Malec One-shots

Make it stop

He remembered waking up in the morning to cries. He sat up - the room was in darkness, not that he minded. He could see through the darkness. The sounds were coming from the barn outside. His parents weren’t in their bed, and he scampered through the house, throwing open the backdoor. His father was stood outside the barn, the door open. He was down on his knees, sobbing. He turned around to see Magnus, but not before the child saw what was there. The body swinging on a rope, the limp, stiff, dead face. The pale skin of his dead mother, swinging on the rafters.

The child cried out. His father yelled at him, tears staining his own face, teeth gritted with anger, but he was already running from it. He stopped, leaning on the wall outside their house. He had his hands clasped over his mouth, trying to stop himself whimpering. He didn’t want his dad to find him. He knew it was his fault. He’d heard his mother before. The night before. Their fragile walls did nothing to stop him hearing every word she yelled out about him. Every time she called out what a mistake he was, what a freak. He sat there, sobbing silently, the guilt pouring over him as he curled up on himself. He was totally alone. Not even his parents could stand him.

____

“Boy..” He heard his father call, opening the door to his bedroom. “Come along, get dressed.” His father wouldn’t look at him directly. “Why?” The child asked sleepily,

“We’re going out.” His father simply said, shutting the door again.

They walked far away from the house. The boy’s feet hurt, and he was sweaty from the covering his father had put over him so nobody would see what a freak he was. He had never been taken off the farm before, the scenery looked so new, so different. He didn’t know what most of these other things were. The only other creatures he’d seen were the animals they kept at the farm. He hadn’t seen other people except his parents – so many other people speaking all around him as they passed through towns. They were calling words to one another, and when the boy asked his father what they were, he was told they were names. The child didn’t have a name.

They eventually stopped by a creek, and the boy couldn’t see anyone around them. After asking if it was okay, he tore off the cloak that shielded him from close glances. He was sweating. “How about cooling down in the creek?” His father asked, and after rolling up his sleeves and trousers before running quickly into the water. He heard footsteps behind him and before he could turn, he was being pushed down into the water, and he gasped out, his lungs filling up with water. He couldn’t breathe. He kept choking. He was pushing out, trying to scratch out. He was so scared. His mind was flashing, he couldn’t get a coherent thought out. He just wanted it to stop. And something inside him changed. Make it stop. He cried out, his hand grasping his father’s sleeve, and suddenly something happened. The pressure on him was gone. The boy sat up, choking out the water in his lungs, sobbing violently. He looked out onto the shore. His father was writhing, burning, the smell of burning flesh was filling the air. He was burning in a strange blue flame that came from nowhere. He was screaming out, and the small child covered his eyes, shutting his eyes tight. Make it stop, make it stop, make it stop.

Magnus awoke, crying out, he sat up, gasping, instantly bursting into tears. Alec woke up as well, and turned to face his lover. “Magnus…” He breathed, “what is it? What’s wrong?” He said, inching closer, putting his arm around him. The warlock couldn’t get any words out. He just kept choking and moaning and whimpering. He leaned his head on Alec shoulder, burying his head in the boy’s shirt. The shadowhunter’s hand wound through his hair, “what did you dream, sweetie?” He whispered, his thumb rubbing the back of his neck soothingly. He kissed his hair and his forehead soothingly as the warlock cried. He’d never seen Magnus this afraid, this terrified. “What did you dream about?” He asked, “what did you see?” He mumbled, hugging the man close to him. But Magnus couldn’t say. It had been such a long time since he’d dreamt of his step-father, of his life before he was named Magnus. It was a period he’d wanted to forget and had tried everything to try and forget. He’d killed so many people since then in the eight hundred years he’d lived, names and faces he couldn’t remember. But his step-dad’s face was always burning behind his eyes, and he could never undo what he’d done.