Have You Tried Talking It Out?

The missive from the High King of Fillory had said to meet at the southernmost meadow of the Southern Orchard at midday. Martin arrived, brimming with magical power, anticipating an ambush. He certainly wasn't expecting to find Eliot Waugh, Quentin Coldwater, and Julia Wicker lounging in the grass under a luxurious, white canopy tent. They appeared to be enjoying several bottles of wine and a selection of cheeses. Songbirds chirped from the nearby orchard trees, and fluffy cumulus clouds drifted serenely across the sky. Martin had come ready to spill blood, and the scenery was really putting him off. It was very difficult to stride menacingly through a field of brightly colored flowers, with butterflies fluttering around his ankles, but Martin did his best.

"What's with the V for Vendetta mask?" Eliot whispered, loudly enough that everyone could hear him. Behind the mask he was wearing, Martin flushed.

"It's a Guy Fawkes mask," he snapped, annoyed. "Ignorant as you lot generally are, surely you have heard of him."

"Remember, remember," Quentin muttered under his breath.

"What was that?"

"Nothing," Quentin said quickly. "It's just, we know it's you, Martin. We wanted to talk to you."

"Oh," Martin said, unsettled. He reached up and tossed the mask to the side. It was getting boring anyway. And so stifling on his face. He'd try something more natural next time. A tree branch perhaps. Or maybe moths. They had always fascinated him. Ugly, gray, reviled. Yes, he was quite fond of them.

"Have a seat," Eliot invited, interrupting his thoughts. The young man waved lazily at a spot in the grass. Martin scowled at the three magicians' lack of fear. He really ought to slay them on the spot. But part of him was curious.

"You appear to be missing some of the members of your little squad, Quentin," he sneered. "What happened? Did they get lost?"

"We're not here to fight," the boy replied calmly, raising his hands as if to prove he meant no harm.

"Where's the stumpy little blonde girl? What's her name again? Anne? Ashley? Angela Anastasia Alexis Alayna?"

"Alice," Quentin said, unable to help himself from rising to the bait.

"Ah yes. Dear Alice Quinn," Martin grinned. He turned to Eliot. "And your girl. The dark-haired one. Janet?"

"Margo," Eliot corrected.

"Right. And the one with the stupid name."

"Penny," Quentin said.

"Right. Why aren't they present for this little talk of ours? I'm hurt," Martin drawled.

"We didn't want to intimidate you," Quentin answered seriously. Martin nearly choked on his splutter of laughter.

"No, we wouldn't want that," he chortled, plopping on the ground a few feet away from the others. "Go ahead then. Talk away!" Martin wondered what other amusing things they would say before he set them on fire.

"The thing is," Quentin began, looking emboldened by the fact Martin was cooperating. "We love Fillory. I love Fillory. My life was miserable before I learned about magic. The Fillory books were my lifeline for most of my life. Actually being here, being a King of Fillory, it's a dream come true. And you must have felt that way, too. When you were a child. You were High King. Fillory was your escape from the monotonous life you had in the real world. At some level, you must still love Fillory. As I do."