we are aching bones and wasted years; any

[magnus]

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

What is home?

When he was young, home had been the jungle. He had spent his youth running amongst the vines and the cats, hearing his mother’s jaguar cry and the constant chattering of the, at the time, bustling kingdom. It had been almost like a second womb—so completely protective. He had grown up wild and strong and fearless—sure-footed and built for distance. He could run for hours without becoming winded, finding immense joy in the strength of his young, well-muscled body. There, he had learned that he had a thirst for fighting. More over, he learned that he was damn good at it. A family trait, as it were.

Then he had grown older, and he had found love. Star-crossed love, but love nonetheless. He, the son of the vicious Amazonian Queen and cutthroat Chamber King. She, the dreamy daughter of the Gates ruler. It had been fate and he had followed it—going to live with Joelle under her father Liefde’s rule. It had been uncomfortable, fitting like a shrunken second skin, but he had learned to love the Gates. He loved the sanctuary of it. He loved the peace of it. He loved the genuine goodness of its people.

And he had done his best by it. When Liefde stepped down, he had taken up the mantle as General of the Gate’s army. He had fought and protected the quiet kingdom as Joelle reigned—and when she asked him to rule alongside her, he had accepted. Not because he thought that he should, but because she had wanted him to.  It had been wrong, and he knew it, but he had tried. He tried to be the good King that the Gates deserved, but his blood was all wrong for it. He could never be the white knight that Bond was.

So perhaps it was home, but he knew he didn’t deserve it to be—and so he had left. Abruptly.

Then, there had been the Dale and Librette, his sister in arms. He had thrown himself into the work, knowing it was the only thing that would keep his mind off Joelle and their children. He had poured himself into Katana’s army and quickly climbed the ranks there. He had been diplomatic—a good soldier, a good warrior, but not a good King. Certainly not a good partner or father. The Dale had become a sanctuary for him, and he suppose that made it home too, but it had been temporary. So much in his life was temporary. Even death. 

He had thought that his watery grave would be his last resting place, but that too could not become his home. He had been spit out, thrust upon the land once more by magic he did not understand, by a bond he did not fully realize. And, once again, he finds himself without a home. But it was not in Magnus’ genetic make-up to languish in the meadow; he was a warrior, a worker, a Kingdom member at heart.  Even now, with his memories hazy and his proverbial feet unsteady beneath him, he found himself at the field. For purpose, he supposes, although he knows better than anyone that all he wants is a distraction and work to keep busy. 

The field opens up before him, and he sighs, feeling at once grounded in the reality of his mission to find a new Kingdom to serve and unease at the change. But he doesn’t give that away. 

Instead, he finds a cool spot under a shaded tree to rest and he waits.

MAGNUS

once king. once general. once dead.