A/N: I'm not saying I'm back yet, cause I'm not. But I wanted to write something down this weekend before I start on one of my many graduation requirements. This really has no dialogue, so don't complain because I wanted to do something that was different from my usual style of writing. Anyways, enjoy!

Mortals were frail. Magnus Bane knew that. He had always known that. Sometimes it would fade in his troubled mind, but it would always float to the front and confront him once more when he least expected it and least wanted it. It was sewed into the words he spoke, pressed into the wise thoughts he thought, and woven into the air he breathed. Frailness was just apart of life, and so therefore the 800 year old Warlock should be used to the statement. He was, and that was the reason why he built unbreakable walls around himself, making him swim above the surface of infatuation. But when Alexander Lightwood came, the barricade came crumbling down, leaving the warlock susceptible to love's charm and practically welcoming heart break. Yes, Magnus Bane knew that Alec was going to die.

But he didn't expect it to be so soon. Exactly two days ago, Alec had gone demon hunting with his brother and sister, never to return to the Warlocks waiting arms again. Magnus had paced the floor those double nights, anticipating his beloved Shadowhunter to walk through that door almost unharmed. Whatever injury Alec had managed to obtain during battle, Magnus always fixed it within 24 hours of the cut appearing. But Alexander never returned home. Isabelle, his sister and now the only biological Lightwood alive on this earth, knocked on Magnus's door a couple days ago, handing him a seraph blade and a sizzling black leather jacket. Without words being spoken in the deadly, almost poisonous air, that threatened to choke the two raven haired people, Magnus knew what happened. His Alec, the one who woke up with him every morning, the one who tolerated the Warlocks silly glitter habits, the one who stole Magnus's heart, was dead. Gone. Never to return.

The weapon and the ruined fabric were supposed to be war commemorations, meant to honor the fallen warrior that had perished in the fight for humanity, for the greater good. Magnus and Isabelle stroked the leather, remembering the memories of Alec Lightwood, the one who had died for nothing. The clash between Downworlders and Shadowhunters was never ending, so there wasn't ever going to be a winner, no matter how hard the opposing side fought. If the Vampires struck with an army of a thousand, the Shadowhunters would retaliate with the force of a million angels, built to eradicate the diseased bloodsuckers. And the steel weapon they had salvaged among the green slime and smoldering remains of once had been Alec, sat on the table, shining and gleaming, as if it was gloating that it had survived, and its wielder had not. Magnus wanted to cover it up, to forget its cruel and cold icy grey stare, but it would tarnish the memory of the boy who had only wanted to love and to be the one loved.

When asked if he would be at the funeral, Magnus shook his head, tears spilling out of his mourning eyes. To watch Alec burn would be considered a sin in the Warlocks mind. Someone so good, so pure, so beautiful, should not be scorched like a piece of wood. Magnus knew it was the Shadowhunter way, and so he promised that he'd come and speak a few words if Isabelle wished it to be so. She did. And so the High Warlock of Brooklyn had written a speech, reminiscing all the good details of Alexander Lightwood, who was amazing in every way that was humanly possible to Magnus. Alec only wanted to protect those that he loved, and it had ultimately been his sudden and sorrowful demise. Jace had told Magnus that Alec felt no pain when he died, but the Warlock had a hard time believing that. Acid had swallowed up the Shadowhunter completely, much like a tidal wave does to a surfer, only the consequences not so deadly. The pain he endured could've been a millisecond, but to Alec it might have felt like hours, years, milleniums even. Magnus didn't need to think about what his dead lovers last thoughts were, he knew. Magnus I love you. Or simply just his name, cut off when his brain shut down for the final time.

Mortals were frail. Their lives were like candles, when the wick was first lit, the flame was small, like an infant child, too young to know anything other than how to breathe. As the seconds grew, so did the single stroke of orange, as did the human life. They burned brightly, both the candle and the mortal, both thinking to be unstoppable and both developing over time. But they were both so easily snuffed out, whether that be from a wind that smashed them eternally into endless oblivion, or an askew mountain of water, drowning the fire and the mortal unwillingly. Magnus had never wanted Alec to die like a candle, quiet, its work unfulfilled in this vast world. He wanted Alec to die like a great big fire, leaving its permanent mark on mother earth, his face and words etched into the stone walls of history. But mostly Magnus didn't want Alec to die alone and afraid. The death of his lover was inevitable, and there was nothing he or anyone could do about it. Alec was going to die. However, Magnus would have preferred to have Alec in his arms, a kiss that parted the lovers momentarily, until the other would follow. But the fates didn't design for that to happen.

It was a day before the funeral, the one where Alec's entire body would be wrapped in ceremonial white silk. Even his face, with pale complexion and shining blue eyes and the black hair that was always disarrayed, even that would be covered, and Magnus would never see it alive again. Only pictures and memories could satisfy him now, and the vision of Alec's face when he was laughing, or the sound for that matter, that would all fade in time, leaving Magnus lost and confused. Magnus couldn't function without Alec beside him, he needed the Shadowhunter's strength to continue on with life itself. Devoid of Alec's guidance, Magnus didn't want to do anything, which was why when he should have been practicing his dead boyfriends eulogy, he was on the couch, curled into a ball and sobbing his broken heart out, wishing for the pain to eventually numb and go away. But the grief he felt only ebbed for a moment, leaving him with hollow feelings and empty thoughts, and then remorse washed over the warlocks mind, like a depressed tide that brought sadness and longing.

The Lightwoods had muttered their condolences to Magnus, as well as Downworlders who had caught wind of the untimely situation. But the 'I'm sorry' that passed through each and every one of their mouths meant nothing to Magnus. Only Isabelle and Jace really meant it, Alec's parents were sad of course, but they didn't know how special their baby boy was, so they didn't care so much. No one had tried to cheer The High Warlock of Brooklyn up with presents of glitter and clothes that matched his skin tone and eyes and personality. There was no point. Magnus couldn't find a point in doing anything without his Alexander. Even the daily tasks of putting on makeup were less amusing without the blue eyed and black haired Shadowhunter. Eventually, Magnus Bane got up from the couch, wiping his wet eyes with his arm, which didn't feel like his own. Usually his skin was warm and alive, but now it was cold and limp, almost like a rubbery corpse, which was what Alec was now.

Magnus went into his room, and yanked open the closet that he and Alec had shared. Most of it was filled with glitter and brightness, along with todays fashion. Quickly they were torn from their hangers and boxes that they once had rested contently in, and were now strewn all about the floor, beads and buttons and glitter littered the floor until it was all just one big fabric soup. Magnus screamed with rage and loss and hurt, telling all of Brooklyn how unfair losing Alec Lightwood was. Why did Alec have to die so young? Magnus thought as he stripped a charcoal grey sweater from the other side of the closet that had until most recently, been inhabited by Alec's clothing choices, which were very poor.

He then went to lie on the bed, the yellow comforter rubbing against his raw and red nose. Magnus couldn't remember a time in the past 48 hours when he had stopped crying, minus sleeping. Sometimes no tears came, only dry sobs that made the Warlock feel like he was going to spit up bile. He couldn't eat, couldn't sleep. The grief was just too great to do anything other than sit and sulk and be depressed. Tears welled over his black eyelashes and spilled into the fabric, which basically mocked the High Warlock of Brooklyn with it's bright color. That caused Magnus to squeeze his eyes shut and cry even harder, sobs racking his tortured and broken form. He wrapped the soft sweater around him, and it still smelled like Alec. Like him. A merry fire crackling with a hint of vanilla and of course the scent of sandalwood that still lingered on the grey and dull fabric. And caught in the grey sweater, Magnus formed one word and one word only, the first phrase that passed his lips in two days that wasn't nonsensical sobs of torment and grief. Alec. That was the one name which Magnus hacked out with so much emotion it could easily blow up a factory full of fangirls who were experts at making feels.

Mortals were frail, and so were immortals. Magnus Bane knew that now.

A/N: I go through my old writing once in a while, and I found this. (Note, I was like in 4th grade at the time and this was for a report. What you are about to read is completely unedited and not change. I give you permission to laugh.)

Less kids means less population growth and less population growth means less workers and less workers means higher demand for the stufff we need and higer demand for the stuff we need means higer prices and higer prices means we cant buy it and then we will most likly die!

Yep. Wicked was a fantabulous writer as a child! Anyways, like I said, I'm not completely back yet, this just popped into my head and I thought my followers deserved another oneshot of our favorite OTP which is Malec. I have no clue when I wiill continue to update 1940, so please don't spam me with "Update 1940!" in the comments, okay? Okay.

Ave Atque Vale,

Wicked.

P.S My stupid mundane brother broke his hand during football practice by getting his hand stuck in between two helmets. And my Mom is sick. And my dad is out of town. And my dog is pretty much useless. Guess whose doing the extra cleaning and cooking around my house? Thats right, me! Good thing I don't cook like Isabelle, or this would be the last time you ever hear from me...