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Chapter Text

The feeling of mending:

"Like I helped it wake up... and remember what it was before."

-Quentin Coldwater 

Quentin's Workshop

The world moved onwards a little faster every day in Ingary, it seemed. That was the way of magic, ever-changing, rarely dull. Each day there were new stories about Beasts and Monsters, one more fantastic than the last. A particular story was even about the prince being stolen by the great Witch of the Waste, or some such thing which was grand indeed. Still more, there were stories about witches and wizards running around devouring the very hearts of the regular citizens, the young and attractive ones, at least.

"Can you believe such a thing?" Quentin asked the little plane in his hand, affixing the wheel back in place.

Those toys had been getting more popular lately, so they also were broken more often. So the little children wanted a plane or a train, and why wouldn't they? The locomotive was powerful and vast, while airplanes allowed even normal people to fly. Were he a bit younger, he would have been enamored too, he guessed. Little doubt he would have had fantasies of becoming a pilot or conductor, but he was old enough to see the frivolity in dreams. There was nothing grand awaiting him the way he used to believe when he was small, he was better off content where he was. He was content, of course. 

He glanced up from his work table to look outside as the train sailed by, billowing grey smoke into the air in its wake, rattling the small things in place and sending the residual vibrations along the bottoms of his feet. He lost so many tiny screws that way while he was working. As if to prove a point, one of his tools rolled toward the edge and he had to scurry to catch it. It would be nice if some of the wizards out there made it so the trains didn't cause such an issue, but of course, they didn't do anything so useful. They seemed rather fixed on things everyone considered glamorous, but he would be pretty charmed not to have to catch things during the day. It was fine. 

No one overly cared what he had to say even if he tried to offer an opinion. People, he found, were interested in their own opinion, particularly about how the world should be. Or about magic. He knew a fair amount of other people's opinions. It was largely assumed the increase in magical activity was due to the new school, Brakebills, which called greatly to the magical community. It had been in place for at least forty years, but people still considered it extremely new. Problematic too, since it took away the promising ones from all those that wished to have an apprentice. Everyone struggled to find good help and they always complained about it. 

The Coldwater shop was usually cluttered with one or two people that wanted to tell him exactly how much trouble it all was and remind him how fortunate he was to be so ordinary. 

Fortunately, at least for him, no one ever paid any attention to an unremarkable person like Quentin Coldwater unless they wished to bend his ear. Even then, they were not paying attention to him, they were talking at him. Possibly because he could not run from them and possibly because the more they talked, the faster he fixed what they brought him so they would leave his shop. He lived a very safe life, a good one, free of complication, even if people occasionally were too much for him. There was nothing a Beast or Witch could ever want with him unless they were feeling exceptionally talkative and happened to need a small item repaired. 

Indeed, there were some ways in which it paid off to be so boring, un-gifted, and unattractive that no one would ever hunt you for any reason. The son of a Tinker was of no matter until a thing was broken. No one wanted to steal his heart, the normal way or the more brutal way. For that, he often pitied his sister Julia and his friend James. Everyone, magical or normal, wanted to be near them. Most days, Quentin did not envy them so much attention. 

He only envied them after long weeks of working the shop alone with no one to talk to, and no one looking to visit him just because they missed him. All the little broken things he fixed every day would have missed him, he thought, so there was that. Broken things called to him, to something in him, and he had the drive to make them new. Obviously, he was no Magician, but there was something magical in making things right. 

The whistle of the train was far away now, almost lonely in pitch as it echoed back at the city. He rarely wondered where it was headed, but once in a while, he wondered just a bit what might be on it. Sometimes, he knew for a fact it was carting boxes of garish items his mother deposited in the house as she passed through town. 

Since his father died, his mother spent even less time in Ingary than she used to. It was too quaint and quiet for her taste as she loved all things grand and interesting. Quentin was all that was left to keep the shop running, and running it was. Every day he had more work to finish than the day before. 

It was nice to be kept busy, but he was a touch too busy most of the time. Orders were running him ragged but he knew it was what he needed to avoid his bouts of darkness. A positive person most times, he could have moods that made people most uncomfortable. He tried not to make people discomfited, and tried very hard, though not as successfully as his mother wished.  Repairing every single thing helped him to feel useful and much as though he was fixing himself each time something was broken and he set it to rights. Indeed, he could fix nearly anything from toys, blades, cups, keys, and even a mirror or two. Some people said he was the best Tinker in all of Kingsbury, though he doubted that very much. Still, the things he gave a second life did seem to last a long while. 

Today, he decided to take some time off, though. After the toy was fixed, he set his work to the side and readied himself to go out. He pulled on his hat, keys in hand to lock the shop while he was getting supplies, and he paused to look in the mirror. His hair was a bit long and not strictly in style, but he liked having a curtain to hide behind when he needed it. The clothes he wore were not in style either, but he had never been able to keep up anyway, much to Julia's dismay. A button-up shirt and trousers without adornment, easy, without ruffles or tassels. No jackets with gold trim hid in his closet. He led a simple life, dressed as a simple, uncomplicated man, and he thought it was fitting. 

It wasn't terrible to be so ordinary. In a place so full of magic, being a stepbrother to the most beautiful girl in town, well, he was lucky he looked ordinary. It could have easily done something terrible to him, but he looked just as he always had. It might have been because of Julia's goodness, really, because she cared about him. Her gentle heart and care kept him from being turned into the wicked stepbrother the way most people thought he would be. 

Julia saved him from the odds of the magic in the air. He was terribly fortunate to only feel lonely at times rather than being twisted beyond recognition. Goodness knew he might have been shipped to some dungeon if he had turned terrible enough. At least he never turned into a troll or something of that ilk. Everything was fine and it seemed it would remain so. 

Perhaps he should never have had such thoughts though, because as he went out the door, it was with no earthly idea something very different was about to happen to him. He could never have guessed that visiting his stepsister would set him on a vastly different path than the ordinary one he was ever so used to. 

Chapter Text

"Well, I bond fast. Time is an illusion."

- Eliot Waugh

First meeting

The city was full to brimming with people cluttering up the main street. Raucous laughter filled the air from children and adults. Everyone was dressed in garish colors, feathers, ribbons, and all kinds of things fluttering around every person. 

Flags flapped in the wind while small aircrafts hummed overhead to drop colored paper down on the crowd. The people were buzzing with energy as far as the eye could see, like a swarm of bees around a hive. Though he had not even been aware an event was scheduled that day, he wished he had. Had he known, he would have remained in his shop and possibly locked the door and turned out every light. The day would have been spent tiptoeing around his own home to be sure no one caught him. 

Just looking at the crowd and the parade felt exhausting to Quentin and he could not imagine being in the middle of it all. He had never been one to enjoy large gatherings, not even when he was younger. Such gatherings were loud and sent his nerves into a mess of too much, like the world was spinning too rapidly. James and Julia could flourish at any party, no matter how large, but to Quentin, it just made him want to disappear so no one could bother him. 

He could feel the stress of it all rising the more he walked, all of it curling around his bones like termites in wood. No doubt his shoulders had not been so tight in a month. They were going to ache horribly later but he could not bring them to relax in the slightest. 

To avoid the innumerable crowd, he headed for the back streets, walking stiffly and swiftly. His heart beat wildly in his chest, the alley so near, yet not near enough. If he mentally begged people not to look at him and for no one he knew to be out, well, it could not hurt. Very few people gathered outside the lines of the city-wide party Quentin never agreed to attend and sinking into the background made the world fall just a touch quieter. His steps did not slow until he was deep in the pathways between shops. Hopefully, no one saw his retreat, at least no one he knew that might get the terrible idea to follow him.

It made him feel safer to gain that slight bit of distance. He glanced behind him and saw no one waving for him to slow down, so he counted himself lucky. Not that anyone cared to speak with him enough to chase after him unless it was about his work, but he would rather customers not know he had taken time off. With buildings hiding him from most, it seemed vastly improved. He would just have to find his way from behind, which was a little more complicated. 

Since Julia began working at the Bakershop, he had not been able to catch a moment to visit. It was so typical that he found the time on the worst day of the year for venturing out. Though he supposed if he ever looked at the events page in the paper, he would have known the plans for the day. 

Still, he was safe, farther away from the pandemonium. Most people were not gathered this far back from the show because most people liked that sort of thing. There were a few people, but not many. 

One man caught his eye, settled casually atop a dividing wall like an elegant cat from some royal house decided to try out the human form but still could not resist sunbathing. Those lazy eyes caught him in their study and held him in place, making his feet stop moving. Though the man seemed more to be lost in thought than noticing him, Quentin felt captured all the same. 

A colorful diamond pattern coat was folded neatly by the man's head as he had possibly been using it as a pillow. A pillow for the most well-behaved and equally well-styled hair Quentin had ever seen. Each soft curl of chocolate hair was perfectly placed to settle the eye of an admirer on his rather attractive face; his face was perfect so there was no way to fault him for wanting to draw attention there. Pronounced eyes that might have been lined, a rather lovely shaped face, and even the ever so coveted manly dimple in the chin. He nearly touched his own boring chin just to stop himself from studying someone else with so much longing. He was, after all, staring like some sort of fool.

The stranger was ever so long and lovely, like a prince directly from a book illustration. His slacks were fitted to show how shapely a figure he had, and Quentin thought he should thank whoever the tailor was for that as well as the creamy vest displaying the upper half with equal perfection. There could not have been a more attractive man in the city. Surely, some skilled artist created the man, shaping him exactly into a feast for the eyes. 

Maybe he was a prince, truly, because he was lovely enough. The magic could not possibly have left such a stunning man to ordinary life. Such a regal countenance was sure to make women swoon, and Quentin rather thought he would have swooned as well if there was a sensible chair in range. Though his knees were a touch weak, he knew to give them a stern talking to because swooning was not intended for men so ordinary; it was reserved for those pretty people someone else would make the effort to catch. Ordinary people just fell and hit their heads.

A pity, really, because he wished greatly at that moment to be stunning enough to motivate such a man to put his arms around him. It would never be, but the brief second of daydreaming was better than nothing. Daydreaming was very familiar as there was little else someone such as himself could do.

If only his hair had ever been as nice as that stranger's, then he would long just a little less to run his fingers through it. It looked soft like the finest silk to be made. Everything about him looked like magic, from the top of his head to his square-toed shoes. At least he was not sighing dreamily, that would be humiliating. Still, Quentin would love to simply watch him move... respectfully with his eyes not lingering in any place they should not. There were plenty of respectable ways to watch someone so beautiful anyway. He absolutely would not look where he should not even if those trousers made it so temp— He really needed to keep walking immediately rather than be caught in fancy. 

That thought arrived in his head a touch too late because the stranger had finally noticed the odd little man stopped in the middle of the way, staring at him as a  cat would stare at a fish market. Before the man clearly did not register him, likely daydreaming, meditating, or something like that, but now the attention was something tangible. Pinpoints digging directly into his skin along every inch of his body, horrifying and exciting. He only just managed to push down the urge to shiver or worse, say something.

Though the man offered a rakish smile that made the world go fuzzy, Quentin broke into as conspicuous a run as it was possible without risking a fall where he would likely skin his knees, ruin his clothes, and possibly break his ankle. He was too anxious and clumsy a man to be able to look at pretty people, it was bad for the health of his pounding heart. His traitorous nose almost made his knees weak even in passing because that man smelled like magic and hyacinth.

Goodness, some people were made to be fantastic! Just as he was made not to be. Quentin was not at all tempted to turn back around and make up some sort of lie to allow him closer. Much. 

In truth, he was not excessively shocked when he ran directly into a chest of a man in uniform, a button catching the bridge of his nose most unpleasantly. Indeed, he expected he deserved anything he got for his unsolicited looks of longing. Julia often mentioned the looks men sent after her, unsolicited, and how irritating it was to be stared at simply for her beauty rather than to have anyone see her as a person. What could he expect but to have a little bit of retribution fall his way for his poor behavior?

Though he thought the punishment might not fit the crime entirely when he noticed two other sets of eyes drilling into him. Three people when he could hardly ever handle one at a time? It did not calm him in any way for so much attention being drawn to him in the exact way he liked to avoid. He should never look at lovely princes because he could not endure the repercussions! If nothing else, he could count this as a lesson.

"Look what we have here!" The man whose gold buttons he collided with smirked down at him, and Quentin wondered what sort of accent he spoke with.

"Found something, Gavin?" The second man asked, and Quentin was oddly struck by how long his lashes were, probably because his mind liked to focus on things when he was under stress.

He would need to remember to take breaths, normal breaths that would not make him look like he was gasping for air. His chest already felt tight so he would need to put effort into seeming regular. These three, he thought, must have been very bored and it was his misfortune to be their entertainment. He already wanted to go home.

Both men had dark hair, though the first man had more facial hair. There was something about the way he, Gavin, looked at Quentin that made him feel like crawling out of his skin. It was his eyes, or maybe the glint in them that made it feel like there was no safe place to be if the man was there. The second man looked less dangerous, but more like he would pay with counterfeit money. The red-haired woman though, made him feel even more like running away when she studied him almost gleefully, as though she had plans. She looked very much like the sort of person that would pass a cursed item to someone else and wave as she left. Like a sly fox. He did not like any of them at all even though, technically, he was supposed to like them because they worked for his country. He was supposed to trust them and accommodate them as representatives of his king, the king's army.

Everything inside him started to buzz with nerves. Quentin's shoulders edged up toward his ears, his arms pulling in close to his body. He should be trying to look bigger, maybe tougher, but his instincts were to make himself smaller to give them less of him to see.

She shifted closer, sliding her shoulders between the two men, blocking the escape fully as she twirled that fiery hair around a finger, "Looks like a little mouse lost his way..." She had an even heavier accent, but Quentin still could not place it.

"I'm not lost, thank you for your concern," Quentin tried to be polite even though he was starting to feel ill.

The second man that looked only a little like the prince in the alley grinned at her, "Poppy, your little mouse looks thirsty. We should take him for a cup of tea to settle his nerves?"

Though if she was a fox, the other two must be coyotes, and that did not bode well for a mouse. Were they all as tall as they felt to him? Did anyone find them welcoming or friendly? Was it only his perception that made them a threat, or was it real? They seemed so much larger than life, though maybe if he was farther away, it would feel less like he could not catch a breath because they were taking all the air. It might look like retreating but he took a step back, aware he was in no way intimidating anyway. If he had a little time to mentally prepare for this, possibly he would be holding his own. He hardly felt witty at the moment though, he only felt small.

"No thanks," Quentin shrank a little further as they just kept moving closer, "My sister is expecting me."

Gavin got farther into his space, leaning in to see under Quentin's hat, and that was when Quentin noticed the strap of the gun over his shoulder like that added threat, "He's cute enough, for a mouse. Wonder what the sister is like, Bayler..."

No thank you, no thank you, no thank you! He should not have said sister, he should have said brother. Or someone tough sounding. Police officer? The Mayor? He was not even sure who he could whip up.

Bayler leaned against the wall, "Do you live around here?"

Shivers of dread ran down his arms and along his spine. No, thank you! Very much, a no thank you! From him, and from Julia! From his shop, his home, and any place he regularly visited. Nothing sounded worse than having these three suddenly darkening his door on anything like a regular basis. It would not help his case much if he started screaming, would it? Or maybe if he started crying, which he rather felt he could do with little trouble. He doubted they were the sort to bestow pity. There was still time to run the other way, perhaps, but he did not relish turning his back on them. He was told to trust them but he was not at all trusting. Was that wrong, perhaps? Did it make him a bad citizen?

"There you are, sweetheart," An oh-so gentle, soothing voice like crushed velvet drifted into Quentin's ear and all three soldiers looked up, and he almost looked too, "Sorry I'm late." Was this an out-of-body experience, because he had heard of those? It should not be possible to have one's body tense up even further, but Quentin managed it when a hand settled on his shoulder, a ring glinting in the corner of his vision as the attached arm settled around him like a warm blanket, "I was looking everywhere for you."

Hyacinth perfume flooded his senses and Quentin almost burst into tears, though he did not, he only felt the urge.

He also did not dare look up but he could see the lower half without moving. Because he was not ready to move. The tall body pressed against his side was wearing the same colored vest as the prince, and the jacket hanging over his shoulders like a cape was patterned in pastel salmon and slate diamonds. It could not possibly be, could it? Yet the proof stood right next to him, did it not? Fainting was an honest possibility and he irrationally wanted to turn and burrow right into those arms like he was a long-lost lover. There was a chance he was leaning into that solid, rich, safe body, just a chance. There was no reason for the man to help him, and yet he was there like a guardian angel. Ember's tomb, thank you, thank you, thank you! Quentin did not deserve this kind of godly gift but he would accept it.

Bayler was defensive, irritated at being stalled, "Hey, hey, we're busy here."

The way the debonair man nearly purred; "Are you really?" called back the thought of a cat, "It looked to me like the three of you were just leaving."

Quentin's eyes widened when a jaunty little wave of an elegant finger had the three soldiers straightening up, another had them lined up, and a dismissive motion of his hand sent them marching the other way. Clearly against their will, with confused half complaints that were almost angry, but also a little panicked. 

Partly watching them go, he wondered if he was supposed to feel as happy as he did. Was it normal to feel safer in the company of a man that could do that? At last, he looked up into those beguiling hazel eyes and realized they were the most beautiful eyes he had ever seen in his entire life. They had green around the edges, brown mainly at the center, a little like some rare stones he had seen. Well over half his insides turned to jelly, and it was a marvel that he stayed up on questionable bones. He also realized his mouth was hanging open like a dead fish, so he closed it promptly. 

Way too many things cluttered up his mind. Did this man know how spectacular he was? Or that those few moments had been the most fantastic thing anyone had ever done for Quentin? Had anyone ever told him how gorgeous he was? Or, really, they would have, but they could not have said it strongly enough. Did he have anything he need to be mended? No, of course not, but if he did break something, Quentin would fix it for him. No charge, obviously. Did he like flowers? Not that he had any in hand, but he would get them if it would please the man.  Could he keep his long arm around Quentin for a while, maybe? Or would that be treason? Because he must be royal. 

Control, Coldwater. At least he hadn't said anything yet. Though he was staring all over again. How was he supposed to stop when he had never been this close to a living person that was so unbearably stunning that it made him feel like he was melting? He wasn't pretty enough to be thinking all those silly thoughts, he was meant to be practical. He felt frivolous and oddly liquid inside. He might be... smitten, actually. Which was very bad indeed, for ordinary people. There was only one way being smitten could go for someone such as the oldest son of a Tinker, and stepbrother, no less. His heart would be shattered into so many pieces. No doubt he would be demoralized by the end, unsure how to go on. It would be best to get his wits about him before then. 

"Don't hold it against them. They're actually not all that bad." Honestly? He very much doubted that observation, far be it for him to say so aloud. How did this man know anyway? They hardly seemed to recognize him even if he knew them. That was a little confusing. Unless he meant that they couldn't be too bad because they were protectors of the country? Then he must be a far superior citizen, but he would be, seeing as he was a prince. "Where to? I'll be your escort this evening."

His escort? How long could that be? All day, perhaps? Longer? How far could one feasibly drag out an invitation such as that one? Was he creative enough to find ways to make it last? Unlikely.

Quentin tried very, very hard to get himself pulled together and force his tongue to move, "O-oh, I'm just going to the bakery."

Lesson learned he would not say a word about a sister this time! For Ember's sake! It was best, no, required of him to act like a person. A person, ordinary as always. Still, his rescuer was smiling at him, a little bit amused, and his treacherous heart wanted to fly. All those curls and he was so very tall, but this time it was less a thing to be intimidated by and more a thing to appreciate. Minor appreciation. Nothing in-depth.

A thought slithered along the edge of his mind, dangerous as it was sweetly painful. Quentin was not lovely, but could he be close enough? Close enough for someone like this? Desperately, so desperately, he wanted to be. It was treacherous to wonder such things. So many strong expectations all his life, but he had already lost. 

Something small fluttered in the corner of Quentin's eye and then a tiny little set of grey wings caught his attention. His brown eyes found the little moth fluttering so close to his face it was jarring. It stretched black thread-like legs toward him as if it intended to land directly on his nose. Its beady eyes were a luminescent blue so different from anything he had ever seen before. He couldn't be sure why, but he pulled back from it, sensing something almost dark rolling off it. It tingled like a stain that was just itching to ruin something, making everything in his body try to crawl away from it...and then he noticed his prince tighten his hold around his shoulders, pulling him into his chest as though the fear and discomfort were warranted.

With an angry hiss and snap of his fingers, his protector set the moth into a burst of flame, then blew the fiery pieces in the other direction like tiny leaves in the wind. They watched them float off on an invisible force, swept far away. He could not say why, but it felt like he had stepped one foot into his own grave and like the dirt had already crawled into his shoes to sully his socks.

Stylish-and-charming was still holding Quentin to him, the cadence of his voice no less smooth, but it was tense, "Don't get alarmed but it seems I'm being followed. Act normal."

They were in luck, normal was Quentin's entire existence. It was, he would say, his specialty. Though, running from a bug was not usually what his normal consisted of. 

With an easy, devil-may-care motion Quentin was already associating with him, he linked their arms together casually like they were out for a stroll before he pulled them into motion. It was odd, he thought, as he had never felt threatened by an insect before, but there had been something amiss. The prince seemed to think so as well but it was difficult to say why. It seemed the creature was of some foreboding considering it apparently hailed some enemy or other being nearby. Whoever might use a moth though? Or be able to use them? What must one be to inflict their will onto an insect?

They started to turn a corner but pulled up short when there were no less than a dozen moths fluttering in the alley. These were larger than the first, roughly the size of his hand. Gathered together that way, he could see powdery darkness roll from them with each beat of their wings. Quentin pulled up against the man, holding in a whimper that would have been pitiful even for him. The deep sense of wrongness buried itself into his ribcage, tangling him up tight inside. Powders and dust might never look the same to him after this, honestly. The shadow and dust puffed into the air as though fanned from a dragon's nostril. Quentin's breath hitched and he curled his other hand around the man's arm, seeking the comfort of his closeness. Fear singed through his brain like the burned wings as he looked on in dread, though he did not dare ask questions. 

"Sorry, looks like you're involved," he tugged Quentin away swiftly, picking up speed as they went. 

It was less casual and more of a brisk walk as the prince turned them one way and then another. It might be foolish, but he gave himself fully over, trusting the other man implicitly. The darkness was getting thicker, billowing over the stone pathways as the creatures cut them off, beating their wings faster and faster. His hat flew off into the throng but he could not be bothered to care about it when he had the terrible feeling he was going to be eaten by bugs. What would they put on his tombstone?

"This way," Quentin was jerked away and led in another direction only for an even greater swarm to bar the way. Panic, great and clawing, took hold of Quentin's lungs. They were trapped, he realized, they were not going to get away. He thought the three soldiers earlier had been the worst thing out, but he had been wrong. 

"Hold on!" The prince warned, his arms suddenly surrounding Quentin, holding tightly to his waist. 

"To what?" Quentin squeaked even as the prince jumped, driving them both from the ground as darkness and moths collided below in an unearthly scream that sounded like rage. 

Chapter Text

"Do you love magic? Is it in your soul?"

- Julia Wicker

   Flight 

Panic was far from a stranger to Quentin Coldwater, it was the oldest companion he had to date. However, truly, he felt that he was only now fully acquainted with it. Sailing higher and higher into the air, the ground retreating swiftly as buildings rushed past him until they were below him. He did not even realize his knees were curling up, his body trying to both escape the inevitable plummet and prepare for it in turn. The future was clearly mapped out in front of him, a future as a stain on the street and a lifetime of trauma for all the children about to witness his end. 

Everything about the situation told him it would end very badly. Good god, what went on? He went from running from bugs to being squashed like one. This was exactly why he never left the shop!

He had no idea why he was not falling yet, why it felt like he could just keep going up if he could make himself small enough that the ground would forget to take him back. It seemed like it should have ended rather than being dragged out like this. Dragging it out meant he had the time to think about the moment when it would all be going very fast until it stopped entirely. 

Gentle fingers slid between his, that comforting arm around his shoulders once again, though it did nothing to decrease the stress of looking at the ground. The other man was unbothered by the height, but why would he be when the universe itself would catch him up?

"Now, straighten your legs and start walking," that voice was so soothing, he could almost believe it. 

"What?" Quentin looked into his face and realized how close they were, and how those eyes - Ember, those eyes! Was this what they meant, the poets, about getting lost in someone's eyes? Wanting to dive in just so he could stay there forever?

The prince quirked a smile, "I won't let you fall, baby boy, I promise."

Oh, it was a little late for that! At least if his fluttering insides were a good judge. Falling was already in the past.

Physically though, they weren't falling. They had yet to plummet back to earth. So Quentin found himself unfurling and taking a step with the prince. The sweetness of that smile was encouraging enough to keep going even though it did not feel like walking on the ground, but more like he imagined walking over jelly might feel. Without those hands in his to steady him, he would be doomed, he was certain. Though it got easier with each step they took together. 

"See? Not so hard, is it?" Oh, his voice, so... well, erotic was the first word that came to mind but that was not fully accurate even when it was purred right into his ear. It felt like... being wrapped up in warmth and softness while the cold wind blew outside his sanctuary. 

"You are a natural," and he sounded so much like he meant it, though people never meant nice things they said to Quentin. He was not really a natural, he thought, but he could almost believe anything if the man spoke to him like that. 

"Are we alive?" Quentin meant to ask if they were safe but that was not what came out. 

"Last I checked," It must have taken a gargantuan effort not to make fun after that stupid of a comment.

"Sorry," Quentin swallowed a little convulsively, "I'm not used to people." He cringed a little at his continued failure at articulation and entire failure. Just in general. 

The man's brows arched up, the edges of his smile twitching as though in incredulity, amusement, or just disbelief that such an awkward person existed, but his tone sounded almost charmed, "You are more used to mermaids?"

He shook his head as the lovely man watched him, "No, I only mean..." his shoulders edged higher, trying to help him shrink. "I've never met a mermaid."

"Probably better that way," he nodded, as though he was familiar with mermaids, and it was not out of the realm of possibility for a man that could fly. 

Quentin looked up into his eyes, wishing he could lean into him, in and in, maybe never to surface again, like the prince was the ocean and he might just be able to sink below with all the wrecked ships to make a home, "Am I hallucinating?"

The smile and glimmer in those eyes were radiant, "If you were, how would asking me help?"

Quentin could not argue against that logic but he would have liked something a little more reassuring. Even the crowd below was not strictly proof. He could see them but they seemed oblivious to what was happening over their heads. Not that people generally looked to the sky with the expectation of catching sight of skywalkers. It was a fantastical idea no one would entertain, least of all if they heard Quentin was up in the air. 

The stress of not knowing was not as great as it should have been when he had a competent guide, real or not. He let himself be guided through the open air as easily as he let himself be pulled through the alleys. It was effortless to follow where that man led, enough so that he only registered their direction with a surprised kind of interest. The prince guided him to set his feet first on the rail of a balcony, then the actual balcony, ever so gently getting Quentin situated on solid wood.

It was almost dizzying how graceful the man was, and how it seemed to extend into him so long as they were touching. Seeing as he had not fallen directly on his face, it simply had to have been because of the guidance from those long fingers. The soft skin of his hand made it feel like holding onto his fingers for days or weeks would be no great hardship.

Already so tall, he seemed like a great tree when Quentin was on the floor and he lingered on the banister. They were still holding hands, he realized but did not hasten to pull away. His heart was fluttering with something close to elation, impressing the need upon him to go back to the former closeness. His heart did not realize that the best he could do from so far down would be to hug the man's knees, which would be awkward for both of them.

"The bakery?" Quentin whispered because he did recognize the building when they were in the air. 

"I promised to bring you here, didn't I?" He smiled, then let their fingers slide apart slowly. 

Quentin nodded, wildly impressed that anyone so lovely listened to what he told them. Listened well enough to remember and also bring him to the very place he was going. It was such a kindness, one he was at a loss to even process. It felt nearly the same as flying, and almost as protected as having those arms around him. 

"I'll make sure to draw them off but wait a bit before you go back outside. That's my sweet boy." He tossed his arms out to the side, that coat offering a majestic whoosh as he jumped into the air. 

It was a shock to the system, like ice in his blood when that beautiful, incredibly perfect creature jumped backward from the balcony with a flourish and billowing fabric. The panic was not from fear for the man's health considering he had it on very good authority from a few minutes ago that flying was simply possible for some glorious people. 

Quentin had the most ill-advised urge to follow him right over the edge if only it would keep him there, if only he could stay. But even as he searched frantically, examining the crowd beneath, there was nothing to be found. His prince was gone as though he had never been there at all. Perhaps... he dreamed it up. It was not even the most unlikely prospect. After all, in what part of reality would a man like that have taken the time to save someone ordinary?

Don't go... don't leave... stay… come back, please? He wanted to burrow into his skin, aching terribly to wrap his arms around him and hold fast. A space in his chest he never knew to be empty before seemed to ache with a yawning loneliness and longing he could not identify. It was impossible, but he missed him after only a few moments of being apart. How foolish was that?

Quentin shut his eyes. He could not afford such thoughts. Even at the start, he had known the price for those thoughts was too high. The light happiness was gone just that quickly. Because maybe he had been hallucinating and he did not even have anyone to ask. Even if it was real, it still would never matter. Those moments were all he would ever get with a prince and he already wished he never knew what it was like to be held if he could never have it again. 

He was insane for missing a man he had only just met. It was for the best that he was gone because if he stayed much longer, Quentin might not have weathered it when he left. No one had ever been so good to him before, save Julia. He was not used to being cared for or cared about enough to be rescued, and he thought it might be addictive.

Big brown eyes wide, dark ringlet curls bouncing around the puffy sleeves of her dress, Julia rushed toward him, her fingers digging into the flesh of his shoulders like talons. Beautiful Julia, bathed in the sunlight from the window, looking like a benevolent goddess even in the gaudy bakery uniform. Absently, because his mind liked to wander into minuscule corners, he wondered if a goddess had ever had to work a job like that, or a Candy-Striper. But that didn't have anything to do with baking or candy. Why did — oh, he really should focus.  

What must she think of his arrival, spirited away on the wind or something of the like? There was no way to be sure what anyone told her about his appearance. The grip she had on him was harsh. He could see the genuine fear in her eyes, the worry for his safety, which was very generous of her. Not many people would have worried so much for him, so it was a kindness that she did. Quentin reminded himself to take a deep breath because it did not feel like his body had the motivation to do so. 

"What's going on? Someone just told me you floated down onto our balcony."

He took in another long breath, relaxing slightly, "So that did happen? It wasn't a dream."

It was a relief, knowing he had not entirely slipped off the deep end. Though he still felt almost numb, his emotional state doing all it could to burrow deep enough to protect him, it was still nice to know. 

When Julia pulled him away to a little storage room, demanding extensive explanations, he told her almost everything. There were things he greatly preferred to have remaining safe and sound in his head. Julia was his sister, but there were things he dared not even tell her. Secrets between them were admittedly rare, but he had never been fully forthcoming either, not in all things, for fear of upsetting her. The ideas she had of him were safe, he liked keeping them as such, in a comfortable space.

There was nervous energy rolling off her like she expected that if she worked up enough, she could travel back in time to prevent all that happened. What might she think if she knew Quentin would not want her to stop it?

Julia looked disturbed after he finished, strangling her own dress with her fingers the way she likely wanted to do to the pretty young man, "It must have been a wizard then."

Quentin simply nodded, seeing no reason to argue against the point he had been expecting her to make. 

"I can't believe it," she shook her head, crossing her arms over her chest, fingers drumming unknown patterns. 

He could see…why she wouldn't be able to understand. No one that looked at him would ever suspect any wizard of looking twice at him, not even a starved one that only consumed hearts. There was no reason for anyone at all to look twice at him. 

Almost against his will, he softly told her a piece of the secret, "He was so kind to me. He rescued me."

Julia's expression twisted in disgust, reminding him of an angry owl, "Of course he was. He was trying to steal your heart!" To her it was nothing extraordinary, having someone look at them as though they mattered, "You're so lucky, Q! If that wizard had been the Wizard Waugh from the Howling Castle, he would have eaten it."

Beautiful, wonderful, kind Julia. She would never quite be able to see the world as he did. She was far too good for that, too good to view the world from the dark. She was meant to shine and gleam in the sunlight. The closest he got to that was starlight. 

Quentin scoffed, rolling his eyes, which was the most responsive he had been so far, "He only does that with attractive people."

If anything, she looked even less amused than before, "Don't give me that! You need to be more careful, it's dangerous out there. Even the Witch of the Waste is back on the prowl."

Someone walked by with a tray that smelled so strongly of blueberries and sweet custard that he glanced after them, half tempted to chase them down. A treat might make him feel marginally better, but nice as it smelled, he did not care enough to exert the kind of effort involved in getting one. Inexplicably, the reminder that he was in a bakery, and had been left in a bakery, soured the desire as quickly as it came. Because it had all been so fantastic, and now he was right where he planned to be as if nothing life-ruining happened in between. 

"Are you listening?"

Julia would snatch his head from his shoulders for being a fool if he ever told her even a fraction of the truth. If he told her nothing but a few gentle touches with scattered kind words, he knew he had already been melting for the man. All those years of thinking himself so sensible, building up walls against it, sure he was untouchable, and it all fell down the first moment he called him "sweetheart". Shamefully, for a smile and the asking, Quentin would probably have just as easily let the man float them into a stranger's bedroom window to have his way with him.

Let him have his heart just so long as... so long as he would have him. It was strange to know he had become so pathetic in a single afternoon's time. 

As promised, though, he took Quentin exactly where he asked to go. Escorted him to the bakery in the most stylish, magical way possible. It was fine. Everything was fine. Quentin would go home and it would be as though it never happened. 

"I'm listening," he told Julia with as much of a smile as he could muster. 

She stared at him a long while, her posture slowly stiffening inch by inch, working up to tell him something he got the unfortunate sense would be difficult for both of them. It made dread crawl up into his chest and squeeze at his heart. 

"I need to tell you something."

His mouth went dry, "Okay."

"Maybe you shouldn't come here again," Her shoulders curled up protectively around her ears in a gesture more at home on him than on her, "Because it's dangerous and…"

Oh.

'And' she did not really want to see him, which he understood. It was not — it was not overly shocking. There was nothing binding her to him anymore. She moved out of the family home and no longer needed to be involved with him after her mother secured her this position. Out on her own, she wanted to be without burden, so —

"...I won't be here, you see, Q. It will look like me, but it won't be me."

"What?" He blinked at her, thinking he simply must have heard incorrectly as that made no sense. 

Chapter Text

"Because we still have no idea what we're actually capable of..."

- Alice Quinn

Peaches&Plums

"What?" He blinked at her, thinking he simply must have heard incorrectly as that made no sense. 

There was no way she meant what he thought he heard. It made no particular sense, particularly with the way she phrased it. Walking in and also on top of the wind clearly did something to his hearing capacity. 

"I'm leaving, but you must keep it a secret. I can't have Mother finding out," her eyes darted away, and he knew the reason, knew why she did not want word traveling that direction, "I know you won't tell her."

Leaving? What did that even mean? Leaving? For what? To where? What kind of leaving? Just a short trip to some little place she always wished to see? Or was it the more drastic sort of leaving that meant packing up treasures in case you never returned?

"I promise," he looked at her a little helplessly, "But how? Where will you go?" Why are you leaving me?

Furthermore, had she planned to tell him before she left, or was the day's upheaval the only reason she was moved to do so? He almost wondered when, if not this day, he would have been told. A few months from now? When she was Ember knew where in the world?

Looking pensive and hesitant, she told him exactly why he would not want to visit later, "Alice is going to be here in my place."

It was his turn to look away, "Ah, I see." Well, he did not entirely see. 

"She's clever," Julia hedged, trying to distract him, but also sounding rather proud, "it only took her a week at Brakebills to find the spell we're going to use."

He nodded, unsurprised, because Alice had always been so far above everyone else in every way, other than Julia herself, "Why switch places?"

Julia sighed and stood up, making one turn around the room only to sit down in the same place, "You remember her brother?" He nodded but she had not even looked at him, only at her fingers as she picked at her dress, "He…Charlie…he died there." 

Oh… "Oh, I —" am sorry? Didn't know? Feel sorry for her now? Don't know what to say?

What really could anyone say? He never knew even after he had been through a funeral and accompanying loss. Never could comprehend what one could ever say to encompass everything. There was so much wrapped up in such things that 'sorry' was simplistic or even trite. Did they have words known to man that meant enough to soothe such wounds? Other people seemed to be able to conjure the right words from thin air, or at least the words everyone was expected to say in tragedy, but he never could. It never seemed... enough. 'Sorry' never made him feel better after his father was gone. Everyone in the world could be sorry but it was never enough, so it seemed so insufficient to him. 

Julia nodded as if he said more, "She just found out a little while ago. She doesn't want to stay there knowing…" she waved an encompassing gesture, "but she also can't go home. So we decided we could just… both get what we want. We could both get away, you know?"

"How will you do it? Without being caught?"

What happened to people if they were caught? In magic, surely there were unfortunate things that might happen to those breaking rules. Julia might be able to get away with certain things by virtue of being the youngest daughter. Would it be enough to shield her? Or Alice? There were plenty of questions he thought should be answered, however, he knew better than to bring them up. 

"She's already asked for permission to leave the grounds to visit her sick friend. She will make a Portal and we will do the spell together." She made a shifting motion with her hand, "Switch places with no one ever needing to know. We will look right, but it won't be who they think it is."

Quentin swallowed back the sick feeling in his chest, ignoring the buzzing under his skin, "What made you decide to do this?" 

'What made you decide to go to a magical school without me? What made you decide to go where I can't follow?' That was what he meant, but it was not what he said. Not that he wanted to follow, of course, because he was not at all magically inclined. He was where he should be. Everyone knew that. 

"I want to learn magic. I want it more than anything, and I have a chance." He could hear the want of it in her voice, raw and desperate, but she bit her lip, looking at him as though she thought he already knew.

He guessed maybe he had known. Known that she cared for James but never really wanted to marry him. Known she was far greater than a life with ten children in a house that was far too small to fit them all. Known that she had the spirit of a wanderer. 

It was odd that none of it was a true shock to him. He almost wanted to be angry about it but found he could not muster it. He never knew, not really. Yet he also had. A bakery had never seemed like the right place for her. It made logical sense but for Julia? It was too small and always had been. He always thought she was meant for castles and golden temples. Magic too, it would seem if she was going to that place. 

"Don't look so worried, I'll be fine," she prompted, nudging him with the toe of her shiny shoe. 

Running his hands over his face, he let out a long sigh, "How could I not worry? You don't know how to do magic, Julia. They are going to notice when Alice suddenly forgets all she learned there! How do you know it will work?"

Sparks danced along her fingers and the smile she gave him was sharp and pleased, "I have magic, Q. Alice is going to teach me things before we switch," she snuffed out the spell, cheeks puffed out on a long breath, "I know it won't be easy. It will be hard, I know… but this. It's like the secret heart of what I always was."

"What happens when they catch you?" There, he said it. 

Reaching out gently, she took his hand in hers, smile indulgent, "I'll be fine. This is my chance and I can't miss it!" Her joy dampened slightly as she looked at him, "I just wish I knew what to do with you. You're far too clever to be stuck in that dull old shop the rest of your life."

"I am dull, so it fits me perfectly," firmly, he pushed aside thoughts of dark curls and dancing eyes that tried to shift forward, "there's nothing else out there for someone like me."

Rather than being assured, her frown deepened, "That's not true. You used to have dreams," she smirked, "Even if they were of Fillory." The smile faded again, "I want you to be happy, but I don't know where that would be for you in the real world."

This was not something he wanted to talk about, so he put on a smile and deflected, "You know what this means though?"

She cocked her head in question, waiting for the answer. 

"After all those years drawing maps and pretending, we actually ended up being…" He paused for effect, "The Witch and—"

Her hand connected with his shoulder in half-hearted swings, "No, you're not a Fool in any sense," but she was smiling again. 

She looked happy the way she had not been in some time, he realized. There was a sense of freedom like she might be able to float away into the sky, like she too could fly with every bit as much ease. This gave her hope and he would never take it from her. Whatever good it did her to have this, it must mean things would work out for the best. She was going to be alright because she was brilliant, strong, and could thrive in any situation. Julia would be one hell of a Witch!

"I'm happy for you." Though maybe he was not as happy as he wished he was but only because this was not the way he hoped it would end. They were supposed to grow up together and never part, but that was foolishness. Like his books. It was not the way the real world worked.

"Really?" The hope in her voice made his heart squeeze. 

"If this is what you want, of course!" Though he couldn't shake the yawning ache of something nameless in his chest, "Life is unfair, but I'm good with it occasionally working out for people that I actually love."

In a moment, he found his arms full of puffy sleeves and a girl in there somewhere. The hold she had on him was tight at first until she relaxed into it. They would not see each other after today, not for a long while, he expected. 

"You're not going to hex me when you're mad after this, right?"

She tilted her head back so he could see her brows wriggle playfully, "Maybe you shouldn't tempt me."

He closed the distance again, his cheek against her hair, afraid something in his expression might break if she could see it, "I love you, Jules."

"I love you too." The point of her chin rested on his shoulder.

It played over in his mind multiple times on the walk back to his shop. "Goodbye, Quentin." If there had still been a crowd, he forgot to see them. In truth, he hardly knew how he arrived at his own door, lost in thought as he was. He would never go back to the bakery. Actually, he never planned to leave his shop again. 

Walking into the smell of carved wood, oil, leather, and glue was at least familiar. Briefly, he wondered if that was how he smelled to other people as well, the scents of his trade. The woody smell was mostly cedar at the moment, the great carved thing dominating an entire room. He'd gotten the table from some rude man with a bottle of vodka glued to his hand, crude words on his tongue, and a worse sense of fashion than even Quentin could claim. Still, he had to take the jobs he was given even if he did not greatly enjoy a customer.

Cedar was pleasant enough, but it was not the delicate floral of hyacinth. A deep breath in through his nose had his eyes closed even while his fingers turned the lock to bolt himself safely within his only remaining sanctuary. The cool glass of the door soothed his forehead while he tried to restore the cracks at the center of his universe. It was fine, of course, because he knew his skin was not really crawling the way it felt like it was. The need to escape some unseen shell covering him, to run and go anywhere at all was illogical. The shop was the only place there was for him anyway.

Once he had a hot cup of tea in hand, things would settle into place. Things would all settle into place. If he wrote a note to James, perhaps he might even visit. Not that he could tell the other man about any of the recent calamities running about his life. It was likely a solid person such as James would understand even less than Julia ever would. Besides, he had Julia's secret to keep now, and Alice's. Even so, it seemed James was all he had left so he would need to adjust accordingly. 

At the very least, James could usually draw a smile from him. More than once, he insisted that he understood Quentin best. Sometimes he wondered if it was true and Quentin himself was in the dark about his inner workings. It was far from unreasonable to assume so. Most people were far more aware of the world than Quentin managed to be, locked away from it all. It was always clear that he could not trust his own mind over much and taking the word of others was wiser than any advice he gave himself. When one's brain had a tendency to break, there was nothing to do but learn ways to deal with it, alone or otherwise. Even now, somewhere in his mind, he thought it was best not to be entirely alone though, and thus his intent to bring James into his orbit. In truth, he would rather like a hug, actually.

The weight dragging him to the ground that he avoided while with the prince had begun to notice him once more. Gravity realized he defied it earlier and thus endeavored to make his entire body heavier in retribution. It would set him back a little bit but just for the rest of the day maybe he could crawl into bed. No one would be hurt too badly if he just read a few books, curled up in bed, surely.  

Even as he walked to the kitchen to boil the water, he was both considering forgoing the effort of tea and simultaneously considering making hot cocoa instead. After the activity of the day, he would also be wise to fix himself something to eat, though it seemed so much more effort than he was willing to put forward. Maybe a bit of toast would be good enough. That was not a very great effort. 

Shrill in the heavy silence of the shop, the bell chiming over the door made his entire chest jump with alarm. Quentin spun to see a tall woman, features delicate in a deceptively pointy kind of way, her red hair twisted and curled into an easy bunch of a bun. Her dress was inky black and long like it was oozing all around her, prepared to escape when it saw the chance; decidedly fashionable in nice silk, but oddly harsh, intimidating even with all the lace. The little pocket watch on a chain around her neck seemed to be ticking very loudly, so much so that he wondered if it was the reason for her visit. Such a loud thing constantly on one's person must be trying. He could fix it, and smooth out all that roughness until the watch could be calm and at peace. 

He almost reached for it before he realized how out of place it would be to snatch something from around a lady's neck. Furthermore, he was supposed to be closed. Just one time after a long day, he deserved to be closed. The breath he drew shook in over his agitation like wheels on bumpy roads. As she was a customer though, he held back his irritation. It was not her fault the day had been trying for him.

"I'm sorry, the shop is closed for today. I…thought I locked the door, but it must have slipped my mind." He remembered locking it, but maybe he only remembered it because he did it every day and he missed it this time. Of course he would, on the day he very much wanted to be left alone. 

Chapter Text

"A magician is strong because he feels pain. He feels the difference between what the world is and what he would make of it. Or what did you think that stuff in your chest was? A magician is strong because he hurts more than others. His wound is his strength." 

- Henry Fogg

Jan. 27-Mar. 16 2025 Welcome Home! Magicians Fanworks Extravaganza.

WEEK 6: Mar. 3-9, Free space/catch-up week!

"I'm sorry, the shop is closed for today. I…thought I locked the door, but it must have slipped my mind." He remembered locking it, but maybe he only remembered it because he did it every day and missed it this time. Of course he would, on the day he very much wanted to be left alone.

Her eyes were soft, but he saw something almost ancient in them. Like ravens, she reminded him of ravens – soft dark feathers and hidden pointed edges – ready to either befriend someone or dig out their eye. Looking up into her eyes made him think of Flint hiding under all the silk, dangerously ready to be ignited. It did not help that she was so tall, like a dark willow tree threatening passersby at night. Her looming aura made him want to fade into the wallpaper and hide even more than he did with most people. 

Maybe it was her audacity, he thought irritability.  Despite being told to go, she moved to look over the items on the counter with a keen interest he very much doubted was genuine. When he cleared his throat, he caught her quick little smirk of amusement. It seemed she was one of those customers; there were always those people who stayed after close even if they knew it was past time. 

She plucked up one of the ladies umbrellas he fixed some time ago with her long bird fingers, though he doubted it would be fine enough for a sort like her. “Well, how very obvious you are. Not even trying to conceal it. Leading them down the path, aren't we?”

It was difficult to tell if she had addressed the umbrella or him. Not that he saw anything obvious about an umbrella anyway. They worked, or they did not. It was that simple. She must think he only pretended to fix them, but she would be wrong on that front. Things with all those moving parts were difficult to work on, but he still did so because they deserved to be repaired. 

“Was there something… particular you wanted?” Like fixing the clock still ticking overloud around her neck, maybe? Quentin did not trust himself to be tolerant and cordial in his present mood, but he struggled to be entirely rude. 

Delicately, she set the umbrella down again, tipping her head one way, then the other. "Oh, I want so very many things, Mr Coldwater."

That accent was not overly familiar to him, and yet it still reminded him of the Prince. He was doomed to be reminded at every turn of that man. Not that she was like him beyond the fine clothes, but Quentin's hopeless mind still tried to draw connections. 

"Well," Quentin said, very intelligently, and left it there. He was destined to be a fool in front of lovely people. 

She folded her arms behind her, again, rather like a raven, "What else have you?" She was studying him, and he found himself very uncomfortable under scrutiny. 

"A lot of things," again, really displaying his vast intellect. He never said he was skilled with customers. Or with strangers. Nor good with people he knew. 

Her eyes flitted all over him, her hands moving to clasp in front of her like a teacher, "Have you any books? Or have you ever bound a manuscript, perhaps?"

He nervously tucked his hair behind his ear, "No, bookbinding is not one of the skills I possess." Though, now that she mentioned it, he thought he might try his hand at it one day. It seemed like the perfect combination of his favorite pastimes. 

She pressed her lips together in a hum of disapproval, he guessed, "Indeed? You're not very remarkable."

Looking at her, he felt his jaw flex in annoyance, shoulders pulling back. This was his shop, and this had been a terrible day. He did not have to stand there and be insulted by a strange woman who did not understand that shops could be closed with or without her approval. Seemed like he would have to show her that insulting a shop owner was the way to be shown the door. 

"I'm afraid you are going to need to leave." In a show of how much he meant that, he marched to the door and held it open, motioning for her to go. "The door is right here."

Her heels clicked on the floor as she pivoted to watch him, a sly smirk tugging at her lips, "Standing up to the Witch of the Waste? That's plucky!"

Well, shit!

The cold wash of horror was instant, hitting him so hard he nearly rocked back, groping at the door as though it could stop whatever might be coming. "The Witch of the Waste?!"

The feared Witch of the Waste, the Clock Barrens, still looked vaguely amused rather than angry, which was a wildly confusing issue. How was he supposed to give that an interpretation? Should he try to amuse her further or should he skip to flattery mixed into begging her pardon? Were evil Witches usually amused before ending people? Or worse, turning them into toads? Was that something they went around doing?

She removed the chain from around her neck, swinging the case on the bow — the sound felt like it echoed — the zing of metal sliding against itself. The watch sat innocuously cradled in one of her palms. His heart racing like a rabbit, something in his mind screamed for him to run even before she clicked the crown. The action of the anchor rocking from side to side, moving the cogs, was deafening. 

He clasped his hands over his ears to block it out, unable to think with the tick-tick-tick ringing in his ears. The wave of light that came rushing at him was shaped like the watch, only larger, washing over and through him like a ghost passing by. There was heat through his entire body, followed by cold like a sudden wind. It felt like he might be going into shock, his bones aching with it while his skin tingled. He felt like he'd been cooked in an oven but taken out before he was ready, leaving his insides runny. 

Those high heels clicked over the floor again, and he found himself looking up at her with no idea when he'd curled up on the floor. Her expression was bland, not even annoyed, let alone angry. Shouldn't she be angry? He expected… something. Instead, she looked resigned or possibly bored. Considering she threw something possibly terrible at him, it was insulting to be looked at with the kind of expression a clerk offered to customers asking too many questions. He did not ask her to throw magic at him!

Was he safe, was the question? He was surely still alive because his heart was beating so hard his chest ached. Unless it was simply that he would have a few seconds to wait for death? It could be a slow death. Maybe he would slowly bleed to death from his eyes, or he would find his heart turning to stone over the next few days, or vines would start growing inside him until they began to poke out to the surface. That would be rather unpleasant. Were those things contagious? He might have to close the shop and endure people yelling at him through the mail slot on the door as he perished off in the back. That did sound a bit like what fate might hand him. He was the stepbrother, after all. It would be fitting if he avoided becoming a troll only to be cursed to death.

"Now, now! Don't give me those puppy-dog eyes. This is a lesson for you about meddling in things you ought not." She gave a little shake of her head like she was disappointed with the weather, “He would have come for you soon enough, you know. Which I simply could not have. I merely got to you before then.”

There was a particular feeling similar to having dry lips and knowing you were one smile away from having them crack, bleed, and sting. Since he had that exact feeling over most of his face, he hardly dared to move his lips, "You must be mistaken." Not moving his lips made him sound a bit odd, "I don't know what you mean. I never meddle with anything at all."

"I don't make mistakes, Mr. Coldwater." She gave him a coy smile, "At least none that I will admit to the first time I meet someone."

She stepped over him, dress swishing and swaying. He felt it brush his arms and thought it curious how cold the silk was even through his shirt. Perhaps witches did something to keep cool in the summer heat. Who could blame them when there were so many layers to be covered in? If he could, not doubt he would spell his clothes as well. Not that he was likely to live long enough to even find clothes with any kind of spell on them. That is, unless she had not cursed him to grow plants out of his chest.

The bell over the door chimed happily, fully unaware that terrible things had been going on not far from it, "By the way, you won't be able to tell anyone you're under a spell. That's the best part about it, of course." The bell jingled a bit more as she lingered and he wondered if bells could be traitors. "Give my regards to Wizard Waugh and his Castle."

With that, she swept out of his shop, the bell stopping with a clank as the bolt on the door slid home with a thump. So, he had locked the door. Too bad Witches were not much for common courtesy and would go around magically unlocking a door that was intended to stay shut. Rude to go around unlocking doors, indeed. At least she locked it back up on the way out, he supposed. For a long, long while he simply stayed there, unmoving. He might have dissociated for a while but the floor was not the most comfortable place to linger and he thought he might want to get off of it eventually.

Wizard Waugh and his Castle. He knew who that was by story only, but now he knew the Witch had mistaken him for someone else. The Wizard of the Howling Castle would have no reason at all to come to his shop. Her belief that such a man would visit did explain her interest in looking around though. She might have been hoping to see something the Wizard left behind, but she was rather out of luck on that front considering no such person had ever been to the shop at all. Whatever made her assume he had might forever be a mystery. Too bad he never got around to making himself that drink because now he was even more tired than he had been before. He should not complain. At least not before he knew what spell she had been talking about.

When he went to push his hair behind his ear, he noticed with a bit of a start that it was hanging around him in white strands. Had she scared the color right out of him? But then, his hand looked a bit worse for wear, like it had been sucked dry as the Waste itself. It looked a lot like his grandfather's before he died. Looking at his other hand, the same could be said of it. The bones were all sticking up along with every large vein he had in his body. Flexing them hurt a bit and that was when it occurred to him that working in the shop would be considerably harder if he struggled to hold his tools. Was that what she had done to him? Taken away his hands? Panic and despair rising, he ran a hand over his face only to pause yet again, the panic only worsened when he felt leathery, sagging skin.

Struggling far more than he remembered in the past, with a sound on each movement like a creaking chair, he got to his feet and rushed to the entryway mirror. Looking back, Quentin saw his grandmother rather than his grandfather. Or, well, not exactly his grandmother. His father always had looked considerably more like Grandmother than Grandfather, and it might have a thing or two to do with the face looking back at him. Ember's teeth, he was... an old man! If it was a trick, it was a very convincing one to look at.

He covered his mouth to quiet the shout that left him rather involuntarily but left it there when he yelled a few more times.

It was a struggle to keep his breathing even for several long moments, moments his old heart likely could not afford. Breathing deliberately, he took a bit of inventory of what he was. No need to panic. His hair was bleach white; his bones and veins badly hiding under thin skin. A bit of oil might help his skin be a bit more elastic, or he assumed so since his grandmother used to use things like that. No doubt he could find what she used to use out of the kitchen, so that would help the dryness. He clenched his jaw a bit and at least he seemed to have all his teeth firmly in place.

There was nothing to panic over.  No one would find him now that Julia would be gone. If he died in the back of old age, at the rate he was going, he would be dust before word ever reached her ears. That was of mild comfort, knowing he wouldn't ruin her chances that easily.

We Could Build a Castle, Chapter 5 Video version
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