dear wilderness, be at your best; magnus and isle

[magnus]

but she's bringin' the moon and stars to me -

Each time he watches one of his children take their first breath, it feels like the first time—the only time. He is endlessly enamored with their bright eyes, the softness of their noses, the way that they blink away the darkness and into the glittering light of this new world. He is fascinated with the delicacy of their limbs and soft smiles and the eager way that they throw themselves into learning, balancing and fighting for some semblance of independence even from the beginning. It is a constant source of joy for him.

Still—even so—this is different.

He can feel it in his chest, in his bones, and he settles into the warmth of it. It is a rush of protectiveness and the fragile beauty of a fresh start that he sees every time that he looks into Isle’s eyes. It is a joy of a new family that does nothing to detract from the love that he carries for all of his children; the same way that he knows this newest addition will add to Isle’s love for her family and never subtract from it.

Yet there is balance in his joy. There is fear, worry, an anxiety that darkens his gold-flecked eyes.

He remains close when Isle begins to enter into the beginning of it, and he remains close. Winter does not touch Tephra the way that it ravages the rest of Beqanna, but he still flares warmer in her presence, letting the sun that now rests in his lungs burn outward—keeping her comfortable as she brings forth life.

When she arrives in a tangle of limbs and smiles and soft bleats, his heart nearly explodes in his chest. He angles his heavy-jawed head to Isle, pressing a dozen kisses to her brow, her poll, her elegant curve of neck. He grins down at them, his face haloed by the subtle summer glow, stepping back only so that Isle can lift herself and come to tuck into his side. When she leans over to kiss at the corner of his mouth, whispering, it surprises a laugh out of him, the chuckle warm and appreciative as he glances down.

He watches with the pride of a first father as she fights for her feet, the stubbornness and the strength so apparent. He watches as she stumbles into them, as she finds her balance, and as she makes her way down to milk and then tears his eyes away to study Isle. Another laugh, the white of his teeth bright against the ink of his lips. “I happen to love wild girls,” he says, leaning to whisper into the dark of her ear.

“Just as much as I love their wild mother,” a confession that feels as natural as rain.

- Magnus