Call me Q (minormending) wrote in wtnvic, @ 2019-10-12 18:04:00 |
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After having sacrificed himself (or willingly killed himself? He still wasn't entirely sure which) to seal the seam between their world and the Mirror World Quentin had resigned himself to the fact that he was in fact dead. He'd died, simple as that, and there was no coming back from that. His destination was the Underworld and the Metrocard that he'd been given would take him pretty much anywhere he needed to go.
Only he'd expected a lot more... Underworld and a lot less... trees and well, woods, in general. He felt and heard the crunch of fallen leaves under his feet as well as the cool brush of a late evening breeze that caused his shoulders to hitch as it lifted hairs along the back of his neck. Was this his afterlife? A wood? That was... well, not at all what he expected it to be. It was only as he turned his head and his eyes came to fall on a familiar cottage, one he'd know if he'd suddenly lost all senses needed to recall memory, that he assumed it must be.
As joyous as it was to see the cottage (and it was) he also couldn't escape the feeling of the immensity that accompanied his current predicament. He'd felt this alone once before, before he'd discovered Brakebills, and he hated it as much now as he had then. A breath out, a glance over his shoulder, and a further considering look at the cottage. Overthinking was a key trait of Quentin Coldwater, wouldn't be Quentin if he didn't spend at least ten minutes or more debating a decision as well as the pros and cons that accompanied it.
Obviously there was a reason why he'd turned up outside of the cottage because as confusing as the world he knew could be there was normally a reason for most things. Even if he didn't always understand them. Though if this was some sort of twisted joke by Penny 40 then he was going to have words, stern words, lots of words. He reached up to smooth a hand through his rebellious hair that despite its shorter length didn't seem to want to stay behind his ears and instead insisted on flopping over his eyes.
He wet his lower lip, drew it between his teeth, and with all his courage (what was left of it anyways) mustered he began towards the cottage.