I welcome the fire as I punish the love; any

[magnus]

I wanna give you wild love, the kind that never slows down
I wanna take you high up let our hearts be the only sound

Demons chase him tonight.

He feels them on his heels, biting his ankles, rising up his throat. It wakes him from a fitful slumber, turning gold eyes to the horizon. He doesn’t hesitate to shake the dust from his coat, finding the quietest way to the border. He does his best to look for those who call Tephra home, checking on those who find slumber in the open, angling his path wide to do a sweep of the border before pointing to the path that takes him to the forest. He recognizes the way that will take him to the field, but it is unlikely that any would be seeking company there in the dead of night and, truthfully, he wasn’t sure he was in a mindset to be proper company now. Not with nightmares swelling his chest and fury trailing closely behind it.

It wasn’t fair to have to fight these fights every evening.

It wasn’t fair to see the mirage of their faces shimmering before him.

It wasn’t fair.

He wants to slam fists against table, against jaw. He wants to taste the copper in the back of his mouth, the split of flesh and cracking of bone a welcome symphony to a world made chaotic in silence. 

Instead, he grunts and pushes off the summer soil, his body welcoming the ache of any physical exertion.

He doesn’t bother to pace himself. He doesn’t bother to pay mind to the path before him. He trusts in his own instincts to guide him as he enters into the thickest parts of the forest, the trees reminding him of the thick vegetation that he called home in the jungle. He is surefooted as he races through them, the mulch and the leaves crackling behind the worn edges of his hooves, his path only illuminated by the milky light of the moon as it splatters through the leaves. His breathing is rhythmic, nostrils flaring pink against the inky of his nose, the sound of leg striking ground steady in the relative quiet of the forest.

He’s not sure how long he runs.

He’s not sure how long he’s alone.

He just knows when he stops, finally, his coat has darkened to crushed gold, his lungs burn, his legs ache, and the demons—the ghosts of his past—still catch up to him and he can only hang his head and sigh.

I wanna go where the lights burn low and you're only mine