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Magnus' Dream

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Magnus blinked as he woke up in a large, round room. A throne room. His throne room. Or it had been. Anger curled inside his stomach, hot and thick, as he thought about how long it had been since he had sat on the throne that stood before him. He walked forwards to it, the sound of his footsteps echoing off the stone walls of the chamber. He reached out a scarred hand, to brush his fingers over the worn wood. There was something about it that was comforting, and with a hum, he turned around to settle himself into the large chair. Yes, this felt right . He sighed as he leaned back, the velvet-covered padding cushioning his back.

Briefly, he closed his eyes, and when he reopened them, there was a weight settled around his shoulders. Curiously, he brought his hands up to inspect what it was, and his fingers were met with the soft pelt of a wolf. He blinked when another weight settled on top of his head, but before he could lift his hands to inspect what it was, his hands were filled; in his left, he held his old axe, of which the blade gleamed in the low light of the room, and in his right, he held a vial of blood, the glass warm against his palm.

He stood, and made his way to the large mirrors that lined a portion of the curved stone walls. At first, he was met with the reflection of Mathias, the man he has inspired to be for the last few decades, ever since he had been pushed down the heap. But slowly, Mathias morphed until Magnus was looking at himself. A smirk spread across his face as he took himself in. Upon his head was a crown - gold, laden with rubies as red as the blood he held in his hand. The pelt was the start of a cloak; the same thick velvet that was used on the throne fanned out regally behind him. For a long moment, he just looked at himself. This was where he deserved to be, instead of thought as weak and useless, replaced for his mirror by the man he had given everything too!

There was a sharp crack , as in his anger, he had gripped the vial of blood too tightly and shattered it in his hold. He looked down at his now bloody hand. Shards of glass pierced through his skin, but the throbbing pain only made him laugh. He leaned his axe into his shoulder, so he had free use of that hand to pick out the bigger pieces. He simply dropped them on the floor, little shards of bloody glass gathering at his feet, reminiscent of the all the bodies, bloody and burnt, that he had to his name. When he had the majority of the glass out of his hand, he took up his axe again, and looked at himself once more in the mirror. The usual warm bluish-purple of his eyes had been replaced with a vivid red, and with a maniacal grin, he wiped his bloody palm across his face, smearing the warm liquid across his skin. What covered his lips he licked off, before he began to lick what remained on his hand off. The tip of his tongue dipped into the wounds from the glass, and worked between his fingers to get every last drop. When his hand was clean, he let it drop to his side, and looked at himself again.

If only Loki was here to see him, back in his place, the King .

He sniffled. There was no point in standing around and admiring himself, when he could be showing people he was back to take his place! With that, he turned, and left the throne room. He didn't look at anyone he passed, but it made him grin as they quickly moved out of the way for him. He let his feet take him where they pleased, and soon ended up outside his old room. He let himself inside, shutting the door behind him. Upon his bed was Mathias, still injured from the little hunt Loki and Tapio had held. He hummed quietly as he looked over him.

"Look at you now," he breathed. "Loki thought you'd be so much better than me and you here, stuck in bed!" His voice grew in volume rapidly, before he calmed himself again. He leaned his axe up against the wall, and sat down on the bedside. "I see they were kind enough to not aim for your heart." He tapped Mathias' bare chest, though he received no reply - the other Dane was still healing from said injury. He hummed, before he pressed his forefinger down against the new, thin skin. A little pressure and he reopened the wound, pushing his finger down into the bullet hole.  

"Don't worry," he said sweetly, as he wriggled his finger slightly. Blood squelched out around the opening. "You'll get to return to your precious Emil. There's no need for you in this world, anyway. There can only be one King, and that's me ."