Self-Fulfilling Prophecy

Quentin could not move an inch without the slightest gesture of his escape catching the Beast's eye. He lay there, trapped under the rotting corpse of his best friend, feeling the hot, thick blood gush from her decapitated torso onto his once white, now scarlet stained button down. His reoccurring thought consisted of the Beast walking over to further inspect his own handiwork. He hoped to God that he wouldn't. In the time that it'd taken him to hastily pretend to have been struck by the Beast's battle-magic, he hadn't used a lot of it to cover his face in blood. The specs that were so sloppily strewn across his face came naturally, when Julia had been ripped in half by the Beast's Daemoniorum spell. It was quite lucky, or rather, quite unlucky that Quentin had the Emerson's Alloy Repellant in his pocket at the time. Because of this grain of luck, he was able to take in the unbelievable sights. The sight of Eliot's twisted limbs, his moth larvae infested flesh in a constant state of motion, and the sight of Penny's severed head, impaled and stuck on a rod, his eyes wide, and mouth agape, frozen in an excruciating fit of agony.

What a stupid situation to have landed in. Quentin felt as if he were entirely to blame. It was his idea to use the button, it was his idea to travel through the Neitherlands, where Alice and Margo had gotten abducted, and it was his idea to have cornered the Beast in the castle. To have thought, that he and his friends could've possibly stood a chance against the Beast was quite foolish; naïve, in fact. Now, as he lay on the cold floor, the noises echoing through the dungeon seemed to become louder with every passing second. The dripping of a far-off fountain, the writhing of larvae within Eliot's lifeless corpse, and the constant fluttering of the Beast's moths reverberated off every surrounding wall. Perhaps the loudest of all, was the increasing thumps emanating from his own heart. It had grown so loud that he'd sworn that the Beast had heard it. "What if he's toying with me, just waiting to finish the killing spree once I decide to move," Quentin thought. He shifted his eyes to the left, careful not to physically move his head. From his peripherals, he saw the silhouette of legs encircling the carnage. Quentin was sure that beneath the swarm of moths, the Beast would be smiling ear to ear, in a state of pure ecstasy. Quentin immediately shut his eyes tight, the wrinkles at their edges still visible, wincing at the thought of Plover's smiling face. As he did so, the pitter-patter of footsteps slowly approached. Had he seen his eyes close suddenly? Closer and closer the steps advanced in his direction, stopping directly where he lay.

"Mr. Coldwater, so nice of you to still be among the living," a shrill voice called out. Quentin didn't move, on the off chance that this was one of the Beast's illusions.

"Quentin!" the voice yelled. "We haven't much time! In fact, time is the one thing we need, so I'd suggest you abandon these shenanigans so that we may leave before his return!"

Quentin, peeking through squinted eyes, rolled the lower half of Julia's torso from his body, lowering it carefully to the floor. Before him stood a pointy eared, reef crowned woman, in what appeared to be a crop top and skirt made entirely of leaves. Her hair, long and golden, corresponded beautifully with her olive skin and green eyes, giving her a rather sultry, Amazonian look, despite the florescent wings that protruded from the middle of her back. Quentin stood up the best he could, still quite injured from his earlier encounter.

"Come, come," the winged woman urged, slightly floating off of the blood-soaked floor.

Quentin followed as closely as he could, feeling both doubtful and grateful to the stranger. They passed countless chamber cells, all of which housed unsettling screams. The stranger hadn't flinched in the slightest bit at the ambience. Quentin, however, was plagued with the images of how his own friends screamed, writhing in agony as they'd been tortured, hit with spell after spell.

"This way," she motioned.

Weaving her fingers in a manner that he'd never seen before, the woman shot an immensely hot beam of purple light into an open doorway, creating a swirling portal. Her petite arms, embellished with rose embroidered vines, lifted him by the wrists, yanking him from the ground to his feet, as she flew into the vortex.

She'd taken him back to the entrance of Brakebills University, dropping him on the ground.

"Quentin," she started. "We haven't much time to spare. Here," she said, shoving a golden hourglass into his bruised hands.

"What is this? More importantly, um, who are you?" Quentin stammered. He hadn't tried to sound ungrateful, but at this point, trust was not a luxury that he could afford.

"I'm Xantha, envoy to the Sylph of the Southern Orchard, she said, giving a slight curtsy."

Quentin's distrust slightly lessened as he realized he'd read about the Sylph in the Fillory books.

The Sylph, he recalled, were known for helping those truly in desperate need, though quite the tricksters themselves, often speaking in code, while leaving their true intentions obscured.

"Ok, Xantha, what am I supposed to do with this?" Quentin asked outstretching his hands.

"That is a gift from the dwarves," she said, removing the stray strands of blond hair from her face. "The same dwarves that made the timepiece given to the Chatwin girl. I was told to bring this to you, so that you may strike evil at its heart."

Quentin, confused scratched his head.

"So, you want me to go back in time to stop Plover, and in doing so, save my friends?"

"Not exactly," Xantha continued. "Firstly, Plover, though a vile beast in his own right, is not our Beast. The beast that you seek is none other than the eldest of the Chatwins."

Quentin stared wide-eyed at Xantha. It all made sense. Martin didn't go missing. He was in Fillory the whole time! In a twisted way, Quentin felt a small sense of relief. He didn't know if he'd have been able to stomach killing the author of his favorite books.

Xantha continued. "The hourglass, only allows two uses, granting the holder a maximum of five minutes' time to handle unfinished business. In addition, only the holder will be effected by its influences, meaning, unfortunately, it cannot spare your friends from Death's grip."

Quentin saddened by this news dropped his head in defeat. He'd never taken a life.

"How does this thing work?" he asked in a lugubrious tone, raising the hourglass.

"You simply hold it, think of where you need to go, and recite the words, Lenua Magicae."

Quentin held the hourglass in both hands, and picturing the old cottage in England he shouted, "LENUA MAGICAE!" A green mist slithered up his leg, until his entire body was engulfed in emerald. Following a flash of blinding light, he now stood in the old cottage that he'd envisioned.

"Martin!" an elderly voice called out. "Get back here! The camera simply loves you." The voice seemed to move closer.

In a panic, Quentin opened a cupboard to hide in. To his surprise, a pale, young boy was already in its confines. Quentin recognized him from the descriptions in the Fillory books. It was Martin! Quentin stood at the wardrobe, it's door gaping open. "Martin, I don't have time to explain. Take this," he said attempting to hand him the hourglass.

"Are you taking the piss?" a young Martin said. He tried to push Quentin out the way, but he didn't budge. "I really don't have time for this," he muttered. Shoving the bottom end of the hourglass into Martin's frail hand, with his own placed at the top, Quentin chanted "Lenua Magicae." The two, both holding the hourglass were thrown back to the present.

"Wh-where am I?" Martin asked, in a frightened daze.

"It...it doesn't matter where you are," Quentin replied, approaching him, his eyes averted from the boy.

"Please," Martin pleaded. "I just want to go ho—"

His sentence was cut short by the streak of crimson lightning that struck his chest. Quentin's head hung downward, tears dripping from his eyes. He stood over Martin's lifeless carcass, his own arms still outstretched. Quentin couldn't help but remember how his friends' bodies lay, contorted in impossible to achieve positions. Pinching the center of his chest, and screaming "TENEBRIS," Quentin severed the shade from his being. Amused, he looked at Martin's body, and jubilantly began shooting more lightning, until there no longer was a corpse to shoot. He'd saved Fillory. Nevertheless, it no longer mattered that the monster that once tormented Fillory was gone, for there was a new one to take its place: Quentin Coldwater.