Quentin's Fourth Chance

Final Chapter

The air in Fillory may have been .2% opium, but that didn't stop Quentin's mind from thinking up every horrible outcome of this impossible adventure his friends and he had embarked upon. Had his life been printed on the pages of a book, he would have wished he were the character. Now, actually living a fairytale that belonged in a Grimm novel, he almost wished he were normal. Almost. It tormented him to think that, even though he hadn't slept for the days leading up to their trip to Fillory, he still felt like he was supposed to be here. And not just him, but Alice, Margo, Eliot, Penny, and even Jules. The torment came from knowing that, since they were his friends, they would die too if he fucked this up. He couldn't help but wonder if it was his fault they all got caught up in this. Like, maybe if he had just given up on Fillory, then he wouldn't have been targeted by the beast and could be a normal magician instead of a freak among freaks.

Inner monolog aside, Quentin made his way down a steep path alone and in the dark. He prayed the sleeping draft he'd mixed into everyone's food would work until he returned or died fighting the beast. Unfortunately, Fillory at night was ten times worse than during the day and he swore he could hear something following him. He prayed it wasn't some twisted blight that had been created by the beast. More than anything, he wished his mind would stop wandering. He clutched the glass bottle around his neck. The promise of cold reason kept him from completely losing his mind. He just had to make it to the beast's front door.

Quentin nearly jumped out of his skin as a hand landed nonchalantly on his shoulder. His assailant grabbed his wrist, stopping him from casting. "Where are you going?" Eliot asked him in the quiet and direct way he always spoke.

"Eliot! How are you even awake right now?"

"What, you don't think I know a roofie when I see one? Please, " he scoffed back, releasing Quentin from his grasp. "You're welcome, by the way."

As Eliot lit a cigarette, Quentin asked, "For what?"

"You were about to run off and do something stupid, like, I don't know, try and kill the beast all by yourself. Tell me, in which of the books that you've read has the hero ever defeated the adversary without the help of his friends." Eliot remarked. He exhaled the smoke in rings. "None, I presume. So why do you think this would be any different?"

"This isn't a book or some story where everything gets tied into a bow at the end!" Quentin snapped.

"Except it is, Quentin Coldwater. Fillory and Further."

"You know this place existed long before Plover ever wrote the books," Quentin shot back. He cringed at the name. It still blew his mind that Plover was the beast and that he'd abused Martin Chatwin.

"Either way, you can't do this without us. Now come back to the hut and get some rest. We'll all work together to finish this in the morning when everyone else angrily arises from being roofied," Eliot commanded and turned to make his way back up the path. .

It pained him, but Quentin couldn't waste the opportunity. He quickly made the appropriate hand movements and whispered the words to bottle his emotions. In one swift movement and before Eliot could react, Quentin threw magic at him to knock him out. Eliot went flying backward and impacted the ground, completely out cold. Quentin knew he didn't need to keep using the emotion bottle, so he pulled the cork out and drank his emotions back into himself. Since it was only for a minute, the backlash wasn't staggering. Without ceremony, Quentin moved Eliot's unconscious body off the path and covered him with leaves and a ward for good measure.

With new found coldness, Quentin continued along the path. It took another few hours of walking, but he reached it: Ember's shrine. In the books, it was a place of beauty and splendor. Now the holy ground was mostly adorned with spider silk and dead leaves. It was Quentin's plan to request Ember's assistance, then go after the beast. He was far enough away from the others that they wouldn't catch up to him. Apart from that, Quentin had taken measures to assure that they wouldn't find him.

The only problem was that he had to find the entrance under the overgrown weeds and vines. After a short time searching to no avail, he began shouting, "Ember, I request an audience!" all while still searching the grounds. He brushed his hand over a thorny vine and jumped back in pain. Quentin's breath caught in his throat when he noticed an oddly colored moth fly past his sights. He spun around quickly and found the beast across the small stone platform.

He stood, hands behind his back, face masked by a veil of moths. Part of Quentin's minds processed that he should probably run or at least attempt to bottle his emotions. The other part of his mind was thinking that Plover was probably wearing an evil grin on his lips.

"Quentin! It's good to see you again," he said, starting to take slow steps forward.

"Wait." Quentin said, mustering up enough strength to stop his voice from shaking.

Intrigued, the beast stopped and said, "This should be good."

Quentin licked his lips. His mouth was as dry as cotton. "Let my friends go. Just kill me."

The beast laughed. It made the hairs on Quentin's arms stand on end. "I'm not going to kill you, Quentin Coldwater."

"You're not?"

"No," the beast replied, "You're going to kill yourself! Yes, this will play out nicely! Much more smoothly than last time!"

"Wait, last time?" Quentin asked, confused.

"Enough talking. Go stand by the ledge over there and think about everything that's brought you to this outcome," the beast commanded. He made a series of precise hand movements and suddenly Quentin found himself looking down the sharp fall-off of the shrine. His mind was awash with memories. Everything from the endless arguments with his father about his obsession with the Fillory books to the constant loneliness he felt his entire life. He wasn't meant to be there among the normal people. And had he just killed himself years ago, he wouldn't be putting his friends through this right now. He could hear them behind him, behind the beast. They were screaming at him to stop. He was going to stop. The pain of living. He wished he could tell them to just give up, too. At least if they were dead, they wouldn't feel the pain anymore.

His final thoughts were of how beautiful the wind sounded as it rushed past his ears.