Chapter Text
It comes like a flash flood through the Shadow World; spoken in hushed words between Downworlders and Shadowhunters alike, over and over again, the words savoured on their tongues, each word a delectable delicacy, a fresh plum plucked ripe from the tree. It seeps into the brickwork of every establishment he’s ever patronised, bleeds into the Brooklyn scene, so that no one is unaware of what has unfolded, of the consequences of his actions, of the shift in the atmosphere. When he closes his eyes, the whispers curl around his ear, weed their way into his brain.
Magnus Bane is powerless.
For centuries, Magnus Bane has been synonymous with Power. The way that power manifested varied entirely based on how one came to know Magnus. In Warlock society, his political prowess was second to none, especially in North America, but he had sway beyond the continent. He had been there when the first Accords were signed, been on the front lines of every Downworld war in recent memory and rumoured to have toppled regimes – Shadow and mundane. He had become High Warlock for a reason; when the outgoing warlock retired, the vote to make him incumbent was nearly unanimous, for he had established himself amongst his community well, and it was no secret how badly he wanted it.
It was also no secret that his skillset far exceeded anyone else in the country. Every Warlock had a unique signature in their warding, but not many Warlocks could boast that they had created new spells. Some could lay claim to minor amendments, making a spell more efficient, or altering an existing framework to suit a new purpose; very few could say that they had invented new magic altogether. When a swirling mass of golden light had appeared in the middle of the International Warlock Convention, hosted in Beijing that year, no one had moved. Not even the most seasoned among them, whose tenure was well over a millennium. No one understood what they were looking at until Magnus had stepped through, smoothed down the lines of his waistcoat that had become wrinkled, and flicked his wrist to close the portal. He’d barely gotten a moment to himself for months after that, everyone and their cousin desperate to know how he had done it, unable to fathom how he had not only managed to tear a hole in the fabric of space, but control it, and then walk through it unharmed. It was unheard of, and with only a few hundred years under his belt at that point, the way people said his name was forever changed.
Magnus Bane: Inventor of the Portal.
Young and egocentric as he was, Magnus had devoured the praise, let it soothe the aches and pains of his adolescence. Suffice to say, when he was challenged thereafter, he was coarser and more dismissive than he needed to be, even if his opponent deserved it. Truth is, magical aptitude was just another sheet of steel in his fortified wall to the outside world. His favourable status amongst Warlocks was bolstered by his willingness to share the spell, but also his methodology and workings, the errors he had made, the ways it almost went wrong. Warlocks are an insular people, and much of their history and knowledge is squirrelled away in the Spiral Labyrinth, but Magnus had wasted no time in writing papers and user guidance, and distributing it far and wide, and just like that, he had revolutionised the whole Shadow World, thrust them into a developmental revolution.
People lost their lives trying to make changes to his portal spell; of course, there were variations of everything – if you wanted to summon an item from the other side of the world, you could use the Rayotter method, or for more skilled magic wielders, the Woodmar-Kim method was a much more efficient spell. Magnus had stressed the time and effort that went into creating a stable portal spell, but there were always going to be people who believed that they could do it better.
People stepped through their tape and glue creations and were never seen again.
The small spate of disappearances had weighed heavy on his soul, and so he coined the term Limbo; the enemy needs a name, so people know who or what to fear. He had been more insistent then about the dangers of tampering with his spell, and despite hot tempered objections at the time, centuries later, the portal remains unchanged.
There were those who were threatened by him, rightfully so, and sought to destroy the reputation that he was crafting or exceed it altogether. Jealous Warlocks had dug their greedy fingers into his life, dragging up every misgiving and wrongdoing, waving it around like proof that he was not a man to be revered. Magnus paid them no mind; they were small time and young, not yet aware that there wasn’t an immortal among them who hadn’t done something atrocious in the course of their long lives.
But then there was Lorenzo.
Magnus had built of a picture of the man in his mind, long before he ever met him, collated from anecdotes and passing comments from other Warlocks who had seemingly been graced by his presence. Lorenzo was the son of Spanish aristocrats – illegitimate, of course, though neither Lorenzo nor who he assumed to be his father knew it at the time. Regardless, he had grown up as cherished as his families’ wealth and wares. He was needless, wantless, thankless, and imbued with magical powers to boot, which his family viewed as a blessing bestowed on them by God; it was the Siglo de Oro after all, and Spain had never felt such righteous faith. Like all Warlock’s do, though some luckily later than others, Lorenzo would come to learn that there was nothing blessed about his conception, that he was one of thousands of bastard demon children, but from the outside looking in, Lorenzo took that in stride.
The first time Magnus heard his name was when he was in London, in the 1800s; apparently, a Warlock just shy of his 200th year had been making some waves in the way young Warlock’s usually do: throwing opulent parties and being far too blasé with their magic in front of mundanes. When Magnus had caught wind of it and informed Ragnor – the High Warlock of London at the time – he didn’t know he was making an enemy for life. Lorenzo was floating from party to party, uncaring and indifferent as to the shifting politics between the Downworld and Alicante. With one unofficial comment to a friend, Magnus had given Lorenzo the one thing he had never had: purpose.
The circle of people who knew of Magnus’ true parentage were few and far between. It was not information Magnus gave freely, even to friends, but those who did know had promised to keep their mouths shut. He still doesn’t know how Lorenzo found out, or how he even knew what to look for, but Magnus had known those who summoned lesser demons for nothing more than information exchanges on their enemies. Or maybe it was someone Magnus trusted, who had let it slip, betrayed his trust - inadvertently or not. It wouldn’t have been the first time.
Magnus Bane: Asmodeous’ son.
Magnus couldn’t get out of London fast enough. Suddenly his grasp of magic was no longer impressive, a testament to his proclivity and impressive knowledgebase, but a preternatural propensity for manipulation. To other Warlocks, to his community, he became unnatural, like an athlete taking performance enhancing drugs. Not only had he cheated, but he’d used dark magic to do it.
Never mind that none of it was true, Lorenzo had tied the names Magnus Bane and Asmodeous together indefinitely, and now, every Warlock in the city knew it. It’s nothing short of a miracle that it never made it back to the Shadowhunters.
Prague was next, but the whispers followed him there too. Paris as well. He left Europe after that; the number of clients was dwindling, and the type of clients he was getting suffered too. People didn’t want his brain anymore; they wanted his power. They wanted to see the fire from his fingertips, wanted to see what the son of the most feared Prince of Hell would charge to strike down their enemies. He started over, and then started over again, and again and again, in Helsinki, Tunis, Kingston, Tokyo - any place that he could get to.
His life was split between outrunning a reputation that had been unceremoniously thrust upon him, and dealing with distrustful Warlocks in places he’d never been to before who were wary of him because a reputation was something he lacked. He felt as if he’d started to age again in that tumultuous period, and he knew he could not continue. Just because he couldn’t detach from Asmodeous’ legacy, it didn’t mean he had to live in his shadow.
So, he set up shop in New York, and there, he made sure everyone knew exactly who he was.
The Warlocks who feared him came to know him as a dealer in all things Shadow World: Lizard tails? He had them! Dragon Scales? Absolutely! Anything and everything a Warlock might need for a potion, incantation or enchantment, Magus had at the ready – for a reasonable price. He inserted himself into the community, unflinching at the sideways glances and the murmurs when he entered a room, and to the Warlocks who didn’t know him, he made sure they understood. At any party he threw, he made sure his magic was on display, unmissable in its aura. He would get everyone’s attention, and then with sweeping gesture and a snap of his fingers, the room would flood with cool, blue magic, and all of a sudden the venue would now be overlooking the Pyramids of Giza.
Even if they all pretended it was just a party trick, people knew what it meant. What he was capable of. What he could do with just the flick of his wrist.
He spoke out against Alicante, petitioned them when some fanatic called Valentine started to rear his head. He warned people, told them that the Circle was not to be underestimated. Many took him at his word and left, and when the uprising came, he offered his home not just to Warlocks, but to all Downworlders who stayed behind, even if they had dismissed Magnus’ earlier warnings, never once uttering I told you so. He became an ally. A leader.
Magnus Bane: High Warlock of Brooklyn
Those were the years when he finally felt like he was being seen for who he was. He didn’t feel other. The Downworld looked to him for guidance, the Shadowhunters came to him for protection and lessons in the history that The Academy never taught. Magnus’ power was a cold hard fact, and people cared little about it, because they knew he was their ally. Their protector.
Magnus can’t help but feel he’s let them down a little. He was heartbroken when he’d made the deal with the Seelie Queen, and that one mistake had cost him the best job he’s ever had. Maybe he’s still bitter at the lack of graciousness on the part of the Warlock Council, but then again, he had refused to beg to keep his job. Perhaps if he had, he would still be High Warlock. It doesn’t really matter, he certainly would’ve had to resign now. Lorenzo would’ve gotten his way after all.
Magnus didn’t let the dismissal slow him down. He refocused. Warlocks still appealed to him for resources and his abilities. Lorenzo was new to the job, and had not yet proven his trustworthiness – still hasn’t - and Magnus has never been able to turn away a wet dog. It certainly worsened his favour with the other Warlock, but Magnus didn’t care to repair the relationship. At that time, there was nothing Lorenzo could do for him that Magnus couldn’t do for himself, and he was beyond asking permission.
His pride caused him to dismiss diplomacy, and subsequently, Lorenzo enforced that No one works with Magnus rule. His emotions have always gotten the better of him – why else would he have been so stupid, as to provide an out-of-love-elixir to a stranger who spun a tale about a lovesick soldier? Magnus couldn’t help but draw comparisons, exactly as she had wanted him to do.
So Jace suffered, and Alec suffered, and he has no magic and Clary is dead.
Magnus feels the whiskey burn on the way down. Hunter’s Moon was closer, but he couldn’t go there; that would certainly make its way back to Alec, and Magnus has done everything he can to make out to his boyfriend like he’s been coping this past week. A nameless bartender pours him his third glass when he raises a finger. It’s almost like magic; he lifts his finger, his glass is filled. Magus laughs at the idea and has to catch himself before it turns into a sob. Two drinks in and he’s already beside himself – apparently his tolerance was magical as well. Every thought he has comes back to that now. Without magic, who is Magnus Bane?
The question gets stuck in his brain, drowning the treacle trap of his self-pity. He looks up at the clock behind the bar. Alec will should be back from patrol in an hour, and Magnus should be in the loft when he gets there. Afterall, where else has he got to be?
He pulls his phone out of his pocket to check to see if he’s missed any messages. He put it on silent when he arrived, because he didn’t want to be disturbed. Naïve, he realised: no one has any reason to contact him anymore. An insidious part of him is angry at the Shadowhunters, who haven’t spoken a world to him since the night Clary died. It’s selfish he knows, Jace has just lost the love of his life, he’s not thinking straight, and Isabelle is just trying to keep them all sane. Alec has been with him, of course, but he just seems to have accepted Magnus’ new reality.
Is it wrong, that he wanted his boyfriend to be upset on his behalf? He doesn’t know, but he feels it all the same. It’s a silly thought; Alec had gambled on this outcome when he sent him to Edom.
Tell me Jace isn’t worth it.
What Magnus would’ve given to for Alec just to say ‘no’. Stay Magnus. I know how scared you are of him. We will find another way to help Jace. You don’t have to do this for me. He’s doesn’t mean more to me than you.
Alec had said nothing instead, and that in itself had said everything.
Magnus throws back the drink. Hopefully he’ll manage to make it back to the loft and fall asleep before Alec gets home. Then he won’t have to make up another lie about what he did today. His boyfriend doesn’t want to hear that Magnus has spent another 24-hours of his newly finite lifespan staring at the wall and drinking himself into a stupor. The only reason he had left the loft at all today is because he couldn’t bear to stay inside a second longer.
He pulls out several bills from his wallet – he carries a wallet now – and doesn’t check how much it is before he throws it onto the bar. He focuses on the neon red exit sign about the door, spotting it like a pirouetting ballerina while the room spins slightly. He’s nearly there, but then his arm collides with something solid. He staggers back a few steps, apology on his tongue.
“Magnus Bane.”
“Sorry, I didn’t see you.” Magnus manages to get out, doing his best to stand stall, but when he blinks the fogginess from his eyes, he sees a piranha like grin on the man he’d bumped into. Half his head is shaved, the other half sports wiry red hair that falls past his shoulders. He’s sporting leather head to toe, except for his exposed arms, which are instead decorated in intricate sleeves of tattoos. Magnus sets his jaw. “Rufus.”
“So the rumours are true, then?”
“There are many rumours about me Rufus, I wouldn’t know which one you mean.” Magnus says with a sigh. He tries to walk away, but he is blocked by the Warlock.
“I mean the one about you giving up your magic for a Shadowhunter.”
Magnus bristles. He doesn’t like it when people bring up Alec, even if they only make inferences to him.
“Watch your mouth.” Magnus snaps.
“Or what?” Rufus says, “What could a mundane possibly do to me?”
“You know full well that you’re not allowed in North America. One word to the High Warlock – ”
Magnus doesn’t see Rufus raise his fist, he only feels the splintering of his cheekbone, the pinching of his flesh as Rufus’ many rings make contact. He reaches out for the bar as his knees buckle, unintentionally guiding his fall so that his head contacts the metal edge. The world around him shifts on its axis as pain explodes across his head and face, and he lands on the sticky floor with a groan.
He blinks his eyes open, trying to get his bearings, but the light is blocked out by the shadow of Rufus standing above him. Magnus balls his fists on instinct, but no fire thrums beneath his skin.
“I’ve been waiting to do this to you for a long time.”
Magnus doesn’t know if his reflexes were fortified by magic, or if his brain is just sluggish from the drinks and the undoubted concussion, but he doesn’t even think to block his face as Rufus comes toward him again. He feels his nose break, suddenly gagging on the taste of blood as it trickles back down his throat. Rufus manages to get a couple more hits in before he’s being pulled away. Magnus fights to stand, but the room is spinning, so he surrenders and slumps onto floor. Rufus’ hulking shadow is replaced by a much smaller one, with a gentle voice, who crouches down beside Magnus. He takes the woman’s arm gratefully and gets to his feet, wincing, but whatever she’s saying to him is drowned out by Rufus’ rageful cries.
“You’re dead, Bane! You understand? We’re all coming for you!”
Magnus watches as Rufus is dragged from the establishment, by Downworlders or mundanes Magnus doesn’t know, never pausing in the vitriol his spits his way. Magnus touches a hand to his face and finds the flesh hot and tender. Someone – the woman from before – hands him a tissue, and he holds it gently to his nostrils, careful not to aggravate the pulsing pain.
The reality of Rufus’ words and his actions take root in Magnus, creating a swirling nausea in his gut not caused by the combination of whiskey and blood in his stomach. All he can hear is a tinny whine, and his hands shake as he does his best to stop the bleeding.
He had used his power as a nuclear deterrent, and now, the only thing standing between his enemies and revenge was gone.
And everybody knew it.