Chapter Text
For someone so often found lonely, the Institute’s library on a sunny afternoon is Alec’s favorite place to be.
The sun would spend the day teasing all corners of the building, brief glimpses of light on wood and stone until it reached the library’s stained glass depiction of Raziel, his glorious wings spread wide and protective over an Idris landscape. There, the sun would laze across the open expanse of the room with a warmth powerful enough to penetrate his bones. Alec would stretch out on the floor and bask in it, as it moved around the room caressing book spines and polished surfaces; as it turned dust specks to fireflies and cast the lines of Raziel’s wings onto his skin. He’d lie there and read whatever caught his eye, and after particularly trying days, he’d stuff a cushion beneath his head and nap there for as long as the sun lasted, or until someone chose to bother him.
But today is gloomy beyond the windows, a world blanketed in rain, gray with misery. Though it doesn’t deter him. Escaping into the library’s offered peace and quiet is a welcome pause in the turbulent trajectory of his day thus far, even if it’s dark and chilly enough to require a reading lamp and blanket.
It’s been a long week spent ruthlessly pursuing the unending list of jobs passed off by his parents. He’s never been allowed to run things, merely asked to chase up those responsible for getting things done. He takes the role seriously, because his ability to liaise the correct information between his parents and those left in charge makes all the difference in whether or not the job gets done right, whether his family get to keep their claim on the Institute or lose it altogether. But more often than not, the stresses of the job make it hard not to feel like a prized whipping boy. The solitary escape of the library has seen his face too often lately, if only to help him cope.
He plucks yesterday’s book from its place in the stacks, kicks his boots off and folds his long limbs into the big lounger by the window, tugging the throw blanket down across his knees until his feet are tucked in its edge. He reads, and the words on the page drown out the heavy rain for a while, until the beating against the glass transfixes him so completely that he simply snuggles in to watch. The sky unleashes its wild, angry tears, and while it smoothes the sharp edges of his frustrations, it only reiterates his usual loneliness.
He drifts in his contemplation, taking in the rivelets of rainwater as they stream their gritty shadows across the room. His eyes land on the spine of a particular book on the shelves, one that catches what little light the dreary day outside provides just so that its gold-foiled lettering glows bright. He glances away, but a peculiar nagging sensation pesters him throughout the next hour, draws his attention back to that book over and over again. Eventually, he draws himself up to satisfy his curiosity.
Closer inspection tells him it’s a Mundane novel. He’s known a few Shadowhunters who like to read them, but their presence so boldly displayed among grand volumes authored by the Clave’s most prominent historical figures isn’t a regular occurrence. He reads the foiled inscription. Persuasion, by Jane Austen. Definitely not a book he knows of.
He pulls it from the bookshelf, feeling the golden lettering and worn hardcover with his hands. It’s just a book, nothing out of the ordinary. But when he goes to put it back, he sees what looks like a stack of letters stashed behind its place. He has to pull a few more books out to reach through, but then he has the old yellowed envelopes in his hands, red wax seals remarkably still intact, bundled together with a length of navy ribbon. He immediately feels their importance - far too important for the likes of him - and he has half a mind to put them back when he catches a name scribbled on the front.
Alexander
He stands frozen for several moments, trying to think of the other Alexanders he knows. He remembers meeting a Shadowhunter boy named Alex when he was young, and a Werewolf that had been arrested locally many years ago, going by the same name. Alexander is a common name among the Mundanes, though he can’t imagine why Mundane letters would be sitting in the Institute. Or how.
They can’t be for him, because he knows no one who would think to write him letters, let alone hide them in a bookshelf in the chance he’ll happen upon them. But his regular library presence is widely known by the other residents of the Institute, and the nagging feeling is back with undeniable vengeance. A quick flick through the rest of them merely intensifies his curiosity. There’s almost two dozen here, all addressed simply to an Alexander.
Alexander
Alexander
Alexander
He puts the Mundane novel back and returns to his seat, letters in hand. Their seals are elegantly designed, too elegant to break. So he carefully takes his small boot knife to one of them, sliding between wax and paper, thumb feeling out the seal's debossed initials: MB. With success, he unfolds the old, brittle paper with tentative care, wakened by further stirrings of anticipation. As if a new adventure lies waiting for him in the unknown.
His eyes brush the date. 7 May, 1807. Letters over 200 years old, which eases the guilt of being nosy where he knows he shouldn’t be. Then he reads the first line of black, elegant scrawl at the top left of the page with growing intrigue. And as he makes sense of their curves and loops, his heart pulses, light and fluttery in his chest.
My dearest Alexander
He quickly bears another glance about the room, at the door, checking for watchful eyes. He should probably return it to its hiding place, but he sees the length of his own name staring back at him and his curiosity is almost stubborn, rebellious. Enough that he reads the first paragraph, hoping it might be enough to quell his need for more information.
Where to start. I long to ask if you are well, but it would be a fruitless attempt at denying my own dismal reality - that you are no longer with me.
There's a pain here, an acute pang of loneliness that immediately draws him in. Mindlessly, like a moth to a flame. A whispering of a kindred spirit. It's little more than a sentence, but loneliness is his own old, acquainted friend, and it feels good to have someone to share it with. Even if that someone is long gone.
He reads on with a vague hunger, eager to form a greater picture of the person behind the words.
And I dare not remind myself that you are gone, because it is still so fresh that I feel you might walk back through the door at any moment. Even now, I envision finishing this letter and finding you watching me from the parlor with that serene smile of yours upon your lips. Or having the very spirit leap from me when you sneak to hold me in your arms the way you often do. The way I so love. I am holding onto this feeling with all I have left, because it is the only thing that keeps your loss at bay. And I’d once made you a promise that I would bear it.
Do you remember? Ever the elusive one you are, as long as I have known you. Always giving me answers to questions I hadn't known to understand. You asked me to keep you alive in my thoughts and in my heart for as long as I could, but it were an easy vow to make. I didn’t know then what I am struggling so deeply to accept now.
You are gone from me, Alexander. And I am so terribly lost on how to live without you.
A love letter, he realizes. A love letter from someone who once grieved the loss of someone very dear. A lover, perhaps even a husband. It feels a little intrusive to read, a violation of what was once a very intimate connection between two people he’ll never meet. Out of respect, he wants to put it back and pretend he never found it. He plans to.
But then he reads the name of the writer at the bottom of the page. A shaky line of blurred, black ink.
Magnus
He marvels. A love letter to a man, from a man.
The very prospect is such an alien and terrifying one, and again he wants to stuff the letters back where he discovered them. Though he finds himself too deeply tempted to read on, as if he’s hovering over the edge of a dark, bottomless well, wondering what lies beneath. How did Mundane letters end up in the Institute? Or were they, impossibly, Shadowhunters?
He checks the door again for signs of anyone who could have placed them here and waited. It’s preposterous to assume someone in the Institute is purposefully trying to bait him, but the possibility of someone knowing his own secrets when he’s spent his life hiding them gives him a moment of pause. Because in another universe - one where he’s selfish and brave and lucky enough - he could be the Alexander this Magnus so lovingly writes to.
But holding them in his hands doesn’t feel like a trap, or a hook to catch him on. He runs his fingers over the delicate lines of ink, admiring the beautiful penmanship. Time and great care was used here. It’d be a waste to set them back in their place and leave them for someone else. Someone who might not appreciate their significance as he would.
So, he hunkers back down to continue.
I haven’t slept. Your scent remains on our bed sheets and I cannot bring myself to lie in them, lest these small traces of you are worn away. And if I do not sleep, I can fool myself. I worry that waking up will make it real, and I am not ready to wake up alone. I am not ready to wake up in a world where I cannot be with you.
You used to speak lengths of a future I could not see, one where time itself would bend for us. I used to think you naively optimistic, but it is one of the things I love most about you. Your ability to know with every fiber of your being that all will work itself out - simply because you will it so. From that night we met at the Chiswick, you were a force of nature. I suppose that is how you won my heart. You claimed it yours and made it such a lovely home that I never once felt the need to ask for its return. I ask that you keep it with you now, so that I may fool myself a little longer.
I love you, Alexander. I love you in words that do not yet exist. If time is so merciful as to bend for us, I beg that it bring you back to me.
Your loyal beloved,
Magnus
Alec reads it five times over, his hand crawling absently to rest over his heart. It aches, he finds, ever faintly. For this stranger’s pain. For the joy of a love he once had, now taken from him. For reasons he can’t even explain.
The longing of this unknown man is almost tangible, burrowing a little hole into his own chest to exist in. Such private, personal thoughts, shared by what is so clearly a broken heart. He feels intensely protective of them - of this Magnus and his beloved Alexander - and makes a silent promise to them both. These letters may not have ended up with their intended, but Alec hopes to give them the dignity of a sympathetic receiver to keep them safe.
He flips the letter over, looks for hints of information he can trace. But there’s nothing, just the same MB symbol stamped at the top in black ink, and a name: Magnus. He tucks the letter carefully back inside its envelope, and moves the bundle and the Mundane novel accompanying them to the privacy of his bedroom. He sets Jane Austen among his own collection of books, then gently wraps the letters in one of his old worn t-shirts, sliding them onto the shelf at the back of his closet for safe keeping. His siblings have a tendency to barge into his room to borrow things, and seeing his own name on those letters may provoke questions he can't answer. His siblings are also detrimentally curious by nature, and he does not wish to see Magnus’ beautiful letters destroyed by prying fingers.
If he can protect these mystery men and the love they once shared, then he will.
But his curiosity is far too unsatisfied for just one letter.
After dinner, he retires once again to his room and brings the letters out, shuffling to get comfortable against the headboard of his bed. He hesitates only to reprimand his apparent lack of self control, but it’s soon forgotten when the next letter of the bunch is open between his hands.
19th May, 1807
My beloved Alexander
I ventured outside of our townhouse today. I almost wish I hadn’t. To discover the world remains the same and does not share in my loss is a heartsickness I cannot put words to. My own little universe has been irreparably changed and there is no evidence, nor person with whom I can truly share it with. ‘Tis as if I dreamt you somehow. I see your clothing in the wardrobe, your shoes and coat in the foyer. The cup and saucer from your last hot tea still sits on the counter. I cannot bear to look at it, but I cannot bring myself to move it, nor wash it. It has become an ornament of our home. Proof that you were here. A vain hope that you might walk back in and tell me this is all nay but a nightmare.
It has been little more than two weeks, and this heart of mine still clutches to denial. Catarina visits often to tend to affairs in my stead, as I still have not the energy. She means to lend me her shoulder to cry upon, but I am too afraid to start, for fear I may never stop. So I went for a walk at her asking, if only to send her home without her usual concerns, and I found myself in the gardens at Chiswick Manor where we shared our first kiss. Being reminded of that night was a gift I sorely needed today. Do you remember as I do?
You seemed to have come from nowhere, looking like you needed a good spit n’ polish. As if you’d walked through hell itself. ‘Tis no wonder those eyes of yours fell me as quickly as they did. You were such a lost soul, and that made us kindred. I remember your easy smile and your patience. I hadn’t been in the best of moods, but you indulged me selflessly like you had all of the time in the world to be with me. You were so strange and thrilling that you felt imaginary, plucked from my desires and made flesh, meant for me and me alone.
The first kiss we shared that evening changed me in a way I had not realised at the time. Reminiscing upon it now, you felt like home. You felt like an answer to an old prayer finally finding its way to me. A perfect love I could hold and be held by. That is why I took you home with me. It certainly hadn’t been the proper thing to do, but I had not cared. Somehow I knew beyond all manner of doubt that you, Alexander, were meant for me. And I’d already waited so long for a love like yours that being coy felt like a waste of our precious time.
And that night...oh, that night. You loved me in ways I had not known I needed to be loved. You loved me in ways I had not known I could ask for. Is it any wonder then that I never tired of you? You felt made for me, Alexander. In you, I found true peace. In you, I could see my own reflection, and he was happy and fulfilled. Thinking of it all now brings tears to my eyes. Not of sadness, but of gratitude. I am so grateful for you. That alone tells me you couldn’t have been a dream. This sorrow and this joy is all too real. You had to have been mine.
I hope you are smiling that contagious smile of yours, wherever you may be. Such thoughts give me hope, especially in moments like these where I miss you so madly that I forget what it means to be me.
I love you, Alexander, far greater than I did yesterday. Tomorrow, I shall love you more.
Gratefully yours,
Magnus
Alec scrubs a hand down his face in awe. He reads the letter in its entirety all over again, and then again, then revisits his favorite sentences until he can recite them word for word. This man and the depths of his heart. His beautiful poeticism. Magnus.
He rests his head back against the headboard and tries to imagine the kind of man Magnus is. A self confessed lost soul, he’d said. Someone who had been waiting a long time for the kind of love his Alexander provided him with. Alec can’t help but feel envious, because the kind of love he wants is the same kind Magnus writes of, and it is exactly the kind he can never have. If he’s fortunate enough, he’ll get to marry a woman he can call a friend. One who can match him in every other way that matters. One who won’t ask for what he can’t give. It’s the closest thing to a happy future a man in Alec’s position can aim for.
He finds himself suddenly bitter and heartsore, enough that he puts the letters away for the evening. It’s a strange feeling to be jealous of a dead man. Even stranger to be jealous of a man that found a love so perfect, he was destroyed by it.
Alec reads another letter each night, taking his time to savor each one. Drawing out their inevitable end torturously.
Magnus writes about anything and everything. He writes about good days, days where he remembered certain things and laughed until his stomach ached.
Ragnor took me out to Rules for a late lunch today. I hadn’t been up to it, but he insisted and persisted until I had little choice. It made me think of that first night we dined there, merely a week after it had opened for business, and how that oyster slipped from its shell and went right down the front inner side of your shirt. The look of horror you wore! I lost it so badly just thinking of it that Ragnor had to drag me out by the collar. I haven’t laughed like that in so long, my love. My belly still aches with it even now. Thank you for the small joy you gave me today.
He also writes about the bad days, and those are harder to read. Not just for how troubling and sorrowful they are, but in the way Magnus’ emotions distort his penmanship. It’s one thing to read about one’s hopelessness. It’s another to see the blurred ink where real tears have fallen, and struggle with the wish to comfort him where he cannot.
I caught your phantom scent today, and it threw me terribly. At first I believed you were back, that you were simply in the next room over. I believed it so desperately that I forgot the last several months entirely and ran to see you. That you were not there only crushed what is left of my heart’s broken pieces.
It’s been months and it still feels so fresh. I am not living, merely existing. This grief feels like a life sentence and I miss you so badly that I don’t know what to do with myself. Would you really wish me to endure it, this pain of mine? Would you not wish instead that I be free of it?
It is only the dates on the letters that bring him any sense of relief. Despite Magnus’ many ups and countless downs, he keeps writing.
The letters come further and further apart, spanning months, and eventually years. Magnus’ sadness lingers through each page, sometimes softer, sometimes much worse. Sometimes he’s angry - at himself, at Alexander, at whatever destiny brought them together in the first place. Sometimes he’s optimistic, where he writes of meeting new people, of developing attractions.
Rose is a woman as lovely as she is fair. She is kind and patient with me where others have grown tired. She understands my loss, as she herself is a widower, having lost her husband six months past to heart disease. Misery must truly enjoy company, as I have found her to be a great comfort. I do believe she is farther along in her healing than I, because I see the way she observes me. Perhaps another chance at love sits there, waiting. I am not yet ready, but I am so lonely. Would you give me permission, Alexander? Would you let me try again, had I the heart for it?
And with each new letter, Alec's fingertips kiss the lines of his own name, and a range of growing emotions overcome him. Excitement. Profound, bone-deep sorrow. A restless yearning he’s never felt before. But beyond that, a certainty that should be laughable. Because he’s holding centuries-old love letters in his hands, from a man he’s never met or known. And impossibly, they feel like they were meant for him.
He learns that Magnus and Alexander had been married, a feat not legally possible for two men in 1800s London. Yet, they had made it happen by way of a simple, personal ceremony. One night, with the moon and stars as their witness, they’d recited vows and bound their hands together with gold ribbon, then spent the night making love beneath the blossom trees in the garden Magnus had built on the roof of their townhouse. A perfect night of promises between two people perfectly in love. The idea has Alec swooning wistfully.
He learns that Alexander had suffered a secret Magnus did not know of, something he never confessed but Magnus could see. Whatever it was, it had only made Magnus love him more, and it only made Magnus take extra care to be what he needed. Despite his secrets, Magnus did not love Alexander any less, and Alexander never gave Magnus a reason to doubt his feelings. For all intents and purposes, the tragically brief life they shared together had been one of deep, mutual trust and passionate, loyal love. It comforts Alec to know they’d both been so true to each other.
Then, after letters and letters of avoidance, Magnus finally talks about the day Alexander died.
That morning had been like any other. We got dressed, had ourselves a cup of tea. You mentioned an errand that needed to be run down at the market. I had offered to run it in your stead, but you insisted on doing it on your way home from the Institute. It had been my birthday after all.
You never made it home. I remember how dark the sky was getting. I could smell oncoming rain in the air and went to meet you, hoping we’d happen upon each other along the way. Had I only been there a moment sooner, you would still be here. I can feel the blood drain from my face all over again now, just remembering you lying there in the street alone. The aftermath of a cruel, random demon attack. The roses you had bought me were scattered beside you, and I was at once both moved and furious. I wish you hadn’t joined the Institute. I wish you’d just stayed with me in our home and been content with a comfortable life. Damn you, Alexander. Damn you and your Nephilim sense of duty! How awful it is to hate you for one of the many reasons I love you. Why could you not have stayed?
That’s when he learns that Alexander was a Shadowhunter.
He takes that particular piece of information down into the Ops Center to check the Clave database, looking for an Alexander who died in London in the early months of 1807. A suspicious amount of nothing comes up. In fact, the closest thing he finds to a Shadowhunter named Alexander in 1807 London is the mention of Gabriel and Gideon Lightwood - his own ancestors, who had been residents of the London Institute nearly seventy years later.
But he makes the connection regardless. If Magnus had known Alexander was a Shadowhunter, there was a good chance he was part of the Shadow World too. So he also searches for Magnus’ name in the Clave database, just to be sure.
And he finds him.
He’s immediately shocked, so excited and nervous he can barely breathe. Magnus B turns up a result for a Magnus Bane, a prominent Warlock with a lengthy database file. A Downworlder. He’s too stunned at the discovery that he simply sends a copy of the file to his phone and disappears to his room so that he can pull it apart in peace.
He reads it as he reads the letters, obsessive and lightheaded. Magnus’ known place of birth: Dutch East Indies. His specialties: Healing and Botanics. His age: Approximately 400 years old. Last known location: Brooklyn, New York. His last known occupation: High---
The High Warlock of Brooklyn. Magnus is alive. More than that, he’s directly under Alec’s nose.
He flicks through the file’s attachments and finally gets his first glimpse of the man. Photographic evidence that he’s real, flesh and bone, beyond his heartfelt letters.
Clearly a purveyor of fashion and high society, the photos showcase moments of Magnus throughout the last century. At parties, at bars, at nightclubs. A perpetual bachelor taking his fill of the night life. All of the wonderful, complex emotions Alec knows him for are hidden away to the untrained gaze. His camera-ready smiles don’t meet his eyes, and his eyes are hard, unfeeling. But all Alec sees is a man who has lost his most precious person and has spent the last 200 years desperately pretending it hasn’t left a hole in him.
He’s the single most beautiful thing Alec has ever seen.
He squeezes a hand over his own mouth and sobs, shaking. This beautiful man, this beautiful, broken man still lives. Still mourns even 200 years on.
He sobs for Alexander, the brave, mysterious Shadowhunter man who inspired such a devoted lover, taken far too early. He sobs for Magnus, the fascinating man he has come to love. Because Alec loves him, he realizes. He loves his intricacies and his vulnerabilities, his humor and his loyalty. Alec loves Magnus for how completely he loved Alexander, so completely that his heart had no choice but to lock itself away.
He also sobs for himself. For how dreadfully unlucky he will be to never experience the same.
He decides to return the letters to Magnus. There’s a part of him that feels it’s the right thing to do. There is another greater, more selfish part of him that simply wants to meet the man, to comfort him by returning to him what was lost.
But the last of the letters sits untouched, unopened. All but daring him to read it, to complete the journey Magnus began in May 1807. He doesn’t even bother trying to talk himself out of it.
He opens the final letter, which sends a small photograph fluttering to the bedspread beneath him. Too eager to hear Magnus’ words, he starts reading.
12th September 1878
My treasured Alexander
A most special 115th birthday to you, my love.
My connection to London has truly run its course. Camille returned to me after leaving months ago, but I no longer have the will to be her plaything. I am tired of the city and all the Nephilim here that seek my help. I am not sure how I got caught in the middle of their dramatics, but I have no desire to partake. I wish to be left alone, so I am relocating to Paris for a time. Then I shall move onto New York to begin another life, hopefully one where my past does not follow.
I finally sold our townhouse. I have no attachment to the place we once called home, because you are away in the Bone City where I cannot visit. The last winter here was too harsh for our blossom trees to survive, and I had not the heart to resurrect them. It is impossible to keep my memories of you alive in a house that feels like an empty tomb.
I went through your things to ensure it was all safe and sound. I wished to bring it with me - to bring you with me - but Ragnor suggested that perhaps it is time to put you in storage and move on. I have not spoken to him for a week out of sheer spite, though I know he only means well. Perhaps it is time to say my goodbyes and start afresh. Maybe it will lessen this weight I carry, if only a little.
But then I remember the promise I made you and again I am lost. How long must I do this? Some days the memories of you are a great comfort. It is a unique gift to know how loved I have been, how worthy I am to have found you. Though there are other days where the thought of you brings me to my knees, and picking myself back up is no longer as easy as it once were. I fear I will not survive this awful limbo if something does not change. I have already tried to tip the scales once before, and I do not wish to disappoint you again. So if I cannot be nothing, then I want to be happy. Can I be happy, Alexander? Even if that means a happiness without you?
Remember what you used to say? ‘If you have nothing else, have faith’. I am trying, Alexander, but faith is hard. I do not wish to leave you behind, because I promised, and because I still love you as fiercely as I did the last morning we had together. Time has not yet stolen that from me. But I think of you and I feel as though I am waiting to breathe. Every moment since you left me, I have been waiting to breathe.
You made me believe that our love would last forever, that we would have another chance. And you never once gave me a reason not to trust you. So I hope with all I have left that you were right.
I love you in ways I will never love again. I love you with all the depths of my wistful heart. May time reveal a new chapter of our story yet.
Faithfully yours,
Magnus
Alec goes over it once more, falling in love again with Magnus’ poignant words, helpless again for his grief. He can’t imagine how cruel it must feel to mourn as a Warlock - as an immortal, where nature provides no end to the suffering. That Magnus remained so in love and so hopeful almost a hundred years on is staggering to him.
He reads it again, because it is the last one, and Alec has every intention of returning them to their author. Then he picks up the photograph and flips it over in his hand.
His heartbeat suddenly runs wild, pounding in his ears.
Because staring back at him is not just a photo of Magnus, seated in an elegant suit with a hand atop a black, shiny cane. No. It’s also a photo of his Shadowhunter lover, Alexander. A Shadowhunter who stands proudly behind him, one hand resting over Magnus’ shoulder where Magnus affectionately grips his fingers. They’re wearing wedding rings.
Alec is more than certain he’s never met Magnus Bane before, nor been to London, let alone lived a secret life 200 years ago. Yet, staring back at him is a face as intimately familiar as his own. The same towering stature, the same rune he wears on his own neck. It’s like staring into a mirror, except the face looking back at him is wearing the smile of a man deeply in love.
Against all imaginable possibility, staring back at him is himself.