la jeune fille marquée; Magnus

[magnus]

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

 
If there was one thing she could say that would almost certainly prevent Magnus from leaving, she had said it. Her shame, and her apologies, cement a deep-rooted and spreading fear within him—his concern branching out through his very being so that his next step forward, although slow, comes unbidden. It is not within his nature to leave a distressed female by herself. “Please don’t apologize,” he says gently, his voice low and kind. She moves forward, and he notices her shivering; although his instinct is to warm her, he holds back, instead motioning to where the sun washed the field. “It may be warmer over here.” 

The day in and of itself was not particularly warm, not with the winter chill beginning to creep into the wind, but it would be at least easier to warm up there than in the water. “I can help, if you’d like,” he offers, moving slowly, speaking slowly, as if he would be able to keep from startling her. It was easier, he had found, to focus on the aches of another rather than the deep wounds of his own. He often threw himself full-bodied into the effort, his focus so narrow he could block everything else out for a moment.

“What do you mean?” He shakes his head a little, “I’m sorry, I mean, of course, I will stay.” His smile is just a little sad, his gold-flecked eyes worried, “but why do you need to store up conversations?” The more seconds pass, the more his concern becomes panic on her behalf, warning bells going off in his mind. “I would be happy to find you in the winter and replenish your supply,” he forces a smile, trying to keep the conversation light, although something gnaws at him relentlessly, and he suppresses the urge to hide her away. Something dark was shadowing her. He didn’t know what, but he would find out.

 

MAGNUS

once general. once lord. once king.