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

He had gone to the field in the search of purpose, but he had not found it there. All of them had been polite, kind even, but ghosts stirred in his belly, and he found himself going elsewhere. It was those ghosts that led him now to the Gates, his dark eyes haunted as he watched the land fold open before him. It was still beautiful—it always would be—but he could see the signs of smoke in the air. He could see the signs of devastation. The Gates was wounded, and he felt that like a spear straight to the gut.

So this is where his ghosts asked for him to be.

Sighing, Magnus made his way past the border and into the belly of the kingdom, his face breaking into a frown as despair flooded through his veins. He should have been here. He should have helped to protect the Gates from whatever tragedy had struck here. Instead, he was as he always seemed to be—too late to do the good he wanted to. One second behind. One step away from accomplishing the necessary.

Coming to a stop near what had once been the Gate’s grand tree, although that was past his time, he lowers his head in reverence. The kingdom needed all of the good people it could take. Unfortunately, he was not a good man—but he was a strong one. Perhaps they could use a warrior to join their ranks. Perhaps they, like their predecessors, could forgive him his sin and welcome him into their fold.

If not all of them, perhaps his son would at least give him the chance to repair his wrongdoings.

Lifting his head, Magnus scanned the area for Ledger before letting loose a low, throaty cry for whatever monarch or diplomat was in the quiet of the scene. Surely, they must be meeting to discuss their next steps. If he was lucky, he would have gotten here in enough time to aid in the recovery process.

It was not enough, but at least it would be something.

MAGNUS

once king. once general. once dead.