I think that the worst part about the losses of 1878 was the lack of closure. There was something about it all which was unfinished, incomplete. Shortened life in a world where I lived forever. Relationships over while my heart was still in them.
Victorian London wasn't the time for love. Not the time for us. But if nothing else I had time.
I heard on the grapevine one day that William Herondale was married with children. There was something satisfying about knowing it hadn't worked out for him and Magnus either. Nor Magnus' ill-conceived relationship with the other Scott brother. I got the feeling that latter relationship was embarked on purely to spite me.
I waited before I saw Magnus again. I was determined to be past the hurt I'd felt in the 1800's before our next real encounter. I wanted to be better, stronger.
When the Nephilim have you strapped to a pillar it's as good a time as any to call in a favour from an old flame.
"Pretty boys were always your undoing." I'd noted when he arrived with the Lightwood son on his arm.
It wasn't without humor that I saw his black hair and blue eyes. Unlike William this one held himself awkwardly. Alexander looked ill at ease hearing what I had to say. The Warlock was his first love; that much was obvious. All this made him a likely case for a project-seeker like Magnus.
Seeing how easy it would be; I made a decision then and there to break them.
True love cannot die, dear Reader, but it can be changed. And there is, in fact, a quote I heard once in the theatre.
Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, nor hell a fury like a woman scorned.
And scorned I was, sat alone, truly alone. No subjugates or servants, no clan, no lovers. Drinking in the scent of the cut grass and petrol. Remembering how I'd loved.
Because I'd loved, dear Reader, you know that I have. I don't deserve to be alone.