The Boy Who Cried Beast

Quentin sees a boy standing before him, as clearly as when he'd seen this child's sister in his dreams. The boy? – Martin Chatwin. He appeared exactly like Quentin had always imagined him to be when he would daydream of escaping into the world of Fillory and Further with the Chatwins; Rupert, the eldest, and the twins, Jane and Martin. But this is no dream.

A boy.

That's what stood before him. A fragile young thing who would've been stark naked were it not for the spectacles on his face which poorly hid the anguish and tears and confusion. Martin appeared to be as confused to be seeing Quentin as Quentin was to be seeing Martin. A moment ago he was with Julia, Alice, Penny, and Eliot – they were investigating the Plover Estate when a strange noise led Quentin to investigate down a hallway the others either ignored or had not noticed.

A door slammed. Christopher Plover walked towards Quentin with a twistedly satisfied smile, zipping his slacks and muttering something that made him snicker.

Quentin didn't hear what, nor had he decrypted what had transpired until he saw Martin. Could we blame him? His hero was standing before him so of course, he led with the passionate utterances and confessions of a fanboy. That was until Plover passed through him like a scene in Ghost.

There was that noise again, now muffled. It was coming from the door Plover had exited. Quentin went to open the door – it was locked. The sound, Q deduced as crying, grew in volume, along with the thuds of self-harm, a din he had unfortunately grown accustomed to hearing (far too often) while institutionalized. Not knowing what to do, Quentin rammed the door with his shoulder but to his surprise, he went right through.

What Q saw when he entered was Martin Chatwin, slumped in a corner, taking shots at his thighs and flank. The echo of flesh pounding flesh and his whimpering filled the room. Floorboards creaked under the weight of Quentin's hesitant foot, causing Martin to scurry to his feet, (fearful Mr. Plover had returned for a second helping).

They eyed each other cautiously, each wary of the other's presence.

"Martin?" Quentin finally asked.

Having only recently learned what a time slip was – he had no idea whether it was possible for Martin Chatwin to reply – he was not familiar with the rules. (He wished he thought to ask Penny when he had the chance.)

The boy offered a nervous nod.

"Who are you?" his voice quavered.

"Did he –?"

Again, the boy nodded, before Quentin could ask his question. Quentin took off his blazer, wrapped it around Martin, and apologized profusely. He thought it stupid to do so, it was not like it was he who violated the boy, but it was the only thought that sprouted to mind. Martin collapsed into Quentin's chest and bawled with the gravity of a chiliad of lives.

Martin then proceeded to educate Quentin on the real Christopher Plover. On the mental, physical, emotional, and (insufferable) sexual abuse. His unquenchable thirst to obtain magic – a maddening obsession – and his ever-troublesome plight of shattering the bounds which prevent him from crossing the borders of Fillory.

"It's him," Quentin vocalized his thoughts. "Christopher Plover is The Beast. I'm so stupid. How could I have been so blind? It all makes sense, it's why Fillory was always the center of his world. And the kids, he must've been jealous of them and only kept them around to interrogate them. Fuck. Shit. Fucking shit. It's Plover. It's fucking Plover, I can't believe it."

"It's okay Quentin," Martin soothed, "trust me, I too know what it's like to have your hero – the person you lauded as your savior ever since you secretly read your first Fillory book in the kitchen pantry – show his true colors and reveal himself as the vile twat he really is."

"Oh, I'm sorry," Quentin stammered, "I didn't realize I was talking out loud. Wait. What? What was that about the pantry?"

"Bloody hell," the Chatwin boy replied, "I spoilt it." His dull eyes glowed azure as he stared Q down, and a smirk slowly manifested on his face. "I really had you going there, didn't I, Quentin Coldwater?"

A ubiquitous swarm of moths amassed within the room that held Quentin and Martin. Quentin lost sight of the boy who stood mere paces ahead when the moths clustered around him and whirled in cyclonic fashion. Now, who stood before him was Martin Chatwin the man – no – The Beast.

"I am always astounded by the lengths in which you prevail with each attempt," The Beast delighted.

Quentin replied with a bemused stare.

"Never mind," he dismissed, "let's get on with this ... again." A flick of the wrist pinned Quentin to the nearest wall. "My sister – Jane – where is she?"

"I don't know," Q stammered. "Dead I presume. The reports said she went missing the year after Martin – you – disappeared, before Plover's fatal heart attack. Are you saying she's alive? That can't be true. Of course it can, you're still alive. Oh shit..." an epiphany struck Quentin.

"You've realized something," Chatwin closed in, "what is it?"

Quentin zipped his lips, shut his eyes, and turned away from Martin.

The Beast raised a hand to reveal a bolt of electricity which caused the hairs on Quentin's neck to stand on end. Q could feel the static drawing closer to the base of his skull. Instinctively, he relapsed to a habit acquired at Midtown Mental Health Clinic – he recited his favorite Fillory passages.

Neurons and dendrites were zapped and shocked by the charge to the point Quentin's whole body felt like it was in a refractory period.

"Julia," he finally managed to blurt out through slobbered lips.

Martin Chatwin ceased his magical shock therapy, "Continue."

"Jules. Watcherwoman. Eliza." Quentin panted. Eons passed before he could formulate a coherent sentence. It took the sizzle of electricity in the air – rather, in The Beast's hand – to snap Quentin's mind into formation. "Julia found it odd how Eliza was always there when I needed a push in the right direction. She was the paramedic who gave me The Magicians manuscript, and the specialist who, instead of expelling me, kept me on probation at Brakebills. Julia joked Eliza was like my own personal Watcherwoman – when things went wrong, Eliza was always there to make things right like Jane attempted to in The Girl Who Told Time."

"Eliza, hmm? I'll see fit to remember the name. Ironic, don't you think?" Martin chuckled, then answered without waiting for a reply. "Jane uses Ember's infernal stopwatch to create a time-loop to save your life so you can kill me but with every failed attempt she takes a step closer to her own demise." The Beast, with his six-fingered hands outstretched, gesticulated a series of finger maneuvers that should have in no way been humanly possible even with the extra digits.

"Wait," Quentin panicked. The Beast stopped mid-cast. "Y-your fingers," Q stammered, "how, how did you get them?" The painful buzz in his brain prevented him from devising a better stall tactic.

"Oh, this?" Martin wriggled all six fingers on both his hands. "I had Rupert loan me a hand ... or two."

The Beast locked his thumbs together to complete his spell. From the ten free fingers outpoured a cascade of luminescent energy, each a color unto its own. Each propagating their own individual sensation within Quentin as they collided into his chest, like his own veritable Inside Out. Elation. Mania. Resentment. Inspiration. Hope. Passion. Fury. Was that a hard on? he thought. Bliss. And lastly ...

Nothing.