you can't feel nothing small (open)

[magnus]

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

There are as few good places as the field for those who are looking for a place to start.

It is brimming with possibility—brimming with potential. It is that quiet thrum of activity that spurs Magnus on, that breathes life into his lungs. It is what brings him back to the field each morning, his golden coat darkened with exertion, no sound except the steady whoosh of air from his flaring nostrils.

Today was no different, the stallion shrugging off the apathy and rage and powerlessness that had come from his imprisonment. The world was not so different from when he had left (a lie, he knew, since it was entirely different—the Gates practically dead, Minette gone). It was just a matter of bowing your head to the yoke and taking it up for one more day. You could fix anything with sweat and will power.

He had to believe it.

His attention is caught by the sheen of gold in her hair, the impatience in her tense muscles. Intrigued, he angles his path toward her, long forelock tangling over his gold-flecked eyes as he approached. “Hello there!” he called, his voice throaty. “How are you doing today?” It wasn’t a play at a question; rather, he was actually curious—actually interested in what brought her to the field this day. Each soul had a different story to tell, and he could tell just by looking at her that she would have one of her own.

“My name is Magnus.”

MAGNUS

once general. once lord. once king.