[private] i won't back down. || magnus

[magnus]

you and I both know that the house is haunted
and you and I both know that the ghost is me

Magnus’ age was a mystery—even to him. He had been youthful during his first life. Not young, not without his scars and weathered parts of his coat, but youthful. He had not peaked yet; he was instead well-muscled and confident in his body as only age can teach you. He was handsome and unmarked by silver just yet—maintaining the golden sheen of his mother. It was a comfortable and stable age.

But then life had been taken from him. Suddenly. Violently.

And decades had passed with him buried in saltwater.

Magic had eventually brought him back to a land both familiar and alien—one that still smelled of his panther father in his places, but one with faces he did not remember. It had been a lonely feeling at first, to wander places he had once wandered with her alone. To wander their usual haunts knowing she was still there, trapped by seaweed and brine. It had left him haunted, and he had not thought he’d ever escape it.

But purpose had eventually flooded his veins. He had turned his mind toward the Gates, knowing that she would want him to work for it as he had worked for her in life. So he had. He had recruited, and worked, and helped Mast however he could. He had prepared for war, working with whatever troops he could muster, knowing he would face his father and half-brother when war was to come but preparing anyway.

Then life had been taken from him again—death, but not quite. He had been pulled into a magic bubble, whispers telling him it was for his good, for the greater good; his absence was needed in a way that the whispers were never quite ready to tell him about. It had been infuriating to know that wars were being waged, that Minette and his new child were left to themselves. He had hurled himself against invisible chains. He had fought until he should have been bloody, but instead was untouched. Suspended. Alone.

Finally, whatever danger that had spooked the whispers was gone, and he was freed. Released back into Beqanna to deal with the aftermath. He knew in his heart that his absence could not be helped, but it did not stop the guilt from weighing on him. He knew the current residents of the Gates, as few as they may be, viewed him as a deserter and he did not have it in his heart to tell them the truth. What good would it do? It would not change the fact that he had not been there when it had mattered most.

He may not have wanted it, but he was still a deserter.

So his heart was heavy as he walked into the meadow, his mouth pulled into a heavy frown. He had the body of a youthful stallion, but the mind of the elderly—and today, he felt the gravity of the decades that had passed since his birth. He was so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he did not see the other stallion approach him. It wasn’t until he heard the husky, bemused voice that he lifted his heavy-jawed head.

The stranger was black as night—as black as the majority of his family; Atrox marked his own more often than not.  Magnus was one of the few to escape his father’s stamping. He was as gold as sunshine, the color deepened and darkened with the sweat from the humidity. “I prefer dry myself,” he responded, his own voice rattling from his chest, deep and throaty. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Offspring.”

His gold-flecked gaze studied the other—taking in the heavy build. Magnus was built for battle, but not in the same way. Where Offspring was thick and sinewy with muscle, Magnus was stockier. He was not short, but not particularly tall—wide in the chest and heavy in the jaw. He was not lean, but not large. It was a happy medium that he had learned to wield well over time. “The name is Magnus.”

MAGNUS

once general. once lord. once king.