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

Of all of the things to blame himself for, not being there to save his son from whatever horror has befallen him would top the list. Magnus felt his gut wrench painfully when he saw the flaxen stallion approach him and although his instinct was to jump forward and ask questions, he felt himself stilled with the shock, his gold-flecked eyes washing over the scars and the missing eye. But, as painful as it was to look at the disfigured half of his face, it was the confusion and the bitterness in his voice that cut the deepest.

“Punish you?” he asked in disbelief, shaking his head vigorously. “Why would I do that, Ledger?” His smoky voice is low and threaded with the same hurt that he felt, that same hurt and the slow burning anger at whoever had done this to his son. It was a curdling feeling, the way that it simmered in his veins and spread—violent and vicious and bruising. It was not the righteous anger of justice, he knew that. It was something darker, something crueler. It was the instincts of his family rearing their ugly head.

It was the exact reason he always knew he wasn’t good enough for Heaven.

“Who hurt you?” he finally managed to ask, taking a step forward, cautious to break the space between himself and the other. He felt the rage searing against the back of his throat, but he managed to tamper it down—for now at least. Magnus knew that somewhere within him there would always be a beast that was too eager to pick up the sword, too eager to jump into the heat of battle, but that did not mean that he needed to actively feed it. So, he forced himself to stay still, not trusting himself to say anything more.

MAGNUS

once general. once lord. once king.