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Magic breathed.
It moved, it danced, it sang. It was dangerous and quite possibly deadly. It could be controlled or set loose, like a burning wildfire. It could be cherished or hated, beautiful or evil.
And it could be shared.
Magnus’ natural magic was, for the most part, blue. An icy blue, but it could turn softer or harsher, depending on his mood or what it was being cast for. After he had learned to control it, he had always liked it. He learned to find the color relaxing, learned to love the feeling of it flowing through his entire body and out his fingertips.
He learned to love it as it beat like a second heart inside his chest, vibrating and pumping, as much a part of him as the blood in his veins.
As Magnus grew older and stronger, he began to feel the magic of others. It was like pressing fingers to a pulse point: a slight, fluttering feeling that gave just an inkling of what was going on inside. He had taken the time to hone that ability and had long since used it as a quite effective alarm system, both for friends and foes.
When he had taken the role of the High Warlock of Brooklyn, a role that was much more than what Shadowhunters assumed it was, now that was when he truly began to feel other warlock’s magic.
At first, the feeling had been overwhelming. The magic of warlocks across the East Coast, hell, even the entire country, now beat right beside his heart and his own magic. Every time one of them stuttered and died, their magic would stutter and die with them, and Magnus would feel it wink from existence. He felt an ache as they and their magic were erased from the world, and he felt a dark, yawning space where it had once sat.
The first time it happened, Magnus sat down and cried for the entire day. Later, he discovered he had never even met the warlock who died, but he still felt that loss in every vein, every bone, every bit of who he was.
In time, Magnus had learned how to damper that pain, just so that he could still function. Ragnor had helped him, his own experience as a High Warlock leading him to a concern and sympathy he usually didn’t have. It didn’t last long before Ragnor was back to making fun of him though. When Magnus had asked why Ragnor hadn’t told him about that pain, Ragnor had laughed him off, saying he should have expected it, seeing as being a High Warlock meant caring about and for their kind.
Magnus… had admitted he perhaps should have seen that coming. Ragnor had left soon after, but the comfort he brought with his presence lingered, as did the little bit of Ragnor’s magic that too beat in Magnus’s chest.
High Warlocks felt the magic of those under their protection, but when warlocks grew close, it was common for them to begin to feel each other’s magics, like an echo of their own.
Magnus and Ragnor could be a part for decades, and it would still feel as if they were right by each other’s side, their magic beating beside the other’s heart.
Funny, that. How Magnus had been able to stay apart from Ragnor for so long, a piece of him with him all that time, but it was when Magnus had gone to see Ragnor, that was when it had all fallen apart.
As Magnus had seen the breath slip out of Ragnor’s lungs, he had felt that bit of Ragnor’s magic flutter away. Its beat, just like the beat of Ragnor’s heart under his palms had come to a halt, and then it just. Slipped away.
Gone, leaving just a hole where it had once been. His magic had tugged and pulled at that empty pit, right along with his soul, pulled and pulled as Magnus had fought off tears. That love had left him so soon before another could be-love was about to leave too. Magnus had wished he could have collapsed like he had the first time he had felt a warlock’s death, but he was busy. He had work to do, for these Shadowhunters. And he had to take care of Ragnor’s things.
It was when he had seen that portrait, when he had seen Ragnor’s face, that was when his magic pulled and his soul cried .
Ragnor appeared again, like his magic itself had conjured him from the grave. Magnus couldn’t feel Ragnor’s magic again, but that ache the absence of it left behind was soothed. They spoke of loves lost then, ignoring the love Magnus most missed, since it was sitting right there in the room. And when Ragnor, always so cynical, demanded he chase his could-be-love, what else could Magnus do but comply?
A could-be love found and held onto, at least for now, Magnus returned to his home, and just like that the ache returned just like that. With nothing to do, with nothing around to pull or hold onto, Magnus sat down and cried.
A love, his longest, gone, and a part of him ripped away forever.
When he stood on a balcony under the stars, beside a could-be love, he thought of one that had passed all too recently, the ache all too fresh. The words slipped from his lips before he could stop them.
“I understand what you’re going through, Alexander.”
He stood still as he was told he was wrong, he closed his eyes as his own feelings were parroted back at him, and he nodded as he was told he could never understand what it felt like when a part of his self died. The pit by his heart burned, and the beat of magic that would never breathe again resounded louder than ever.
The next day, when he called icy blue magic to life and felt it flow from his fingertips, he thought of another magic that he would never feel again. The next day, when he looked at the face of his could-be love, he thought of the advice his lost love gave him.
I miss you, he thought.
“I forgive you,” he said.
And he smiled even as he ached.