after the fire drove out the sparrows; any

[magnus]

magnus

howling ghosts, they reappear
in mountains that are stacked with fear

She does not carry his blood, but she is his daughter. She is of his flesh and bone, and he reacts in kind, his eyes turning soft as he watches her approach, joy chasing away the shadows and cobwebs from the corner of his ancient heart. “Amore,” he whispers affectionately, closing the distance between them so that he can pull her close into his broad chest, cheek to her side as he breathes in her scent.

In this moment, this reunion, it is as if no time has passed—the moments and years slipping away to leave nothing but a father reuniting with his daughter. “Let me get a look at you,” he tugs at her forelock as he takes a step back, gold-flecked eyes sparking with his good humor. She has grown, delicate and lovely, and there is enough of her mother in her to make his heart ache. Another ghost. Another that he had not been able to save; another that he had failed. But not Amore. She’d never needed him to save her.

She was utterly and perfectly her own.

“You look wonderful, daughter,” the word catches in his throat, as if reminding him that he has no right to it—no right to claim any relationship with the lovely young woman in front of him. “I am so glad.”

But, before he can even catch his breath, his gaze is caught by another—the pea-fowled mare playing along the edges of his vision. It is impossible to think that he can feel such happiness, his heart bursting in his chest, the tidal waves of relief to see them whole and safe. “Lucrezia,” the words are thick with emotion, with all of the things left unsaid. How much he hated himself for leaving her with the burden of Tephra. For not being there to help shoulder it. For how much he has let her down. Let himself down.

It is a miracle that she hasn’t simply come up and spit in his face, demanding that he leave.

It is a miracle that she stands there, bright and beautiful and always the same.

At her timid question, he swallows his fear and closes the distance between them, embracing her in the same way that he embraced his daughter, pulling her into him and holding her just for a second. “Yes,” the word is heavy with everything that it carries (the weight of his decision, the weight of his guilt), but he says it regardless, committing to something he hadn’t been sure but minutes before. How could he leave? How could he turn from them? If he was needed, in whatever capacity that was, he would stay.

“I’m home,” he says with a crooked smile as he steps back, regarding them both.

“I’m home.”

but you're a king and I'm a lionheart

@[Amorette] @[Lucrezia]