"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
i swallow my doubt, turn it inside out - find nothing but faith in nothing.
The warmth settles into the roots of her heavy wings as yet another gentle breeze lightly ruffles her bristling feathers; her teeth remain buried between each stem as she preens their pristine perfection into place. The sun is ruthless, and yet there is something soothing about it after a particularly heavy rain. The air is still damp from the moisture, and her weight causes her to sink slightly into the moist soil beneath her, but she savors the faint humidity that lingers. Though she prefers to tuck herself away into the shadows, the wavering grasses that lap lightly at her hocks and the quiet rustling of leaves nearby draw her out into the open.
Tucking her wings against her lithe, slender body, she cranes her long neck as a curious eye looks across the fertile land, ripe with blossoming flora and fauna. Her powerful legs begin to churn as she lopes across the plain, a gust of warm air combing through her flaxen tresses and pushing it in the way of her dark, but soulful eyes. With her cheek tilted to the left, she watches as a familiar, broad figure comes into view beneath the old Mother Tree, his scent heavy in the breeze - a musk infused with pine and sweat, and a coy smile pulls at the corner of her whiskered lips. Perhaps the waning afternoon would not be lost to her, after all.
"Magnus," She croons, raising her voice and cutting through the heavy air. Her plumage extends to each side as she shakes and rearranges the wayward feathers closest to her blunt teeth, before she tucks them away again against her golden hide. She tucks herself beneath the looming branches with him, basking in the sudden drop in temperature when hidden away from the prying sun. "it is unusual that I see you out, and back before dusk. It is good to see you, though I know you do not know me well."
And in fact, she does not know him either, but the old tales her father had told her as a young girl remain at the forefront of her mind. His name had only been one of many, but it was a powerful one, and there was something undeniably enigmatic about his presence.
we carry these things inside that no one else can see they hold us down like anchors; they drown us out at sea
It was indeed unusual for him to be back to the Gates when the afternoon sun was high.
He much preferred to rise early and head out before the sun had fully warmed the kingdom. It gave him a head start to the day—a chance to make it to the field before it was in high swing. It also gave him some moments to himself, the run from the kingdom to the place of recruitment a welcome reprieve and chance to silence the demons in his chest. He then spent much of his day there. Sometimes, he would head back early if he came across someone who took interest in the kingdom, but even then, he would return back to the field once they had gotten settled so long as there was still hours of sunlight left in the day.
Work was one of the only things that he knew; he poured himself whole-heartedly into it.
So it felt strange to be back here today, the stallion sitting underneath the boughs of the tree with his eyes half-closed. It was one of the first times that he had been relaxed, truly relaxed, since he had been released from the unknown prison. He had no way of understanding the internal peace or putting his finger on the reason for why he felt so calm—and if he was being honest, he had no desire to analyze it. So much of his life was spent in turmoil that even just a few hours of quiet was a welcome gift. He would not guess it.
He stirs when the golden mare approaches him, small motions bringing his battle-hardened body back to life: muscles twitching, one corner of his mouth rising. He laughed lightly at her statement, rolling his shoulders. “I suppose to call a place home, you must actually reside here from time to time.” Usually, those hours were at night, long after his fellow kingdom mates had closed their eyes for the night. “It is a nice change of pace to be around the Gates when she is still alive with light and life.”
He pauses for a second to study the mare, feeling familiarity but unable to place it completely. “And it is a pleasure to meet you officially. I have seen you from afar,” watched over her as she slept, although he does not mention such, “but an official introduction was long overdue.” Magnus cannot help but feel a small twinge of curiosity though at her next statement and his eyes flicker with confusion in response.
“Is there anything in particular you would like to know about me?”
i swallow my doubt, turn it inside out - find nothing but faith in nothing.
Her own limbs have grown stiff with disuse, and as she listens to the languishing caress of his deep and smoking voice, she flexes her slender legs and aching wings. The fragile bones and sinewy muscle twist and contort as she extends each slowly and deliberately, her dark eyes lingering on him as she takes in the very hardened lines of his jaw and the sunken shadows beneath his tired, wise eyes. Slowly, the tension seeps away and a low, heavy sigh emerges from her lungs as her whiskered lips part slightly to exhale. The very same wry smile tugs again at the corner of her mouth, and a generous, yet boisterous laugh rumbles in her otherwise slender and delicate throat.
"A man of the stars, are you? You are often up too late and gone too early to catch wind of, Magnus," She muses, amusement laced between each careful word. Her eyes stray at last from his own as she settles beside him, her attention drawn to the old, drying bark of the Mother Tree and the delicate way her weaving, aging branches reach up towards the bright blue sky, though it has since become tainted with brilliant goldenrod and tangerine with the onset of a falling sun. "but I, too, have seen you from afar. Or, perhaps, closer than you think."
The simper returns, mischief alight in her eyes as she gently circles around him, brushing her bristling feathers against the brittle bark of the tree. Her shoulder very nearly brushes against his, but she maintains her distance, neck craning as she peers past him to observe the wavering wheat and the gentle breeze that meanders through.
"Everything. Tell me everything," She says simply, "you have seen many more years than I. Where did it all begin for you? Have these golden gates always held you?" Her eyes, flickering still with something hidden away within, meet his again, observing the curiosity and caution that causes his strong features to flinch. "You must have a story or two to tell; don't we all?"
we carry these things inside that no one else can see they hold us down like anchors; they drown us out at sea
He is not particularly shocked that she had learned of his habits—he had, after all, was not particularly bent on trying to hide them. He did not sneak in or out of the kingdom or try to make himself scarce when he was here at night. But he was surprised that she had bothered to notice. He assumed others simply did not care of his patterns, his coming and goings. He was but a fixture in the kingdom who went out like the tide in the morning and washed back into her shores in the evening. Nothing fascinating to study. No hordes of children or fights or drama to ring against the borders and invite the prying eyes of neighbors.
So her observations brings a crooked smile to his handsome face. “What can I say?” he teases, reaching over to bump his nose against her. “I am a man of mystery.” He could not shake how much she reminded him of the Jungle. Her sly smiles, mischievous glances, sharp tongue. They were all traits he had grown up around; traits of the warrior women. Traits of his mother. His childhood had been of vine and mud, and he had learned there the strength of women. It had sparked a lifelong love affair with the gender.
He knew women to be strong, kind, wise—endlessly complex and fascinating.
They brought out the best in him, soothing his anxieties and ruffling his feathers. In their presence, he felt like the Magnus of old, the scales of his past dropping away to reveal the shine underneath. He gave them his best: his endless devotion, his charm, his protection. Anything they asked of him. He always would.
“I have a story or two,” he agreed, with a roguish smile. “Would you like one from this life or the last?”
i swallow my doubt, turn it inside out - find nothing but faith in nothing.
But yet, the fixtures are of utmost importance - a steady, calming presence that quells the tireless waves that wash over the worn, tired reams of golden wheat and the moist, supple soil. Every tide of violence and unrest that washes upon the very proverbial shores pulls away the fickle, rolling sediment away, leaving the land more barren with each sweeping undulation. In spite of the erosion that time etches to heavily into history, there are those who remain - impervious to the salty seawater of change; impossible to wash away with the remnants of old blood, shattered bones and broken promises.
He is no different - a steadfast beacon; as bright and as shining as the warm sun herself. Her eye settles heavily on him, studying the way the muscles in his neck flex and move beneath his skin, and the way his dark tresses move with the soft sway of the summer breeze. He reaches over to press the flat of his muzzle against her shoulder, pulling her back to the present moment as his words echo suddenly within her mind. I am a man of mystery, he says, and something within her heart clenches tightly, though she cannot identify its reasoning.
Though her smile had fallen away as she slipped away into a brief reverie, it returns now, alight again with mischief. A sharp laugh emerges from her as she shakes her slender neck to and fro, glancing to him coyly from beneath her own ashen locks, which fall aimlessly across her sharp features. She was fiercely independent, abrasive and scathing - nothing of what hid away within his soulful eyes, and yet she is drawn in by him. The way his eyes bore into her own unnerve her for a slight moment, and she finds herself averting her gaze to pay special mind to her feathers, feigning disdain at having to preen an already perfectly-placed feather.
Alas, her voices does not give away the warmth that washes over her - shyness? She knew naught; she had never felt it before - and his words give her reprieve from her own uncertainty. When her eyes meet his again, there is a carefree, lighthearted grin playing across his darkened mouth, and amusement lights up her dark eyes again. "The last?" She breathes inquisitively, her mind drifting to the lore told to her in her youth.
Though she kept her delicate craft quiet, her ability to mend, bend and boldly twist the bones of both the living and the dead leaves her undeniably curious and unsated in matters of the dead - to think that he might have once been? Curiosity pries at her seams. "You have died, then? Tell me about it. Tell me about how it all ended, mystery man - and how you came to be again."
we carry these things inside that no one else can see they hold us down like anchors; they drown us out at sea
He does not often like to think of his death—does not like to think of the waves that crashed over him and then pulled him under, sucking him into that saltwater grave. He does not like to dwell upon the years that were lost, his bones sinking down with the sediment and brine. But she asks, and he finds that he does not have the heart to deny her. He had, after all, brought it up himself. Why would she not inquire about it?
So he shakes the discomfort from himself, giving her a small smile.
“Up for the fun conversation tonight, I see,” he jokes, his laugh throaty. For a second, he glances upward, the sky beginning to wash with new colors. Instead of the pastels of the day, streaks of auburn and cobalt were making way, the day making its slow descent into night. Something about it soothed him, eased his mind. Enough that he felt the stories that seemingly clogged his throat begin to unstick.
“It’s never fun to discuss your own death, but yes, I’ve done it before.” He shrugged. “I used to live here, a long time ago. I was born in the Jungle and lived there for a long while with my mother who was Queen. I eventually left to serve in the Chamber with my father who ruled there and became Lord. But then. Well, I met Joelle.” His eyes sparked, her name rusty on his tongue and yet beautifully familiar.
“She was the princess here, and she was everything. Enough that I left the Chamber to come here to serve under her father.” He was not quite sure how to articulate the discomfort that he felt here—the certainty that his soul was too dark, too wild to belong—and so he says nothing of it. “Eventually, her father stepped down and made me the General and Joelle the Queen. She later asked me to rule alongside her.”
He grows quiet for a second, contemplative. Thinking of the years that passed after that. How hard he had tried to rule well next to her. How hard he had fought to recruit for the kingdom and fight for it and do what he had always knew she deserved. “I failed though. I left her—left the kingdom, my family. I went to serve under Katana in the Dale for a stint before eventually finding my way home back to Joelle.”
The condensed version, he knew. The version that left out the bloodshed. The tears. The hurt. The things that he was just not ready to face yet; scars, although long healed over, had a way of breaking open again at the slightest touch. “All seemed well, but you do not live and rule so long without making enemies—and we made ours.” His expression grew hard, mouth thinning. “His name was Trashlip.”
A monster. Traitor. Foul beast.
“I found him, along the beach, with Joelle. We fought, hard, but I lost my footing in the sand and fell.” He was the least proud of this part, this personal failure tattooed into his very marrow. “And so I died there, bled out onto the sand and then washed out with the tide.” It was odd to give words to the story, to talk of his own murder, but also cathartic. Similar to the relief he had felt when he had talked to Minette. “And I stayed in the ocean for a very long time…until strange magic washed me back onto those same shores.”
He smiled again, although it would be impossible to not note the tinge of sadness.
i swallow my doubt, turn it inside out - find nothing but faith in nothing.
There is something in the weight of his words that draws a darkness from his storming eyes, and it pulls gently at her heartstrings, delicately playing at her emotions. Her mischievous smile falters and soon, her whiskered lips are hard-pressed as she immerses herself within the fragile pages of his own story, marveling at the way his brow furrows with each ridge of anger and the way his jaw clenches with each wave of sadness. Death, he merely allows to roll off of his terse, tension-filled shoulders, but the hurricane brewing within his dark, telling eyes speak of a fate much worse than death.
His life is an intricately woven tale of devotion and dedication, which hardly causes her to bat a lash - there was something within the hardened lines of his face that had already told her of his affinity towards loyalty; something that drew her closer to him still. And then, a name. Joelle. Suddenly the darkness lifts from his eyes, and a gentle light reaches the very depths of his soul - he had loved her, and gently, she cranes her slender neck to press the bridge of her nose to his neck.
The silence lingers, interrupted only by the echoing threat of a looming storm - it rumbles and rolls through the land, and if she were to pull her hazel eyes away from the sadness that once again pilfers into his soulful eyes, she would see the dark, electricity-fueled clouds rolling in - but she cannot bring herself to. His voice darkens, as suddenly as the afternoon sky had, drawing the emotion forward but drowning his own despair within its gravelly pitch. The failure drenches each and every word that grinds out between his blunt, hardened teeth, and gently, she tucks the bridge of her forehead beneath his jaw, and her heavy lashes close over her eyes.
"Absence and death are the same - only that in death, there is no suffering," She murmurs, drawing her cheek away from his to meet his gaze. Such a devastating loss must be haunting. "or so my father has told me."
His smile, though beautiful and gleaming with charm, does not reach the depths of his eyes, and so she does not return it. Instead, her whiskered lips remain a hardened line, and a deep shame tugs gently at her soul. She had spent too many days fiddling with decrepit bones, manipulating and twisting them and tearing them from flesh at every stage of decomposition for her own delight, but the burden of meaning now weighs heavily on her.
Death had been nothing but an inevitability - an untimely end that any and all might meet - but now? Its meaning weighs heavily along the ridges of her shoulders, and regret - oh, so easily mistaken for pity, though her heart aches for him as he wallows still in his own thinly-veiled pain - washes over her like the very same pulling tide that had once drawn him out to sea.
"You are nothing if not remarkable," She muses, forcing a smile to the corner of her mouth. "and Joelle," Her eyes follow the shadows that descend upon the plain, her chest rattled by the deepened rumble of a storming sky, but she savors its prowess as it shakes her to the very pit of her bones. "she must have been wonderful."
Guilt, heartache and grief all remain tucked carefully within the seams of his words, and in the sadness of his smile.
"You must have loved her deeply, to sacrifice yourself to death to protect her - to avenge her," Her eyes meet his again, finally, as soulfully honest as his own. "there is nothing more extraordinary in life. Power, it holds little meaning - only a fool would put any value to it - but love? Most of us could only hope to find something worth dying for - and you are proof that it exists." At last, the faintest of smiles. "And here you are."
![[Image: gqYjsHr.png]](https://i.postimg.cc/KjqNDKxc/gqYjsHr.png)