:

“I am so sorry. I should have come back sooner.”

but you're a king and I'm a lionheart