1920, Magnus Bane

I was in Spain when I received the letter from London. I was spending the summer in the home of a woman who owed me a favour, and was enjoying the few weeks away from New York. At first, I tossed it in the bin and decided to give it no more thought than necessary. People die, and I don't. It's always been like that, and there's nothing that I can do about it. But that evening I kept thinking about it, and I couldn't sleep. I informed my landlady that I would be going away for a few days, told her that I was going to see an old friend, packed my bag, and got on the first train to the coast.

I could have traveled by portal, but I needed the time to think. And, to be honest, I was hoping that he would be dead by the time I arrived. Europe passed me by in a steady blur of fields and mountains, rivers and forests, sprawling cites and distant towns, landscapes which stay forever the same and yet always seem to be changing. The others in my carriage were a respectable collection of buisnessmen and a few rich adventurers looking to see the world.

I've seen the world, and mortals have no chance of seeing it all in their short life time in this life.

Which is both tragic, and slightly amusing. Their constant attempts to race against time, trying to see everything in a world that never stops changing, it's quite pathetic. But I would do the same, if I were like them. Try to cram as much life into mine as I could.

For what must be the hundredth time, I reread the brief letter from Tessa, "I remember that he was a friend of yours once... He's sick... Dying... Thought you should know... I wasn't sure how to contact you... I heard that you were in Spain... You don't have to come... London hasn't changed all that much... Your friend, Tessa."

Some people might have cried, or shouted and screamed, throwing things across the room and breaking whatever they lay their hands on, just to try and understand the pain and grief.

I did neither of those things.

Instead, I accepted, as I always do, the fleeting lives of friends and... others, that I meet as I go from day to day, and sat calmly as I confirmed the the sickness that had taken his body, and what was certain to happen next. Except that I couldn't apply the calmness of my body to my... feelings. Yes, perhaps that is the word, feelings.

I usually try not to apply feelings to my life, it over complicates things. Particularly when I haven't seen someone for thirty years, and I hear that they are dying. It shouldn't affect me, but it does.

I pay for a ferry across the blue ocean, wondering whether he has died yet, and whether I should go to his funeral. I assume that the service will be crammed full of people whose lives he has walked into. He has a large pack, and many wolves from the Preator Lupus are grateful for how he has helped them, along with other Downworlders that have managed to put their lives back together because of the Preator. They will have good things to say about him, I'm sure, if only because it's what people do at funerals. What would I say about him if someone asked? Oh yes, I have fond memories of your Uncle. I lived with him for a few months back in the 1800s. The sex was amazing. Yes, that would go down well.

I should visit Tessa and William whilst I'm in the country, but I'm sure that I would then be forced into spending an afternoon with their extended family, which I can't imagine enjoying all that much. And I think perhaps just one old friend at a time, I doubt that Tessa needs reminding what it is to be immortal, and to lose countless people that you care about, people that you love.

Love.

There are perhaps a handful of people that I think I have loved over the years. Though perhaps my interpretation of love has changed somewhat. The Warlock girl I lived with for a few years when I first came to New York, I was very fond of her, and when we were together I thought I might have loved her, but after a few months of her moving away, my feelings faded and I accepted my feelings as nothing more than affection. She was sweet, kind, very pretty... Just a nice girl. I guess I needed that after the relationships that crashed and burned in London. Camille... I think I might have loved her, once. But that soon turned to a sort of hatred, but the kind of disdain one endures when one cannot be bothered with expressing the emotion of hatred, or is still remembering love. There have been others, and memories of their faces bring me both pain and joy. But, to be honest, I don't usually attach myself to others with emotions.

When we come into Dover, I find a small restauraunt and order lunch, thankful for the pause in my journey. But by this point, I'm just finding ways to waste time. I don't want to have another reminder of how many people I am forced to lose, and the pain I feel over and over again.

I clench my fists on my lap, trying to find some way to focus my mind. Perhaps I should just go back to Spain, then return to New York. Just find someone to share a house with and waste my nights with. I just need someone to help me stop feeling so lonely. There are always Downworlders in the big city looking for a bit of fun, and I'm not a stranger to taking advantage of their desires. Yes, I could do that. I'll return to New York. There's nothing for me here anymore. There is nothing for me anywhere anymore.

But my links to my life in London are fading one by one, and in a few decades there be just a handful of immortals that were there, that share the memories of the city as it was then.

And here is one link which I will soon lose.

I can't do anything to make this situation better, my very presence will confuse matters more than necessary. He is an old man, sick and dying. I last saw him when he was young and strong... I didn't care for him much then, and I don't see any reason why I should now, not after all the years since our last meeting.

It was thirty years ago, and I'd been living in New York for a decade or so. He knocked on my door in the middle of the night, and I saw a man not so different from one I had once known, though age had carved faint lines around his eyes. His hair was dripping wet from the rain, and water droplets showered to the ground as he ran his hand through it.

"Woolsey," I had said, confused, "You could have written to say you'd be stopping by."

"Well I didn't know where you were staying."

"How did you find me then?"

"Chasing rumours, you know. Fortunately, there are very few Magnus Banes in the city, but I have just spent the last hour wandering around the city trying to find your place."

"Should I be flattered?"

"If you want."

"What are you doing here, Woolsey?" I said, taking his rain drenched coat.

"I heard that you were in New York."

"So you came all the way across the ocean just to see me? I highly doubt that."

"Well, I'm mainly here to talk to the leader of the Wolf Pack in New York, but I thought..."

"I'll get you some dry clothes." I suggested, noting his shirt, almost see through it was so wet. I had no idea how long he had been walking about in the rain, but I chose not to ask him.

"Don't bother," Woolsey muttered, wrapping his arm around my neck and pressing his lips against mine.

I haven't seen him since that night.

The more I think of him, old, sick, frail, the less I can imagine it. Woolsey has never been weak, at least not in the times I knew him, and him dying of anything other than some sort of fatal wound seems to make no sense at all.

Again, I can't seem to remember what I am doing, returning to London to see a dying man that I had never had any form of emotional attachment to.

So why is the thought of his death cutting me up inside?

Perhaps it is because I never linger to watch people grow old, so that I never see them in my mind as anything other than young and beautiful, as Woolsey once was. Even in the years between me leaving London and him coming to New York, age had begun to make its mark on his skin, in his bones and muscles. He was still strong back then though, and I am a little afraid of the old man that I might find in London.

Shadowhunters do this thing when they are dying, their family and friends gather around their death bed and tell stories about the life of their loved one. I always thought that it had a sort of charm to it, being surrounded by memories as you die, but a little over sentimental nonetheless. I try to imagine what Woolsey's home is like at the moment. Perhaps the pack sit in the rooms around the house, waiting for him to die. There will be family, nieces and nephews saddened by his imminent passing. Perhaps he married, and there is a woman holding his hand and a son and daughter comforting each other.

But I very much doubt that. Woolsey was never really the sort to settle down with anyone for more than a few months, and had never expressed much tolerance of women. Neither can I imagine him being a particularly good father figure.

But what do I know? It has been years since I last saw him, and even then we never really spoke much. I really cannot see the point in going all the way to London...

But I should go. What have I got to lose? I'm already most of the way there, anyway. I could just go to his house, express my sympathy that he is dying and leave within ten minutes. I am immortal. Surely I can spare a few moments for an old friend?

Tessa was right, London hasn't changed that much. It is less smokey, perhaps, and a little sadder after the war, but much the same as ever. Woolsey's town house is the very representation of his success in life, and I am pleased for him. At least he will die in a comfortable bed.

Outside, one of the cubs keeps watch. She has dark hair piled under a cap, a few ringlets escaping and softening her sharp features. There are faint scars down her cheeks and arms, not enough to make her ugly, but certainly shattering any illusion that she is a girl to be messed with. She is dressed in men's clothing, a trousers and a pale shirt, as many young female wolves do.

"Warlock," She says as I approach, scowling slightly, and steps in front of the door, "What is your buisness here?"

"I heard that an old friend is sick."

She narrowed her eyes, "Why should I believe you?"

"He's on his death bed. What harm could I do him?"

"I'm not sure..."

"I'm sure that there are enough wolves inside to stop me if I did try something," I add, and the girl sighs, letting me through the door.

Inside, there are several dozen wolves huddled around each other, their faces sombre. As I enter, a few stand up, and the house becomes suddenly silent. One of the older wolves signals for them to sit down with a swift movement of his hand. Looking around the room, I wonder once again why I am here, and that Woolsey probably has no particular desire to see me. His house is filled with the London pack, and probably a few members of the Preator Lupus, people he was leading until he fell sick a few months ago. People who actually know him.

"Magnus Bane," The wolf, clearly assuming the position of pack leader, says, "Ren?" a young girl steps forward after he mutters her name and takes my arm, leading me upstairs. I can feel the pack's eyes on me, even after I've turned my back, and wonder what they're thinking. What do they know about me? Were they expecting me to come? I should leave, I don't know what I'm doing here.

"He's in there," Ren says quietly, opening the door at the top of the staircase. She nods to another woman sat inside, who stands up and brushes past me.

Then I'm alone in the room with a dying man.

I can see from the doorway that he is asleep, and stay stood there for a few moments. The room is dark, the curtains closed, and I can't see his face, just the outline of his body. He's breathing slowly, heavily, and I can see his chest rising and falling. Not dead yet, I think distantly.

I go to sit down by his bed on an ornate wooden chair. I wait until I am seated before looking towards his face, and my breath catches in my throat.

Woolsey was handsome once upon a time, but now his skin is grey, and there are deep wrinkles are carved under his eyes, around his mouth, his forehead, his neck. His hair is fine, wispy, grey. His hands are old man's hands.

I'm not sure how long I sit by his side, but my legs turn stiff from not moving for so long.

"Magnus?" I start at the sound of his faint voice after perhaps hours of silence.

"Woolsey," I say, "You look terrible. You should call a doctor, you seem as though you're on the brink of death."

"Stop exaggerating, it's just a bad case of the common cold," He mutters, and I chuckle dryly, "What are you doing here?"

"You know, just passing though, thought that I'd call in for old time's sake. But I'm not staying long, I was just curious as to whether you'd died yet."

"You haven't changed much."

"I'm immortal."

"Yes, but I wasn't talking about that," Woolsey murmurs, closing his eyes again.

"I should go, I've wasted enough time here as it is."

"Bullshit, you've been here for hours, you could have left ages ago if you'd wanted to."

"Why would you want me here?"

"Why did you come?"

"I don't know," I admit.

"Me neither."

As Woolsey sleeps, I walk around his room. It's clear that he's been living alone for a long time now, one set of clothes in the closet, one hairbrush on the night stand, a single pillow on the bed... But with a pack as large as his, I'm sure that he isn't lonely. But it is a big house for him to live in without anyone to keep him company, even if he has taken the occasional lover over the years as I have. Morning turns to afternoon, afternoon to sunset. I wait for Woolsey to wake up, I'm a patient person and I have no time to lose by staying here for as long as he wants.

He's dying, I think to myself, glancing at his withering form, He hasn't got long left.

"Open the curtains, would you? I want to see the sky." I do as he asks, and the gold of the sunset fills the room, falling on his pale face. For a moment, I think I can see a shadow of his younger self, but it was just a fleeting image as passes almost instantly. Woolsey sighs mournfully and looks sadly towards the window, his eyes briefly passing over my face. I wonder what it is like, to be so close to death and being unable to do anything to stop the darkness coming, because it comes for everyone, in the end. It hasn't lain a finger on me though, not yet, and I imagine that I will survive for centuries to come. And then what? If I live forever, how long before any form of life matters at all? How long before happiness, sorrow, pleasure, grief, passion, love, fade into nothing? How long before I am simply an empty shell that just keeps on living?

"What are you thinking of, Magnus?" Woolsey says, each word a struggle for his failing body.

"Life, death, all the shit that happens in between," My eyes meet his across the room, and I see in them the great love of living that I had always admired, although it has now worn down to a sort of grief that comes as the end draws closer.

"You have... All the time in the world... To think about that..." He says, wincing, "Sit by me." I think of what we were once like together, so much passion and no feelings to keep us locked together through the ages. I remember waking up some mornings and finding that he had already gone, noticing where the bed sheets were cold and barely slept in, and other nights when we our bodies were so close and tangled that I could barely tell where mine ended and his began.

I nod and go to sit on the chair, but he shakes his head and sit on the bed, curling my legs under me. A scarf hangs on the back of his door, a yellow one. I wonder when he last went outside, when he last wore it. Mortals go from old to dying very quickly, but the actual dying part is slow. Once the doctors say they can do nothing, there can be days, weeks months, years even of gradually more painful life. Woolsey barely has hours.

"Woolsey," I muttur, "Why did you come to my house that night, in New York? It'd been years, I don't understand... Never mind."

"I was... Lonely, I guess... It was a long time ago, Magnus."

"Yeah, I know the feeling. I guess if were less lonely, then I might not have slept with you, but it's so rare to spend a night with someone that knows me as well as you do..." I pause, "What's it like, dying?"

"It's pretty rubbish... I really can't be bothered with your questions..." But there is so much more that I want to ask him about, so many questions that I need to find the answers to to fill in the empty spaces between the years. I just want to know what he has been doing, whether he has been happy, lonely, content with life.

This is why I don't stick around to see people grow old, to see the life behind their eyes begin to fade and their limbs grow stiff and frail, it feels wrong, as though I am trapped in time whilst everyone else moves around me and I stay still. I feel so much lonelier when I see how many people leave me behind time and time again, and it fills me with such great sorrow to know that someone with thoughts and hopes and dreams and memories can turn to dust whilst I remain ever the same. A fixed point in a changing world.

"Talk about something."

"Like what?"

"Anything... Fill the silence with your pointless rambling." So I do. I tell him about New York and the people there, the buildings that seem to stretch into the sky and the Downworlder parties which he would have loved. I mention the letters that Tessa has sent me very couple of years, describing the changing city that she lived in and her family as they accumulated children and Grandchildren and all the rest. I tell him how I was in the streets one night, and a Mundane woman was attacked by a Demon. I tell him that I saved her life, and she had told me that she lived in Spain, and that I would be welcome in her house any time. I bought her dinner to calm her nerves and she thought I was very charming, as many do. So that was why I chose to get away from the city for a few months, spend the summer in Spain.

Until I received a letter from Tessa. I stop talking for a moment, worried that however I phrased the next part of my journey would make me sound like some love sick fool, desperate to return to my dying soulmate. That's not the case, and my actual thoughts are too complicated to put into words.

But I don't that Woolsey is even listening any more.

Not sure how long he has left in this world, I move my hand to place over his, which I hope is somewhat comforting. I see Woolsey smile slightly, and he wraps his fingers around my hand, so tight I wonder if I am his lifeline, that he is clinging onto me in a desperate to just not die.

Evening comes, followed by night. Occasionally one of the wolves comes into his bedroom, asks how he is, offers me something to eat or drink, which I decline. One tries to close the curtains, but I tell him to leave them, even though Woolsey hasn't opened his eyes in hours. I don't really feel anything, just empty. I suppose that means that I am sad, which is how people usually feel when someone is dying. I try so hard sometimes not to form emotional attachments to certain people, but caring in some form is inevitable, even if you're as stone hearted as Woolsey, and I feel some comfort at being here tonight, instead of receiving news several years later to say he was dead, and somehow being unable to believe it.

Because it is always difficult to believe that someone is truly gone, and even now I can barely accept that he isn't long for this world.

"Woolsey Scott," I say, unsure as to whether he is listening, "I have always wondered what it is to die, simultaneously accepting that it is hopefully something that I won't have to face for many years yet, but have also seen many people enter my life and leave as as life runs away from them, or before they have the chance to grow old before my eyes. I'm not as stone hearted as perhaps I should be after all the people I have lost, and I often wish that I was more like you, able to choose who you care about and who you don't... I've never been able to do that, Woolsey, and against all odds I, well, I always admired you. And I remember fondly the times we had together, however meaningless they were. I think that, perhaps, I knew you at the wrong time, still aching from Camille, not ready to commit myself again so soon and, I erm... We had some good times, didn't we? And you were the person that I needed at that time in my life and, erm, never mind."

"Me too, Magnus..." His lips barely move, and if it weren't for the absolute silence that had fallen over the house, I might have thought that he haven't spoken, but he did. I squeeze his hand and he returns the touch with the little strength that he has left.

After a few moments, his hand goes loose and his breathing stops.

I lean over and kiss his forehead gently, which is a strange thing to do because he is dead, and feels nothing any more.

"Goodbye, Woolsey."

"There are so many people that owe so much to Woolsey, and because of him there is finally a place for anyone that is confused and out of control. And on behalf of anyone whose life is better because of my... My dear friend, I would like to say thank you. And I hope that, if there is life after this one, then you are living it, and I know that your name will not be forgotten. Not for as long as we all live, and certainly not for my lifetime. And as long as people talk of the Preator Lupus, they will think of you. And anyone that has ever know you will speak of you from time of time, telling others of the little things that made you, well, you. So, erm, yeah."

"Mr Bane?" Someone asks later at the wake.

"Please, call me Magnus."

"It's just, my Uncle spoke of you, some nights when he started talking about his youth. I think that he was always expecting you to turn up again sometime, even if he didn't say so. I know that it meant a lot to him that you came. It was very good of you." Her name is Elizabeth, and I can see her Uncle in her blond hair and charisma. She has the look of someone that has just been crying, and I place my hand on her shoulder as I walk past, "Magnus," She says and I turn to look at her, "You thanked Uncle Woolsey for everything he's done. But, and if no one else is going to say it, then I will. Thank you, Magnus, he needed somewhat like you at his bedside, and I am very grateful," I think that she would have been more attractive if I hadn't slept with her Uncle, and if I wasn't trying to work out what I was feeling I might have taken her hand and pulled her closer to me to comfort her. But I can't, it would feel wrong, "I suppose that you'll be going back to America now?"

"Yes, once I've retrieved my belongings from Spain."

"Can I come with you?" I furrow my eyebrows, "I've always wanted to get away from England, see the world. You seem like a worldly man, Magnus Bane, and I imagine that you have many tales to tell me about my Uncle in the days before I knew him." Yes, but not the sort of stories that she would like to hear. All the same, there is nothing more that I can do for Woolsey, except maybe take his niece on an adventure. There is something about the way she is looking at me that reminds me so much of how Woolsey used to look at me sometimes, and there is nothing that I can do anymore, because I am lonely. Always, so very lonely.

"Come and see the world with me, Elizabeth Scott."