Everything that had happened in the Gates had been a flash of colors and sounds. It had blinded him with rage, choked him with despair; Magnus had felt himself falling backward into the raging tides of it, the tendrils of his own fury rising up to claim him for their own. And the truth of it, the terrible truth of it all, was that he had not fought against it. He had turned toward the raging storm of it all, the poison of his own nature, and he had welcomed it. He had gladly become the monster he had always known he was.

He had snarled at the King, raged at the heavens, and then he had left.
Left everything behind he had been building. Everything on this earth he still loved.

What he had not been anticipating was the silence in the aftermath. He could weather the storm, but this quiet when the ringing stopped? It was unbearable. He found himself lost, aimless, anger with no target, fury with no purpose. He continued to run until his legs trembled and his throat ached. Standing now, in the shadows of the meadow, he was all dark gold and exertion. His coat was damp and his nostrils flared.

Regret sat like a crown upon his head, old companions of his. He was no stranger to wearing the cloak of his own mistakes; he had spent years staring into the mirror of his own guilt—nearly drowned in it. He knew the burn in his throat and demons in his chest. He knew the cadence of the screaming in his head.

Slowly, Magnus picked up his gait and began to walk slowly along the outskirts of the crown, steam rising from the sweat on his body and breath fogging in front of him. Winter was here, and for the first time in perhaps ever, he had nowhere to go—nowhere to be. There was no task at hand, no work to throw himself into. Instead there was simply the quiet of his thoughts and the isolation of his own company.

The silence was deafening.

magnus