come what may
When you’re immortal, there’s a point after a couple decades or maybe centuries, when everything becomes boring. It has happened to Magnus as well – after a long while of going through day-to-day motions, ordinary chores and mundane routines, he has gotten sick of them and instead searched for new ways to reinvent living without falling into absolute decadence.
He stopped doing his own laundry in favor of sending it to professional businesses, cooked rarely and instead snapped his fingers to conjure the best dishes from around the world; even walking or talking became a show of grace and elegance and poise to the point of not seeming remotely human underneath layers of satins and silks and the most expensive jewelry.
So this shouldn’t feel special, yet it is. The windowsill is cluttered full of clay pots with herbs preening in the natural light, mint and basil and rosemary alongside species that do not have a name in any language close to English; the window itself is thrown wide open, letting in a breeze smelling of pollen and carrying the buzz of the city.