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Madrid, 1611
The heat was searing. The little boy stumbled along the streets of Madrid, the ground hot beneath his sore feet. He clutched a few coins in his fist, the product of a day spent loitering around the Puerta del Sol, clutching at the sleeves of the merchants and trying to look as pitiful as he could. Which wasn’t very hard. He knew he was filthy, he knew his face was burnt and his body gaunt. A small, scared part of him was beginning to wonder how long he would last.
He shied away from the people passing him on the street. They spoke a language he couldn’t understand. They looked different. The clothes they wore were different to the clothes people wore at home. He still wore the work clothes the merchants had given him on board the ship from his country to this one. The long, long months of that journey had not been kind to them.
The boy was vaguely aware that someone – or someones – was following him. He wasn’t sure what to do about that. Maybe they had seen the blue sparks that sometimes came from his fingertips, despite his efforts to hide his hands. Maybe they knew that he had killed his parents. That his mother was so ashamed of him that she couldn’t live anymore. That he’d burned his father alive.
Maybe they were devils, coming to drag him down to hell for what he’d done. Maybe he deserved it.
He trudged on. That was the night the Silent Brothers found him.
Madrid, 1623
Magnus accepted the mug of beer handed to him by his friend, reclining back on the cool stone of the bench. Across the square, lovely young women chatted and laughed. Someone was playing the guitar somewhere, and the gentle notes drifted over the warm evening air. His Mundane friends’ conversation flowed around him, the language familiar now, easy on his ear. Unsurprisingly, they were talking about the girls. He smiled and started to watch them himself. Maybe he’d go and talk to them.
It wasn't long before the strong beer began to have an effect on him. He let his gaze drift from the beautiful girls towards the rest of the people milling about. The square was getting busy. The heat of the day was beginning to dissipate, leaving only a pleasant warmth. The preparations for la Semana Santa were in full swing, and there was a palpable sense of celebration in the air.
A man walked by the fountain. The girls watched him pass, their gaze obvious and interested. But the man – the son of a nobleman, Magnus guessed by the state of his clothes – paid them no heed. Magnus watched him too, intrigued. He’d been looking at handsome men more and more frequently these days. He wasn’t sure why.
The man, as if sensing Magnus’ eyes on him, turned his head and caught him looking before Magnus could look away. He smiled at him, and Magnus, inexplicably, felt his face flush in response.
The man was gone, striding away across into a narrow street, before Magnus could figure out what that meant.
It didn’t take him long.
The week after, when the Holy Week celebrations were turning the streets of Madrid into a riot of colours and noise, Magnus saw the man again, a beautiful face in the crowds. He managed to catch his eye and the man smiled at him once more, surprised and delighted. This time, Magnus smiled back. When the man invited him over with his eyes, Magnus didn’t hesitate. He made his way through the crowd towards him.
London, 1857
Magnus had been to London before, and had enjoyed it. This time, the city felt suffocating. He wasn’t sure whether that was the smog in the air or just him
The meeting at the London Institute he’d just left – what was supposed to be the first real attempt at dialogue between the Downworld and the Shadowhunters – had been a complete failure. Three hours, he had sat there, along with a werewolf, a mermaid, and two vampires. And not once had any of them been given the chance to say anything meaningful. Magnus was beginning to suspect that they would never be able to set aside their differences, and the thought depressed him more than he imagined it would.
Magnus, in general, wasn't feeling very good at all. He was far away from everything he really loved. He wrote to his old friends as often as he could, but there was a sense of distance that letters could never close. When had he last seen Catarina? Or Ragnor? It must have been a decade, at least. He knew that was partly his fault, of course. He was always moving, never really at home anywhere. Always a stranger: learning new languages, making brief acquaintances, moving on again. He missed Catarina and Ragnor. He missed Lima, he missed Madrid, he missed Paris. But none of them was really his city, no matter how much he tried to kid himself otherwise.
He missed the people he had once loved, who had gone where he couldn’t follow. His old Mundane friends from Madrid, whose names he had now forgotten. Javi, the first man he’d ever been with, who had remained his friend until the end. Elisa, who’d died in his arms in their house at the edge of Seville, nearly a hundred years ago now. All the others – so many of them now.
How many more would Magnus lose before his agonisingly-long life was over?
The storm was starting to pick up as Magnus made his way down to the Thames. The river was a horrible grey colour, souring his mood further. It was like all the colour in the world had been washed out. Deep down, Magnus realised that he had started to calcify a few years ago, and the thought was too frightening to be bearable.
He stepped on to Blackfriars Bridge, letting his feet take him where he knew he was headed.
The wind howled around Magnus. His thoughts howled inside his mind. Catarina and Ragnor were both stronger than him. They’d be fine. They wouldn’t even realise he was gone for months, perhaps even years – they’d just assume that he was off on another one of his adventures. Well, Magnus was tired of adventures. And he was tired of living, and loving, and losing. Two hundred and fifty years of life was life enough.
He was standing on the ledge now, staring down into the swirling, grey waters of the river. He’d have preferred to die in Peru, but this would have to do.
‘Magnus?’
Camille – the vampire he had flirted with at the meeting. What was she doing here? Why now?
He heard her footsteps, feather-light, approach him, then pause at his shoulder.
‘Magnus. Just as I was getting to know you. How could you? Those meetings would be dreadfully boring without your flirtations, you know’
She hesitated when he didn’t reply, an uncertain action Magnus already knew was uncharacteristic of her.
‘Magnus. I’m a vampire. I can stand here all night’
And, true to her word, she did. Camille talked to him all night about silly, frivolous, interesting things, until barely an hour was left until sunrise, and Magnus had resolved himself to face his life, and all the despair and loneliness immortality brought with it, once more. Perhaps this time, with Camille by his side, it would be easy.
He stepped back onto the bridge.
London, 1953
Magnus breathed in a lungful of London air, sunlight pleasantly warm on his face. Tessa had her arm linked through his, and was talking animatedly about the oddball Mundanes who showed up at the weekly book club meetings she helped to organise. She laughed, describing one particular man who seemed to have a talent for getting into awkward situations with the London police, and Magnus couldn’t help but smile. Her joy was infectious. He was glad to see her beginning to laugh again, after Will’s death. He remembered how long it had taken him, all those centuries ago, to learn to laugh again after Elisa.
It was a beautiful day. His friend was happy. He was happy.
They crossed Blackfriars bridge, a bridge so meaningful to the both of them, and continued on into the sun, the city stretched out in before them.
New York, 1984
Magnus, through centuries of life, had come to hate hospitals. He didn’t know how Catarina did it. Especially at a time like this.
The two of them stood awkwardly by the door of the hospital room, the scene before them one they both hated seeing. Their mutual friend, John, was lying in the bed, gaunt and exhausted. Aids had wasted his body away over the months they had known him – Catarina through the Aids clinic she worked at, Magnus through the Gay Men’s Health Crisis, where he volunteered. He had been helping John take his medicine, get his groceries, get out for a walk every now again if he felt up to it. Now, it was all nearly over. Catarina had told him earlier, in private, that John probably had a week or two left, in her experience. They’d been visiting him every day at the hospital, and had agreed, when he’d pleaded, to be there when John’s family finally came to visit him. Magnus understood John’s need for the moral support. From the bits and pieces he’d told Magnus these past few months, he had the feeling that the family weren’t very happy to have a gay son, let alone one who was dying of Aids.
The conversation, weak on John’s part, full of strained, distant politeness on his parents’ part, was painful to hear. And it was beginning to deteriorate. They were talking about their other, straight son’s new wife, and how wonderful the Jones’ new baby was, and about the holiday they were planning to Florida in the spring. The tone was all wrong. Their eldest boy was dying, and they didn’t want to even acknowledge it. The subject was left untouched, just like John himself, and as John’s face began to look more and more dismayed, Magnus began to hate these two people he didn't really even know.
Catarina gave him a meaningful look, centuries of friendship allowing them to communicate without exchanging words. John was getting distressed. Perhaps it was time to ask his parents to leave.
Magnus stepped forward, meaning to politely suggest just that, when John’s father decided to finally mention the elephant in the room – and in the worst, most disgusting way possible.
The father, gazing down at his ill son, shook his head pityingly.
‘You know why this happened to you, of course. This whole Aids thing, all of it. It’s all God’s way of punishing you lot, you know’
John’s face fell, and Magnus, almost instinctively, grabbed his father’s shoulder, swung him around, and punched him in the jaw.
Magnus was kicked out of the hospital after that, but at least John’s father left with a bloody nose. Catarina told him, later, that John had laughed about it all. He told her that his real family, the one who cared about him and loved him, were people like Magnus, and the rest of the community in the Village. That they had made themselves his family, and that he was happy to die, knowing that.
When Catarina called him two weeks later to tell him he was gone, Magnus took a bottle of wine out to Central Park and drank it for John, and cried and cried and cried.
New York, 2016
It had been a long, tiring day. Magnus spent the entirety of it in his loft, working on a particularly old spell translation for the warlocks at the Spiral Labyrinth. It was written in Old Javanese, which didn’t help – the language of his childhood brought back memories of pain and love and loneliness he would rather not dwell on.
He had been planning on just whiling away the hours on Netflix with some takeaway, so it was a welcome relief when Alec called. The Institute had sent him out on more patrols the previous week than it should have, and had informed him that he had tonight off as compensation. Alec wanted to know if Magnus wanted to go have dinner in their favourite place on 49th?
Magnus had smiled, even though Alec couldn’t see him, and said of course, he’d love to.
For a while, he debated dressing himself up a little, at least putting on a little makeup. Then he’d decided against it. He and Alec had been dating long enough now. Besides, his makeup-free face was nothing Alec had never seen before.
He spotted Alec before he spotted him, which was a rare occurrence. His boyfriend was waiting for him outside the restaurant, dressed, as usual, in all black. Also as usual though – he made it work.
Alec smiled, face brightening, when he spied Magnus. Magnus smiled back, knowing that he looked more tired and less attractive than he usually looked.
But, as Magnus expected, it didn’t matter to Alec. When Magnus reached him, he pulled the warlock in by the waist, not hesitating even a split second – and how glad Magnus was to be a part of that increased acceptance of himself – before kissing him.
Magnus sighed when Alec released him, keeping his eyes closed and feeling a smile creep across his face. When he opened them, Alec was looking at him so, so fondly, and Magnus’ felt all the weariness and boredom of the day slowly fall away.
Alec held the door open for him, and they stepped through together, hands entwined.