all the beautiful conditions of a man up in flame; shiya

[magnus]

desire consumes me like a fire consumes me

If only Magnus could know her thoughts—know of how she dreams of a graveyard in the water. He could warn her against such things, tell her of how the saltwater had filled his lungs, how his limbs had grown heavy with it, weighing him down and dragging him into the murky depths. He could have told her how it has changed him, altered the fabric of his being, making time more slippery, his emotions more chaotic.

He could have warned her that the pain of this life pales compared to that of such death.

Still, he doesn’t know of the fantasies of escape that rattle in the back of her mind, the desperate search to find relief, to feel release, and he can only hold her serpentine gaze, studying the unreadable depths of it. She compliments him and he laughs, handsome face warming, loosening with the ease of her company. “I am many things,” he teases, humor in his gold-flecked gaze, “but charming is not one of them.”

He breaks her gaze only to look down to her son, studying his features for a moment, eyes flicking up and catching the forced nature of her smile. “Handsome boy,” he comments in his whiskey voice, wondering where the lad’s father was—if he was even in the picture. Such things are met with hesitation though, something in him recognizing that she would not wear such a sorrow if the family was whole, happy.

At ease in such situations, the grief as familiar as his own pulse, Magnus dips his head down, looking at the boy in the eye, crooked smile lifting. “What a pleasure it is to meet you, Despair.” The name holds strange on his tongue, almost a haunting sign of things to come, but he doesn’t comment on it, leaving Shiya her own devices and own methods of raising her family. He winks at the boy before lifting his head again, bringing the warmth of his attention back to the mare by his side.

“I have been well,” he comments, wondering at the layers that make up such a statement. How do you tell someone, an acquaintance really, that you have given up your the anchor around your ankles, that you have given yourself permission to live your life according to your own moral compass? How do you tell someone how easier it is to breathe when you no longer tie yourself up with other’s expectations?

He doesn’t know and he doesn’t try, although perhaps she can see such buoyancy in the shifting of his body, the ease of his lacerated lips curving in the corners. “You always look good, Shiya,” his voice is warm and honeyed, something playful in his eyes that he hopes will ease the sorrow that blankets her.

good shouldn’t need to tempt us above

@[Shiya]