Things for The Magicians
Fandom: The Magicians
Words: 278
Notes: Spoilers for Season Finale
Quentin stared out across the plaza at the kids playing around with some kind of sticks-and-balls game, wondering not for the first time how life can go on as usual (if this was usual; he still had no idea about the rhythm and rhyme of this particular Fillory) when hurt and pain and fear prickled at his skin like a constant, unpleasant draught.
He closed his eyes and let the enmeshed sensations of worry and lassitude wash over him. At least that was familiar, the heavy scratchy blanket of depression that he'd known almost all his life. Who would have thought that he could feel that here, in what was supposed to be his promised land?
His lips twisted cynically--some promise. Penny and Alice, lying in a haze-filled healer's tent, Penny kept sedated until his wrists could heal enough to not cause excruciating pain; Alice, so pale, and on the brink of death, with no way to know if the weird magics could restore her life force. And him, just sitting here, unable to do anything.
He heard a chair scrape nearby and looked up to see Eliot, in full regalia, taking a seat at the wooden table. "They're holding steady, no worse," he said softly, leaning across to place his hand over Quentin's. "Just got to have some faith, I guess." Quentin barked out a half-laugh, half-sigh. "I guess this place has really changed you. Never thought I'd hear you talk about faith."
Eliot shrugged slightly and raised his fingers in a gesture toward the window of the Inn. "A man's gotta have something to believe in," he said lightly, "and I believe I'll have another drink. Join me?"
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Words: 278
Notes: Spoilers for Season Finale
Quentin stared out across the plaza at the kids playing around with some kind of sticks-and-balls game, wondering not for the first time how life can go on as usual (if this was usual; he still had no idea about the rhythm and rhyme of this particular Fillory) when hurt and pain and fear prickled at his skin like a constant, unpleasant draught.
He closed his eyes and let the enmeshed sensations of worry and lassitude wash over him. At least that was familiar, the heavy scratchy blanket of depression that he'd known almost all his life. Who would have thought that he could feel that here, in what was supposed to be his promised land?
His lips twisted cynically--some promise. Penny and Alice, lying in a haze-filled healer's tent, Penny kept sedated until his wrists could heal enough to not cause excruciating pain; Alice, so pale, and on the brink of death, with no way to know if the weird magics could restore her life force. And him, just sitting here, unable to do anything.
He heard a chair scrape nearby and looked up to see Eliot, in full regalia, taking a seat at the wooden table. "They're holding steady, no worse," he said softly, leaning across to place his hand over Quentin's. "Just got to have some faith, I guess." Quentin barked out a half-laugh, half-sigh. "I guess this place has really changed you. Never thought I'd hear you talk about faith."
Eliot shrugged slightly and raised his fingers in a gesture toward the window of the Inn. "A man's gotta have something to believe in," he said lightly, "and I believe I'll have another drink. Join me?"
(click for bigger)