Chapter Text
Was he slipping or had he just run out of steam?
There was a time when Quentin could wipe the floor with anybody challenging him with a deck of cards — magical, non-magical, or pseudo-magical. But here he was, walking home in the rain with no job, no money for next month’s rent, and a serious existential crisis looming in his head.
All because he had lost a card game.
The sheer irony of that was more painful than the cold rain slicing over his scalp or the cold darkness that threatened to creep inside his head and obliterate the last sparks of hope daring to persist there.
A bakery across the street spilled warm light out into the night. The scent of cinnamon and sugar and coffee and warmth hung on the rain. Quentin’s stomach growled. He stepped off the curb almost automatically, turning toward the inviting open door.
But as his foot splashed ankle-deep into a puddle, he stopped.
Quentin’s pockets and his bank accounts were empty. Sure, he could glamour a few leaves into cash or hoodwink the poor barista and get a hot cinnamon bun and a cup of coffee for free. It would be trivial — first year stuff, really. He could get anything he wanted.
But in his own head, he was still the hero. He was still the good guy on a quest to do the right thing. To make things right in the world, or at least to keep them from going so sideways that everything tumbled off into the abyss. Even if there really was no quest, even if the journey had come to an end long ago, even if right now all he needed to make was October’s rent.
Quentin stepped back onto the sidewalk. His hands dug themselves deep into his empty pockets. He stared helplessly across the street, letting the rain soak through him.
Maybe this was just the part of the story where he went home.
Didn’t he get to go home now? Shouldn’t he want to? Hadn’t it all been enough already? Every hero got to go home. When everything was lost and broken in Narnia, the kids got to run off with Aslan to heaven or whatever. The ringbearers of Middle Earth got to return to the Shire, at least until their invisible wounds overtook them. Even in Fillory—
No.
He couldn’t let his mind go there.
He wondered if his own invisible wounds from Fillory woud ever go away. The battles had ended. His crown was long gone. He had made some things right and broken some other things. He’d done his best to clean up the messes.
But everything still hurt.
When he closed his eyes he still saw blood. He saw a monster in his best friend. He saw organs ripped out of the chests of gods. Eyes gouged out of sockets. Alice burning. He saw his own body sliced nearly in two.
And worse — worse than all that pain actually happening — was the fact that now he was alone. His friends were scattered across worlds. Scattered through adulthood, tending their own wounds.
Quentin had tried to go home. To Brakebills, anyway. He’d tried to be the good professor and pass along his knowledge, shepherding a new generation into better decisions than he’d ever made.
It hadn’t worked out.
And then there he was — hero that he was — thinking he could be some kind of black market badass. Grabbing dangerous, shadowy jobs that needed his diverse skillset and paid a lot of money. From combat to complex calculations, he could do it all. Whatever the highest bidder would pay for.
Hero.
He laughed stupidly at himself. Of course he’d failed.
And if he kept failing to make rent, he’d never be able to build a home. There was that.
Suddenly the shadows of the cars shifted as a different light spilled into the street. It was a dimmer, dustier light than the cheery bakery, and it was behind him.
Before he’d even turned around, Quentin caught the electrical scent, the whiff of ozone and lightening. The smell of magic.
His hands were up, ready to cast. He called on his inner King Quentin, slayer of Ember, destroyer of magic, hero of the Quest of the Seven Keys and restorer-no-matter-how-imperfectly of magic, and inner over achiever as he met the narrowed eyes of the man in the doorway.
“Bit late for a stroll, isn’t it?” The man’s voice was deep. The lines of his face were sharp, and his goatee gave him a permanent severe frown.
Quentin didn’t answer. He was too distracted trying to parse the man’s outfit.
It was exactly the kind of robe-like getup that Quentin would have thought the professors at a magic school wore — if he’d never gone to magic school and seen the boring everyday suits they actually wore. All draping, dark blue fabric, a belt with far more straps and embellishments than was strictly reasonable, and boots that would’ve put the royal Fillorian cobbler to shame. And over all of it swept a majestic red cloak. Its corners fluttered in the still air, unbowed by the rain.
A small part of Quentin was sad that he was surprised. Once, he wouldn’t have blinked an eye at the weird dress. Once, he would have been the weirdo stomping around New York in Renn Faire clothes.
Once.
Despite the fact that the man had stepped fully out onto the stoop and the cold rain continued to fall all around them, he and his fabulous outfit remained completely dry.
“You’re a magician,” said Quentin.
He didn’t need to ask. This guy might have been a really dedicated LARPer, but if he was, he was a really dedicated LARPer who smelled like magic.
“Sorcerer Supreme,” said the man; the pronouncement ended in a cough that may have been concealing words or maybe just a lingering cold.
Quentin laughed. It was a sudden, unfamiliar sound, and he tried to stifle it immediately. “Sorry… sorry.” He waved a hand like he was trying to brush off his own amusement. It was nice to see that his life still knew how to be ridiculous. “Sorcerer supreme. I’m former King Quentin.”
The Sorcerer Supreme’s eyebrows pinched in an even more severe look.
Come on, Quentin wanted to say, say something about it. Come at MY dramatic title.
The stared at each other, both with hands up like boxers but fingers delicately poised for their own brand of combat.
“So… Are you…” Quentin awkwardly ran out of words. He shivered, then drew himself up, still trying to grasp at the shadow of hero-king-quester vibes. “What do you want?”
“Nothing,” said the sorcerer. “I’m just not in the habit of leaving other magicians loitering unsupervised outside my front door.”
Quentin sighed. He lowered his hands again. Then he threw them up in an exasperated shrug and let them fall to his sides again.
This wasn’t some grand otherworldly battle. It was just New York at night.
He sighed and looked up at the man on the stoop. “I’m not loitering. I didn’t know… I was just…” He gestured weakly over his shoulder at the bakery across the street. “But I don’t have any money so.” He shrugged pathetically. “Sorry if I wandered onto your turf.”
He shook his head and turned away. Who was he kidding? There was no hero-king-quester left. Just the shadow. He couldn’t be a hero, he couldn’t be a badass. He couldn’t even hold a coherent conversation with a fellow magician. His head hung low as he walked away. He pulled up his already soaked hood and let it hang uselessly over his eyes.
“I don’t have any money either,” the Sorcerer Supreme said, and Quentin stopped. “I used to but… Wong’s a bad influence.”
“Ok,” said Quentin. He didn’t get it.
“But I have tea."