Chapter Text
Near the outskirts of Raven's Roost, just outside of the city, a tall, burly figure is taking a walk. This figure is Magnus Burnsides, and he is on a walk to get away from everyone for a while. Somehow, Magnus has become a hero. It feels both right and wrong, in that strange, staticky way that he can't explain. Being a hero, helping and saving people - that feels right. But it feels wrong, too - wrong, like he doesn't deserve to be hailed as a hero, like failed too many people, too many times, too many places----
Magnus shakes his head, feeling that familiar sensation of losing his thoughts and blanking for a few moments. He shakes it again - he could have sworn he was hearing a baby's cry. Then he crests a hill and realizes that there is a baby crying - in the wreckage of a wagon just off the side of the road. It looks like one or both of the horses got spooked, tried to run, and tumbled off the slightly raised road, pulling the covered wagon with them and causing it to crash. One of them has a broken leg and is breathing heavily, and the other one is laying down next to the first, nickering sadly at it's companion. He wastes no time thinking; Magnus rushes in.
"Hey!" he shouts as he runs. "Are you okay?" He doesn't hear anything, at first, but as he nears the wreck he hears someone moaning. He sighs in relief. He finally reaches the wagon and looks inside. His eyes are drawn to the wailing baby first. The poor child is trapped under a travel crib and clearly in distress, but seems otherwise unharmed. In fact, it looks like the crib landed in a way to protect them. Judging by the intricately carved runes, it was definitely a purposeful feature. Just behind the crib, half-hidden in the shadows of the torn wagon cover, is a very elderly gentleman. His left arm is broken in three places, and his left leg is bent backwards at his knee. He also has a large gash on his head, and Magnus winces in sympathy before he makes his way to both of them. First, he lifts the crib off the baby and holds him close, checking for anything he might have missed at first glance. The child - a he, Magnus thinks - looks fine, but should probably get checked out by a healer sooner than later. As he holds him, the baby calms down from full-blown wailing to small, hiccups sobs that slowly peter out until he falls into and exhausted sleep. Magnus kneels down beside the old man and tries to see what first aid he knows that he can apply. During the rebellion, the most he would do was get the injured out of the fight and to the healers - he didn't know how to fix broken limbs, and the most he knew about large gashes was that the bleeding needed to be stopped ASAP. Magnus quickly rips the sleeves off his shirt, tears one into strips, and folds the other one into a thick pad of cloth. He presses his makeshift bandage firmly onto the gash on the old man's head and ties it tightly with the straps he tore from his other sleeve. The old man coughs - a wet, gurgling cough that indicates a punctured lung - and tries to speak. Magnus shushes him before making him take a drink from his water canteen.The old man coughs again, then speaks in a whisper-soft voice. Magnus bends down to listen.
"-cDonald, and this is my grandson Angus McDonald. Please, take care of him. I know I am dying. I beg of you, take care of Angus. If you cannot care for him, find him a good home." He coughs for several minutes, while Magnus does his best to make him comfortable. He hates this. He hates watching people die in front of him, and he hates it even more when there's nothing he can do. Magnus looks Mr. McDonald in the eye, and he gives his solemn promise that Angus would be cared for. This brings a soft smile to the old man's face, and he gestures towards a chest in the corner. He tries to talk again, but doesn't seem to be able to. Magnus reaches for the chest and sets it down next to them. The old man reaches a shakey hand into his pocket and pulls out a key. He presses the key into Magnus' hand, and Magnus instinctively curls his fingers around it. "Thank you," Mr. McDonald coughs, "for finding us."
"I'm sorry I wasn't here sooner," Mangus says with tears in his eyes and a hot lump in his throat. "I might have been able to- to do- to do- something--!" He cuts himself off when he feels a cold hand on his leg. No words are said, but Magnus knows that the old man doesn't blame him. With one last fond look at Angus, Mr. McDonald passes away into the Astral Plane. Magnus bows his head in respect, then looks at the sleeping baby in his arms. He's so small, so fragile-looking, and Magnus suddenly feels very aware of how large his hands and arms are. He gently sets Angus down on the magled crib cushion, then rips and ties one of the blankets to make a sling. The other one he uses to swaddle Angus before tucking him away. With his hands now free, he grabs the chest, puts it outside, and begins his search for something, anything else he can take for Angus to have in the future.
He finds a sack of gold, silver, and copper pieces; several broken sets of dishes; a complete set of silverware; a broken crate of various baby supplies (thank goodness); several sets of clothes; broken barrels, sacks, and crates of food and water; and a few photos of Angus and his family. Magnus takes the money, silverware, baby supplies, some of the clothes, and the the pictures. He uses a large section of the wagon's cover to create a make-shift sack for carrying everything. When he has everything gathered and he steps outside of the remains of the wagon, he stares at the wreck and promises to come back so Mr. McDonald can have a proper burial. He doesn't have time to do anything now, because he already took so much time searching the wagon, but once Angus is taken care of he'll bring a team of people back to take care of the body and the rest of the wreckage.
Turning his attention to the horses, Magnus notes that the one with the broken leg has died. He feels a guilty sense of relief at that - he hates that the poor thing had to die, but he knows that if it hadn't already, he would have had to put the it out of it's misery himself. The other one has it's head down but otherwise seems completely fine. Magnus convinces the horse - a she, he notes - to get up, gives her as much water as he can from his canteen, and slings the makeshift canvas sack over her back before hoisting himself up onto her back. She doesn't have a saddle, much less stirrups, so he uses part of the wagon to boost himself high enough to make his way onto her bare back. Clicking his tongue softly and gently nudging her with his heels, he steers her towards Raven's Roost and beings the short, solemn journey home.
Julia won't mind that he's bringing hime a couple of strays - after all, she brought him into her life just fine.