[ He sees it on the horizon--the fizzled out orb acts like a beacon, pulling Quentin ever so closer to what he's certain is salvation. Quentin himself is cold, and tired, and wet: Even bundled up and with a few heating spells on him, the tip of his nose is read and he feels like his hair is frozen. The wind cutting away at his cheeks is both a beautiful and painful sensation, reminding him what it's like to be alive.
He's not sure if he is or not. He's not sure where he is, just that 'here' is a dilapidated village from the 90s, vague and cruel in its' whimsy the same way Fillory was, but with a coat of paint that's long since peeled off.
So he follows the beacon, and he hopes it isn't one of the village's cruel tricks, like a familiar mirror in a long, secret tunnel. Because he swears he sees what he thinks is Alice fucking Quinn.
No.
He's imagining her figure in the distance. He has to be. This is too much of a good thing. ]
Endless; holds u closer tiny dancer
He's not sure if he is or not. He's not sure where he is, just that 'here' is a dilapidated village from the 90s, vague and cruel in its' whimsy the same way Fillory was, but with a coat of paint that's long since peeled off.
So he follows the beacon, and he hopes it isn't one of the village's cruel tricks, like a familiar mirror in a long, secret tunnel. Because he swears he sees what he thinks is Alice fucking Quinn.
No.
He's imagining her figure in the distance. He has to be. This is too much of a good thing. ]
Alice?