"But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura
YOU CAN STAND ME UP AT THE GATES OF HELL, BUT I WON'T BACK DOWN.
Sweat begins to bead heavily along his marred pelt, pooling along the slope of his broad spine and giving him little reprieve from the harsh, blinding light of the unforgiving sun. A mass of bone and sinewy muscle, he is a force to be reckoned with, but the heavy humidity of day weighs on him with a might all its own. His strong, powerful legs push him forward and soon he finds a long forgotten, but old and familiar weeping willow, its delicate draping branches caressing his damp skin as he breaches its boundary, shielding himself from the warmest part of the afternoon. His matted tresses press tightly against his massive, thick neck as he cranes to nip just beyond his shoulder, where a gnat has presumably chosen his damp flesh to rest.
Agitated, a long and weary sigh escapes the large expanse of his lungs, and his heavy lashes cover his dark red eyes as he breathes slowly, savoring the shade that soothes him now. His puckered pink scars gleam gently beneath his trickling sweat, and his tendons shift and roll beneath his dreary sable pelt. It is not often that he moves beyond the border of his dwelling, which consoles him with her icy embrace with each frost-encrusted morning, but something has drawn him out on such a moist and uncomfortable day. It is too easy to grow complacent without the occasional venture beyond one's own comfort zone, and he has overtly violated every fiber of his being by engulfing himself in such disconcerting humidity.
Soon, a hefty scent wafts and envelopes him, reminding him that though such an unpleasant day may be nearly torturous for himself, it might be alluring to another - and such is the case as his darkened gaze opens to observe another who has sought the very same refuge he has. Painted a stark gold, not too dissimilar to the wavering wheat that so tenderly lapped against his hock as he descended into the plain, with markings of coal, he is somehow familiar - and yet altogether, a stranger. He had seen many come and go in his years (having lived over a century, time is somehow lost on him at times) and he knows that it must simply in his head.
His voice crackles as it grinds against his esophogus from disuse, but amusement lines his tone. "Pleasant day, is it not? I'm afraid I am not used to such weather; humidity is not my forte." He pauses, observing the other carefully, wary of any wayward intentions. "I am Offspring. And you are?"
you and I both know that the house is haunted and you and I both know that the ghost is me
Magnus’ age was a mystery—even to him. He had been youthful during his first life. Not young, not without his scars and weathered parts of his coat, but youthful. He had not peaked yet; he was instead well-muscled and confident in his body as only age can teach you. He was handsome and unmarked by silver just yet—maintaining the golden sheen of his mother. It was a comfortable and stable age.
But then life had been taken from him. Suddenly. Violently.
And decades had passed with him buried in saltwater.
Magic had eventually brought him back to a land both familiar and alien—one that still smelled of his panther father in his places, but one with faces he did not remember. It had been a lonely feeling at first, to wander places he had once wandered with her alone. To wander their usual haunts knowing she was still there, trapped by seaweed and brine. It had left him haunted, and he had not thought he’d ever escape it.
But purpose had eventually flooded his veins. He had turned his mind toward the Gates, knowing that she would want him to work for it as he had worked for her in life. So he had. He had recruited, and worked, and helped Mast however he could. He had prepared for war, working with whatever troops he could muster, knowing he would face his father and half-brother when war was to come but preparing anyway.
Then life had been taken from him again—death, but not quite. He had been pulled into a magic bubble, whispers telling him it was for his good, for the greater good; his absence was needed in a way that the whispers were never quite ready to tell him about. It had been infuriating to know that wars were being waged, that Minette and his new child were left to themselves. He had hurled himself against invisible chains. He had fought until he should have been bloody, but instead was untouched. Suspended. Alone.
Finally, whatever danger that had spooked the whispers was gone, and he was freed. Released back into Beqanna to deal with the aftermath. He knew in his heart that his absence could not be helped, but it did not stop the guilt from weighing on him. He knew the current residents of the Gates, as few as they may be, viewed him as a deserter and he did not have it in his heart to tell them the truth. What good would it do? It would not change the fact that he had not been there when it had mattered most.
He may not have wanted it, but he was still a deserter.
So his heart was heavy as he walked into the meadow, his mouth pulled into a heavy frown. He had the body of a youthful stallion, but the mind of the elderly—and today, he felt the gravity of the decades that had passed since his birth. He was so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he did not see the other stallion approach him. It wasn’t until he heard the husky, bemused voice that he lifted his heavy-jawed head.
The stranger was black as night—as black as the majority of his family; Atrox marked his own more often than not. Magnus was one of the few to escape his father’s stamping. He was as gold as sunshine, the color deepened and darkened with the sweat from the humidity. “I prefer dry myself,” he responded, his own voice rattling from his chest, deep and throaty. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Offspring.”
His gold-flecked gaze studied the other—taking in the heavy build. Magnus was built for battle, but not in the same way. Where Offspring was thick and sinewy with muscle, Magnus was stockier. He was not short, but not particularly tall—wide in the chest and heavy in the jaw. He was not lean, but not large. It was a happy medium that he had learned to wield well over time. “The name is Magnus.”
YOU CAN STAND ME UP AT THE GATES OF HELL, BUT I WON'T BACK DOWN.
Life had been a constant onslaught of distress, heartbreak and devastation - each and every time his body, heart and mind began to mend, it would yet again unfurl, unraveling at the seams and leaving him an empty husk festering in his own desperation. The never-ending cycle of loss and and rebirth eventually grew to be too much to bear, and with an aching heart, he pushed himself away from all he had ever known. Loved ones were forgotten, left to disintegrate into ashes by the forceful hand of time, and his memories were buried to the very deepest, darkest recesses of his mind.
There, he could not suffer their wrath - there, he could be numb.
The puckered pink scars that litter his behemoth body are not from battle alone, though many along his rib cage and flank told the tale of a fierce warrior - but others told a darker tale, one of dismal depression and hopelessness. Distraught by the many empty, lonely years he had spent wandering aimlessly, without love, without indulging in even the slightest interaction (he could not bear to lose another he loved to the harsh hand of time, not again), he was driven to madness. Having thrown himself into the ocean more times than he could possibly attempt to count - lunging off of steep cliffs, allowing starvation to settle in and for his body to grow sallow and weak, leaving himself for the prowling vultures overhead - none of it was ever a fruitful end.
Hard-wired to live an eternity, an eternity he would live. Soon, he was forced to not only accept, but to understand that he would never see the end of his days. It had been a painful pill to swallow
It had taken time, but he eventually surrendered to his own insatiable need for affection, for communication, for community. The icy borders had given him shelter, and in turn, he had fought to give it life. The years had gone by, but now he had much to focus his mind on. The lives of many depended on him now. He did not often let his mind sift through his darker days, determined to leave their sooty shadow behind him, long forgotten and buried beneath a new vigor for life. He knew eventually he would have to face it again - the loss of his sweet Isle, the death of his children - his grandchildren, while he remained young and vibrant - but he could not simply wait for the clock to tick away.
Not this time.
His breath his warm across his own sweat-dampened lips, his dark eyes peering at the other as he takes in his rather stocky, broad build. Though dissimilar, there was still a strength exuding from him - a certain air of confidence that he had little doubt came with the wisdom of age, much like his own. Perhaps the familiarity had come from a lifetime ago. Perhaps he had seen him, or known of him, in a different time or place. His lungs heave with another long sigh as the stagnant humidity washes over him once more, but the gentle breeze keeps his restlessness at bay. At least, for now. A low, rumbling chuckle rouses from his throat as he casts a glance out towards the golden plain.
"Magnus. Familiar, somehow - though I can't say that I can place it. You seem better built for this weather than I, I dare say." A snort. His eye moves to study him again, but the tension has long since gone away. "I come from the Tundra, and I am not sure why I chose today of all days to venture out. A poor decision on my part. Where are you from?"
we carry these things inside that no one else can see they hold us down like anchors; they drown us out at sea
Perhaps the duo was not so different after all. Magnus’ own life was often caught in the cyclical trap of despair and loss. His, however, was often rooted in guilt. It was the emotion that he knew best—the emotion that spread throughout his heart and webbed over his very being. Guilt for not being there to save his parents. Guilt for serving a kingdom that he was ill-suited to serve. Guilt for abandoning them. Guilt for not being able to save them. Guilt for living when she did not. Guilt. It was tied to his core. It dragged him down each morning, stealing the breath from his lungs so that he sometimes woke gasping for air.
Today, he wore the weight lightly; it was a burden he knew well and was long accustomed to. It teased the edges of his vision but could be seen little elsewhere. It faded even more as Magnus gave the full of his attention to the behemoth before him, indulging his curiosity in the conversation. “My name is one that has long been lost to time—often more than once.” There was a bitter edge to Magnus’ smile, although the bitterness was not tied to the loss of his name. Magnus never cared much for others knowing who he was and what he had done in life. It was, instead, the same bitterness as the guilt. The memory of his life.
He shook his head and the smile softened a little. “Aye, my coat is more suitable for the heat.” He glanced back at his sweat-slicked flesh. “Being raised in the jungle will do that to you—but it has been years since I have spent much time in the humidity. I fear I have lost any acclimation I once had.” He snorted when he heard where the black stallion hailed from. “And you from the Tundra. It is a small wonder that your flesh has not simply melted from your bones.” His lips curved into a crooked smile—genuine and open.
“I am from the Gates. It is a touch cooler there, but cannot hold a candle to the cold of your home.”
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