"But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura
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?”
In that, they are the same; her life and her reign seem eons ago. The thorny hideaway where she’d cuddle Anguisette is gone, the great tree in the middle of the clearing is gone, and the Jungle spirit with its all-seeing eyes has… gone where…? It doesn’t seem to her like Beqanna would kill the Kingdoms’ Spirits. What had they ever done, save try to help her children as an extension of Her? Lagertha hasn’t given it much though, but the prevalent assumption in her mind that she called them back to her benevolent breast. And left her children to fend for themselves, as they had in the beginning.
A beginning that Lagertha’s own dam knew. How different their worlds must have been, though the apple clearly didn’t fall far from the tree. Both of the mares were warriors and Queens, both of their lives were torn apart by Magic. Grim Reaper succumbed to it, whereas Lagertha has proven far more resilient. She is a tall, if no longer muscular mare, her silver-scarred back is not necessarily visible to everyone, but there are lines that stretch down across her ribs and flanks. Her chest is relatively unmarked - waiting, just waiting to bear the marks of Sisterhood again.
Tired, and longing for directions to a new home where she can finally rest (for days, she could close her eyes for days, they are so heavy), Lagertha waits in the cover of the trees for the Amazonian party to come back down. The old warrior knows her limits, and she would not have made it halfway up the giant pile of rocks before falling to her knees. It is there that Magnus finds her, and it is there that much of the past comes rushing back. It is not a pleasant feeling.
“Magnus,” she says in return, swallowing the vomit of questions that threaten to explode from her mouth. Give it a moment, a couple of exchanges, and then she can begin to berate him for abandoning them when they needed his expertise the most. “My last two years were spent in a sort of Hell. This is a nasty surprise, but a vast improvement. You?” She doesn’t know that he now sits beside the one of the two stallion she loathes the most in Beqanna. What a nasty revelation that will be.
Magnus knows all about a special sort of Hell. In fact, the pair were well-acquainted.
On some days, Hell to him was the smothering guilt he had wearing the crown as King of Heaven. What a lie it had been then—when his stomach churned hungrily for war and his temper was but a bated breath away. It had been excruciating to pretend that he was something that he was not. He had tried—oh, how he had tried—but it had never fit right. His edges had been too sharp, his words too hot.
On other days, Hell was the memory of his blood (Joelle’s blood) washing out on that abandoned shore. It was the memory of Trashlip standing over him, of that distance between him and the mare he so loved. It was the saltwater pouring into his mouth and down his lungs; it was the feeling of becoming bloated and lost in the tide. It was the years spent trapped in that grave of seaweed and bring; the years of anguish.
Now, Hell was the memory of the prison and the whispers. It was the chains that kept him bound when he knew war was being waged and his friends were fighting battled he could not partake in. It was the knowledge that he was letting them down; it was the fruitless attempts to break free. It was the maddening sound of whispers in his ears, telling him that it was all for his own good. That it was for the best.
So he sympathizes with her, his scarred mouth pulling into a frown, gold-flecked eyes growing concerned. “Well that is not what I was hoping to hear.” He tilted his head to the side to the side, considering her; she was certainly thinner than the last time they had met. “As for myself, well, I suppose that I am just glad to be back among the living.” He shrugged his broad shoulders before shaking his head, dismissing the line of thought to bring it back toward her. “What happened to you?” He knew she would have questions for him—demands, even. And he would be obliged to tell her. But he wasn’t ready to explain just yet.
She notes the scars around his lips (how had she never noticed them before?) and wonders what they might feel like running down the silvered lines of her back. Which is a completely inappropriate thought, and takes all the steam out of her intent to give him a severe tongue-lashing. It is further stayed by something about being back in the land of the living, and she frowns slightly. An odd turn of phrase - but there was the Afterlife, which she had had some sort of aid creating, if she is to interpret the mission correctly. Her mouth opens to fire off a question, but Magnus beats her to it, and she snaps it shut again.
Oh, how her mouth seems to always be pursed into thin line. It isn’t necessarily a flattering look (as Offspring so kindly pointed out - she is not a looker - and luckily for her, he likes his mates to be beautiful), but she has never known Magnus to like her (not like-like her) for her softness and winsome allure. There is a great silence, and then Lagertha looks the buckskin stallion in the eye. “The short version is that magic sent me to a hellish, upside down world, where I spent the last two years keeping myself and my daughter from being eaten by Monsters. The long version involves politics and from what I gather, the icing on the cake of Beqanna’s displeasure.”
The old battle-axe is tense, but she keeps the ire to a low simmer and relegates the agitation to a furiously lashing tail. Lagertha is years behind in moving on; each scar forced the resentment deeper into her body, until it seemed to be a part of her bones. She’s never really forgiven easily, which makes her a rather bitter, hard sort of woman right now. And she’s not quite sure she wants to talk about it. “Do explain what you mean by being back among the living.” she requests quickly, before looking away from him and back to the huddled masses.
The relief she feels in his presence is unnerving. Lagertha doesn’t know what to do with herself.
Her story both eases his discomfort and adds another sense of ease. He continues to look at her, to study her, with gold-flecked eyes, mouth pressing together with unveiled concern. There was a toughness of her that reminded him of his mother who was not a beauty either. But she was smart, and wicked, and a true leader. He had loved her fiercely and come to respect women with the same traits. Those like Lagertha.
“I am truly sorry to hear that, Lagertha,” he offered in whiskey tones before giving her a somewhat roguish grin, ears flicking atop his head. “Although I am sure that you have the monsters hell.” He looked away from her to the rest of the land spreading around them, unfolding in curves both familiar and alien. “As for the rest, well, I can’t say that I fully understand it all yet, but I suppose that doesn't matter much as we are all forced to live with it.” He shrugs his scarred shoulders and then glances back toward her.
At her next question, he swallowed hard. He hadn’t ever really explained the story to anyone. It was difficult to find the words to explain something he himself did not understand. But she had asked, and he was not one to hide truths, so he shifted slightly and then caught her gaze. “I-I am not really sure, still. It was like falling asleep or dying—but not as painful as the first time.” His lips quirked in the corner. “I woke up and I was alone somewhere. I still don’t know where. There were…whispers. They told me that they had taken me—taken others—and were keeping us there until the threat passed. They said it was for the good of the bloodline to keep us safe.” He shook his head. “I still don’t know what that means, but the harder I fought, the tougher the chains. Eventually, they stopped answering when I screamed.”
It was difficult to try and encapsulate the months of solitude into words—the loneliness, the guilt, the fear for who he had left behind. “One day, they told me the threat had passed and they spit me back into Beqanna.” It had been difficult to face the world again when he had simply disappeared, left no trace. Left people he cared about in a lurch. “I let you all down.” The simple truth of it hung in the air between them and he finally broke eye contact to glance down. “I am not sure I’ll ever be able to make that up to you.”
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