Chapter Text
In another world, another life, Magnus Burnsides is not saved from the forest’s call. In another world, Magnus Burnsides is a wood elf.
The elf does not let go of his hand as they traverse the winding forest, shushing him softly when he begins to cry. Already, he can feel the tingle of magic in his bones, forcing his past life out of his mind. He forgets the way home a mile in. He forgets his mother's smile, his father's calloused hands, by the second mile.
When they reach the clearing, Magnus Burnsides no longer exists. They call him Morko’elle, little bear, in their strange tongue, now more familiar than common to his ears. They give him an axe, but tell him to never lift it against the forest, for the forest would shelter him and willingly give up wood for him to work.
Every night, trapped inside the hollow bark of an ancient tree, Morko’elle would curl up with his siblings and sob for a life he could no longer remember, cry away the pain of his limbs elongating with magic and his ears pointing upwards. Even as he grew older, more elven, the boy would find his way to the new children and cry with them.
Although it felt only like a few years, Morko’elle had remained in the forest for a hundred years. He clung to every memory of his past life, as faded they may be. In a moment of cleverness, the human boy Magnus had hidden a switchblade on his person, his grandfather's name (and, by extension, his own) carved into the hilt. As he made his way out the forest that had become his home, he whispered the name like a prayer, cementing his adult name to the world.
Magnus Burnsides may have been dead in body, but never in spirit.
“Magnus, huh?” says Taako, flopping into the seat next to him, watching the other elf whittle away at a duck. “Never met an elf with a human name.”
“I'm not an elf,” he declares automatically.
“And I'm not the most gorgeous being on this ship,” Taako snarks, flicking Magnus’ ear and smiling wide when it twitches in response. “Lulu and I are taken when we were five.”
Magnus pauses, looking down at the creature in his hands. “Nine,” he whispers, willing the tears from his eyes. “Mom took me when I was nine.”
Fuck, he's crying. He hasn't thought of the elf in years, but she was the only image that came into his mind whenever he tried to think of his real mother.
“Whoa, hey, it's okay, big guy. I'll whip you up something nice, and we can forget all about elf practice, alright?”
Magnus sniffs and smiles. “Elf practice?”
“Yeah! It's what me and Lup call it; makes it easier to swallow.”
Elf practice. Yeah, that did make it easier to swallow…