The world had ascribed itself a hollow, vacant aura. Alec held himself rigid, fearful that at any moment, the wall he had propped his body against could dissipate into oblivion. Even the people – those who still had life in their gait, oxygen in their blood – looked quasi-translucent, like apparitions or Projections; he could see the red tinge of a heart beating furtively under a passer-bys shirt, the splintered ribs of a warrior leaning over a fallen friend, the rise and fall of aged, silver lungs through the chest of another mourner. Alec shut his eyes tightly and winced, swearing under his breath. The visions weren't real. He had heard of people going mad from grief, had seen it personified in Imogen Herondale, and it was the ugliest insanity in the world – maybe it was already his.

He clenched his quaking palm into a tight fist and rejoined his family, keeping his eyes wrenched away from the indescribably small body resting on the floor. It would not do to weep. It would not do to break. Alec could feel his father's eyes burning through him, all of his attention on his elder son whilst his strong body did what his weak words could not, and comforted his wife. He nodded imperceptibly at Alec's fixation on training his eyes away from the ground, apparently proud of his restraint, of his muted, subtle grief. He ought to be proud, ought to understand, Alec thought bitterly, for he was the one who had taught it to him. It was expected of a Shadowhunter to remain strong and attentive, even in the face of tragedy – even in the death of a brother, the ruination of ones homeland, the threat of enslavement. Alec scoffed mentally – to stay standing amidst all of this destruction would mean to be made of stone.

And unfortunately for his father, he was only flesh and blood.

"I'm going to start moving our things to the new house we've been assigned," Alec said, having to concentrate on the words, his voice far away from his ears, as if he were speaking underwater, "I've been given the address. It'll be better for you all if you can go straight there, instead of going back to the Penhallows."

Robert Lightwood nodded again, knowing that you all meant Isabelle and Maryse. Alec did not doubt the sorrow festering in his father's heart, but he would not show it in the same way as his daughter and wife. Isabelle still had her hand on Max's chest, fingering the buttons of his blood-drenched cardigan, her other hand caressing his matted dark hair. Tears glistened in the corners of her eyes and traced the smooth curves of her face before splashing on the floor. She had bitten down so far that her bottom lip was bleeding freely. Maryse was still – as still as Max, or stiller somehow– in her husband's arms. Her face was so white that she could've passed for a Child of the Night.

"Isabelle and your mother will meet you there in a few hours. I won't be home for a little while," Robert said, and it is possible he saw the anger in Alec's face because he sounded guilty when he said, "There are arrangements to be made. And the Clave is in complete disarray."

Alec set his jaw, gave his father a curt farewell, and almost ran from the Accords Hall. He did not realise how the place had such a stench of death until he reached outside and vomited next to the fountain in the middle of the square. The fresh air burned in his nose, poisoning him, but Alec couldn't afford to stop and mourn here. There were too many faces around, too many prying eyes. He already had enough secrets without people stopping to try and find more. Usually Shadowhunters were encouraged to collate their grief, to find sorrow and then joy together. But he couldn't mourn Max with anyone else – he wouldn't. It didn't seem right to share his little brother with strangers.

Their temporary accommodation was a twenty minute walk from the Accords Hall, but it took Alec a little under twelve minutes to reach it. His feet were burning in his shoes, the cobbled stones wearing holes in his heels, and every inch of his body was consciously clenched together. He pushed open the front door and was surprised by how blank the space was. He had been told – shortly and sharply, by a man with a hundred people to inform – that the previous owners had fled the moment the Wards started to fail. Alec wanted to hate them for their cowardice, but wondered if he had done the same, he might still have a brother.

Or a younger brother, he pondered sadly as he climbed the stairs to the second floor, trying to convince himself he was searching for any lurking demons. Jace still hadn't shown up. They hadn't a clue where he was, or any way to get in touch with him. It was a waiting game at best. Another blow to the Lightwood family at worst.

Convinced the house was safe, Alec found the old living room and sank into the sofa. The furniture remained, but any sign of inhabitants – of photos, books, coffee mug place-mats, pets – was void. He felt as hollow, as scooped-out and empty as he had in the Accords Hall. Only this time, he was alone.

Tears would not come, no matter how hard he forced them. And Alec was suddenly furious with himself, furious that despite what had been lost – who they had lost – he could not conjure a tear. He had cried aged fourteen, when his father told him he was a poor excuse for a Shadowhunter next to Jace; he had cried aged sixteen when he realised Jace would never love him back; he had cried aged eighteen, knowing he had ruined things with Magnus by ignoring him in front of his family. And yet here, at the end of all things, there was nothing.

The glass coffee table shattered against the brick wall when he threw it, but the sight of smashed glass scattered across the floor provided no comfort, no catharsis. There was no solace to be found here, in the house of a stranger.

"Alexander," a voice spoke softly, but Alec didn't care who it was. There was a splinter of glass in his thumb and he poked at it, a bead of blood running down his hand, but he couldn't feel it at all.

"Alexander, look at me," the voice said, more persistently, but still aching with kindness.

There was a small rustling of fabric as the owner of the voice sat down on the sofa next to him, taking his bloodied hand, and resting its own hand against his cheek. Alec tried to keep his eyes on the carpet, but eventually the warmth of the palm on his cheek stayed his ability to ignore the man next to him.

"Magnus..." he managed, before his voice gave up on him. Magnus gave a small, restrained smile and moved his thumb along Alec's cheekbone, the movement so affectionate that it hurt.

Alec gently removed Magnus' hand from his face and entwined their fingers together instead. He could not bear for Magnus to see him like this, though it was ridiculous to think it. This is what friends – or lovers – were for, Alec thought pointedly, his inner repulsion sounding a lot like Robert Lightwood, to rely on when you can't rely on just yourself.

"Alexander, I'm so sorry," Magnus whispered when the silence became too much, "I'm so sorry about Max."

Hearing his brother's name said aloud in that context was like a punch to the gut, and Alec physically repressed the shiver that tried to force its way up his spine. Magnus' hand in his suddenly felt like a dead weight, and for a moment, Alec could smell the odour of the Accords Hall again, the horrific combination of blood and iron and scorched flesh and lingering demons.

"I shouldn't be with you," Alec said, his voice shaky in a way he would not have allowed it to be in front of his father, "I shouldn't have been with you earlier. I shouldn't have left here – I should have been with my family!"

He didn't know why he was shouting, and he didn't remember standing up, but Magnus' expression told him he needed to explain himself.

"I thought just because I was eighteen, because I was oldest and I knew best, that I had to be the one to go and alert the Clave. As if they didn't know the city was swarmed with demons! I should've been with Isabelle and...I shouldn't have left them with Sebastian. We hardly knew him, and I certainly didn't trust him. So why did I do it Magnus? Why did I run away from my family when they needed me?!"

It wasn't anger that exploded from him, but a furious desperation to go back and change the past. It was what felt like righteous anger at his own idiocy, his own pride, that had forced him to abandon his post and set events into motion. It was the agony that his little brother's death could've been prevented by him and him alone.

"Alec, if you had stayed you could've been killed too. We do not know this Sebastian, all we know is that he is Valentine's man, and that makes any Shadowhunter a target to him," Magnus protested, standing up to look Alec directly in the eye. He put a gentle hand on Alec's forearm, the kind of movement one makes against a vicious, wild predator, but Alec shook it off immediately.

"Then I should've stayed and died instead," he said, meaning the words, hoping that maybe once voiced, his wish would come true.

"Alexan-" Magnus tried to say, a wobble in his tone that Alec was deaf to, but the Shadowhunter cut him off with eyes that were – both mercifully and treacherously – full of tears.

"He was just a child Magnus. He never harmed anyone. He had his whole life to look forward to. Why him? Yesterday he was running around the house like he had a stamina rune, yelling that he needed to go back to New York to get the next book in the anime series he was reading," Alec garbled, figuring he was finally going into shock. His whole body was shaking like he had a fever, and the back of his mouth was drier than the desert when he whispered, "How can he be dead?"

Magnus made a move to embrace him, but Alec wouldn't accept it. He stumbled backwards, throwing his arms out to prevent the warlock coming any closer. There was no rational thought behind it, there was no use in denying himself what he so desperately needed, and yet the thought of Magnus touching him any further was almost abhorrent to him. An aberrant tear dropped from his eye and Alec wiped it away with an anger that could make Raziel scurry away like a rat. Throughout his life, Alec thought Magnus had probably grieved many in the way that he grieved one, and yet it the shared experience was not a comfort. He did not want to be someone who had lost someone.

"Alexander, what can I do for you? Anything, just say the words," Magnus said soothingly, trying to diffuse the ever-changing tension. He meant what he had said – he would charge other Shadowhunters with a premium rate, even in the same dire situation, because that's what he was, but this, trying to save Alec from his own darkness, this was who he was.

"Bring him back," was the reply, "please."

Magnus had had more encounters with Shadowhunters than he had lived years on this earth, and he had granted all of them what they had wanted. None of them had ever said please before, and he doubted any of them would again. And this was the only thing he could not give. Alec's voice was so fragile that even a small gust of wind through the chimney could have washed it away, and yet Magnus had heard it, though he wished he hadn't.

He had tried resurrection before, but it was beyond even his powers. They had all been gifted by some higher – or lower – power, but the only beings who could return the departed to this plain were the Angels, and they had always been greedy, gluttonous assholes who didn't play fair with the little people beneath them.

"Alec, you know I can't. Please, ask of me anything, but not that."

Magnus thought his own heart might break.

"Then what..." Alec stopped, pacing, wondering if he could force out the words biting at his tongue. He stared at Magnus, beautiful Magnus who made him believe one day he would be happy, and wanted to turn him into ashes at his feet, "What is the point of you Magnus?"

There was no barbed insult in his question, no hysterics, no fury or hatred or repulsion – just a steady curiosity. Magnus himself wondered for a moment why he had come, when Shadowhunters would rather kill a Downworlder than cry on their shoulder. But he waived away the hurt that laced through his heart like a needle. This was Alexander – not quite his Alexander, but there was a bond between them that transcended that of race and creed. And yet, he was not wanted.

"I'll come back in the morning," he said reassuringly, though he was surprised to find it was himself who was most in need of it, "I'll come back."

"I don't need you to," Alec said, and the bitterness was palpable. Why was he needed, when he could not fix the crux of the issue, Magnus found himself wondering. Why should he come back when Alec didn't need him here?

Magnus ignored Alec's outstretched arms and kissed him gently on the temple.

"I've never been what you needed darling," he murmured lovingly, without a trace of ire or amusement.

He vanished from the room, leaving behind a small puff of smoke with a blue hue, and Alec dropped his head into his hands and willed himself to break.

As the morning surpassed the dawn, Alec finished bringing over the small amount of possessions pertaining to his family that had been stowed with the Penhallows. He had briefly been forced to interact with Jia and her husband – Aline was unconscious upstairs they had told him, reminding him once again of how he had failed in his duty to protect those around him – but he had refused their help. He felt horribly territorial – these things had yesterday belonged to his brother. Now he was the only one who could touch them.

Back at their new house, Isabelle had come into the house in a flurry of agonised tears, flung herself up the stairs and clambered into the nearest available bed. Her sobs had shaken the house itself, and Alec had left instantly to return to the Penhallows for more belongings. The misery the Lightwoods carried had already permeated this empty building – how many more homes would their ruin in their grief? How many more places would become uninhabitable?

By the time Alec returned from that trip, Isabelle was fast asleep. He kept forgetting that she herself had been injured in the attack, and had probably been hurting far more than she had let on. She needed time to sleep and to recover physically; trying to heal the emotional devastation bestowed to them by a stranger would take far longer after all.

Their mother had entered the house like a ghost. She had been standing in the kitchen for more than an hour now, and when Alec looked to check on her, it seemed as if she were frozen in time. There was a glass in her hand, and she looked poised to fill it with water from the sink. And yet she was not moving.

Alec rapped his knuckles on the kitchen door to alert his mother to his presence, and he used all the strength in his body and runes combined to muster a straggle of a smile. He placed a hand on the small of his mother's back, and ran the glass under the tap for her. She did not smile, but she looked at him beseechingly, her eyes full of unshed tears. Alec stepped closer to her, and took her hand in his own. It was wrinkled, he noticed, and when he looked at her face, that was too. He had never noticed them before.

Very cautiously, and very slowly, Alec helped his mother climb the stairs. He led her to the main bedroom, and helped her out of her cloak and shoes, before pulling the sheets back, and tucking her into bed. He hid a small strand of hair behind her ear to stop it straying too long upon her cheek, and she closed her eyes, rolling into his body. Alec put his palm on her back and rubbed softly in concentric circles, the fabric of her shirt soft against his hand. It felt so alien to comfort her as she had him so many times in his childhood, and yet it felt as if time had come full circle, and it was what would be done now.

In a gravelly, barely-there voice, Alec sang to her the words A la claire fontaine, m'en allant promener. Il ya longtemps que je t'aime. Jamais je ne t'oublirai until he could no longer force himself to continue. Outside a new day was rising, the sky painted in cobalt, the sun radiating down onto the city of glass, as if the buildings themselves were glittering and sparkling. Alec felt his mother turn away from him, and he left the room, knowing deep in his heart that last night was irreversible.

It was excruciating.

He had put all of Max's things in the spare bedroom at the other end of the hall. The house was far too big for them, with seven upstairs rooms, and yet Alec chose this one because if he could not have his brother, then he would have what was left of him.

He perched on the end of the mattress and rummaged through Max's tiny suitcase. There were t-shirts, and anime books, and pairs of mismatched socks, and the tiny toy soldier Jace had given him when he was thirteen, and numerous scraps of paper with runes he had tried to scribble in remembrance. Alec reflected that even were he still alive, Max would never have tutelage under Hodge, and that felt like another death in his mind. So much of his permanent reality was changing around him, and he wondered how he was still standing.

There was another scrap of paper at the bottom of the suitcase, and as he pulled it towards him, Alec recognised it immediately. The phosphate brown of the ground, the bleak grey of the sky, but the bright unfathomable blue of his eyes next to the deep, playful greens of his little brother The photo was so old now that it defied the physical world in still existing, and yet as Alec stared down at the image – a big brother tackling his toddler sibling to the ground, tickling him and laughing with him as if nothing big or bad or scary could be real in their world – he felt that he was meant to find it.

And as the photo slipped from his hands, the pang of loss lurched into his stomach and he collapsed backwards onto the bed and let tears run ragged down his cheeks. He allowed a choked sob to echo around the dense walls of the room, and felt a tear drip down the side of his nose and into his mouth. The salt was bitter – the first nourishment he had had in hours – and Alec's hand scrunched into the fabric of the bedspread. The noises coming out of his mouth were nearly inhuman, but he was so deeply wounded, so utterly, utterly beaten by losing Max that it barely mattered.

"Alexander, what do you want?" Magnus asked gently, appearing as if he had flown through the open window and into the room. He sat on the opposite side of the bed and watched in visible pain as Alec sobbed into the sheets, crawled up into a ball like a tiny child. And by their Angel, Magnus thought, did he look like a child.

Alec could barely keep his jaw shut long enough to stop the wails from the back of his throat, and yet he forced himself to open his eyes. He saw Magnus, in a vision of white, almost glowing in the sunlight that bathed his figure.

"I want you Magnus," Alec breathed, pulling himself into a sitting position and reaching out for the man that he was almost certain he loved. "Please."

Magnus didn't smile, but he lay down beside Alec and took him into his arms, his shirt quickly becoming a sponge for the Shadowhunters' unrestrained tears. He and Alec had been this close before, and yet this was something completely new. Alec could not allow even his mother to see him this way, and yet Magnus was privy to the inescapable agony of losing a child. It had happened to him before, a long, long time ago, before the Lightwood family even existed, before the Shadowhunters themselves had risen to power. Alec was a mirror to that past, and so he embraced him tenderly, running his hands up and down Alec's arms, across the muscles in his lower back, brushing his fingertips against his cheeks, and wiping away some of the tears that he could catch.

"You can't change the past darling, I've tried," Magnus whispered, looking over Alec's shoulder at the antique photo on the carpet, as Alec rested his head in the space between his neck and his collarbone, "You can't live there either. It really is a foreign country."

"What I said earlier-" Alec murmured, reproaching himself, tightening his grip around Magnus' body; he was interrupted before he could say anything more.

"Was what I expected. I know you Alexander," Magnus said, his voice the calm in the raging tempest, "Pragmatic. I'm a warlock, it was a reasonable request."

"There was nothing reasonable about it, stop making excuses for me," Alec replied, though there was no reproach in his rebuke. He seemed oddly bereft of his usual, grumpy attitude, and the world was a worser place for it, Magnus thought to himself.

"Well one of us has to stick up for you," Magnus replied, "And I'm quite fond of you, so I'm not in the business of letting anyone bad-mouth you. Even if it's you doing said bad-mouthing."

He felt Alec's lips turn into a half-smile against his neck, and the Shadowhunter emerged from his hiding place, and briefly kissed Magnus; it was not for passion or romance or magic - it was just the only thank-you he could give at this moment. It was enough. Magnus kissed his forehead and gave him his forgiveness, though there was nothing really to forgive.

And the odd pair – the man who looked like a boy, and the boy who had given up trying to be a man – stayed together like that for just a little while longer. As the sun rose, so did the rest of the house, and the noise to Alec was almost deafening. Yet he clutched to Magnus a little while longer, burying his lips in his neck, on his cheek, on his mouth, and allowed himself to be loved.