Cobalt skies like midnight lies; any

[magnus]

you and I both know that the house is haunted
and you and I both know that the ghost is me

The meadow unfolded before him like a lover, the land at once familiar and alien, scarred by years he had not seen and aged in a way that he did not understand. He paused along the border to take it all in, his gold-flecked eyes glinting and intense, his inky mouth pressed tight in thought as he surveyed the area around him. It isn’t until he sees the wings that his attention is diverted, and he angles his scarred face toward the mare slinking toward the tree. One ear perks forward in interest before he decides to indulge his curiosity (and, ultimately, his enjoyment of companionship) and make his way toward her.

Wings were, after all, the gold star of gifts once upon a time. 

However, Magnus had discovered they had become commonplace—the sheen of their uniqueness replaced by a darker, more formidable magic: the ability to shift, the control the world around you, and even influence other souls. Still, Magnus appreciated the simplicity of their gift, the purity of the trait. Not that he necessarily lusted for them (he was content with his plain body), but he could admit that he was fond of them.

“Hello,” he says simply as he stops several yards from her, one corner of his lacerated lips rising into a lopsided shadow of a smile. His voice is gruff, husky even, but the rust of disuse had finally fallen from it, and he no longer woke up with a throat of sandpaper and a dry tongue. Life was getting easier every single day. “My name is Magnus,” the introduction came easily, slipping from his mouth on instinct. He pauses for another moment, tilting his head to the side. “How are you enjoying the day?”

MAGNUS

once general. once lord. once king.