they drown us out at sea; any

[magnus]

we carry these things inside that no one else can see
they hold us down like anchors; they drown us out at sea

It had been years, decades perhaps, since Magnus had felt this lost. Despair seeped into his veins, slowing his rage into something darker, something deeper. His head hung heavy, the winter air biting at him. The kingdom meeting played out before his eyes, again and again. The anger and misunderstanding and the pure confusion—the fear for the kingdom’s future. Then again when Zeik had exiled Ellyse. He had been blinded by his own fury; he had given into it, falling back and drowning in the raging tides of it.

With each deep breath, he fought for an inch of control. He wrestled with it internally, sweat dampening his coat further, steam rising. When the first mare approached, he looked up, eyes fever bright. She looked familiar but he had no name for her. For a moment, he studied her, furious with himself for not knowing why he knew her—why he could not place her. Finally, he nodded at her. “Hello,” he said quietly, the word whiskey in his mouth before he looked down again. She was not saying anything, and he did not feel the need to fill in the spaces of a conversation on his own. Not when he was this exhausted.

Then, the other materialized near them. Magnus raised his battle-weary gaze up and looked at the angel-stallion. He bristled slightly at the intrusive questions but shrugged the bluntness off. “Politics,” he spit out with venom before he shook his head, the ink of his tangled mane falling down both sides of his thick neck. “The Gates is under new leadership,” the word tasted bitter. “Although that is not quite the right word for it. One of his first acts was to ignore his fellow kingdom’s questions of his worthiness and then exile one who had been opposed to it.” It stung still and he found he could not dive further into it.

He could not bring himself to detail the truth of it: that Zeik had been new to the kingdom and claimed the throne having barely lifted for Heaven. That Zeik had brushed off the kingdom mate’s concerns. That he had insulted them, belittled their worries, and then exiled one who had verbally spoke out. Magnus shifted uncomfortably. He had no idea where Ellyse had gone, if Sahm was still there trying to pick up the pieces. He had no way of knowing if Kokachin was settling down, if Felinae was happy, if Cerva was feeling welcomed, if Akkadian had come to check in, if Camelia had been comforted after finding the tree. Every piece of his heart, which had so long been tangled in and tied to the Gates was shattered in his breast.

His next breath rattled in his lungs and he felt his muscles shake. The feeling of failure seeped through his veins, and he closed his eyes for a second. He shouldn’t have left. He should have done something. He should have battened down his own feelings on the situations, grit his teeth, and just worked behind the scenes for the Gates. Still, some piece of him knew that he did the right thing. Staying would have meant that he endorsed Zeik’s actions; it would have meant throwing his weight behind the decisions he made.

The mare who comes next stires something in Magnus so that he straightens, eyes locking on her, still the color of a bruise, horns curving dangerously, wickedly, from her face. He had met her here once, had seen her as a mirror. They dealt with it differently, but they were made of the same darkness; they battled the same demons. It was in their blood to rage against fate, to slam bloodied fists against the ground. “Malis,” he repeated softly, her name slipping easily from his tongue. “Of the Chamber.” Once upon a time, he had been Lord there, had worn his internal darkness like a cloak. The dark, furious prince of the Chamber and the Jungle. It had been easy to wield that side of him like a weapon. It had been easy to give into it.

He had never thought he would have tamed that beast; he did not think it possible. Until he had met Joelle and everything had changed. She had softened him, and he had fought against his nature until he had gained control. Eventually that control had weathered, frayed, snapped, but he had never stopped trying. Looking at Malis, he wondered if it was time to finally stop. To recognize that he was, and never would, be good enough for the Gates. If Bond was still here, he would not stayed there. He would never have left.

The thought cut at him bitterly.

His thought process was interrupted by the presence of the fourth, and seemingly final, recruiter. Anger poured into him. He had entrusted the Gates to Nymphetamine, only to have that trust broken. “How could I forget,” his voice was cold. “It is not every day that you meet a man with two faces.” He locked gazes with the other, staying silent for a moment. It would be easy to give into the black tug of rage, but Magnus knew it would not serve any end, although the pleasure of release was tempting enough.

Finally, with a snort, he dismissed Nymphetamine, shaking his head and turning his attention to the other three. “My name is Magnus,” he finally offered, although it felt unnecessary. Typhon seemed to know where he was from, Malis certainly knew him, and the first mare had still said nothing. But Magnus was a creature of habit and it was hard to break the desire to remain at least a little polite. “I supposed I am looking for something,” he felt quiet, quelling the internal shame and anger and regret, “but I don’t know what that is.” Something diverting enough to forget the pain splitting apart his chest.

Something loud enough to quiet the screaming in his veins.

magnus