‘ these old pictures are cool. tell me stories. ’ Max
Max has probably gone through this box a hundred times since he was a boy. But he’s pushing nearly two hundred years old, it stands to reason that he won’t remember as much of being a little boy as Magnus does. A father’s prerogative.
There’s a brief moment that Magnus idly, fondly wonders what the picture might be. George, maybe. A portrait of himself, Ragnor and Camille during their “rebellious” years.
Instead, it’s the picture he’s kept at the very bottom of his heavy silver box. One kept carefully from curling edges and yellowing with time with wisps of magic. It was taken in London, though that much isn’t obvious from the portrait. They’re sitting outside in a massive garden, surrounded by manicured rose bushes.
Magnus’ heart clenches so hard that it feels like a physical blow.
“That was your father. Alexander.” His voice valiantly does not give out on him, though it tries. “This was his Garden.” Magnus gestures around them, to the boughs of the tree and the spattering of wild flowers in the grass. He hasn’t been able to leave here. Not since-
“You couldn’t have been more than six years old when we lost him.” But it’s a fresh stab of grief to see his boy doesn’t remember the father who loved him so completely.
“When you were an infant, Alexander was the only one who could stop your tears.” Magnus smiles up at his boy, strong and kind and at peace in his own blue skin. He’d come a long way in two hundred.
There are tears burning in his eyes, but Magnus keeps them at bay.
“He’d pick you up and hold you close, and so terribly seriously he’d say hello my baby and you would beam at him.”