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 Per sempre (to know your face) by noaki

Category: Shadowhunters (TV), The Shadowhunter Chronicles - All Media Types

Genre: Alec Lightwood Loves Magnus Bane, Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Angst, BAMF Magnus Bane, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Fluff, Happy Ending, High Warlock of Alicante Magnus Bane, Inquisitor Alec Lightwood, Lightwood Siblings, Love, M/M, Magic, Magical Theory, Magnus Bane Deserves Nice Things, Married Magnus Bane/Alec Lightwood, Protective Alec Lightwood, Shadow World Politics

Characters: Alec Lightwood, Catarina Loss, Isabelle Lightwood, Jace Wayland, Magnus Bane

Language: English

Status: Completed

Published: 2021-11-09

Updated: 2021-11-11

Packaged: 2022-02-20 10:37:38

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Chapters: 2

Words: 14,773

Publisher: archiveofourown.org

Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/35027869

Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noaki/pseuds/noaki

Summary: 

A mysterious, magical illness sweeps the Shadow World, and the Inquisitor and High Warlock of Alicante are pulled into the fight. Even then, it’s not enough. For all the magic and healing that Magnus and his fellow warlocks can offer, they’re trapped in a losing battle. Still, there’s always a solution if one is willing to pay the price. Or, whatever the trial or sacrifice, love endures all, saves all. Love never fails.

Relationships: Magnus Bane/Alec Lightwood

Comments: 32

Kudos: 132

1. Primo

Author's Note: 

I was alerted to the fact that while I have dallied with darkness, cavorted with crack, and flirted with fluff, I have not yet rendezvoused with romance. This story is an attempt to remedy that grievous gap in my repertoire. 

To all of you reading this with <3

The steel frame of the infirmary door is cold under Alec’s hand. Faint morning light filters into the infirmary through the glazed windows near the entrance, slipping in between the blinds. The fluorescent lights are switched off, and it is otherwise dim. He steps past the curtained beds, pockets of shadow between the partitions, ignores the almost painful hush that seems to draw close as he strides deeper into the room, homes in on the singular presence he can feel near the back.

Alec doesn’t have to be a warlock to recognize his husband’s magical signature. It’s nothing like the parabatai bond, and they may not wear the wedded runes—won’t ever—but Magnus’s magic is familiar, especially when he’s recently performed a powerful spell. An electricity burn of power woven with the taste of burnt sugar, safety and comfort that curls its fingers toward Alec and pulls him onward to the man he loves.

Not just familiar, Alec amends, but increasingly so, as though the passage of time and their intimacy strengthens the recognition and closeness between Magnus’s magic and Alec. He doesn’t have any precedent for this, doesn’t know how else to describe the sensation. It’s not as though there are many other Shadowhunter and warlock pairs who Alec can ask about this, even if it wasn’t something that seems inherently private.

My magic knows you, his husband had said, shortly before all of this had happened, one hand tracing down the side of Alec’s face, voice soft with wonder and delight. Magnus hadn’t elaborated beyond that. It’s something about Alec and Magnus and their bond that simply is without the need for any further explanation.

Magnus steps out from behind the last partition as Alec approaches. His husband is dressed simply today as to fit the mood, somber dark trousers dusted with the fine luminescent powder of the wishbone and vampire dust that Magnus must have crushed earlier. Alec can smell the willow bark and aspen clinging to Magnus, the countless healing tinctures to relieve the fever and the pain.

Except that it’s not enough. The children were the first to catch the illness, and those unwell get worse by the day. After the first two weeks, the sickness had spread to the adults. Catarina was one of the first to fall ill. It’s possible that Catarina had closer contact with the sick children, including Madzie. As a healer, she’d been on the frontline. That’s Magnus’s theory. However, Magnus had been exposed to the same sickness just as much as Catarina.

High Warlock of Alicante or not, there was no way Magnus would have stood back without helping. Alec understands his husband’s worry and desperation. His desire to do everything he can to save those who need his aid. It’s part of why he fell in love with his husband’s soul. The only thing they know is that the illness had started in New York, over a month ago, before spreading to other cities, even though there’d been no trace of who might have carried the disease.

For all the magic and healing that Magnus and his fellow warlocks can offer, they’re fighting a losing battle. It’s not a matter of beating the illness. It’s a matter of how long they can keep those who do fall sick alive while they race to find a cure. The sickness began in New York, and it’s the worst hit of all the cities on the continent, so Magnus has stationed himself here to trace the origin and help with the healing. 

They step into the side room together unspoken—Alec doesn’t have to ask to know that Magnus won’t want to wake the children, and Magnus doesn’t have to worry that Alec will forget that the patients come first, even with his concern for his husband. Magnus waves a hand, the door slides shut silently, and Alec greets his husband with a hand against the side of Magnus’s face. Thumb gently traces the faint shadows under those beloved brown eyes.

“You didn’t sleep last night either, did you?”

Magnus turns instinctively into Alec’s touch and kisses the palm of his hand. “An hour or two.” He smiles faintly. “I’m guessing the eyebags gave me away. Not my best look.”

“Still the most beautiful man I’ve seen in my life.” That barely begins to describe the extent of it. Alec has never seen anyone as gorgeous as his husband, who’s wonderful both inside and out. He drops his hand and lets Magnus pull him close. “And the kindest.” It’s a miracle to Alec that after everything that Magnus has been through, how his husband’s heart is wide enough to not just love Alec but the world.

“Rest?” At least a few more hours. Alec doubts either of them would get much more sleep than that. Still, if Magnus doesn’t take a break, he’ll drain himself, and Alec has no intention of letting that happen.

Magnus tenses in Alec’s embrace, draws back the slightest fraction, and shakes his head. “I shouldn’t. Any of them might get worse at any time, and we still haven’t found a cure.” He glances away, distracted, and Alec can almost see the thoughts form in Magnus’s mind—perhaps he should go by the Spiral Labyrinth, see if Tessa has found any answers. 

“You’re doing the best you can.” Alec hesitates. Magnus has used the same reasoning on him before. “It’s not going to do anyone any good if you collapse from exhaustion, sweetheart.” If he’s lucky, Magnus will let Alec nudge him to his old room in the New York Institute. If not, the spare cot in the rest station in the infirmary is better than nothing.

Magnus eyes him with some amusement but doesn’t refuse. It’s likely a sign of how tired Magnus is, that he looks tempted by the offer. Even Magnus’s power is not infinite. Alec remembers all the times that his husband has said that before. He also recalls Catarina’s warning—before she’d fallen ill herself—to not let Magnus overwork himself.

He may be the most powerful warlock in the Shadow World, but he’s not invincible. She had fixed Alec with a glare thereafter. Neither are you.

“Three hours,” Alec says. “I promise that I’ll wake you if anything happens.” He hopes that nothing occurs in those three hours that require Magnus’s attention. Alec won’t break his promise to his husband, of course, and Magnus wouldn’t forgive him if he did. However, Alec will be furious if anything does interrupt the sleep that Magnus so obviously requires.

“You raise a convincing argument, Mr. Lightwood-Bane.” Magnus’s gaze softens, and his expression is fond. “Stay?”

“Always.” As though Alec intended to be anywhere else in the interim.

It turns out that Magnus can be persuaded to leave the infirmary, if not the Institute, though Alec had expected the last. They head down the corridor to Alec’s old room, which Isabelle had kept empty if sparsely furnished, and prepared again for Alec and Magnus when they started spending more nights in New York than away.

Magnus makes a pleased noise when they enter the room, his gaze obviously drawn to the bed. Alec shuts the door behind him, props an elbow against the wardrobe, and feels the corner of his mouth curl. Being away from the infirmary clearly helps. His husband seems slightly less tense, and the tight line of his shoulders releases.

“Tired?” Alec pushes himself off the surface, walks past Magnus and to the window to draw the curtains. It’s still day, and pale November light stretches quietly into the bedroom.

“Exhausted,” Magnus agrees. He glances down at his own outfit, then at the wooden door leading to the bathroom. A wave of his hand and both Magnus and Alec are clean and in comfortable clothes for sleeping.

In the soft gray shadows of the room, Magnus’s eyes glow a brilliant gold. No need to maintain the glamour when it’s just the two of them, and no one else in the world. It’s an expression of trust that still moves Alec, that his husband does not feel the need to hide who he is or his heritage, that for all that Magnus is a powerful warlock who could defeat any Shadowhunter with a flick of a disdainful wrist, he trusts one to hold his heart safe.

Alec’s chest feels tight with a rush of fondness so strong as to leave him breathless with delight. He holds out a hand to Magnus, tugs him down to the bed. “Rest, love?”

“Only because I was bribed into it by a very handsome man,” Magnus says as he nuzzles into Alec’s neck from where he’s lying half on top of Alec and tangles their legs together. “I’m not usually that easy.”

“Mm.” Alec runs his hand up Magnus’s back, the strong, toned muscles, the elegant line of his spine. “What would your husband say to that?”

“I don’t know.” Magnus nudges Alec’s jaw with his head like a cat, presses against him, so there’s not a breath of space between them, bodies aligned and limbs tangled in each other. “What would you say?”

“I would say that I’m a very lucky man.” Alec presses a kiss into Magnus’s temple near his hairline, strokes his hair, gentle fingers through the strands. He smiles at how Magnus almost arches into the touch like a cat. “That I have been given the chance to love you.”

“Flatterer,” Magnus says immediately, though his voice is heavy with emotion. He still has his face pressed into Alec’s skin, and his expression is hidden. “Further, I beg to disagree, Inquisitor. I think I’m the lucky one here.”

“They’re not mutually exclusive.” Alec draws back, and Magnus lifts his head in apparent surprise at the movement. Alec kisses his husband once each at the top arch of the cheekbone, a final kiss on his forehead like a benediction, draws Magnus to him once more. “Rest, love. I’ll guard your sleep.”

Magnus had fallen asleep a while back, his breaths easing to a light, even rhythm. They’d shifted after a time, Magnus turning to his side in the curled position that he’s fond of adopting, especially when tired, and Alec wrapping himself around his husband, the heat of Magnus’s back warm against his front.

Alec shifts his right arm to pillow his head, left arm still draped over Magnus, and lets his mind wander. He’d promised Magnus to keep watch in case they were needed, had in fact informed Isabelle to send a message if anything dire happened that required Magnus’s attention immediately. Alec had also indicated that unless necessary, they were not to be disturbed.

Unsurprisingly, the first topic that Alec’s thoughts land on is the current, mysterious sickness that has Alec and Magnus here in New York instead of back in Alicante. At the start, they had portaled between New York and Alicante, but the illness had gotten worse, more children succumbing, and it wasn’t as though Alec’s attention when in Alicante had been on much more than solving this problem and preventing more deaths in the Shadow World.

Then, even the adults, including warlocks like Catarina, who had been essential in maintaining the healing efforts in the city, had fallen ill. At that point, Alec had proposed to the Consul that they simply remain in New York till things were resolved.

It wasn’t as though Magnus hadn’t already moved to New York in the interim. So, really, it meant multiple, frequent portals to and from the New York Institute for Alec. His daily work had been set aside in favor of coordinating the logistics and communication amongst Institutes and ensuring that the Shadow World cooperated to deal with a common problem.

Jia had agreed readily. That had been almost a month ago, and they aren’t any closer to figuring out how the disease started or how to cure it.

It is a purely Shadow World matter. As far as Alec can tell, none of the mundanes have fallen ill, whether children or adults. The Inquisitor’s Office had reached out discreetly to the mundane governments to confirm the same. Whatever this is, it seems to affect the denizens of the Shadow World, specifically. Warlocks, werewolves. Even vampires and Seelies. The Shadowhunters appear to have some natural immunity to the sickness, but once they contract it, their condition deteriorates rapidly.

At the same time, each species in the Shadow World seems to react differently to the illness. With the Downworlders, it’s as though they lose control of their abilities, even as the disease drains their energy and life strength. The werewolves transform at random, and the warlocks have spontaneous outbursts of magic. The Seelies—beyond disclosing that they’re battling a similar illness in their realm—have provided no further details. The vampires fade, and the Shadowhunters fade even quicker.

If the mundanes aren’t affected, if the illness is exclusive to the Shadow World, that means some sort of magic or otherworldly power. There’s no other possible inference. Whatever causes the disease must feed off something that the Shadow World has, which mundanes do not. However, Alec can’t think of any plausible explanation.

The best possibility Alec and Magnus have come up with is blood, but it’s useless with no other link. Most Downworlders have some form of demon blood. If the illness affects those with demon blood particularly severely, that would explain why the warlock children and adults fell ill first. After all, they would have the highest concentration of demon blood.

It would also explain why Shadowhunters have some natural immunity. Their angel blood would hold off any demonic infection, especially for those who have taken their runes and oaths and been accepted into the Angel’s protection.

And yet, it does not explain why Magnus alone has remained untouched. Alec’s husband is immensely powerful. There is no other warlock on this continent that wields that magnitude of magic. Hardly any in the world who have that power combined with the richness of experience and knowledge as Magnus. 

Alec shifts, careful not to wake his husband, and buries his face in the nape of Magnus’s neck, breathes in his scent. The unique mix of sandalwood, burnt sugar, and magic, that never fails to remind Alec of safety and home.

Magnus’s apparent immunity, never mind that he was working unceasingly to find a cure, had raised questions amongst the Shadowhunters and the Clave as to whether Magnus had a hand in some vicious conspiracy against the Shadow World. The idea was ludicrous. It helped that Magnus had the Inquisitor’s and the Consul’s support, and Alec had made clear what he thought of any Shadowhunter who made that absurd allegation.

It isn’t just the Clave and Council, however. From what Catarina had mentioned, even though most of the Downworld are grateful to Magnus, rumors persist within the Spiral Labyrinth and the Downworld. Off-handed queries as to how Magnus remains untouched, even though, as a warlock and one in such close contact with the illness, he should have been one of the first adults after the children to get sick. Those Alec can’t silence, much as he would love to do so.

Such questions and accusations are born of fear and worry over their own health, but it doesn’t make it right. This mindless lashing out, because it’s easier to speculate rather than accept their own anxiety and helplessness, isn’t fair. It’s even worse when Magnus has been one of those at the frontlines—still at the frontlines—exhausting himself to ease everyone else’s pain. 

Far quicker than Alec would like, it’s almost three hours past and time for them to wake and return to their duties. It’s barely enough rest for Magnus, who’d slept increasingly less over the weeks. Not that Alec had slept much himself, but he had—ironically, considering that Alec was usually the one to work without a break—managed to get more rest than his husband.

Alec hesitates. He’d promised to wake Magnus after three hours if only to get his husband to sleep at all, though now that the time is here, he’s reluctant to disrupt Magnus’s slumber.

He’s still debating on the question when there’s a flicker of movement from across the room. A flutter of flames as a fire message swoops through a gap in the curtain and lands on top of the blanket just over Alec’s hip.

Oh, for the love of Raziel. Alec lifts the scrap of paper and glances through the short message. Isabelle. It’s partially good news—in a manner of speaking. No one has gotten any better, but the conditions of the patients are stable, the herbs are doing their job to keep the fever at bay. None of the young warlocks are struggling with any spontaneous explosions of magic that would require Magnus’s attention.

However, the Institute has received a missive from the Spiral Council with an urgent update on the research relating to the sickness. It is currently on Isabelle’s desk in the Head’s Office. She leaves it to Alec whether to inform his husband now—they both know that Magnus will want to deal with it immediately—or to wait till their meeting scheduled later in the day.

Alec sighs internally. Part of him wants to put this off as long as possible. Whatever the Spiral Council wants, it’s almost definite that it would require some work from Magnus, if not a visit to the Spiral Labyrinth to speak to Tessa and the other warlocks. After which, there’s no guarantee when Magnus would next get a break from his tasks.

Having said, they have to solve the illness promptly. It is both duty and moral obligation for Alec and his husband, given their respective roles in the Shadow World. Further, Magnus will be terribly upset if he finds out that Alec concealed the letter from him in favor of squeezing in a few hours of sleep. 

Couldn’t you have waited? He thinks resignedly in Isabelle’s direction. Still, the more rational part of Alec is aware that it’s not his sister’s fault, either. She’s as anxious to see an end to this as anyone else. Besides, if she had held this information back, then it’s just as likely that Magnus and Alec would be furious with her later.

An urgent update from the Spiral Labyrinth implies something significant, whether good or bad. Perhaps the warlocks have a breakthrough. There’ll be time for all of them to rest later. Alec props himself on an elbow, presses his lips to his husband’s bare shoulder, the smooth, golden skin.

“Magnus, love?”

Magnus blinks himself awake as they make their way through the Institute, having changed back to their day clothes and stumbled out of Alec’s bedroom. Despite his constant reminders to Alec to take care of his health and get more sleep, Magnus himself is no stranger to forgoing rest in favor of his research, especially when he gets caught up with an interesting point.

It has been a while, however, since Magnus has been that short of sleep and drained of magic. His husband’s intervention had been much appreciated and even necessary. 

Isabelle greets them at the door to the Head’s Office. She hugs Magnus, murmurs thank you to him, gives her brother a tight squeeze around the middle, and excuses herself to check on something in Ops. The door swings shut with a solid thud, leaving only Magnus and Alec in the room.

It is not cold—November isn’t winter yet—though it is still somewhat drafty in the room, despite the fire in the hearth. The letter from the Spiral Council is addressed to “Magnus Lightwood-Bane c/o New York Institute” and placed in the middle of the Head’s desk. It is folded over and sealed, with “urgent” at the top right in Tessa’s neat, elegant script.

Magnus blinks down at it with some bemusement. His name, joined with the Lightwood surname, in care of a Nephilim Institute is not something he’d ever expected to see combined. Not that Magnus has any complaints at all. The sight of it, and the acknowledgment of everything that has brought him here to his husband beside him, kindles warmth in his heart.

It’s also very Tessa, given her own heritage and natural thoughtfulness, to send the letter to the Institute instead of directly to Magnus, knowing how busy he’s been.

Granted that relationships between the Nephilim and the Downworld are better, and the Downworld holds the Inquisitor and the New York Institute in particular regard. Still, it’s exceptional for a letter meant for Magnus to end up in the office of a Head of the Institute; wouldn’t have happened anywhere but here.

Magnus waves a hand, and the seal on the letter dissolves in a flare of blue fire. An additional precaution by Tessa, unlikely as it is that anyone would dare steal the letter from Isabelle’s office or that Isabelle would be careless enough to let it be stolen.

Alec steps up, drapes himself over Magnus’s back, and hooks his chin over—a solid, comforting presence. Magnus tilts the letter so that his husband can read it with him. The first page contains a summary of the contents, followed by a few sheets with rows of numbers showing the concentration of demonic energy in the various affected cities, some diagrams like a network stretching between points. The densest web indicates New York, and there are thin lines connected to the other cities, almost like—

“Leylines?”

Magnus can’t see his husband’s face, pressed together like that, but Alec sounds startled. They had checked the leylines at the start and found no trace of hostile energy. It had been one of the first things Magnus had thought to investigate, considering what happened with Lilith. 

“Perhaps the energy took a while to converge before it surfaced,” Magnus says dubiously. It’s not impossible, and he’d been swamped with the healing efforts more recently, especially after the few adult warlocks aiding the city had fallen ill. The demonic energy may have been too faint to detect at the beginning. 

Still, Magnus’s spell at the start should have revealed any hostile magic or demonic energy. If it had been there, only he had missed it. Alec’s arm tightens around Magnus’s waist, a reassuring squeeze, and Magnus forces his muscles to relax. His husband is warm and present, a comforting weight at his back. He’s not entirely successful, his mind spiraling to the what-ifs, but it helps a little.

“Could be recent. There may not have been anything at the time,” Alec says softly. He nudges a cheek gently against the side of Magnus’s face.

“We don’t know that.” Dismay crawls slowly up the back of Magnus’s throat, despite his best attempts to not go down that path. Over the last month, countless denizens of the Shadow World had suffered helplessly against the unknown sickness. Some had died. Beyond the pain—as if that wasn’t bad enough—there was the fear, the anxiety, the creeping loss of hope against the days of uncertainty.

“Even if there was,” Alec says gently, “if you couldn’t sense it, no one else in the Shadow World would have been able to.”

A pause. Magnus can sense his husband detaching himself reluctantly from where he’d been hugging Magnus from behind to step around, slide between Magnus and the heavy, dark walnut desk, knee slotted between Magnus’s legs. Alec’s large hands are warm around Magnus’s wrists.

“Magnus. We’re all trying our best, but there is no one in the Shadow World who has done as much as you to fight this. I don’t think anyone could.” Alec glances at Magnus from under dark lashes, quirks a smile. “I’m not surprised you blame yourself, love. You care so much. It’s one of the many things that make you beautiful inside and out.”

“That’s one pep talk,” Magnus says wryly. His throat feels tight. He’s still uneasy at the thought that he might have missed something vital that could have stopped this earlier, but dwelling on that will not change the current situation. More importantly, the sickness hasn’t been defeated, and their people are suffering.

He can wallow in those thoughts later. There are more important things to focus on right now.

Magnus examines the vellum sheets again, the curled script and rows of figures setting out the latest findings and theories on the sickness. Perhaps, with this information from the Labyrinth, they can find a solution. He peruses the rest of the missive, eyes landing on the last paragraph at the end of the stack of papers. The quick note from Tessa to contact her because she wishes to discuss her findings with Magnus exclusively.

A possible glimmer of hope leading toward a way out of the sickness that has gripped the Shadow World. Magnus's heart quickens with a sliver of anticipation.

He won’t head to the Labyrinth. There’s every chance he’ll be stuck there without a means of communication if the wards separating the Labyrinth from the rest of the world are triggered—as happens from time to time—due to certain dangerous experiments.

Besides, Tessa might wish to speak to Magnus alone, but he knows his friend. Though she hadn’t mentioned as much, she wouldn’t expect him to have this discussion without his husband by his side. Alec is as much a part of this fight as Magnus. 

There are means of contacting Tessa while remaining in the Institute. A Projection—the magic that allows a person’s three-dimensional image to appear in a place even though they are not physically present—would work perfectly.

Magnus eyes the dusty chalk lines on the ground, stark against the rough, gray stone in the Institute’s courtyard. It’s been a while since they’ve been here. The last time—he grimaces. The last time is not a good memory. Azazel, the body swap, the agony rune, the sleepless nights that had come after, the dreams that had haunted Magnus for weeks. His childhood in Batavia.

But that is over.

Alec had banished Azazel back to his realm on time, and everything had worked out in the end. Still, the sensation of Azazel’s hands, human-shaped but inhumanly cold around Magnus’s jaw, those jet black eyes. The revulsion and rejection shooting through Magnus’s body when he had opened his eyes and seen Valentine staring back at him in the glass panel of the Institute’s cell.

His terror when no one, not even Alec, had believed him. Those brief minutes Magnus had thought he would die at the hands of the Clave staring into the eyes of the man he loves.

The door swings open, the scuff of a boot against stone, and Magnus jumps. He takes a breath, settles his trembling fingers, and turns. It’s not his husband. Instead, his husband’s parabatai, dressed in combat gear with his seraph blades strapped in thigh holsters, fine, golden blond hair a distressed halo around his head.

It’s been a few days since they’ve seen Jace. The Los Angeles Shadow World had taken a turn for the worse, a sudden spike of cases that had appeared over the weekend, and Jace had volunteered to assist the local Institute. He’d returned last night, pale from lack of sleep and with dark circles like the rest of them, troubled by what he’d seen, and thrown himself back into work.

“He’s on his way,” Jace says quietly in response to Magnus’s unspoken question. He ducks his head slightly in greeting. “The meeting with the Consul overran its scheduled time. I came to see if you need anything else.” He comes to a stop just outside the pentagram lines, falls into parade rest, every inch a soldier.

However, he can’t hide that he’s examining the patterns on the ground with obvious curiosity.

Magnus isn’t surprised. This intricate design wouldn’t have been anything the Shadowhunters have seen before. Alec might, only because he has access to Magnus’s private study and collection of books, and because he’s spent many a peaceful Sunday afternoon before all of this, curled with his husband while they read together.

Still, what they’re attempting is unprecedented, and Magnus had to modify the ritual pentagram to suit the purpose, add additional marks for stability and strength, ensure that the way remains open for him to return. The last thing he wants is to be trapped in another realm. Assuming there’s enough left of Magnus to make the journey back.

“Magnus?”

“It’s fine.” Magnus shakes his head and runs through the steps again in his mind, the incantations. The meeting with Tessa had been unexpected. That she’d wanted to discuss her latest findings directly instead of recording it in the official communications from the Spiral Labyrinth suggested she’d been concerned over something.

Magnus and Alec had taken the call in the Head’s Office, a Projection of Tessa flickering into being in the middle of the room. She’d smiled briefly, asked how they were, then asked Magnus if he had sensed anything at all of Edomite magic in the sickness.

He hadn’t, but then he hadn’t searched precisely for that.

Edom had collapsed over a year ago when they’d fled, the power of the realm folding into itself. With Lilith destroyed, that hell dimension had imploded, the magic too vast and impossible to contain. It should have ended there, and with Asmodeus dealt with, it had been a long chapter of Magnus’s life closed.

Because of that, there’d been no cause for him to suspect Edom had anything to do with the sickness. He’d searched for traces of hostile demonic energy and found none.

His father’s realm, the magic of Magnus’s heritage, had no reason to be hostile to their last son. And so, Magnus had missed the most obvious thing. It was stupid. With Asmodeus permanently trapped in limbo and Edom destroyed, he hadn’t even thought to check for Edomite magic.

It’s not your fault, Tessa had said, brown eyes kind, unknowingly echoing Alec’s earlier words. It only occurred to me because I’d traced Belial’s magic, in case. But, there was no sign of him, and a Prince of Hell alone might not have sufficient power for this.

Tessa was right, of course. A Prince of Hell alone might not have sufficient magical energy—unless it were combined with something else—but an entire demonic realm would. They’d pieced it together. When Edom collapsed, some of the magic had escaped through the rift. Enough to meld with the Earth’s magic. The current demonic energy causing the sickness in the Shadow World isn’t purely from Edom, but it had evolved from that.

Magnus stares at his hands, flexes his fingers absently. Beside him, Jace remains in parade rest and silent. He’d expected his brother-in-law to leave once there wasn’t anything to do, but Jace seems to have decided that Magnus could do with the company.Magnus isn’t sure that he deserves that sympathetic gaze or the lack of reprobation.

It’s not simply that Magnus is a powerful warlock and should have picked up on all of this from the start. It’s also that Edom is his mess. His heritage. His responsibility, and he had missed all of that, badly enough that the Shadow World had suffered from the wild magic. Once Tessa had explained her theory, it wasn’t difficult for Magnus to make sense of the rest.

A quick spell had revealed the traces of Edomite magic that clung like slick and sludge to the natural leylines. Magic isn’t human, but it’s sentient. Instinctive, visceral, vicious in its desire to survive. Magnus knew this. He has known this all along. Magic may not be conscious, but it has an insurmountable determination to endure. It’s partly what keeps young warlocks alive despite the unenviable circumstances of their birth or the torment that may characterize their early years.

If Edom’s magic hadn’t succeeded in slipping through the rift, hadn’t latched onto the natural magic of the world, then extended its tendrils to the Shadow World, it would likely have faded. The way Magnus assumed had happened.

The magic didn’t want that. It had probably started desperate to find a host, anything to feed itself. A life force. Gradually, it had infected the earth, corrupted the leylines, and found its way into the living.

However, none of those bodies were made to contain the power of a demonic realm. Hostile magic. Children would have been more susceptible as they naturally have fewer defenses. Warlocks have their own magic, which would have instinctively tried to reject the Edomite magic. It explains why they’d gotten so ill. All the Downworlders have some form of demonic blood or connection to demonic blood. It would have made an easy conduit.

As for Shadowhunters, Asmodeus was a fallen angel, one of the original host, so there may have been some sympathy with his magic. Perhaps Edom’s magic had infected a few but hadn’t made them sick. That, or as Alec and Magnus had initially guessed, the natural Angelic powers and blood running through the Nephilim—the protection of the Angel and the runes—are enough to combat some of the ill-effects of the demonic energy.

Finally, they had their answers. As for a solution—Magnus shudders briefly, and Jace shoots him a concerned look. The door swings open again, and Magnus turns, smiles slightly at the sight of the tall figure jogging down the steps.

“Hey.” Alec reaches for Magnus, pulls him into an embrace, tight enough to hurt. “Sorry. Jia wanted to discuss some contingency plans, in case—” He doesn’t complete his sentence, but he doesn’t have to, for Magnus to understand. In case the Institutes are unable to cope with the numbers—resources already stretched too thin—and things get worse. In case the death toll increases.

Alec pulls away from Magnus and greets his parabatai with a grip on his lower arm. “Thank you.”

For staying with Magnus, for being here. Even though the rest of this path will be for Magnus alone. They all know that. There’s nothing the Shadowhunters can do from hereon.

“He’s my brother, too.” Jace’s gaze is sympathetic, and he quirks a smile at Magnus. “Well, brother-in-law. And, this is a Shadow World problem.” 

Alec glances at the pentagram, gaze lingering on the symbols in the corner, the intricate, overlapping lines, the runes of protection that he’d helped with earlier in the day before the meeting with Jia Penhallow. He reaches for Magnus again, arm curled protectively, warm against Magnus’s back.

A clatter of sound and Isabelle exits the Institute, her expression somber. Jace nods at Magnus, exchanges a silent look with Alec, then steps away. Jace and Isabelle drift to the far corner of the courtyard, likely to give Magnus and their brother some privacy.

“I don’t suppose I could persuade you to change your mind?” Alec’s tone is regretful. They both know that the answer will be no.

“We don’t have many options or much time.” It’s not as though Magnus is looking forward to it. But if they don’t do anything—if Magnus doesn’t do anything—they’re looking at the eventual deaths of probably everyone in the Shadow World. The magic has spread too far and too wide by this point. There’s nothing on this Earth that can contain it.

“I know.” Alec closes his eyes briefly. “But, Sammael?”

The second oldest Prince of Hell, second only to Lucifer in power and hierarchy. The Devourer of Worlds, Maker of the Way. Sammael won’t answer to a summoning, would consider it a grave insult, so Magnus will need to travel to his realm and speak to him there. It’s a long shot, but it’s the best they have.

An appeal to the Greater Demon for power and aid to deal with the affliction in the Shadow World, the corruption of the Earth’s magic and leylines caused by the transformed magic from Edom.

It’s possible that Sammael might be intrigued enough to help, though with Greater Demons, there’s always a price to pay. There’s also a chance that Sammael will strike without even hearing Magnus out. Still, Magnus is the son of another Fallen Angel, a peer to Sammael, and this should offer some protection.

“I wish I could go with you,” Alec says. His gaze flickers to the pentagram again. “I know you can protect yourself. I just wish—”

That the world didn’t take so much from you, that I didn’t have to let you go alone. Magnus doesn’t need to hear the words to know what his husband means.

Alec’s expression twists with resignation, acceptance, grief. It’s so similar to the last time in Alicante, over a year ago, when they had just reunited except that Magnus had to leave. It’s not a look that Magnus had wanted to see again. Not so soon. Not ever.

“I know.” Magnus wraps his arms around Alec, indulging in the presence, the warmth, and the love he can feel. “I know, darling.”

Look what I have waiting for me. 

It’s not an indulgence they can afford. Based on the current patterns, the Shadowhunters and Institutes will be the last to fall to the illness. Most of the healing efforts in the cities are now centered around the local Institute, and Alec’s role as Inquisitor, coordinating between the Shadowhunters and the Downworld, is essential. Especially since the trust that the Downworld has in the Inquisitor does not always extend to the Nephilim as a whole.

Further, no one knows how Sammael’s realm works. If it’s anything like Edom, however, it will be inherently hostile to one with Angel blood. A slow poisoning. A land of ash and dust designed to dry the lungs and drain the life of any of Raziel’s children. Magnus won’t risk Alec’s safety, and Alec won’t risk holding Magnus back on the chance that he would be a liability instead.

Finally, having both Magnus and Alec there would simply give Sammael unnecessary leverage. More likely than not, the Greater Demon would seek to use them against each other. All the better to toy with and for Sammael to have the upper hand in any bargain. There’s no reason to give the Prince of Hell that advantage.

It makes sense. It’s the most practical approach. They’ve spoken about it, but it doesn’t make it any easier for Magnus to leave. Not when this could be the last time that he sees his husband. Time passes differently in other realms. What if—no. If Magnus allows himself to consider the possibility, he will abandon his task before he’s even started.

Alec holds him close, so tight that there’s not one fragment of space separating them, then steps back. His expression is carefully blank, though he cannot hide the sheen in his eyes. So very like the last time this happened, and Magnus has to force his mind away from the sense memory of bleak recognition and heart-aching loneliness—those days Magnus had spent mourning for the life he thought he would not have, condemned to Edom for an eternity—or he thinks he might cry.

Although it is tempting, Magnus resists the urge to press his lips against his husband’s in one last embrace. He won’t treat this like a final goodbye. He will return, and then he will claim that kiss. Still, Magnus allows himself to reach out, tip of his fingers just grazing Alec’s lips before he lets his hand drop to his side.

From the slight wistful curl at the corner of Alec’s mouth, it appears that he knows what Magnus means. That he understands the gesture.

The longer Magnus tarries, the more he delays his return. He lets this thought bolster him, carry him through, as he steps into the middle of the pentagram. He closes his eyes, steadies himself, runs through the words of the ritual in his mind. Magnus won’t overthink this, won’t let himself get caught up in his fear that he won’t be on time to save everyone or that he won’t see Alec again.

Jace and Isabelle move forward to flank their brother, one on either side, their faces solemn, and Alec acknowledges his siblings before his gaze returns to Magnus.

With everything prepared, the ritual is easy. A few incantations and the outermost lines of the pentagram catch fire, a burst of unearthly green light. The flames move in, leap higher, shut Magnus off from the others and from the rest of this world. Magnus waits, fixes his eyes on his husband. It will be obvious when the way to the hell dimension opens.

Alec mouths something which Magnus can’t make out over the roar building in his ears. Then, his husband must raise his voice because this time, Magnus hears the words clearly, through the weight of unfamiliar magic and the unnatural clamor swelling around him.

“Come home to me?”

“Always.”

The gates to Sammael’s realm fall open with a reverberating crash. The world, the sight of his Alexander’s face, ignites in an inferno of flames, explodes in a blaze of heat. 

Notes for the Chapter: 

I think I might have killed myself writing this. Rest assured, I shall revive in good time to complete this story. I'd love to know what you think (though no pressure). As always, thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoyed this.

2. Secondo

Summary for the Chapter: 

Magnus makes the journey through Sammael’s realm to seek his aid. Sammael agrees, but asks for something in return. It’s always a deal with demons. Where things get a little messy, and people get a little hurt, but love wins out and it’s a happy ending. Edom’s magic might know her son, but Magnus’s magic knows Alexander.

For a moment—or so it feels, he’s not sure how long it is—Magnus is consumed by fire. There's nothing but hot, acrid smoke, burn of sulfur in his throat, heat so strong as to dry his eyes from the inside out, air clawing through his lungs, leaving nothing but desiccated husks behind. Then, it stops. 

The flames rushing through him dissipate, the air cools, and a breeze seems to blow over him through the darkness. Inky black lightens to murky gray slides into a dull, yellow-toned hue. Magnus blinks. He was not sure what to expect, though an unkempt garden viewed through a glass panel of cold, restrained tones was not it. 

Magnus hesitates. He doesn't know what the layer of film around him will do if he touches it, but he can't stay here forever. He reaches out with his magic—better that than his fingers—and shudders when the contact seems to send ice showers down his spine. 

Okay. Not his magic, then. Sammael—assuming that Magnus and Tessa had got their calculations right, and this isn't some strange, sepia-shaded nightmarish alternate dimension—must have designed this as a trial to enter his realm. 

Asmodeus had done something similar centuries before. Not that it had affected Magnus since he could enter and leave Edom easily. This thought—magic knows its own, will not harm its own—reminds him of the magic poisoning the Earth, the reason why Magnus is here. 

Focus, gain Sammael's assistance, return home, to Alexander, as soon as possible. 

Of course, Magnus could simply walk through and hope that he doesn't get seared into nothingness in the process. But he's unwilling to take the risk. This means that Magnus must either pass the test or dismantle the enchantment separating him from this other world. 

Magnus studies the curved surfaces around him and ignores the undulating shades of flat brown and muted yellow that give him a headache. The spell is self-sustaining, which means that the linchpin must be contained somewhere within this entire contraption. 

It takes him some time. In the interim, warm, wet heat seems to build in the capsule, a stark contrast to the dry burn that had marked his passage into this realm. Magnus ignores the sweat trickling down the side of his face, the back of his neck, discomfort wrapped tight like a cocoon.

Finally, however, he can see the elements that comprise the enchantment, the threads and woven strings, the knot at the base that holds everything together. Suspicious bastard. There are multiple charms layered. Spells that demand payment in blood, bind the visitor to Sammael, prevent them from raising a hand against the Greater Demon. Tests of strength, intention, determination.

None of these matter to Magnus. He applies his magic to the keystone of Sammael’s trap. A surge of power in the direction of the core, the glass wall shatters, threads snap, and Magnus is in the garden, which, past the gateway, is not so untended after all. Behind him, hazy mist reforms into a floating rectangle.

Sammael’s spell. Ready to welcome the next visitor to this place. 

A quick survey of his surroundings shows that Sammael is nowhere to be found. Magnus seems to be in the middle of a walled garden, and there’s a dirt path leading toward a tiny gap on the far side of the place. Of course, this couldn’t be easy. Never mind getting here or breaking past the enchantment at the entrance, now Magnus must hunt for the Greater Demon, who could be anywhere at all. Magnus peers at the arboreal arches, the shrubbery, the plants lining the walls.

No Sammael. No life of any sort, in fact, unless one counts the greenery. It’s unlikely that Sammael missed Magnus’s arrival. That would make for one terribly incompetent ruler of this hell. This means that Sammael’s staying where he is on purpose and waiting for Magnus to go to him.

The temptation to simply demand that Sammael turn up is near overwhelming. At the same time, the Prince of Hell has the upper hand considering that Magnus is here to ask for help.

Magnus sighs. Time to walk, then. He hopes he doesn’t have to search for too long.

Through the gap in the walls, the garden gives way to a drier landscape—banks of sand and billowing dust, bare land in all directions. Not as harsh as Edom, though closer to what Magnus would’ve expected for a hell dimension. Tragically.

He tries to reach out with his magic, to get a sense of where Sammael might be, but his magic bounces off nothing. No sympathy, no familiarity, and Sammael is likely shielding his location. The damned thing about all Greater Demons is how much they enjoy toying with those who seek their aid.

Very well, Magnus will play. He does his best to focus on the journey, the task at hand. He doesn’t think about the people back home, everyone relying on him, he drags his mind away from thoughts of Alec—how long has it been, how long will it take—because this line of query will simply serve to make Magnus panic.

Come home to me. 

Magnus has every intention of fulfilling this promise to his husband. Whatever it takes, however long it takes. Magnus will return, successful, with the power he needs to contain the hostile magic and end this threat to the Shadow World.

He walks. From time to time, he pauses, attempts to use his magic again to scry, to search for Sammael, but he gets nothing. It’s strange and more than a little frustrating to be so helpless. There’s nothing left for Magnus to do but continue as he has been, a solitary warlock marching his way through an unfamiliar demonic realm.

After what must be hours, the sand shifts to sludge, a mangrove swamp, a forest. Past that, and Magnus finds himself in abandoned cities, like echoes of a Europe from long ago. Cobblestone streets stained with blood, empty houses with the doors thrown open, as though their owners had fled in a panic. There’s no one here, of course. Simply ancient stone, crumbling walls, broken fences, as though all the structures had curled away from an intruder and collapsed into themselves.

Although he wants to carry on without pause, at some point, Magnus is forced to concede that even he needs to sleep. He catches a few hours of rest in an alcove within the latest ghost city, sheltered by the pieces of what had been a mansion before. There are traces left behind in the dirt and gravel, the imprint of the bricks still left in the earth, the piles in the corners of what had been the foundation.

He wakes, and then he walks. His back is stiff, and his thighs ache. His feet hurt, and he has bruises on his back from the stones. He can spell himself clean, at least, and that’s something. For reasons that Magnus cannot comprehend, he hasn’t stumbled across any demons along the way. It’s just acres of abandoned land of varying landscapes.

Perhaps Sammael is short on the help, he thinks to himself sourly. This brief attempt at mockery does nothing to lift his mood.

Magnus squares his shoulders, wraps his arms in front of himself—an echo of a hug for comfort. He continues along his way.

Look what I have waiting for me. He lets this thought and the image of his husband, his darling Alexander carry him through the unknown hours and the days.

Eventually, Magnus comes across a city that looks different from the ones that he’d passed before. Instead of cathedrals, old houses, and European towns, he gets skyscrapers and apartment buildings.

It doesn’t resemble any modern city on Earth that Magnus recognizes, and yet it recalls all the cities he’s seen. If New York, London, and Gotham had been forced to amalgamate into one metropolis. All the surfaces gleam black, mirrors built of midnight, even though there is no sun to set off any reflection. It is as though every building has been constructed from black marble and glass.

Beyond that, a pulse of power that beckons to Magnus, calls him through the massive, carved onyx gates and to the heart of the city. Found you.

It cannot possibly be anyone else. Not here, and not with that concentration of magic, wicked curiosity, and dark intent. He’s never met Sammael, but all Greater Demons are notorious for messing with the minds of those who go to them.

Magnus pauses for a few minutes, enough to gather his thoughts and to remember why he’s here and why he’s doing this. Pulls the image of Alexander around him, a shield to protect himself against any memory charms, threats, temptations, or lies that Sammael may seek to deploy. He is ready.

The solitary obsidian glass road that winds between the buildings leads him deeper, cuts across an empty square that resembles Piccadilly Circus if it ran away to have an affair with Times Square and put on a mask of Shibuya Crossing on the way back home. There’s a narrow alleyway to the right, almost hidden between the tall buildings. It looks interesting, the sort of place that one must explore.

Magnus squeezes his eyes shut, breathes deeply, dispels the temptation charm. He’s not going to let Sammael distract him now. He has a promise to keep, a beloved husband he can’t wait to hold again, a kiss to deliver and to claim. Nothing that Sammael can dangle before him matters, next to that.

Finally, Magnus finds himself in front of broad glass doors set into a thin building, a single needle in the heart of town. The doors swing open automatically as he approaches, and Magnus steps into a large, circular hall. The interior shines black as the rest of the city, ebony glass set into curved walls and pale light shining from somewhere above. The doors clap shut behind him.

A single figure sprawled carelessly on an ornate, bronze chair placed on a raised, circular platform in the middle of the hall. Magnus blinks. After all that black, he’d half-expected that if Sammael had a throne, it would be of the same color.

“Always surprise them,” Sammael says cheerfully. “Hello there. Didn’t know you dropped in. I wasn’t expecting any visitors, or I would’ve made the route to the capital more accessible.”

It’s a lie. There is no way Sammael had not noticed Magnus tearing down the enchantment at the entrance to his realm. A prankster, then. In that case, Magnus must be extra careful to word his request appropriately. 

“Come on in. Don’t stand on ceremony or do. I find myself with a distinct lack of furniture in this place, but you don’t mind, do you?”

Sammael leans back on his throne, an odd sight in his jeans and loafers, his linen shirt and that green felt hat, a golden phoenix feather through the band and sweeping like a blessing over his shoulder. A slender young man with wicked eyes and a sharp grin. 

Magnus blinks once. “Sammael.”

“That is me. But who are you?”

Magnus bites down on a curse. Lilith help him, but Sammael is irritating. However, the Greater Demon tilts his head and waves a hand before Magnus can launch into an explanation of who he is and why he’s here.

“Change of plans. Sitting through all of that would be horribly dull.” Sammael drums his fingers on the arm of his chair. “Let’s cut to the specifics. Magnus Bane. Son of Asmodeus—haven’t seen him in centuries, pity. Traveler to my lands. What is it that you seek?”

Lightwood-Bane. But Magnus isn’t going to correct Sammael on that. The less said, the better. No need to give the Greater Demon more ammunition or unnecessary information about himself.

Sammael is still staring at him, glittering green eyes set in a narrow face, his expression hungry. “Tick tock, warlock.”

Magnus explains.

To Magnus’s surprise, Sammael agrees to help. Not to Magnus’s surprise, Sammael asks for payment in exchange for the loan of his power.

“Your memories.” Sammael taps one slender, long finger on the arm of his chair. “No, wait. That’s boring. Changed my mind. Your memories temporarily, depending on the outcome of the game. I’ll make you a deal.”

Magnus eyes the second oldest Prince of Hell, second only to Lucifer in power and hierarchy, warily. He should have seen this coming. Most Greater Demons—Asmodeus included—are obsessed with memories. Temporarily, however, is something new.

“Shouldn’t have thrown old daddy in the void now, don’t you think, Magnus?”

There’s no doubt that Sammael’s having fun—some perverse delight in stretching out the conversation and holding power over Magnus’s head. Magnus frowns at the corner of the throne, runs through a few options. How best to speed things up. Sammael may have all the time in the world, but Magnus doesn’t. 

There are innocent people, including mere children, who will perish unless Magnus finds a cure. Then, there’s Alexander, waiting for him back on earth. Magnus’s husband had been reluctant to let him venture to Sammael’s realm alone, except they hadn’t a choice. Magnus can’t blame Alec for fretting—he would have done the same if their situations were reversed. Of course, it’s not as though Alec could visit Sammael for a host of different reasons.

“You can’t call on Asmodeus for aid,” Sammael adds conversationally to the ceiling. “Looks like you’re left with poor old me. Also, it’s not quite memories, is it? Wrong term. But what to call it?”

Magnus resists the urge to tap his foot. For all that Sammael insists on playing a bored, young man with nothing better to do than to banter words, the legends are clear. The Prince of Hell, Devourer of Worlds, is not one to trifle with. “I believe you were in the middle of explaining a deal.” 

“Impatient!” Sammael swings himself sideways on the throne, rolls his head back. Miraculously, that ridiculous hat stays on, and the golden feather brushes an arch over the arm of his chair. “You’re no fun. But, fine. Your memories, Magnus. Temporarily. I’ll give you the power. You return to earth. The longer you hold my power, the less of you there’ll be. You could say you’re returning to form. Embracing your legacy.” 

“How is that temporary?” 

“I haven’t finished.” Sammael sounds almost distressed. “Don’t rush the show. It’s in every fairy tale, isn’t it? True love.” His lips curl back, teeth glint. “Your husband. Alexander Lightwood. Oh, don’t look surprised. We get news even down here, you know, and I picked his name right out the surface of your mind the minute you stepped in.” 

This is almost worse than bartering with the Seelie Queen. “True love will return my memories,” Magnus says flatly. He hopes he doesn’t sound as unamused as he feels, though it’s likely a lost cause. Sammael’s toying with them. “Let me guess, true love’s kiss?” 

Sammael laughs. Throws his head back, and the feather wobbles with his mirth. “No. It’s not true love’s kiss. How cliché, Magnus. Give me some credit. I wouldn’t give you such a boring challenge. Warm, though. Love. Faith. It’s somewhere in there.” He moves his hand in a rocking motion.

Magnus blinks. 

“You’ll figure it out,” Samuel says. “It’s hardly difficult. You lose your memories, and you’re rescued through love. Exciting, wouldn’t you think? Your Nephilim fails, and you’re not rescued. Eternity. Lost to those who knew you. Lost to yourself. I’m all about rewarding success that way.” 

“Rescued through love.” Magnus is quite sure he sounds as unimpressed as he feels. “My memories upfront as the price for your aid. That’s what you mean.”

Sammael makes a long, frustrated sound. “No, no. You weren’t paying attention.” He kicks a foot out. “Listen. I’ll simplify it for you. I lend you the power, you go back to Earth with your head intact. But the longer you hold my power, the more likely it will consume you. Probably worse when we add Edom to the mix.”

It’s not a game that Magnus wants to play, though it’s not as though he has much of a choice. Not unless he wishes to return empty-handed.

“It’ll be fun,” Sammael says, apparently not done with his explanation. “There’s a chance nothing will happen. Maybe you’ll be strong enough to hold both my power and Edom’s. I doubt it but never say never. If not, then you’ll become a creature of magic, a demon. The better half. Unless your husband saves you on time.”

“Why would you do this?” 

“You’re asking for my aid.” Sammael’s eyes glint green. He tilts his head and grins from under that green felt hat, set at an angle on his head. “I get to prescribe the rules. Or are you afraid, son of Asmodeus? That your husband, your beloved Alexander, won’t love you enough when he sees what you truly are.” 

Magnus flinches slightly, can’t help the reaction, the coil of doubt in his chest that wraps tight around his lungs and makes it difficult to breathe. He knows Alexander, loves him. They’re married. Magnus carries his husband’s ring on his finger, Alec’s whole-hearted, devoted love in his heart, to keep him alive and remind him what it means to live. 

He wants to believe that whatever Sammael has in mind, Magnus and Alec will triumph. He doesn’t want to doubt their love that way. Yet, if this doesn’t work, he loses Alec forever and vice versa. Magnus won’t do this to them. He hesitates. 

“I still don’t see how love is supposed to save me.”

“Second thoughts?” Sammael’s narrow face lights with glee. “I won’t hold it against you, Magnus. Can’t blame you if you fear trusting a mortal, and worse, a Shadowhunter.” He waves a hand gently towards the exit of the room. “Run along now, son of Asmodeus.” 

“What do you get from this?” 

Honestly, that should have been one of the first questions that Magnus asked, if he hadn’t been so distracted by everything else happening back home, including wondering how the New York Institute—Isabelle—Alicante—Alec—are coping. How much time has passed. Whether Tessa is still well, and if Catarina has gotten worse.

Madzie, lying ill with a fever because she’s young enough that the sickness had struck her early and drained her steadily. Madzie, who’s likely only alive because of all the young warlocks Magnus has known in the last century, she’s one of the most powerful. Her own magic will keep her alive longer than the others. 

Thinking of all of that now threatens to drag him back into his memories. Magnus shakes away the claws in his mind and studies Sammael, who’s humming to himself, green felt hat still at a jaunty angle, and conducting an invisible orchestra with a reed that he’s newly conjured. 

“Done yet?” Sammael points at Magnus with the reed. “Do keep going. I can smell your anguish from here. Your uncertainty and trepidation. It’s delicious.” 

Faith, Magnus thinks. Betting on true love. What a ridiculous deal to strike with a Prince of Hell. He’s not sure what Sammael gets from this. Entertainment probably. The possibility that Magnus will lose—but what good would that be to the Maker of the Way? 

For all his posturing and laughing and careless distraction, Sammael’s not an idiot. He’d have to benefit in some way to want to strike the deal. However, Magnus doesn’t have the time nor the desire to banter with Sammael. He has people waiting for him back home. 

“Deal, Magnus says. He’ll have to apologize to Alec after. Magnus’s husband is likely to be somewhat upset when the dust has blown over, and they have time to talk. No more deals with demons, no more reckless sacrifice as far as possible. No more giving up something significant without thinking about the impact on the other person. 

Still, it’s not as though Magnus has any other option. Not one that he can abide. He’s not returning to earth without a solution. If Magnusdoesn’t pull through, if he doesn’t do something, people will die. Alec will understand that. 

“I knew you’d come to your senses,” Sammael says brightly. He drops the reed—it vanishes before it hits the floor—and swings himself upright on his throne. “Sit tight, son of Asmodeus.” 

The world closes in, a blend of orange, red, yellow, flames. Heat. Brilliant green woven in the fire. Weight above him. An oppressive presence before him. Pressure that wraps around his form, squeezes tight. It’s as though Magnus’s ribs will crack, and his lungs will be crushed. 

“Patience.” Sammael’s voice hisses through his senses. Closer now. He sounds almost disembodied. No longer the narrow-faced young man on a throne. “Patience, Magnus.” 

There’s no way Alec can miss Magnus’s return to earth even if he hadn’t been awake, on the roof of the New York Institute, attempting to drown his distraction in target practice. Old haunts, never mind that it’s a strange activity for the Inquisitor or that he should be working.

It’s been three weeks, with no news, and it’s all Alec can do to not do something stupid, like persuading Tessa to help him find a way to Magnus in Sammael’s realm. He’s contemplating this plan seriously when the sky splits open—a storm in reverse, lightning reaching up from the horizon to the heavens. 

Alec hesitates, shoulders his bow, clutches the strap and watches the light display in the distance. There’s a part of him that wants to activate his sure-footed rune, leap off the roof, and go to his husband. The way Alec’s feet had carried him to the loft that night, so many years ago, when he was lost in his guilt and didn’t know where to turn. 

He holds his ground. They hadn’t explicitly discussed what to do when Magnus got back to Earth. There wasn’t enough time, and there were too many permutations, too many possibilities for Alec and Magnus to cover all options satisfactorily. If Magnus has succeeded in obtaining help from Sammael, there may be other things at work that Alec doesn’t comprehend. 

A deal—always a deal with demons. Alec won’t get in the way at the last minute, won’t risk whatever delicate balance his husband might have negotiated. 

So, he stands on the roof until the light display ends, and the skies fall silent once more, the air heavy with magic and enchantment. An otherworldly presence prickling at the edge of Alec’s senses. 

Magnus’s return indicates that he must have found a solution, a way to end the contagion. They’ll be okay. All of them. The children. Alec’s hope is a knot looped around his heart. His fear for Magnus and what Sammael might have demanded catches in his throat. 

Anticipation—this will be the end of it. Once again, Magnus will save the world. But at what price? Alec closes his eyes. There’s always a price. This acknowledgment sits quietly within him. An empty noose that dangles silently in the still morning. 

Alec can’t go to his husband—or at least he knows that he shouldn’t—but there’s no one in the Shadow World who could miss that something is happening. He makes his way down from the rooftop, and Jace joins him halfway, matching Alec’s stride. Two steps into Ops, and the demon sensors go berserk.

A single, high-pitched tone that rises to a piercing wail as the alarm blares at maximum volume. Alec and Jace join Isabelle, stationed in the middle of the room. The screens flicker, then blow out. The shrieking of the sensors cuts off. The Institute’s emergency signal dies, and the room is plunged into darkness.

“What on earth.”

“Probably not from Earth,” Isabelle says distractedly to Jace. “Can we get backup power?”

It turns out that they can’t. The Institute’s angelic power core seems fine, still glowing, still bright. However, nothing else is running, including the backup generator. At least their witchlights still work, along with their devices, enough for Isabelle and Alec to receive notifications that the demon sensors at other Institutes have also gone haywire. However, the power failure seems unique to the New York Institute.

They return to Ops. Alec catches his siblings glancing at him a few times, though neither Jace nor Isabelle say anything aloud. In the faint glow from the witchlights, their expressions are concerned. He wonders if anyone else can feel the buildup of power in the atmosphere. The charged energy like electricity alive in the room. The trembling from deep within the Earth, as though there’s a current running under their feet.

For all that Alec could sense Magnus’s magic before, it’s nothing like this. His heart clenches and doesn’t release, his fear for Magnus—because surely, Alec’s husband is caught in the middle of this—is a tight band around his lungs.

There’s magic crackling in the air, in the earth, through all of them, Alec’s almost certain. He can’t see any of it, but he can feel it pull through his body.

It’s like Magnus’s magic has been amplified but also warped. There’s something of his husband in the layers of energy surrounding them, but something else that isn’t the electricity burn of power woven with the taste of burnt sugar that Alec recognizes as his husband’s magic. Ebony, coal, and fire. Polished black marble with desert sand, viscous sludge, and slime.

Alec crosses his arms, tunes out his siblings’ voices somewhere to the left. No, it’s not that something else is mixed up with the familiar, beloved magic. Instead, Magnus’s magic is the something else that’s caught in the maelstrom of all those other sensations in the power coursing through the Earth and the air.

He doesn’t know if this is part of Magnus’s plan, but it doesn’t feel right. Alec’s heart catches, tumbles in his chest. They had spoken when Alec had helped Magnus to inscribe the runes in the pentagram. His husband had asked Alec to trust him and to keep himself safe.

Alec hadn’t agreed to stay away specifically.

Ten minutes. He’ll give his husband ten more minutes, just in case all of this is part of whatever Magnus is doing to strip Edom’s magic from the Earth. Then, Alec will go to Magnus, everything else be damned.

Alec hadn’t lost his fiancé to Edom. He’s not losing his husband to Edom’s magic or Sammael or anything else in this world or beyond.

A medic from the infirmary reports that the children are better. More than that, they’re awake and well. Similar reports from other Institutes. However, the Institute’s power grid remains offline, and the strange magic still hangs dense and thick in the atmosphere.

“Alec.” Isabelle’s heels are loud against the stone floor. “Alec, stop.” 

He whirls. “There’s something wrong. I’m not leaving Magnus to face it alone.”

“Let him, Iz.” It’s obvious that Alec’s parabatai is not happy about this either but knows better than to stand in the way for this. “I’ll go with him.”

At that statement, Alec does balk. “Jace, no. It may not be safe.”

“Which is why you’re going?” Isabelle’s tone is sharp, though her face is tense and worried rather than angry. She exchanges a look with Simon, who has jogged up to join their small group.

He’s my husband. I took a vow. Most importantly, it’s Magnus. 

“Ah,” Simon says before Alec can tell Isabelle to leave him alone. “Apparently, someone got ripped in half. Just so you know. Got a call from one of my werewolf contacts. Saw it through a window. Seems a pretty bad idea to be caught anywhere within a fifty-foot radius.”

“Where is he?”

“Alec.”

“I’m going with you.”

“Uh.” Simon glances at Isabelle, then at Alec, and his jaw tightens with resolution. “If I don’t tell your brother, he’s going to run around town searching for Magnus, anyway”—Isabelle scowls, though she doesn’t disagree—“Upper West Side. Corner of Broadway and 79th Street. Don’t ask me why.”

“I didn’t. And, Simon, thank you.”

“It’s really confusing some mundanes. They can’t see us, of course, but they can see the mess.”

Alec closes his eyes briefly. There’ll be clean up, and they’ll have to work out what excuse to give the mundane authorities. However, they can deal with that after Alec makes sure that his husband is okay.

“I’m leaving.”

“I’m going with you.” Jace’s tone brooks no argument. “At least up to that fifty-foot radius, which neither of us should enter for the record.”

Alec has wasted enough time. He’s touched, but he’s not putting both himself and Jace in danger. He’ll figure it out later, even if he has to knock his parabatai out to keep him safe. To Alec’s alarm, Jace’s mutinous expression suggests that he’s considering the same.

The closer they are to Magnus, the greater the concentration of magic in the air. Alec had hoped that he was mistaken, but his husband’s magic is no less concealed even though they are almost up to the perimeter of where the destruction starts.

Raw energy that seems to spark against Alec’s skin, thrum of a live current through the earth. Ebony, coal, and fire. Polished black marble with desert sand, viscous sludge, and slime. But not Magnus.

“Well.” Jace surveys the shattered windows and glass glinting on the pavement, the single tree that has been uprooted, the broken bricks and stones. “Reckon we’re near?” He eyes Alec consideringly. “You know—”

“No,” Alec says. They’d spoken about it on the way over. “We don’t know what happened. If both of us go down, there’d be no one to get help.” More accurately, Alec doesn’t want Jace to fall with him if it comes to that.

There’s no world in which Alec will give up on his husband, nothing he wouldn’t do to save Magnus—and Alec has his suspicions as to what may have happened. The thing about being married to an immensely powerful and intelligent warlock with a talent and passion for magical theory is that you get an education on the side.

It’s no more than a gut feeling, but if there’s magic involved, especially wild magic, it’s likely that Alec, more than anyone else, might be able to walk directly into the heart of the storm for his husband and emerge unscathed. An inkling, intuition.

Whatever has gone wrong with the spell, whatever mayhem caused by Sammael, Magnus will know Alec.

“I don’t like this.” Jace peers down the street, crosses his arms. “But I understand.”

Alec nods, clasps Jace’s forearm before he turns toward where he knows his husband must be. He doesn’t expect his parabatai to like the idea. If anything happens—Alec winces. If anything happens, he’s not being fair to Jace, but it’s Magnus. The thought of losing his husband is ice through his veins.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s your husband.” Jace’s expression is wry. “God knows I’d do the same for”—he cuts himself off, shakes his head—“Go, brother.”

He’s a block away when he hears Jace calling to him.

“Alec. If anything happens, I’m going after you.”

He can’t tell Jace with confidence that everything is going to be okay, knows that no matter what Alec says, his parabatai will sense the unease and worry through the parabatai bond. So, the only solution is to ensure that Jace will not have to follow Alec into this mess. To save Magnus before anyone else gets hurt.

The buildings that Alec passes are empty. If there are any occupants, they’ve either fled, or they’re hiding deep within, probably for the best. Alec steps over a large crack across the street like something had erupted from underground, strides past twisted metal bars torn off the side of a building, broken glass.

It doesn’t look like a focused attack, more like the aftermath of a storm. A whirlwind that everything else got caught up in. The air around Alec presses in closer, pressure bearing down, and the world grows hazy with a greenish-gray mist. Damp, heavy. It’s difficult to breathe. In the middle of the cloud of dense magic, Magnus with his back turned toward Alec, and—

“Oh.” A thin young man with a narrow face and unearthly green eyes, dressed in casual clothes with a felt hat on his head, a long golden feather stuck through the band and swept over a shoulder. He grins. “Look, Magnus. It appears Alexander Lightwood is here to save the day. That’s my cue, time to go. Have fun.”

Alec’s never seen this man before in his life, but the concentration of power that hangs around the form, what the man had just said, is enough to tell him who the man must be. “Sammael.”

“That’s my name,” Sammael says, a twist on his lips that matches the glint of his wicked eyes. “Delighted to meet you, but I can’t say you feel the same. Your husband here asked me for a favor. I’m sure you know how that works.”

Magnus turns, and Alec can’t help the intake of breath or the way his limbs lock up. He’s never seen Magnus with glossy black eyes, the slick and sheen of ichor. In fact, he’s never seen any creature with eyes that shade except for demons—and, supposedly, Jonathan Morgenstern.

“Ah.” Sammael offers a mocking dip of his head. “Now he gets it. Surprise. Do you like it?”

Fury grips Alec, starts low in his gut, and burns in his chest. “What did you do?”

“Me?” Sammael sounds offended. “Magnus Bane asked me for help to save your world. I could have asked for more, but I have a soft spot for my brethren’s children. Lies, of course. Still,I gave him a chance.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I told him that he wouldn’t be able to cope with my power and Edom’s magic. Of course, he had to try anyway. Entertaining.”

Magnus is trembling. Alec had thought initially that his husband was standing still, but he can see the fine tremors, the power pouring off Magnus in waves. It tastes of ebony and dust. Fire. Sludge that sits thick at the back of Alec’s throat.

“Interesting.” Sammael throws his arms wide. “What do you know, you two might stand a chance after all. Anyway, busy day. Got to go.”

“What did you do?”

“Repetitive, repetitive.” Sammael raises a hand to his mouth, yawns. “All you Nephilim. Nothing. I told you. Okay, clue. It’s on you, now.” He lifts a finger, drags a line from Magnus, eyes still coal-black and face stiff and blank, to Alec. “And him.” Sammael swings his finger back toward Magnus.

“What do you mean?”

“Figure it out, Alexander. That’s an—oh, poetic. Pity it doesn’t work. I love Broadway, don’t you?” Sammael spins on the spot and vanishes from sight.

Alec stares, then stumbles back when energy snakes through where he was, a bolt of invisible lightning through the ground, up the closest tree. It splits the trunk, and the mass falls with a creak and a crash. He steps back, heart in his throat, swallows around his fear for Magnus—never of Magnus or his magic.

Despite Sammael’s apparent disappearance, the power doesn’t become weaker at all. If anything, it seems to grow wilder. Alec had hoped the Prince of Hell had been responsible for some of this and would’ve taken his magic with him because surely, some of that must belong to Sammael.

Unless it doesn’t, and all of this is Magnus’s magic and Edom’s power, the Earth’s energy, combined.

Alec is so close to Magnus that it’s almost as though the magic will burn him, singe his flesh if he’s not careful. He feels something passing by his side, jerks away, though not in time. It feels like an electric current through his right, sends tingles down his arm to his fingers, which go numb.

He shakes his hand to try regain the sensation in his fingers. The damp mist clings closer makes it difficult to see much beyond the circle that Alec is standing in. He senses Jace approaching quickly, from a distance, yells at his parabatai to stop, stay away, or he’ll make it worse.

Worse for Jace, for Alec, for Magnus—he’s not sure. His attention is focused on Magnus, the dark, oil black eyes, the empty expression, the lack of recognition of anything, not even Alec. That hurts. Even though he knows it’s not his husband’s fault. Still doesn’t understand what’s going on or how the deal with Sammael played a role.

It’s not Magnus’s fault at all. Whatever they’re dealing with is larger and more powerful than them, the magic of an entire realm combined with Magnus’s own magic. Raziel knows what happened and how Alec’s supposed to fix this. Whether he can fix this at all. Sammael may have been lying with his talk about chances and Alec.

What’s Alec supposed to do?

To his relief, Jace at least moves further away. Far enough that he won’t be caught in any of this. His parabatai seems persuaded for now that Alec has it under control. If nothing else, he’s decided to trust Alec. Even though Alec doesn’t know what he’s doing, might fail whatever game Sammael has concocted.

Even though Alec might disappoint Jace and Magnus.

Alec’s breath catches, and he forces his thoughts down. He can’t afford to get distracted. There has to be something, but what? Magic—Magnus must have absorbed the corrupted Edomite magic from this world, used Sammael’s help to contain it.

So, it’s the magic that has caused this. It makes sense, Edom was a hell dimension, and its energy would have been demonic in alignment. If it’s currently within Magnus, that would explain the—loss of memory. Loss of self. Or is Magnus simply too preoccupied holding the power that he cannot move?

However, the obsidian eyes suggest that the magic within Magnus has altered—is changing—some part of him. The question is whether it can be reversed.

“Magnus?”

His husband tilts his head slowly, Alec’s heartbeat quickens. Then, Magnus’s lips curl back in a snarl, an expression that Alec has never seen directed at him or ever. It’s barely human. Alec has just about enough time to duck this burst of energy that passes overhead and shatters something behind him.

A woman screams, and Alec whirls around, panicked, in time to see a figure tumble from a window. She hits the pavement and lies unmoving. And still, Magnus stands in the middle of his personal vortex of energy. It whips around them, builds stronger. Magnus lifts his hand, hurls lightning at Alec, who throws his arms up to protect his head.

This hurts, too. A line of gashes down his forearm, the wounds fizzle with unnatural energy, as though the magic that shredded his skin and flesh remains embedded in the lacerations. Alec pulls his seraph blade out slowly, reluctantly.

He’s not even sure what to do with the blade in his hand. After all, Alec has never wanted to raise arms against his husband, not seriously. He doesn’t think he could do anything to hurt Magnus, even if Magnus were trying to kill him.

Even if Alec gets an opening, he doesn’t think he could bring himself to harm Magnus. It’s useless. Seraph blades are deadly to demonkind, and while Magnus is not a demon, the energy coursing through him now is demonic in nature. He’s not going to bring a seraph blade down to bear on his husband.

Still, Alec’s a Shadowhunter, born and trained to live as one. The weight of the weapon helps to steady Alec. He’d probably be fine with knocking Magnus out if he’s desperate. As long as the adamas does not touch Magnus. 

Alec dodges again, circles around, tries to get behind Magnus—it doesn’t work. His husband moves a clawed hand in an arc, and Alec’s thrown a few feet back. He rolls with the tumble, comes up, and eyes Magnus warily. They can’t keep this up forever. Magnus may have an infinite amount of energy and power now, but Alec doesn’t.

This is possibly the most one-sided fight that Alec has ever been in his entire life, given that he’s keeping to defense, not doing anything that might harm his attacker—his husband. Faintly, he can feel Jace nearby though staying out of the fight as promised—the mundane woman, he won’t let that be Jace. Still, his parabatai is getting increasingly agitated.

Alec takes another hit, catches himself on his hands, his blade skitters away. Magnus advances, still those gleaming black eyes, his expression blank and fixed once more. It’s better than the snarl from earlier. This time when Alec tries to push himself to his feet, he struggles against a force bearing down, lashes of power whipping against him.

He almost manages to stand, but the magic—still smoke, fire, ash, coal, ebony—presses down hard and unyielding. Alec staggers, his knees hit the ground, stone, and gravel through his jeans. This time the magic pins him in place. He can’t move, and he doesn’t think he could. His attention is on Magnus, who steps closer, almost curious. He stops a few feet away from Alec.

Too late.

Alec wasn’t fast enough. Whatever he was supposed to do to save Magnus, he’s failed. It seems a fitting end. Raziel, if this is to be the way Alec goes, he hopes Magnus never realizes what he’s done because that would destroy his Magnus. Alec’s husband.

I love you.

His gaze follows the movement of Magnus’s arm. It’s like he’s floating, almost detached. Jace panics, only he’s too far to do anything, will never make it in time. Alec has enough left to think, I’m sorry.

Magnus raises his hand high above, black lightning and flames of red. Alec tilts his head back, fixes his gaze on his husband. Still a beloved face and the sight makes Alec’s eyes burn. Prickle, hot. Sting. His lashes feel wet. 

The magic arcs toward Alec, who fights not to flinch away. He expects it to hurt, except it doesn’t. The air freezes, particles of suspended energy like glass teardrops, and Magnus freezes, too.

Empty gaze, jet black pupils, vacant expression. Alec catches his breath.

He knows who he is, he’s always known. He’s Edom’s son, a creature of magic.

Magnus Bane. Son of Asmodeus.

The power, so vast, greets him as one of their own. It’s familiar, the magic of his heritage, and Edom is delighted to meet Magnus. Finally. So long. She fought to live for so long. Did Magnus not notice? Did he not realize that Edom was struggling, here on Earth.

Why did he not save Edom when he felt her pain?

Instead, he tried to stop her, and that hurt. She did her best to get him to listen, but he didn’t. Always with the Nephilim, especially the tall one with dark hair who smiles at Magnus like he’s something unique, like he has a claim over Magnus that’s greater than Edom’s own.

She doesn’t like it.

It doesn’t matter. Magnus is here now. She doesn’t know Sammael, though she has heard his name. Magnus has welcomed her home, and she’s safe now. Magnus will help her survive. They will be one, and Magnus will be powerful above all, the way he’s supposed to be.

Edom won’t hurt him. She’s made of magic. She’s magic. And magic always knows their own.

Magnus listens. Edom tells him that Magnus is magic, too. It’s true. To Magnus’s surprise, Edom welcomes his magic, wraps herself around. She’ll keep Magnus safe, she says, the way that Magnus will keep her safe.

He’s not sure where to go, but she tells him not to worry. She’ll find a place for them. Home. Where they will be safe. Always. No one will hurt them anymore.

Come home to me.

The words tumble within Magnus, snare his heart. It fits, feels right. It’s what he wants. To go home.

Everything is going perfectly, then something, someone arrives. Sammael leaves. Where did he go? Sammael is like Magnus and like Edom—magic. Why would Sammael not want to stay? A string drawn tight within Magnus snaps.

He’s angry. The heat of his anger makes him stronger. All he’s ever wanted is to go home. He made a promise. Home, Edom says, is with me. 

Magnus is almost free. He just needs to get rid of this interference, dancing, dodging around him, calling Magnus by his name as though he knows Magnus. It makes Magnus feel strange, as though he doesn’t want to leave. But that’s not right.

He’s almost, so close to being free. A string weaves itself together, knots around Magnus’s heart and pulls, draws him up, over and out. It hurts.

It starts. First, a flicker. Next, a rush of color. Then, the images tumble in quicker than ever, a whirlwind that surrounds him and holds him tight in the fury of its storm. Magnus knows him. Alexander. His husband.

Alec smiling at him, the warmth of his hand, the first moment they said, I love you. Alec’s hand on his cheek, his bare smooth skin against golden sheets, the whisper that had cut through all of Magnus’s defenses and left him exposed and seen but safe. 

Home.

His magic stutters, stops. Magnus falters. After all, magic follows intention, and right now, that intention—a knowledge deeper than Magnus himself, beyond his conscious mind—won’t allow Magnus to harm his Alexander.

Not Magnus’s husband, who loves him more than anything else in the world.

Black lightning, red flames. Magnus knows the spell he meant to cast. But none of it touches Alec. Instead, it freezes, tears apart and reforms into droplets of crystalline energy. Inert, suspended. Edom’s magic might know her son, but Magnus’s magic knows Alexander. 

And through it all, his husband kneels on the ground before him, unmoving because Magnus’s magic—Edom’s magic—but they were one and the same—Lilith, what had he almost done. Alec blinks rapidly, but he’s not fast enough to hide the resigned expression or the way his eyes are a little too bright.

“Alexander—”

Magnus chokes on the next word. He’s not even sure what he means to say. His chest is tight, and he’s still half-submerged in horror. His magic falls away. What had he almost done?

Alec’s eyes widen, and then he’s pushing himself off the ground, sways—is he injured—but it doesn’t seem to matter to Alec, who lunges toward Magnus.

His husband’s arms wrap around him, firm in their embrace. Alec’s scent is all around him, so familiar, and Magnus has finally come home. Alec says something inaudible where he has his face buried in Magnus’s shoulder. But Magnus doesn’t need to hear the words to know the intent or the emotion. Not with the way that Alec shudders, presses Magnus closer.

“It’s you. I thought—Magnus. Thank God, it’s you.”

Yes. Magnus lets himself lean into Alec’s hug. Lucky. He’s so very lucky. To love and be loved in return. His husband will never let him fall, and Magnus is home. “I love you, Alexander. I’m here.”

He claims that kiss. 

Notes for the Chapter: 

Hope you enjoyed this story! I took a challenge to write a different genre—see, no crack, I’m so proud—and this is the result. Changed my mind. Writing this whole story in two days killed me. Temporarily. Send flowers.

Jace: Seriously. Thanks a bunch. You know. I’ll just be in my corner. Making no noise and pretending that I don’t exist.

Alec: You were there, though, for dramatic purpose. I had to shout at you to go away.

Jace: …

Alec: It wouldn’t have been the same without you. 

Yes, that is a HP reference. Because.