‘ we offer up our heart before the heart’s invited or asked for. ’ Seelie Alec
Carbon Leaf: (Accepting)
He doesn’t know how long it’s been. Magnus hasn’t left the garden since they buried Alec beneath the soft loam. He knows it’s been long enough for Max to have only faint memories of Alec, there and gone glimpses that might be more Magnus’ hopes than reality.
But Max was a little boy when it happened. Six years old and unable to understand what was going on around him. Why his father wouldn’t wake up. It’s been decades upon decades since then. Magnus is the one with the name branded on his heart. He’s the one who can’t move on.
Max has met a seelie knight. One with dark curls and mischief in his eyes. A part of Magnus appreciates the fact that his son has the same taste in men that he does. Soldiers with kind eyes.
He sees his boy a little more often now, with Max spending less time in the mundane world and more time in the Summer Lands. They come through with fae treats and honeysuckle wine and Magnus pretends as if these were social calls, and not his son worriedly watching out for him.
But they come, and Magnus pretends like he’s doing well. He pretends like the specter of death doesn’t sit like a dappled shadow over his shoulder and keep him rooted to the Earth here.
His grief is an old thing, a tired thing. Max comes to him with a milky, gilded invitation to a party being thrown for his one hundredth birthday party. Magnus can see how Max prepares himself for a ‘no’. It’s been seventy years since he left this garden.
He has to leave. If only for an evening. The agreement gets him a warm hug, and Magnus drags himself from the depths of moss and sweet grass and summons himself a better suit. His boy is turning one hundred. He needs to look his best.
Magnus brushes his fingers across a patch of bone white Lilies of the Incas he hadn’t noticed growing before, and takes a deep breath before he portals himself out into the mundane world.
The party isn’t what he expected. Then again, Max isn’t the same flamboyant creature Magnus was at one hundred. It’s a small group, warlocks and vampires, and even a few seelie. Max’s friends are all immortal, and there’s a sigh of relief at that. No more death.
(Death still came for Alexander. Even as ancient and unyielding as he was.)Magnus drinks to drown out his heartache, and he chimes in and plays coy and charming when need be. The world is a grey thing without Alexander, and he finds no joy in being here.
Thankfully, around midnight the party moves to somewhere a little more wild, and no one bats an eye at Max’s father slipping away.
There’s comfort in stepping back into the garden. It’s an exhausted comfort, sadness like a blanket around his shoulders. Magnus pours himself a drink and settles in between the roots of the massive tree.
He talks to his Alexander, as he does every night. He tells him what a wonderful young man their son is. How kind his friends are. Magnus tells stories to hear something other than silence, but the words trail away as he tracks his gaze back over to the lilies.
They’re unearthed, laying trampled in churned dirt. Magnus’ heart clenches in fear in his chest and he lights magic in his palm. The dusky shadows of the garden fall away, and Magnus follows dirty footprints into the tree itself, and bedroom inside.
His knees nearly give out at the sight that awaits him.
Alexander, in the same white armor he was buried in. With dirt and a few stray petals in his hair. Smiling at Magnus like it hasn’t been seventy years since the last breath left his lungs. He lifts a graceful hand in a wave, fingers curling, and Magnus feels the world go black around him as he falls.
