Chapter Text
Eliot pushed through the branches to where the horses were grazing alongside the path. All the horses and bags, including Josh’s stone baked goods, were there but no sign of Margo.
“Where’s the High King?”
Margo’s chestnut stallion spoke through a mouthful of long grass, “she headed off down the path.” He gestured with his muzzle down the other fork.
“Why didn’t she take you?”
The horse flicked his tail in the equine equivalent of a shrug. “Said something about how she “can’t even right now”.”
Fen’s dappled mare gave a snort. “Is that really a sentence? I don’t understand these Children of Earth sometimes.”
Margo’s horse gave a shake of his mane. “I know, right? And they are surprised we can talk. I know hedgehogs with better grammar.”
Eilot bit back a snarky comeback about showing some respect for their High King but decided to let it slide. “Break time is over, fella,” he gave his own horse a pat before getting one foot in the sturup and swung onto his grey stallion. Thank Ember his horse was generally the strong silent type, he thought as he gently urged them down the trail.
They travelled at a good clip, both lost in their own thought (though Eliot was pretty sure his horse wasn’t trying to untangle a web of emotional landmines caused by esoteric Filiorian marriage laws, until-recently-incorporeal friends/would-be-soulmates, and quasi-platonic life partners).
The stallion’s ears perked up moments before Eliot also caught the distant intermittent sounds of a very pissed off Margo ranting through the dense trees the trail wound through.
“.... cock! … Christ’s…! ...hole! … twat!… Lin-Manuel Motherfucking Miranda on a pogostick!
“Hey they,” Eliot said calmly as they pulled up alongside Margo limping down the trail. She was sweaty and dusty, one Filiorian sandal in hand, its broken strap dangling uselessly.
“Oh, why hello and fuck right off why don’t you?” She didn’t even look up but just kept limping along on one shoe.
“I thought maybe we should talk. You know, about some things.” He continued casually, slowing his horse to match her stumbling pace. “Spring fashion, the quality of this year's grape harvest, the unusually heavy rain in Loria. Charlton...”
“Not interested.” She held up one hand in the universal symbol meaning “talk to the hand, because the ears ain't listening.”
Eliot guided his horse ahead of her and then turned to block her path. Margo immediately stepped off the path into the branches and pushed her way around behind them. Eliot turned his horse to block her again but didn’t move.
“I don’t think the lady wants to talk,” commented his horse, unbudging.
“Are you talk blocking me? Seriously?” Eliot dismounted in annoyance and headed after Margo on foot. Around the next bend the path widened into a small road and a creek bubbled along its edge. Margo was speaking with an old man sitting on a log at the edge of the creek, fishing pole at his side.
“So, how much further is it to Tumbledown whateverthefuck?” she was asking.
“Not far at all,” the man turned and gestured down the path, “just keep following the Way until it crosses the Coldwater twice more, then turn right at the fork in the road.”
Margo and Eliot exchanged looks.
“The what crosses the what now?” asked Margo.
“The road, it’s called The Way and that little creek is the Coldwater.” The man shrugged, “it’s not particularly cold or anything, if that’s what you are wondering”
“You don’t happen to know where that name comes from?” Margo put some effort into keeping her voice nonchalant.
“Most likely the big rock right across there. Says “Way" and "Coldwater”. Letters as big as your head.
Eliot's long legs crossed the path in three strides as Margo scooped up her skirts to dash after him. Eliot reached the rock, mostly covered by moss and bramble, and started pulling away bits of dirt and plant matter to reveal faint letters.
He stood back, wiping the sweat from his face. He let out a slow, deep breath and cleared his throat twice before finally saying "It doesn't say Way it was Waugh."
"What the hell is a Waugh?" Asked the old man, peering at the newly cleared lettering. "That doesn't make any sense."
"Did you know this was here?” asked Margo quietly, putting a hand on Eliot's shoulder. The old man gave them a final puzzled look and headed back towards his fishing. He’d always heard that the Children of Earth were an odd bunch...
“No,” Eliot shook his head and wiped at a bead of sweat -- or was that a tear? “Back in the day, the road to our place was further down, in those trees, where the creek -- I mean for the Coldwater,” he gave a sad laugh, “bends to the right. They must have put this up later. A memorial or something...”
Margo let out her own long, slow sigh. “So this is why you didn't want to come this way? This is where you and Quentin spent all those years together.” She looked around at the thick, green trees, the bright blue sky, the bubbling Coldwater which sounded almost like distant, happy, chatter. It was like a million other places in Fillory-- but there was something about the way the light filtered through the trees, the quality of sound that was both hushed and bursting with life...
“Well are we going to stand here with our dicks in our hands or are we going to go see your place?” she gestured towards the trees.
“There's nothing there.” He shook his head. “Nothing left of the house or the Mosaic. I came out here after Quentin died, looking for anything, any trace. But it's been 300 and who-knows-how-many years. It’s like it never happened.”
“I thought you said you didn’t remember anything,” Margo tried to lighten the accusatory tone in her voice, but lightening her tone had never been her strong suit.
“I don’t -- not really. Even Charlton can’t get into those memories. He's theory is I had a head injury.”
“Oh,” she gave a thoughtful pause, “so Charlton doesn’t know about that part of your life?”
“No, I’ve never wanted to share it with him. It’s more than enough having him poking around in my childhood and watching the Dutch rave afterparty on repeat.”
“You haven’t shared much with me either,” Margo said pointedly, “just like you wouldn’t talk about those other memories you said you didn’t have.” Eliot flinched at the reference to the Monster but Margo didn’t soften (because she doesn’t).
"It’s not because I want to keep it from you, Bambi...” Eliot put his back against the Waugh-Coldwater boulder and slid to the ground.
“It’s because I just can’t reconcile having to remember so much about terrible things and so little about the wonderful ones.” He took a ragged breath, “I remember every detail of Q’s face as the Monster tormented him and murdered people right in front of him--us. But I only have faint flickers of the 50 years we spent together.” He ran his hands through his hair, curls going every which way with heat and dust. “We had a family and I don’t even remember their names.”
Margo sat down next to him and took his hands in hers. He looked at her, looking at him, as always, with total acceptance, and gripped her hands tightly.
“What I do remember -- just barely in flashes and feelings-- is that I had a full, good life, Margo. And I was a good man-- a father and a husband. Every morning I woke up knowing exactly what I was supposed to do and that it was the right thing to do. I will never have that ever again. And maybe I will never even get close to being that good man; not without Q.” He gulped back a sob.
“I don’t even know how to think about these things let alone tell someone else. Because putting it all into words makes it that much more real. And I don’t know if I can handle it. Actually, I know I can’t.” Margo pursed her lips in disapproval before he continued -- “I can’t handle it without you. I did learn that lesson the hard way and I haven’t forgotten.”
“So let me help already,” she gave him a playful shake, “talk to me. Let’s work this shit out so we can get to the divorce party already.”
He gave a sad smile. “I’m not sure I know how to start.”
“Well, let's try something. Close your eyes, try just remembering some feelings -- smells, sounds, anything, and tell me about it. You’re here -- it was practically your backyard, maybe it will spark something in the dumb broken brain.”
He leaned his head back against the stone, growing warm in the sun. “The creek -- we didn’t call it anything but “the creek” -- the sound is so familiar. I guess some things don’t change much even in hundreds of years.” He opened one eye, “are you sure this vision quest shit is going to work sober? Do you think there’s a Filorian version of peyote?”
Margo put a hand over his eyes and pushed him firmly back against the rock. “Focus.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He took a deep breath, eyebrows scrunched together in concentration. “I think I remember laying by the creek in the sun, not far from here, on a day like this. I don’t know...” he trailed off, blinking into the sun.
“Go on. Describe anything that comes to mind. Just keep talking to me, E.”
“OK,” he closed his eyes again and tried to call up the feeling. “I’m laying on something soft, a blanket? It’s big and so familiar-- oh, it’s the quilt. It had a pattern, these colors squares like the Mosaic” He gestured with his hands, tracing the shapes, eyes still closed tightly. ”The colors were so bright, tacky really, but then it faded and by the time Teddy left for--” He jumped up so quickly Margot had to catch herself from landing in the dirt.
“Ted!” he gasped. “I remember!” then more softly, “I remember his name.” He turned, wonderstruck, and offered a hand to Margo. “Q named him Theodore, after his father. But we all called him Teddy.” He frowned, “But that’s it… it’s fading again.”
Margo dusted herself off and took his hand again. “But you got there, you got something. Maybe you just need some time-- and some help.” They started to walk back towards Eliot’s horse. “Have you also considered that maybe getting the Charlton-dectomy helped too?”
“You’re not a fan, are you?”
“I don’t want to tell you how to run your brain, E, but he’s kinda a loser. You should have higher standards for your mind melds.”
“I appreciate your concern Bambi, but Charlton’s OK. He’s has a weird life -- he went through a lot and he’s just starting to figure things out. If you could do me a solid and not tear him to pieces, I would appreciate it.”
“Yeah, yeah, he is newly formed and strangely literal -- I get it.”
“So we’re OK -- soulmate?” He asked hopefully.
“We’re OK -- if I get to ride the horse the rest of the way.” She slid past him, lips brushing his cheek as she took the reins and mounted the horse. “Soulmate,” she agreed.