they drown us out at sea; any

[magnus]

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

The Field. How many times had he been on the other side? Walking amongst the lost and the wandering? Helping to point them in the right direction? Too many times to count. He had recruited for the Chamber, the Gates, the Dale, the Gates again. He had risen in their ranks: served as their soldiers, their Generals, their Lords, and even their Kings. He had been loyal—fighting their wars, bleeding for their cause. He had given of himself time and time again, working himself to the marrow. Working himself to exhaustion.

And now—well, now, he found himself back here.

The fury had not bled from him just yet. Instead, years of accumulated scales had fallen, revealing a side he did his best to ignore. An age-old fury simmered just beneath the surface, an anguish that felt as familiar as the hilt of an old sword. He gripped it once more, lifting it up and testing its weight. It had been a long time since he given into this anger; it had been a long time since he had felt true to his nature.

He had run from the Gates to here, blind in anger. Now, he stood near the border with skin slicked with sweat, nostrils flaring. It was afternoon now, the sun just beginning to make its descent, and he was glad for the nearly empty landscape. He was not sure he could face a mirror of faces so like and unlike his own. He was not sure he could bear the burden of their own questions when he was so sunk in them.

He paced beneath the shadows of the trees dotting the field, the shadows playing along the curves of his back. He did not possess gifts that were so abundant nowadays. He could not wield the elements with the tilt of his head; he could not call upon the heavens to rain down. Instead, he relied upon what he had always been given—the tools of his birth. He relied upon his god-given strength, his grit, his intelligence. He relied upon his willingness to sweat and bleed and die for what he believed in.

He relied upon his righteous anger. His conviction. His passion.

So he was not without value—not without worth. Snorting, Magnus shook his heavy-jawed head, doing his best to rid himself of the memories that clouded his mind: the meeting, Ellyse, Zeik, the kingdom that he had left behind once more. Regrets that melded with anger to tear at his throat. Rising into a half-rear, Magnus came down hard on the ground, frustration evident in his every abbreviated move.

magnus

just no gates. obvs.