all the weight of my intentions; magnus

[magnus]

magnus

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

If he were to crack her open and spill the contents of her heart onto the volcanic soil, he would find that it mirrors his own. The same regrets. The same weight that comes with living too long—a burden that presses against his neck, a yoke across his shoulders. He would recognize the sorrow. The grief. The fractured pieces of a heart desperately trying to hold itself together. He feels the same ache, the same churning bitterness in his belly, the biting of it against his throat. Even the joy of reunions, spreading its warmth throughout him, is not enough to stave off the sadness that continues to creep its way back in.

But, of course, he cannot see such things.

He has no way of knowing that she suffers from similar ghosts—haunted by the same demons.

All he knows is that she is the one he saw from a distance with Offspring and that the fire-gifted stallion is no longer anywhere to be found. He has never spent much time with the mare, but he is still drawn to her as the sun paints the sky in magnificent golds and reds, washing the horizon with its light. 

His own face, scarred and worn, is illuminated by the dying star, the golden of his hide gleaming with it as he makes his way slowly through the cragged hills. These are familiar lands, and he is not clumsy per se, but it has been a long time since he has walked each path. Time and the elements have changed enough that he has been required to relearn them, a knock to his ego, but alas, he gives in and walks slowly.

He doesn’t say anything as he draws alongside of her. Doesn’t say anything as his gold-flecked eyes peer out at the same view as she, feeling the thrum of the waves inside of him, their beat steady against his chest. He has a complicated relationship with the ocean, and even now, he feels himself torn asunder by it, both drawn to the promise of relief and terrified of the smothering silence. “It’s always amazed me how something can look so beautiful and tragic at the same time,” he wonders out loud in his whiskey voice, breaking the silence and forcing himself from his own reverie. “Life and death held in such harmony.”

A quirk of his lip but the smile fades as quickly as it arrived, bleeding away with the setting sun. 

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

@[isle]