leaves all sinking, fever dreaming; ANY

[magnus]

magnus

howling ghosts, they reappear
in mountains that are stacked with fear

For a moment there is nothing but the ragged sound of his breathing, hoarse as it finds its way up his throat and through gritted teeth. There is nothing but the sound of him as he wrestles with his demons, his gold-flecked eyes shut tight, his mind whirling with everything that he had seen, everything that he had witnessed again, his demons clarified in the dreams. They dance within him, and his body burns with their existence, with the way that they howl through the back of his mind—powerful and real and alive.

He can feel her touch, but it is a distant, alien sensation.

Still—

Still.

He groans in his throat, the blood dripping down his already substantially scarred knees.

Blind with anguish, weak with pain, he turns to her, first mindlessly pressing his forehead against her, finding the pressure to be grounding. She is warm, she is heat, and he is suddenly starving—his heart broken up and shattered, laid bare beneath the open air. Before he knows it, his lips are on her, followed by teeth that grazes. They race up her neck and to her jaw, dragging the spotted mare to him in blind need.

Something to be real.

Something to hold.

For a moment, he loses himself in her. He tastes nothing but the salt of her on his tongue, the feel of her against him, and his heart thuds painfully in his chest. She is Joelle. She is Minette. She is Ellyse. She is all of those he has loved. All of those he has lost. Then she is just Kagerus, the mare of dreams and memory, and he opens his eyes, gold-flecked gaze finding hers, burning with everything that lights him on fire. The groan turns to a throaty growl, his eyes over bright. She is alive and beautiful and whole.

He wants to drown in this.

He wants to drown in her.

But need’s sharp edge turns on him and he breaks away, pushing off her to take a stumbling few steps away, breathing heavily with his head turned. For a moment, he says nothing, can do nothing but stand there and gather himself. When he does speak again, there are shards of glass in his throat, his whiskey voice nearly hoarse with the dregs of his need, with the burning of his shame.

“I am so sorry,” he shakes his head. “I shouldn’t have done that.” 

but you're a king and I'm a lionheart