Archive of Our Own ^beta

Tick Tick Tick

He stands in front of the mirror, fear ringing in his eyes. 

“Who are you?”

The figure in the mirror echoed his words, yet did not reply.

Tick Tick Tick

His fingers trembled as they gripped the porcelain of the sink, turning white at the tips form pressure.

Tick Tick Tick

He glared at the figure, dead grey meeting dead grey, neither yielding to the other.

Tick Tick Tick

His breathing was coming out in harsh and violent gasps, panic set in his bones without his realization.

Tick Tick Tick

The ticking of the clock was oppressive, surrounding his mind like a cage. The repetitive ticking iced out the sounds of nature outside the window.

Tick Tick TICK

The figure in the mirror held tension in his brow, frustration in his stance. 

Tick TICK TICK

He glared at the figure in the mirror, feeling the compiling of emotions threatening to overflow.

TICK TICK TICK

The mirror shatters beneath a fist, and he dully feels the pain of glass in his hand. 

The figure in the mirror is there no longer, rather replaced by drips of deep red.

The clocks screams were drowned out by the beating of his heart, the nice Ba-dump Ba-dump Ba-dump soothing the anger down till the boil is no more than a simmer.

He distantly realizes the fist was his, but he elects to ignore it in favor of slowing his breathing.

Each sip of cold air rushed through his system like water, washing out the fiery anger until it was just drips in the drain. 

His eyes fluttered open (When had he closed them?) to look at the destruction on the mirror. 

The shattered glass echoed out a wave from a deep crater in the frame, the crater of his rage. It reminded him of-

“You are not glass you are marble.” Madam said as he gripped the sheaf.

His hands gripped the handle of the dagger, minute trembles in his grip but he stopped them. His face was stone, no emotions. That was the way in the red room.

“Go.”

He took off the sheaf and threw the dagger with deadly accuracy. It met the target, and the little girl dropped dead.

A hand settles on his shoulder. He glances up to see Madam with pride clear on her expression.

“Marble…” She whispers.

He splashed water onto his face to block it out. He wasn’t there anymore, she couldn’t affect him.

The trembles in his hand spoke otherwise.

His vision grazed the mirror again.

As he looked at his destruction with  TERROR and maybe a hint of apathy he heard a feminine call from the other room. 

“Magnus, we’re going to go prank the people on floor 18, do you want to come with?”

Right. He wasn’t at REDREDREDREDRED, and he wasn’t home with his gaurdian mom. He was at Valhalla for dying a heroic death.

He snorted. ‘Like I could ever be heroic.’

A knock against the door re-centers him.

“Magnus?”

“I-in a minute!” Magnus stuttered, moving to wipe the blood off his hand, not truly processing the question. He reached for a towel only to slip on the rug and fell on his injured hand, swearing up a storm of curses.

“You good?” Sam asked, voice laced with a light layer of concern.

“Y-yeah! Just… tripped!” The lie fell heavy on his tongue, merging with the pressure in his throat trying to drown him.

He wiped the blood and glass off his hand, ignoring the stinging burn of pain. His body should be healing it right now, but for some reason his hand was still oozing blood. 

‘Oh, wait. There’s still glass in the wound.’ He thought numbly.

He dug through one of the drawers in the counter as quietly as he could, but the noise did not escape the lingering Valkyrie’s ears. 

“What are you doing?” The worry in her voice still lingered, though now there was a hint of annoyance.

“Just finding something!”  Magnus shouted, trying to coat his monotonous voice with some false cheer. “Be out in a second!”

He picked the shards of glass out with tweezers as fast as he could, urging his body to heal. As soon as the last shard was out a golden light filled the room. Magnus muttered a curse and attempted to mask the glow with the bloodied towel, but he knew Sam had already seen it. 

“Magnus are you hurt?” 

“Magnus?”

He ignored Sam’s calls, opting to instead sweep all of the blood and glass underneath the counter with the towel. 

‘The cleaning crew must hate my guts now.’ 

His body was weighed down with exhaustion, but he had done more with worse. He stood from his spot on the floor and glanced at his clothes.

He picked up the sound of knocking on the door, getting more desperate with each passing minute, but the lightness to his head distracted him from it.

He glanced dully at the shattered mirror to see the blood on his clothes, only some blood on his pants that could be explained away by a minor cut.

He turned to the door- the banging had got so loud he would’ve worried about the neighbors calling the cops had he lived anywhere else - and unlocked it.

The banging ceased when the door clicked open, and Sam stared at him with a sea of emotions for a solid minute. She was backed up at least a few feet from the door, either to prepare to hit him or to not get in the way.

She tried to glance at the bathroom behind him, but Magnus blocked it with his body. She eyed him with varying emotions, and after a minute of two of silence she asked “Are you okay?”

Magnus stared at her for a second, whether to judge her with his eyes or stop the room from spinning he didn’t know. He stepped forward, only for starburst of blackness to flood his vision. He continued his march forward in ignorance, and saw the wash of darkness cover his vision. He distantly noticed the rush of wind as if he was falling, then he was no more.