His life in the Jungle seemed so long ago, that on some days, Magnus wondered if he had dreamt it. He remembered the humidity clinging to his skin, the dewdrops of sweat sliding down his back. He thought of the vines tangling the floor and the cries of birds and wildcats as he made his way toward the heart of the kingdom. He thought of the fierceness of his mother and the cutting tenacity of her kingdom mates. He thought of it often, until it took on abstract shapes with little meaning, until it faded in the corners.
He thought of it until his heart ached, until his bones sung with loss.
It was this memory, weighted and cutting, that he carried with him today as he made his way through the forest. It was this memory that he turned his mind toward—the grief when he had heard the news of his mother and father washed away in the flood, their bones nestled together in the rich jungle soil; the pride upon hearing the news that his daughter (strong, sturdy Brunhild) had risen in ranks to hold the same title as Twinge; the fierce blow when he had awoken on the mountain and realized the Jungle was gone.
His scarred mouth was pulled into a frown, pace slower than usual, as he made his way around the border of the land. It wasn’t until he saw her, as fierce as ever although clearly tired, that he was able to untangle himself from his thoughts. Without hesitating, he cut toward her, moving through the crowds like parting water until he was by her side, gold-flecked eyes concerned as they washed over her.
“Lagertha,” he said her name quietly, warm despite the few interactions the had together. “How has,” he gestured around them, at a loss for how to describe it, “all of this treated you?”
magnus
@[Lagertha]
![[Image: gqYjsHr.png]](https://i.postimg.cc/KjqNDKxc/gqYjsHr.png)