As she explains, he begins to feel his comprehension growing, and he nods in understanding. “I think that I understand,” he offers before he laughs lightly, shaking his golden head. “Although most likely only a small fraction of it. I understand magic but have never known it intimately—not like so many of you.” He was, instead, a simple stallion of the salt and the earth. He did not command elements or play with the fabrics of fate between his fingers; he could not pull the heavens down, dive into minds as one might dive into the ocean. He could not transform his body, heal his wounds, or even change the color of his coat.
He was one of the last ones—the normal ones. The ones not affected so personally by Beqanna pulling back her gifts because he had no gifts to give. He had never resented his lack of gifts though. Even when mast had given him wings for those years, they had fit him awkwardly. He had eventually gotten a hang of the eagle feathers, finding them a useful tool in patrolling the border, looking after Minette, and shortening the trip from kingdom to field, but they had never been a part of him—not really. So when he had awoken from that magic bubble and they had dissolved from his shoulders, he had not missed them.
“I am sorry to hear about him though. I hope you can find your way back to him.”
He did not pry any further though, knowing that such subjects were often ripe with emotion and hurt. He wanted to make himself available should she want to talk, but not to the point of causing discomfort.
“Physical exertion had always been a familiar companion of mine—and the tired that follows, as well.” He knew that his coat was darkened with sweat that his nostrils still flared slightly, but it was a good, honest tired. One that rung in his bones as a way of telling him that he had done well. “And it is a welcome ache in my bones if it means I have been able to help at least one soul today.”
magnus
![[Image: gqYjsHr.png]](https://i.postimg.cc/KjqNDKxc/gqYjsHr.png)