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Magnus - or, rather, the boy who would one day become Magnus - is crying when he sees the strange man for the first time.
He's curled up in the small patch of woodland, clothes tattered and filthy, hair threaded through with debris and dirt, tears streaked down his cheeks. He knows he looks like a mess. An abandoned, homeless boy, like those he used to pity when he saw them begging his mother for scraps of food. His mother used to give them things. His father used to beat her if he ever found out.
He lets out a choked sob at the thought. His mother. His dead mother. Whom he'd found in the barn, rope wrapped around her neck, eyes wide open but unseeing, blood everywhere.
And it's all his fault. That was what his father told him. Or his step-father, he supposes. If it weren't for him, if he hadn't been born, if he hadn't been conceived, his mother would still be alive.
Now he was dead. Magnus killed him. Magnus killed them both. His father had held his head down in the ice cold water of the little creek that ran alongside their farmhouse, and he- he-
Magnus doesn't know what he did. It just happened. All that fire - strange, blue fire - and smoke, and he struggled against his father again, and then his father fell away, and Magnus stared for a moment at the chaos and destruction around him. There'd been a voice in his head, soft and gentle and entirely unfamiliar, whispering to him, telling him to escape.
And then he did. Now he's here. He doesn't even know where here is. But he's alone, and cold, and scared, and he doesn't know what to do. He wants to go home. He wants to go back to his mother. But he can't. He killed his parents. Both of them.
There's a crackling sound to his left, a few trees in front of where Magnus is curled on the floor, and there are blue sparks. Similar to the sparks he saw when he- when he did that strange thing to his father. The same mystical kind of blue.
Demon, his father - step-father, really - hissed at him, when he'd dragged Magnus out of the barn where his mother hung dead, swinging high from one of the beams. Demon spawn. Was that what he was? A demon?
Magnus stares at the sparks, the swirling flames, horrified and enraptured all at once. Is this it? Is this some kind of cosmic revenge, for what he did
He doesn't understand. He's scared. He wants to go home.
And then—
A man appears.
He's huge, is the first thing that Magnus notices. He's tall, and beyond that, he's...broad. Muscled. He looks well-fed. Nothing like the malnourished people Magnus has known all of his life. The second thing he notices is what he's wearing. His pants are the strangest thing. Dark blue, in colour. The material looks like cotton, but it also looks..stiff. Heavy. Thicker than normal cloth. And his funny jacket—is that leather? Why is he wearing a jacket made of leather? Shoes are made of leather. Not clothes. And why is his skin that pale?
Is this a demon, come to claim him or kill him, in his strange clothes with his strange skin and odd blue fire? Magnus shivers; this time, not from the cold.
The man blinks, stumbling a little as the blue disappears behind him, looking around him. There's bewilderment on his face, and he looks a little frazzled. He- he doesn't look like a demon. He looks like a man. A strange man, admittedly, but a man all the same.
"Magnus?" the man calls. "Magnus! Damn."
The man looks down, eyes landing on Magnus. Magnus can't help it. He shrinks back.
"Um." He man bites his lip. "Who are you? Do you know where my- where Magnus is?"
Magnus looks up at him. English. That's- He's speaking English. Magnus shakes his head vehemently, too scared to do anything else. He doesn't know this man. He doesn't trust him.
It's okay, little one, the voice in his head murmurs. He won't hurt you.
But Magnus doesn't trust the voice in his head, either. The voice in his head told him to escape, and escaping had killed his father. The voice in his head kept telling him bad things. Besides, where did it come from? There hadn't been a voice before.
Magnus shuffles backwards, until his back is pressed against a tree, bark rough against his back.
"Go away," Magnus says, voice croaky.
The strange man frowns. "Where are we? What country are we in?"
"Batavia. Of the Dutch East Indies," Magnus says. Was this man stupid, too?
The man's eyes widen, and his lips part. "Oh. Oh."
Magnus narrows his eyes suspiciously. "What are you wearing, sir?"
The man stares at him, and then...laughs. "Clothes," he says. "Can you tell me your name?"
Magnus shakes his head again.
"Can I guess your name?" the man asks, crouching down so he is resting back on his heels, but not coming any closer to Magnus.
This time, Magnus nods. And the man murmurs his name, softly, except that- that's not his name. Well. It is. It is his name. But it's the affectionate version of his name that his mother calls - called - him.
It's okay, the voice in his head says. He's not a demon.
"How did you know?" Magnus asks, moving out of his protective ball to peer at the stranger.
"Because I know you," the man replies. "But you wouldn't remember me."
After several moments of just looking at him, Magnus says, "What do you want?"
The man blinks. He seems to do that when he's surprised. "I don't want anything. I just...I just want to go home. But I have to do this first."
At that, tears well in Magnus' eyes. The strange man looks alarmed.
"I want to go home, too," Magnus whispered. "But I can't."
"You... Oh." Something between sympathy and sorrow, but not quite either, flashes across the man's face. "Why don't we find a stream? You look thirsty. I'm thirsty."
The man holds out his hand.
Go with him, murmurs the voice in his head. Go with him, little one.
Magnus does, reaching up to grasp the man's hand. The man looks uncomfortable for a moment, and then smiles.
They walk for hours, mostly in silence. Normally, Magnus would be asking the strange man every question he could think of. He was always been told off for being too curious for his own good. But not today. Today he's got no words left.
They find a stream, eventually, which leads down to a village they can see below, a few hours walk away. Magnus drinks, splashing himself with water. The strange man turns away. He doesn't drink.
Magnus has almost forgotten that the strange man is there. He's tired, and it's late. It's getting dark. Magnus curls up on the grassy bank, more comfortable than the forest floor, pillowing his head on his arm.
A moment later, he feels a hand on his head, lifting gently, before something soft touches his cheek. Magnus presses himself into it, a sigh escaping his lips.
"It's going to be okay," says a voice, that hand still resting on the top of his head.
It's going to be okay, little one, says the voice in his head.
When Magnus wakes in the morning, the strange man is gone. So is whatever he let Magnus sleep on last night. But the voice in his head is still there, encouraging him to head to the village he can see in the valley down below.
Magnus isn't sure whether he dreamt up the strange man or not. But he's not sure it matters.
By the next morning, he's forgotten all about him.
***
The next time Magnus sees him, he's in Madrid, surrounded by Silent Brothers as he tries to control the magic he now knows is held inside him. Magic that killed his step-father, he knows.
Magnus freezes as he sees blue crackling across the room, and a man tumbles through, not there one moment, staggering to his feet the next. He stares around the room, before his eyes land on Magnus. Magnus gapes. Because he remembers. He remembers this man, from years ago, that night - that awful night - when he'd killed his step-father.
And he looks the same. He looks the same age. And he's still wearing strange clothes.
Nephilim, a Brother says, inside all their heads. What is your business in the Silent City?
Nephilim? This man is a Shadowhunter? Didn't Shadowhunters detest people like Magnus? Downworlders? The Silent Brothers had warned him about the law, and the Shadowhunters ruthlessly enforcing the law—including arresting, and often killing, young, out of control warlocks.
Why had this Shadowhunter been kind to Magnus? He was sure his warlock marks had been visible.
"I'm sorry," the strange man says. He sounds out of breath, and he tries to focus his attention on the brothers, but he keeps looking back at Magnus. "I'm- I'm not supposed to be here. It's- it's complicated."
May we help?
"No. It's okay. I just- Can I stay? Not for long, just for a few hours. I think. I don't really know..." He trails off, eyes fixed on Magnus.
Magnus squirms uncomfortably. The Shadowhunter looks about his age, now. Twenty or so. The Silent Brothers have told Magnus that he'll stop ageing at some point. Magnus isn't so sure how he feels about that.
It's okay.
At first, Magnus thinks it's a Silent Brother speaking to him. But he realises the voice is different. Gentler. It's that voice he hears, sometimes. Telling him things are going to be okay.
Except... He's only heard it a few times before. That night. That night when the Shadowhunter had appeared last time.
Step out of the circle, Shadowhunter, a brother says. And do not interfere.
The Shadowhunter does as the Brothers asked him to, stepping all the way back. The Brothers turn their backs to the Shadowhunter, in his strange clothes, apparently unbothered. But Magnus...Magnus can't stop glancing at him, even as he tries to focus on what the Silent Brothers are trying to teach him. Control. Control is essential to his survival. He'd nearly decimated a village before the Brothers had found him and brought him here, to be raised by mundane churchmen in between their teachings.
The Shadowhunter keeps watching Magnus as he kneels in the circle, magic bleeding slowly from his fingertips. The Brothers are speaking in his head, chanting at him, working him into high states of emotion in an attempt to teach him how to control his impulses. And it hurts. It's so difficult, and it hurts. Like trying to hold a floodgate closed with his bare hands. It's making his head hurt.
Magnus cries out as the magic crashes through him and spills out into the room. His eyes are closed, but he can see the bright lights behind his eyelids, and feel the heat of everything around him.
No, no, no. He can't be doing this. Not again. This is what happened before. When he'd stood in the middle of a hurricane, hands spilling magic everywhere, ruining the world around him. He couldn't do this again. He's older, now. The Silent Brothers have been teaching him for five years, now. He has to be stronger than this.
There's a shout of his name. The sound of someone growling, snarling. The sound of a struggling. A moan of pain.
The Brothers are speaking inside his head. Telling him to open his eyes. To think about the analogies they'd given him. To control it, control it, lock it inside him. Control. Control. Control control control control con—
Open your eyes, young one.
It was that voice, again. Gentle, low, like a warm hand on his shoulder. And the voice had been right, last time. The voice had told him he could trust the Shadowhunter. The Shadowhunter had been kind to him. Taken Magnus out of the forest. Brought him to a stream. Left him where he had somewhere to go to.
Magnus opens his eyes.
The Shadowhunter is in front of him. The Silent Brothers have stopped speaking in his head, but the Shadowhunter is kneeling, ducking his head down to meet Magnus' eyes.
"Help me," Magnus whispers. "You're a Shadowhunter. You can help me."
The Shadowhunter smiles, so gently, so kindly, it makes Magnus chest tighten. There's blood on the knuckles, Magnus notices, as though he's scraped them against something.
"You can do this on your own," the Shadowhunter says. "You're scared. I know you are. That's okay. You can be scared. But you need to relax a little bit before you can pull your magic under control."
He's right. Magnus is frightened. Terrified. And he doesn't know how to stop.
"I don't know what to do," Magnus whispers. "I'm never going to be able to do this."
"Yes." The Shadowhunter smiles at him. "Yes, you are. You're going to be fantastic. Incredible. But you have to be patient."
"How do you know?"
"Because I believe in you."
Take a deep breath, young one. And focus on him. Trust him.
Magnus does.
And the magic begins to melt away, the swirling mass of blue fires ebbing away, floating down, until it disappears into the floor, and his fingertips stop sparking.
The Shadowhunter's smile is gentle. The Silent Brothers are...well. They're silent.
"You're going to be just fine, Magnus Bane," the Shadowhunter tells him.
You're going to be fine, young one.
The Shadowhunter disappears in front of him. Magnus stares, and then turns around, looking up at the Brothers desperately.
"What was that? Who was he?" he asks, hands shaking. "How did he know my name?"
There's a beat.
You must return to the church, now, young warlock, they say.
***
Magnus didn't realise he had the capacity to be as happy as he had been, for the last few decades. He was called a monster. He was called a demon. He was hunted, used, abused, hated, manipulated. Mostly by Shadowhunters.
But he was happy. So, so happy, with her, for so many years. It was...magical. More magical than anything he could do.
And now she's dead. And Magnus doesn't know what to do with himself.
"The first one is always the hardest," Ragnor told him, when he'd picked Magnus up off the floor of a tavern, taking him home. "It will get easier, my friend."
But it doesn't. She died weeks ago. And it still hurts.
There's a blue crackle in the corner of Magnus' bedroom. He looks up, tears streaked across his face, a half-empty bottle of wine next to him where he's sat on his bedroom floor atop a plush rug that she'd chosen from the market, back when she'd been young, and Magnus had been practically the mundane version of young.
The Nephilim appears. Magnus jerks, knocking over the bottle of wine. It's the same Shadowhunter as had appeared to him twice before, back when he was actually young. Once when he'd been ten. Once when he'd been eighteen.
But... It's been decades. A century. More than. He's never appeared since.
Neither had the voice.
"Well." Magnus is, perhaps, a little bit drunk. Or a lot. How many bottles of wine has he drunk tonight? Is this his third? Or fifth? "Have you been on holiday?"
The Shadowhunter blinks at him. And, yes, Magnus remembers that well. That confused, disorientated little blink.
Magnus is considerably older than he was the last time he saw this bizarre man, who is still dressed in those bizarre (and, frankly, awful) clothes, but he still doesn't understand who he is, or where he could possibly have come from.
Honestly, Magnus had forgotten all about him, until he stepped into existence amidst Magnus' heartbreak.
"It's been a long time," Magnus says, twirling his fingers easily to clean up the spilled wine and shattered glass. "A very long time."
"I–" The Shadowhunter just stares at him. He's kneeling on the floor. He'd appeared, kneeling on the floor. And he crackles with residual energy—the type generated from magic.
As though...
But no. That's impossible. Even Magnus, who is a warlock, the son of a Prince of Hell (his first meeting with his father is still fresh in his mind, as he attempted to bargain for his beloved's life back; Asmodeus had had none of it) knows such a thing is impossible.
But last time he'd seen the Shadowhunter, he'd been kneeling in front of Magnus. He'd helped Magnus control his magic, which had been threatening to tear apart the world around them.
Nothing is impossible, my friend.
Magnus nearly jumps out of his skin. Because that voice... That's the voice that came into his head last time he'd seen this Shadowhunter. But...had it always sounded like Ragnor Fell?
"Would you like a drink?" Magnus asks. He smiles lazily. "I have plenty."
"You're drunk," the Shadowhunter states, with perfect certainty. He stands, and brushes off his dust-covered knees. "Great."
He rubs at his temple, pacing along the length of the room. Magnus watches him. He's attractive, he notices. Exceptionally attractive, despite his clothing. Messy dark hair, soft eyes, high cheekbones...
His ass is gorgeous.
Magnus leers at him when he turns around. "Drink, darling?"
The Shadowhunter's lips twitch upwards, as though he's amused. "No thank you."
Magnus sighs. "What are you here for, then? To be mysterious?"
"Something like that." He pauses. "What year is it?"
"Year?" Magnus chuckles. "Dear me, do you know what country we're in, this time? It's—" Magnus frowns. What year is it? "17... Something. 176-something? 1761?"
The Shadowhunter's expression softened. "Why are you drinking, Magnus?"
Magnus smiles bitterly, and he feels tears slide down his cheeks again. "She's dead."
Magnus breaks, and arms come around him, tight and warm. He collapses against the Shadowhunter, tears dripping down his faces and off his chin. He chokes with sobs, shaking, falling apart in the solid circle of unfamiliar arms.
The Shadowhunter takes the bottle from his hand when he reaches for it. Magnus is too tired, or perhaps just too drunk, to protest. He helps Magnus get to his feet, sits him down on the bed, and pulls off his shoes, before he holds the sheets up, letting Magnus climb in, still fully clothed.
You're going to be okay. It's going to get easier. You're going to be safe, one day. Safe, and loved.
But I was safe and loved before, Magnus thinks, to the voice in his head that sounds like Ragnor. And it was taken from me.
Have faith, Magnus. You will heal.
Magnus sniffles, pathetically, and rolls over onto his side to look at the Shadowhunter. The man is watching him, a sorrowful, helpless expression on his face.
"Who are you?" Magnus whispers. "What are you?"
"I'm a Shadowhunter."
"You can't be. You can't be anything mortal. You should be dead. And you knew. You knew my name, and I didn't tell you. That's impossible."
The Shadowhunter just looks at him, steadily.
"Unless the Silent Brothers told you my name," Magnus says, trying to think of something rational in this entirely irrational mess. "But that still doesn't explain how you can be here. Or that voice. Why does the voice sound like him?"
The Shadowhunter merely shakes his head.
"Are you a demon? Did my father send you to torture me? Are you going to follow me, and then kill me just when I'm happy? Is that it? Because you're too late. I'm never going to feel happy ever again. Never. She was taken from me, and it's not fair. It's not fair!"
The candles in the room fizzle out. The glass in the window explodes.
The Shadowhunter doesn't flinch. White light fills the room, centred in the Shadowhunter's palm. A witchlight. He can't be a demon, then.
"I know," the Shadowhunter says, softly, apparently unbothered by Magnus' magic. Which is more than unusual, from a Shadowhunter. "I know it's not fair. That's why I'm here."
"What's why you're here?"
"Because it's not fair. And you deserve to be happy."
He's right. And you will be happy. So happy.
Magnus stares at him. "I don't understand."
The Shadowhunter smiles. "You don't need to."
"Who are you?" Magnus reaches out to touch the Shadowhunter's cheek, wanting to check that he's real. He feels like flesh and blood. Magnus retracts his hand. "Tell me your name. Please."
"Sleep, now."
And he disappears.
***
"Woah."
Something - or rather, someone - catches Magnus as he falls up the steps, exhausted in every way it's possible to be exhausted. He's drained—magically and emotionally. He wants to lay down and drink himself stupid and cry for a few hours.
He most definitely does not want to deal with any more Shadowhunters. He has absolutely had enough of them. Even if Will had provided him with a fantastic final excuse to get rid of Camille, he has had enough. He will help Tessa, because he has come to care to her, but after that, he decides, he will go somewhere else. America. New York. An opium den in China. Anywhere.
Hm. Maybe he could visit Peru again.
"Hey." The hands lower him gently, slowly, until his knees hit the floor and he curls in on himself, slumped. "Are you alright?"
Magnus...Magnus recognises that voice. He looks up at the person attached to the hands that caught him, mind blank.
The Shadowhunter. The strange, nameless Shadowhunter, who always seems to see him at his lowest. Magnus can't remember feeling this horrible since...
Well. Since the last time he saw the Shadowhunter. When the woman he'd loved for all her life had died.
And now...
"No."
You will be, Magnus. She will not always have this hold on you. You're close, now. It's not so far away. And then you will be okay.
"Was that Will Herondale?" the Shadowhunter asks, sinking to the floor beside Magnus. "The man you kissed?"
"Yes."
He doesn't ask how the Shadowhunter knows. He's like some kind of...all-knowing angel.
Angel. An angel. Is it possible? Could he be an angel? But why would an angel be watching over Magnus, like this? And why would an angel claim to be a Shadowhunter? But it could explain Ragnor's voice in his head. Using the voice of a friend to speak to Magnus in different ways... That would be possible.
"Are you...with him?" the Shadowhunter - or angel, perhaps - asks, something odd flitting across his beautiful face.
"With Will?" Magnus lets out a laugh. "No. I kissed him to spite her."
"I see." The Shadowhunter's expression clears. "Are you going to be okay?"
"No." Magnus doesn't see the point in lying. "I'm never going to be okay."
Yes. Yes, you are. You're going to be so much more than okay. Soon, Magnus. Soon.
"I think you are," the Shadowhunter says. He lets go of Magnus' shoulders.
"Aren't you staying?"
The Shadowhunter looks down at his hands. "I...don't think so. I'm not sure."
Magnus frowns. What does that mean, exactly? What does any of this mean?
"Are you an angel?" he asks.
The Shadowhunter looks up in surprise, and blinks. "No. No, I'm...definitely not an angel."
"Oh." Magnus slouches. "I think I'm going to pass out."
The Shadowhunter looks alarmed. He lurches forwards as Magnus' eyes roll and he falls backwards, but he disappears before he can catch Magnus a second time.
Magnus wakes to a pounding headache and a painful heart. Ragnor's voice, when he hears it next, is real, the man himself there. And Magnus wonders whether he's going completely insane.
***
Magnus didn't expect to be bothered by Imansu telling him that they couldn't stay together. It had been a quick thing. A summer fling. Something to take his mind off the still-painful sting off Camille.
But he is. He is bothered by it. Because his beloved had said that, too, to begin with. That he seemed whimsical. Never really all there. Always seeming on the verge of disappearing.
Was this how it would be, forever? People struggling to love him? Struggling, because of who, and what, he was? He hadn't married her. She hadn't wanted to. He hadn't asked, because he'd known. He'd known that she hadn't wanted to.
"Tell me," said an exasperated voice, "that you're not drinking. Again."
Magnus whirls round, alarmed at someone being in his house when he presumed himself to be alone, before he relaxes. Well. Nearly relaxes. Not entirely. Because it's the strange Shadowhunter, again - of course it is - and he's still just as puzzled as he has been every other time.
"Perhaps."
The Shadowhunter shakes his head. "It's not even lunchtime."
"I'm afraid my mood swings don't cater to the time of day."
The Shadowhunter's lips quirk up at that. "No. I'm aware of that." He moves past Magnus, and peers out the window. He makes a frustrated noise in the back of his throat, and turns back to Magnus. His eyes land on something past him. "Is that your charango?"
Magnus flops down in an armchair. "Yes. But don't touch it, angel-boy."
"That's a new one," the Shadowhunter mutters. "Why are you in such a foul mood?"
Be nice, Magnus.
Magnus nearly rolls his eyes. The voice is back. Great. He's probably going mad. Seeing things. Strange Shadowhunters with no names. Hearing Ragnor's voice in his head.
"It doesn't matter." He swigs his wine.
"Peru," the Shadowhunter states. "Is it...Imansu?" He says the name carefully.
Magnus huffs. "Do you know everything about my life? What are you? My subconscious or a demon? Because you've already told me you're not an angel."
"I'm a Shadowhunter."
"Right." Magnus snorts.
The Shadowhunter glares at him. "I didn't realise Imansu ever meant so much to you."
"He didn't!" Magnus frowns. No. That's unfair. He cared for Imansu. He wasn't in love with him. Not like he'd been in love with Camille. "But...he was right. I can't give people enough."
The Shadowhunter shakes his head. "You can't possibly believe that. How many people have you loved?"
"Many," Magnus says. "Few for very long. Even fewer truly loved me back."
More will. More will love you. You're going to be okay. You're getting there.
Fingers touch his hand. He glances up at the Shadowhunter, straight into his vibrant eyes.
"You are loved," the Shadowhunter says. "By so many people."
"Why won't you tell me who you are?" Magnus whispers.
"You'll find out, one day."
And he fades, disappearing into thin air, touch gradually fading from Magnus' cheek, until he's left alone once again.
***
He sees the Shadowhunter twice more. The first time in an opium den, in the twenties. The Shadowhunter barely appears before he leaves again. He drags Magnus out, helps him open a portal home, and then he's gone before Magnus can step through the portal or open his mouth to speak to him.
The second time, he's suffering from heartbreak again. Etta - Etta, whom he loved, but who left him anyway - is dead, and Valentine is at large, and Magnus feels like the world is burning around him. He's lost. He has no idea what he's supposed to do.
Blue crackles appear near his fireplace. He waits for the Shadowhunter to appear. He does. He smells of smoke. His gaze lands on the whiskey glass in Magnus' hand, and he rolls his eyes.
"Why do I always find you drinking?" he asks, in greeting. "What year is it?"
"1988," Magnus tells him.
"Oh, Magnus." His expression twists.
"I don't want to talk about it. I don't want you to tell me that you know. It hurts. She left me decades ago, but it hurts."
It will get better. Soon, Magnus. So soon. You're so nearly there.
So nearly where, exactly? What the hell is voice-Ragnor talking about?
"I know," the Shadowhunter says, in response to what he said.
"I don't want to hear that you know!" Magnus slams his glass down on the table, and he stands. "I want to know who the hell you are. And I want to know what you are."
Hold on, my friend. You're close.
"What is going on?" Magnus shouts. "All my life, you've been here. Appearing and disappearing and reappearing, and I've had enough! I want to know what's going on! Am I going insane?"
The Shadowhunter flinches. "No," he whispers. "You're not going insane, Magnus. And I can't tell you, now. But...soon, I think."
And he vanishes.
Magnus screams in frustration and heartbreak, swiping his arm across the table to cause distraction, glass and potions and books and papers crashing to the floor.
How is it ever going to be better?
***
Magnus doesn't recognise him, at first, when he sees him in Pandemonium. He looks different. He looks a little younger. A little more guarded. A lot less amused. And he's wearing different clothes. His clothes seem to fit normal fashion, this time.
That's the only reason Magnus doesn't immediately interrogate him. Because he didn't appear in a crackle of blue. He walked in. Shot a demon. Saved Magnus' life, and didn't spare him a second glance.
He stutters and blushes when Magnus catches him alone, and, already, he's been here for far longer than he ever has been before. Except that very first time, so many centuries ago, when he'd taken Magnus' hand and led him through the forest to safety.
And, finally, Magnus gets a name. After so long, he has a name for the Shadowhunter who's haunted his life.
Alec. Alexander Lightwood.
Who is absolutely oblivious. To everything. To Magnus' advances. To their shared past. To how deeply Magnus' feelings begin to run in such a short space of time.
The voice is back. Ragnor's voice is whispering in his ear, telling him that it's going to be okay, that he's so, so nearly there, that he'll be safe, soon.
And Magnus still doesn't understand. But, honestly, he's too tired to care. He listens. Because he's not sure what else he can do, when Alec tells him he's engaged to Lydia Branwell.
Magnus has thought Alec - his strange Shadowhunter, his guardian angel - is beautiful for a very long time. It had taken such little time of really knowing him to fall in love with him.
But he seems so different. He doesn't seem like his Shadowhunter. He seems scared. Scared of himself. Scared of the Clave. Scared of his desires. Scared - though Magnus is loathe to admit it - of Magnus.
He's not Magnus' strange Shadowhunter. He's Alec. But...they're the same. Somehow, Magnus is certain, they're the same. And Magnus loves him. Whoever he is, he loves him.
And he can't have him.
And this time, as he sits in his loft and drowns his heartbreak with alcohol, there is no crackling of blue. There's no oddly-dressed, messy-haired Shadowhunter spilling through into Magnus' living room, with knowledge of things he's not supposed to know. There's nobody to make it better. There's just Magnus, and his pain.
When he hears the voice, he thinks it's entirely in his his head again. Because Ragnor is dead. Ragnor - his friend, his oldest friend, he beloved, miserable, wonderful Ragnor - is dead. Dead in a split second, from an attack that never should have happened.
But Ragnor is there. He's not entirely sure if he's dreaming, or if Ragnor is a ghost. But he's there, and he's talking to him, reassuring him, encouraging him.
And then, in his head, Go, Magnus. You have time.
Magnus goes.
Alec turns from the altar, and he locks eyes with Magnus. Their eyes don't stray from each other for a second as Alec walks down the steps, determination written across his face, and kisses Magnus, in front of everyone.
And, as they pull apart, Magnus grinning dopily, Ragnor is in his head again. Ragnor, or Ragnor's voice, or whatever it is.
You're safe now. You'll be okay, Magnus. You're safe here. Goodbye, my friend.
***
Magnus almost forgets about his strange Shadowhunter - Alec, but not Alec - appearing through his life. There's too much else going on. The Clave, Jace, Valentine. There's too much. There are no more voices. And there are no more crackling blue sparks.
But there's Alec. Always, there's Alec. And that's enough. That's more than enough. That's everything Magnus could ask for.
Until Alec walks through the front door to the loft, a smile on his face, and Magnus recognises everything about him like a kick to the gut. He freezes, staring at Alec with wide eyes. Because he's- he's wearing those dark jeans, slightly loose but not as loose as lots he wears, and his gear jacket, zipped up to his throat, hair tousled.
He looks...he looks like his strange Shadowhunter. His guardian angel. He looks like Alec. He is Alec. His Alec is walking through the front door, with a smile on his lips. But Magnus is seeing flashes of something else.
Because it's impossible. It's absolutely impossible. Alec can't possibly have been turning up throughout his life, only to not remember any of it anymore. He just can't. Just like Ragnor can't have been speaking in his head for four hundred years, reassuring him that that moment, with Alexander, kissing him at his own wedding, would come. That he'd love Alec like he'd never loved anyone. That Alec would piece every broken, mangled part of him back together. That he'd share things with Alec that he'd never told anyone else. His past loves. His heartbreaks. His adventures and misdemeanours and his childhood and his father and his birth name and—
His birth name.
His birth name, which Alec had known.
"Alexander," Magnus whispers, terrified suddenly, as Alec walks towards him, dropping his keys on the side table, and leans down for a kiss. "What did you do?"
Alec pulls back to look at him, and cups his cheek in his palm. "What are you talking about?"
Magnus searches his eyes, desperately, grasping at his jacket with one hand and his forearm with the other. Alec has to know. Magnus can't be going mad. He has to understand. Because if he doesn't...
If he doesn't, Magnus is lost.
"Was I ever with Will Herondale?" Magnus asks, because he doesn't know how else to tell without asking outright.
Alec blinks. That adorable, confused blinking that Magnus has known for his entire life. And it looks so painfully familiar now, like this. "No."
"But I kissed him."
Understanding crosses Alec's face, and relief floods through Magnus, so heavy that he almost collapses. Because if Alec looks like that, rather than looking surprised - because he's never told Alec that he kissed Will, that night - that means he knows. Because he saw.
"You did." Alec strokes his cheek with the backs of his fingers. "To spite Camille."
"Oh, God."
Magnus slumps against him, burying his face in Alec's shoulder, clutching at him, fisting his hands in the material of his jacket, quivering and shaking all over. Alec holds him tightly, running his hands up and down his back.
"You scared me," Magnus whispers after several moments. "I thought... I thought you still didn't know. I thought I'd been insane all those years."
"You weren't insane."
"You were there." Magnus pulls back, only slightly surprised to realise that he's got tears on his cheeks. "All my life, you- you were there. In and out. You always looked the same."
"I'm sorry." Alec kisses his forehead. "I'm sorry, if it did more harm than good."
"No." Magnus shakes his head. "No, you- you have no idea how much good it did. You didn't interfere, not once, but you were there."
"I was told off for interfering in the Silent City," Alec says ruefully. "That had the potential to be too much, apparently."
"Alexander, what did you do?" Magnus asks.
"Ragnor left something to Catarina. Some kind of spell. I'm not sure exactly what it was. But Catarina needed someone to deliver it. So she asked me if I would—"
"Jump into my past." Magnus shakes his head. "That was so dangerous, Alec."
Alec shrugs. "Was it? Never mind. I'm fine. But I- I couldn't go to all those awful times in your life and see you so heartbroken and not do anything. Catarina told me I had to talk to you, each time. The only time I didn't was the—"
"Opium den." Magnus exhales. "I remember."
"Something happened. I'm not sure what. Catarina had to pull me out. So...I'm afraid whatever Ragnor wanted to happen then, didn't. But otherwise—"
Magnus kisses him. He can't bear listening to this anymore. He throws his arms around Alec's neck, making him stumble back, and their lips meet, again and again, sliding over each other. Alec moans when Magnus clutches at his hair and nips at his lip and drags him closer.
"I love you," Magnus whispers between desperate kisses. "I love you so much, Alexander."
"I love you too," Alec breathes, hot against his skin. Magnus dips his head to kiss along his jawline, and Alec lets out a groan. "That's why- That's why I agreed. Catarina told me it might be dangerous, and that I didn't have to, but Ragnor- Ragnor wanted you to have it, and I know how much you loved him, and—"
Magnus is crying again. He has to pull back from kissing Alec to gasp in breaths. "You," he says. "Ragnor sent me you. He must have known that Catarina would only ask someone— And that's what he wanted me to have. You and him. When it was hardest, that's what he gave me. Oh, God."
Alec kisses Magnus' cheeks, brushing salty tears away with his lips, and then he wraps Magnus in his arms, holding him tight.
"You are loved, Magnus Bane," Alec whispers, his words reminiscent of so, so long ago. Or, alternatively, really not very long ago at all. "So loved."
And he is, Magnus realises. Ragnor was right. He is safe, and he is okay - so much more than okay - and he is loved. So loved.
With that thought, he smiles, kisses Alec once more - his strange Shadowhunter, his guardian angel, his Alexander - and snuggles into his arms, heart so absolutely filled with love he thinks it might burst. He sighs contentedly as Alec tightens his grip and presses a long, lingering kiss to his temple.
He is safe. And he is loved.