Divine Roots

Her bronzed arm lifted him up by the wrist, yanking him from the ground to his feet, as if nothing more than a mere ragdoll. Shoving her way through the Fillorian thickets, she began to run, with Quintin conjoined to her by the arm. Between muffled gasps for air, he managed to choke out, "Not to—not to be a drag, um...but, you're uh...sort of, dragging me. Do you—do you...mind telling me where we're going, or, like, at least who you are, for that matter?" There was no response. She continued onward past the centaur of the forest, and overabundance of trees, neither glancing back, nor turning her head in the slightest. "Um...well I guess I'll just tag along...back here," he muttered. Not that he had a choice in the matter. The woman's grip was too tightly wrapped around his wrist. His legs pumped as fast as they could go, in a pathetic attempt to keep up with the speed that her goat hooves provided. She seemed to know her way around the labyrinth of a forest, taking turns that Quentin had managed to miss when he and Eliot entered.

The horned woman, still managing to increase in speed, positioned her thumb to the tip of her middle finger, flicking her hand in an upward quarter-circle motion, yelling "REVELE LAVENDARIOUS." No sooner than she'd said it, had emerald sparks of light protruded from her hand, creating a magical vortex, and beyond that, a set of golden doors. The woman released her grip. "Come, we have much to discuss" she said, motioning for him to follow. Quentin, though suspicious, trailed behind her. "This is just like the part in Chapter 8 of Fillory, book Two, where Rupert follows Ambriel, Guardian-Princess of the Fae", he thought. As the woman approached the doors, they instantly opened, as if by command. Stepping one foot in after the other, she looked back and asked, "How did that work out for him?" Quentin, confused, tilted his head, and responded.

"Uh...for who?"

"For this Rupert boy. How did it work out for him?" she persisted.

Quentin, quite sure that the stranger possesed the ability to peer into minds answered, desperately trying to block the images that had popped in and out of his mind throughout the whole ordeal.

"Oh, um...yeah, well, in the book, Rupert follows Ambriel into this like, vortex, but see...Ambriel was actually a vengeful Banshee, who'd acquired the ability to...um, shapeshift, by tricking the Tsarevna Frog into teaching her. She sneaks up behind Rupert, and hums an alluring lullaby, that places him into this never-ending sleep. Jane...uh Chatwin, then petitions Umber, who gives her this flute-like instrument thing, that like, wakes him, but it causes him total memory loss."

"As I'm sure you've guessed by now, yes, I can peek into the minds of Mortals, so let me start by saying, no, I'm not a Banshee, and no I am not going to place you in an endless sleep."

Quintin let out a sigh of relief.

"You're quite the chatty one" the stranger postulated. "It's quite alright, your mother was a chatterbox as well." She laughed, then furrowed her eyebrows, looking first from her chest, then to Quentin. "By the way, you're doing a horrible job at burying the thought, so, yes, my breasts are quite real, and no, you may not 'have a squeeze'. That's what you have the blonde one for. Alice, I think her name is."

Embarrassed, Quentin's cheeks flushed a hot-red, as he instantly looked down to his now dirt encroached Converse. Speaking only in a timorous tone, he asked, "So...you know my mother?"

Her arms now crossed in front of her, she looked at him, her face serious. "Well I'd like to think so, she is my sister after all. I'm Hestia, Goddess of Virtue, but you can call me Aunt. Didn't she mention me?"

Quentin's stomach churned, as he'd realized that he'd been ogling a member of his family.

"It's okay, Quentin. You didn't know. Besides, the thought that you had is no different than any of the other mortal men and women that I've run across. It's harmless. I brought you here because here, no soul can enter. Here, I can assist in giving you an advantage over the Beast that stalks you and your friends. I know all about the terrors that he's caused. Walk with me," she said, carrying onward.

The place that she'd brung the two, beyond the golden doors resembled Brakebills, except, its inverse. Doors that should've been on the left, were on the right, walls that were once a porcelain white, were now an onyx black, and the hallways that once burst with life, were now void, lacking all sound.

"Now, Quentin," Hestia continued. "As you can tell, we are royalty, by blood in Fillory. Gods really. My Chiffon Maxi Dress just scream goddess, does it not?"

Quentin didn't answer.

"Of course, your mother didn't get the gift of divinity. Gods who, shack up, typically only have one celestial child. The other's born mortal, able only to pass on the celestial genes, excluding, of course Ember and Umber, who were born of floating magic energy. Which brings me to you," she said pointing at Quentin. "You, a child of two lands, Fillory and Earth, have the potential to be the greatest magician ever known. Being of both origins should provide you a bountiful supply of magic, thus making you a threat to Martin." As his name left her lips, the doors of the hallway slowly began swinging open, each with their own distinct squealing pitches, creating a symphony of eerie melodies. "What is that," Quentin asked. Looking to his left, he regretted asking. On his left shoulder rested a grey moth.

"Hello, hello, my sweets," an ominous voice bellowed from behind them. Martin stood in the golden doorway, dressed in all black. "YOU CANNOT BE HERE!" Hestia shouted.

"Oh, on the contrary, my dear. You warded this place against souls, but you see...I haven't one." Martin laughed sinisterly. "Quentin, my boy, there's something in my pants that I've been dying to give you since our last happenstance." Quentin's eyes widened with fear.

"Just kill me if you want, but it'll be for nothing. You'll never get back into Breakbills...um, again."

"My dear boy, how misinformed you are." Reaching into his pants pocket, Martin hurled the carcass of a moth towards Quentin's feet and chanted "Asmodare. The insect burst into flames, its ashes reforming into a pristine sheet of parchment. Quentin crouched down to read it.

Dear Henry Fogg,

Hello, old chap, I have approved the financial funds necessary for the construction of Brakebills University, provided that you incorporate the transportation mirrors in every classroom.

                                                                                                                       Martin Chattwin

"Quinton, don't look so surprised. Did you think the school's crest was a moth by coincidence? Surely not. Come now, let's not delay the inevitable." Quickly, before Quentin could react, Martin flung both hands, knocking Quentin and Hestia into each other. From the floor, Quentin intertwined his fingers, placing both hands upward to form a triangle, and screamed, "FULMEN!" His eyes glowed green as bolts of crimson lightning flew past Martin. "Is that all? Remedial battle-magic?" Martin scolded. "Try this!" Martin placed the tips of each finger together, while whispering, "Praefringo". Quentin felt his head slam into the ground; his limbs twisting forward, inverting at the joints. He let out an agonizing scream, and looked to his right, his eyes freezing at the sight of his dead aunt, covered in golden blood. He'd considered running, but his body lied useless. "This is the end of our story Mr. Coldwater. Gooday," Martin said, snapping his fingers. Quentin's body lie on the ground surrounded in a pool of blood, each limb pulled from their sockets, as Martin Chattwin left the scene, whistling the tune of Taylor Swift's, "Shake it Off".

In a lively part of New York, on an outside park bench sat a young woman in a chestnut-colored coat, and an older man, dressed as if ready to attend a funeral. The woman tinkered relentlessly with a golden pocket watch. The two sat, speaking to each other in hushed voices, though not looking at one another's faces. The male, holding a current New York Post newspaper to his face, crossed his legs, letting out an irritated sigh. "It's always something with you, isn't it, Eliza? Always an emergency."

Still facing forward at the people rushing about, she furrowed her brows. "You know this is my number one priority. It should be yours as well, Henry," Eliza asserted, through precise elocution." This is the, 24th time he's killed Quentin!"

Henry rubbed the back of his bald head, yawning through a smirk. "Well, you know what's funnier than 24?"

Eliza, with an unimpressed scowl retorted, "For the love of God, please spare me your nonsensical Sponge Robert  lines."