we are aching bones and wasted years; any

[magnus]

we all carry these things that no one else can see
they hold us down like anchors; they drown us out at sea

It feels…odd to be back here. To once again be an unknown, the planes and angles of his face blurred into obscurity. There had been a time when the tables had been flipped—when he had been the one to dutifully march to the field every day, stirring up recruits for whichever kingdom he called home. He had found himself talented at it, able to easily engage in conversation with the other souls and display a genuine, authentic interest in their well-being. It had been natural for him to shepherd them home because he had actually invested in them. He had never seen them as just another number or a point to him name, he had truly cared to help them find a home, a purpose, a sense of well-being—and he had been good at it.

How odd that he now relied on strangers to do the same for him.

He does not mind though. He finds that he is oddly at ease as they begin to approach him, never feeling grated by the anonymous nature of his new life. For so long, he had felt at the forefront of conversation; first as the son of Atrox and Twinge and second as the fallen rogue-King. It was almost a pleasure to be given this blank slate and chance to start anew. “Hello, Fennick,” he says warmly, his gold-flecked eyes flashing as he gave him an encouraging smile. He knew just how difficult it could be to open up a conversation with someone you didn't know. “I could indeed use something to do.”

His attention is diverted as another approaches him, larger than the first, and he shifts slightly to greet him, dipping his head slightly in greeting, the ink of his forelock falling over his eyes. “And hello to you, as well, Gaza. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” It was easy—so easy—to fall back onto those kingdom-taught manners. The sharpness that came from being raised by monarchs, the military control over your instincts. He had always been a smooth conversationalist, and he thanked his mother’s wild temper for drawing it out of him. Above all else, he was a diplomat and a solider (though, admittedly, more skilled at the latter). While he may not thirst for politics, he now knew not to shy from it.

So he appreciates the military bearing of the third stallion to approach him, although he does not know their familial ties (not that he would be surprised, Atrox’s wandering eye meant he had dozens of both close and distant relatives). His gold-flecked gaze settles on him for a second, perhaps recognizing some of himself in the other, before he just nods. “Ah, the Chamber.” His roots ran deep there. His father had practically branded it on him, and he had even served it for a time—rising as Lord before leaving. There were few kingdoms he had not lived within, and few that he had not held titles, but the Chamber had a way of getting under your skin and staying there. “Always good to meet a Chamber man.”

But before he is able to answer the question, the mare arrives, and something simmers under his skin, plucking at memories half-remembered. There is something familiar about her face that makes him pause, but he shakes his head, his lacerated lips pulling into a frown. “I’m sorry, I don’t know, Soliel.” They might have, but his memory was shaky—half of it still reforming and as insubstantial as sand running through his fingers. He had no way of knowing what was real and what was just his dreams. 

Finally, he addresses them all, meeting their gazes one-by-one. “My name is Magnus.”

MAGNUS

once king. once general. once dead.