[open] oh, endless night [any]

[magnus]

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

Home.

He supposes that this is home, although it does not feel it.

After all, it was not the home of his blood.

That would be the Jungle with all of the twisting vines and deep-rooted secrets. That would be the canopy of twisting trunks with crying birds and screaming cats. It would be the mid-day darkness where he learned to run blind, sweat burning his eyes and humid air searing his chest. He had spent his youth there with the female warriors and all of their cunning—learning from their ferocity. It had birthed in him a great respect for the gender and buried a passion for war in his veins. It was the root of all that he was and would ever be.

It was not even the home of his true nature.

That would be the Chamber where his family ties ran like tangled roots beneath him. It would be where he served as Lord amongst the shadow and the fog, forever in the looming shadow of his father and forever caught in the pulse of the buried heart. It was where he learned the true power of the darkness that rang through his mind, the pull of the murderous streak in his heart, the seductive pull of death.

Nor was it was not the home of his rage.

That would be the Dale where he had given of his sword and his muscle and his grit. Where he reared up in the army and rallied next to their dark magic Queen against the poison of their day. That would be where he let himself forget all that he had lost. It would be where he found comfort with his warrior-sister and where he found himself once more, pulling himself up from the ground—resurrecting himself once more.

This was none of those.

This was, instead, the home of her.

It was the tranquil, sleepy land where he felt his skin pulled too tight. It was where he had lied through golden syrup afternoons with his head lolled across her back, jaw against her sun-warmed flesh. It was where he pretended he could be the white knight they all knew he would never be. It was where he wore the mantle of general and then king, the crown never quite sitting right upon his poisoned skull.

It was where he shed the lies.

Destroyed his family.

Returned. Returned again. Returned evermore.

It was where he returned now.

His pace is slow as he walks to the border, scarred mouth pulled into a frown that paints his expression dark. He does not need to see the tree to know that the magic had once again seeped from the land. He could only guess at what had caused the tide to ebb. Taking a deep breath, steeling himself for this homecoming, he does not let himself slow. He had failed, again. Broken oaths, forsaken promises.

That he had no say in the matter, had been pulled from this reality against his will, did not matter.

He should have fought harder to say. Should have convinced the whispers to let him stay. He had not been able to break the chains of that prison and had left Heaven alone in his wake.

He did not deserve to come back and serve her again, but, then again, he had never deserved it. He came back not because he wanted to or because he entertained misplaced fantasies of belonging; he came back simply because it was what he was destined to do. It was Atlas’ burden that he was forever to carry. It was her home, and he was chained to it. So he straightens his shoulders, sets his jaw, and walks into the kingdom, gold-flecked eyes washing over the landscape and searching for a familiar face—for anyone.

For the life that must still live here.

MAGNUS

once general. once lord. once king.