#BattletheBeast

Battle the Beast

Quentin Coldwater was many things. Awkward. Undeniably geeky. The consummate nerd. A little bit handsome in a strange and uncomfortable way. What he was not, however, was a hero. He had courage, don't misunderstand, but courage alone did not a hero make. Heroes were expecting the worst while hoping for the best, all while swinging the sword and protecting the innocent. Quentin was lying helpless on the floor while his friends died bloody and agonized around him. He wanted to rise with boundless magic coursing through his veins and strike down Martin Chatwin with nothing more than the twitch of his little finger. But, wants and wills are two different things.

"That's better," Martin said with a perky tilt of his chin. He surveyed the mangled and bloody work of contortion that had once been Penny. "Let's see you travel anywhere with your head on backward."

"Leave. Them. Alone," Quentin managed to grunt past the stranglehold of Martin's magic on his windpipe.

Martin's eyes glanced swiftly to Quentin and then away, the way one might peruse an uninteresting and rather annoying work of art. The look said it all. Martin Chatwin worried about Quentin less than a little, and he had no doubts that he would soon kill them all.

Martin left Penny and moved toward Eliot and Margo. They were slowly losing their lives to the thick Persian rug in a cold red flood, but there was life in their eyes. Eliot stared hard at Quentin, anger and urging spinning in the depths of his gaze. Get the fuck up, Q. Stop being a bitch and blast the bastard.

Quentin could almost hear Eliot's voice in his head, but he couldn't do it. Martin's hold on him was too strong. Martin was too strong. No, that wasn't the truth. The truth was that Quentin wasn't strong enough.

"Pretty, pretty Margo." Martin pushed a dark hank of hair from her face and stared into her eyes. His sixth finger twitched and her body convulsed, blood spewing from her lips. "Always making a mess of things." Martin looked at Eliot, but he surprised Quentin by caressing Eliot's face gently. "A beautiful boy, so broken. I recognize myself in you, Eliot. In another life we could have been friends." Q had no problem seeing the Go fuck yourself in Eliot's eyes, and neither did Martin. Tears rolled down Quentin's face as Martin snapped their necks quickly. It was more merciful than he'd expected of Martin.

Martin straightened and brushed the blood from his pristine three-piece suit with a sigh. "That only leaves one, Quentin. Strong, precious Julia."

"No." Blood dribbled over Quentin's chin as he forced the word past the magical band on his larynx.

"No?" Martin looked at Quentin with a raised eyebrow. "Still you think you can stop me?"

"N..no." Quentin had begun to understand that he'd fought and lost this battle forty times before. This time could be no different.

Martin crouched next to Quentin, looking at him thoughtfully. "I don't want to hurt you, don't you see? I only want the keys. Hurting you and your friends is simply a means to an end. You continually stand in my way and I can't allow that."

Quentin had a thousand things to say, but he couldn't speak, couldn't move.

"My sister tried to stop me. She prayed to Ember and got that cursed watch in an attempt to make things right, but I ended that. This time is the last time, Quentin. I shall have what I want and there will be no rewinding time." Martin waved a hand and released Quentin's voice box.

Q gasped as air coated his raw throat. "I know what Plover did to you. I know why you're angry---"

"Plover may have driven me to Fillory, but I always knew what I wanted." Martin stood. "Now I'll have it, and my dear special sister cannot stop me this time."