a beautiful oblivion. || magnus

[magnus]

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

He is not particularly shocked that she had learned of his habits—he had, after all, was not particularly bent on trying to hide them. He did not sneak in or out of the kingdom or try to make himself scarce when he was here at night. But he was surprised that she had bothered to notice. He assumed others simply did not care of his patterns, his coming and goings. He was but a fixture in the kingdom who went out like the tide in the morning and washed back into her shores in the evening. Nothing fascinating to study. No hordes of children or fights or drama to ring against the borders and invite the prying eyes of neighbors.

So her observations brings a crooked smile to his handsome face. “What can I say?” he teases, reaching over to bump his nose against her. “I am a man of mystery.” He could not shake how much she reminded him of the Jungle. Her sly smiles, mischievous glances, sharp tongue. They were all traits he had grown up around; traits of the warrior women. Traits of his mother. His childhood had been of vine and mud, and he had learned there the strength of women. It had sparked a lifelong love affair with the gender.

He knew women to be strong, kind, wise—endlessly complex and fascinating.

They brought out the best in him, soothing his anxieties and ruffling his feathers. In their presence, he felt like the Magnus of old, the scales of his past dropping away to reveal the shine underneath. He gave them his best: his endless devotion, his charm, his protection. Anything they asked of him. He always would.

“I have a story or two,” he agreed, with a roguish smile. “Would you like one from this life or the last?”

magnus