I am proud to say that I've ventured into the world of Shadowhunters. How had I not read it before? I have spent the better part of my holidays reading the Mortal Instruments, Infernal Devices, Bane Chronicles, and the start of the Dark Artifices. Here's a part of Magnus' childhood that I couldn't resist writing. Enjoy (and let me know what you think!).
He couldn't remember what his name was back then. It was a word spoken at first with happiness, with delight. A word spoken softly or jokingly, in the musical voice of his mother, in the rich growl of his stepfather - his father, as he was known back then. A word his friends also called out with - exited shouts and whispers. A word that meant him.
As the young boy turned five, the word changed. It was spelt the same, but it was spoken with scorn and anger. It was yelled with rage, and hissed in warning. His mother no longer spoke in her musical tone - the word became a cruel snarl on her lips as she twisted her beautiful face into an expression of pure hatred. His father still spoke in that deep growl, but he spat at that word, that name.
The boy's old friends didn't use his name at all any more. They would call him demon boy, and evil creature. They would yell and jeer and howl and throw stones at him until he ran away, tears spilling from his cat eyes.
Cat eyes. That was it, wasn't it? His eyes were no longer that beautiful shining amber, the colour of honey and of bronze. People no longer told him how beautiful his eyes were. They crossed the street to avoid him. They refused to talk to him.
His eyes had slitted pupils, and the irises were a glowing, predator's yellow. A demon's mark. That's what his mother had said.
The boy, at nine years old, still living in Batavia, trotted slowly around the house. "Mama?"
His father was in the fields, and he'd been excused from work for the day.
"Mama?"
The house - small and with few pieces of furniture and decoration - was empty.
The table had not been laid for lunch. The unsliced bread and cheese sat on the worktop, abandoned. His mother's room wasn't inhabited either.
There was a flutter in his chest. The door creaked.
He pushed on the wooden door that led outside, making his way cautiously across the lawn. He barely noticed how his bare feet cut on the stones beneath him. He ignored the strong winds that threatened to blow his small frame off course. He didn't know why, but the barn seemed different today. It was never used any more, but the door swung on its hinges in the wind. The planks that made the walls were rotting and falling off, and through them, he could see a shadow. Something moving.
The boy paused outside the door. There was something pulsing in his chest. Something dark and painful and ancient. His head pounded. His stomach ached. His heart pumped wildly.
His breathing erratic, he slipped through.
"Mama?" he whispered.
He could see a silhouette now. It was dark and unrecognizable against the harsh light of the sun that shone from a hole behind it. At first he thought it was floating. The feet were suspended a foot above the ground. It swung gently in the gust of wind that swept through the barn.
No. It wasn't floating. In the dim half-light that filtered through the planks of wood, he spotted a rope tied sloppily to a beam. It ended in a noose, and from it hanged the boy's mother.
Her skin was pale. She had been beautiful in life, and she seemed even more so in death, with her eyes closed and her face entirely relaxed. Her wrinkles had smoothed out and the bags beneath her eyes seemed to have disappeared. Her lips were red. She looked so serene, swinging in the breeze. Maybe because, now that her eyes were closed forever, she would never have to see those evil cat eyes ever again. Maybe because, now that she'd never speak again, she'd never have to speak in that cruel snarl. Her face wouldn't twist into an expression of hatred. She'd never have anything to do with her demon child ever again.
The boy knew he should be crying. That's what people did when family died, he knew. But all he could think of was his mother as she slapped his cheek, a murderous frown changing her beauty into something much more dark. He could remember her turning away from him in disgust. Screaming when she saw his eyes. Roaring at him in anger. It had been a long time since his mother ever hugged him, or laughed with him, or told him a story.
A cold hand just clenched around his heart.
He just sat against a rotten hay bale, staring into that cold face until the footsteps of his father found him.
Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the swinging shadow. Every time he was alone, he felt the cold touch of death. Every time he slept, he saw his mother - dead. Because of him. That's what his father told him. His mother had hated him so much that she'd killed herself.
Then she'd never have to speak to him.
She'd never have to hear him.
She'd never have to be anywhere near him.
She'd never have to see him.
Never have to see those yellow cat eyes. The demon's mark.
Demon boy. She'd crooned in his dreams. Come join me.
He stayed inside all day, in fear that he'd cause more death.
You deserve it. You deserve it all.
He recited his prayers at his father's command, begging forgiveness for his evil.
You deserve the pain.
His mother's dream-voice soon became his own. He had killed his own mother. Matricide - how could he ever be forgiven for that? How could a demon child ever be good? He remembered her beautiful face, so very, very dead, and he realised that he deserved every punishment given to him.
There was no forgiveness for what he had done.
"Come down, boy!" Spoken in deep growl.
The boy knew something was wrong. There was, yet again, that dark void in his chest. A ticking echoed in his head, counting down. Counting down to what?
The rickety stairs creaked under his feet. He descended slowly, avoiding the thought of the time he had been thrown down this flight of stairs, only two weeks ago. He had healed remarkably quickly.
He stopped in the kitchen, where his father stood. His father had not the grace and beauty of his wife. His shoulders were wide and muscular from his life working in the fields. His face was gaunt and long - full of jagged edges and shadows - and his thin lips formed a smirk. He walked stiffly, his weak left leg taking smaller strides than his right, giving him a loping, ungainly strut.
"Come on, boy."
They walked out. His feet were cut on the stones, his small frame almost blown over by the wind. The heat of the sun caressed his brown skin. He tripped on larger stones as they left the fields.
"Where are we going, father?"
"Be silent, boy."
Eventually they reached the riverbank. The water was fast, sprinting down the river with the grace and wild beauty of a tiger.
"Why are we here, father?"
"I said, be silent."
"Yes sir."
He was led to the very edge of the bank, and told to kneel. His knees were only inches away from the water.
Then his father grabbed his chin and turned the boy's face towards him.
"Listen to me: you are a demon, yes?"
"Yes, father."
"I am not your father. I am not related to a beast like you. You deserve punishment."
"Yes, sir."
"You killed my wife. Do you know what they do to murderers?"
"No, father."
His growling voice was low and dangerous. "If someone sees something they're not meant to see, their spying eyes are cut out. If someone steals, their thieving hands are cut off. If someone kills, they only deserve death."
The boy's voice had become a mere whimper. "Yes, sir."
"So do you know what happens next, little demon?"
"Yes, sir."
Because the sickening reality had faced him. He had sinned, and because he was a demon, it would never be forgiven. If he lived, he'd bear the burden of knowing what he'd done for all of his life. If he died, he would've been punished appropriately, and he'd have a final relief from the hundreds of hating stares. But even then, he'd suffer. If he lived, he would face hatred - from himself as well as others. If he died, he'd endure pain in the fiery pits of Hell.
Now his father was going to kill him, and he couldn't bring himself to care anymore.
He was limp and cooperative as he felt a rough palm push his head forwards.
The water's roar dulled to a to soft buzz as he neared it. For the first time in months, his head cleared. The sounds of his surroundings no longer bothered him so much. The rich colours didn't sting his eyes. Memories didn't threaten to overwhelm his mind. All he felt was a terrible calm.
And then his head went under. He didn't even close his mouth, allowing death to reach him. He felt it - as the water entered his lungs, as he choked and spluttered, he felt a sting itching his mind. Death. He knew it, but at that moment, when he faced his own death, the calm receded. Anger took hold.
Suddenly he felt he didn't need air. He breathed freely underwater, letting the sudden abundance of air revive him. He opened his eyes - his glowing, golden cat eyes - and felt power rush through him. Maybe his demonic ability was breathing underwater. Maybe his eyes came with a positive attribute too.
And then, as fast as he could, he raised his head, twisted around, and grabbed his father's face. Smoke billowed from his hands, twisting around the two figures and into the trees. There was a screaming that he could hear above the rush of the water, a heat he could feel above the anger inside him. He became aware that flames were coming from his hands and snaking down his father's body. The screaming continued as the man was consumed by the blaze.
The young boy stood. This time, he couldn't bring himself to regret. He couldn't feel any hatred towards himself. As he walked away from the corpse of his stepfather, all he felt was a gaping emptiness in his heart. Then again, he was a demon. Maybe he had no heart at all.
If you want me to continue, I'm happy to write about the next parts of Magnus' life, or maybe expand on this part. Just let me know!
Honestly, it is SO difficult not to write his name in this!