Julia Wicker

Travelers have it so fucking easy. Brakebills has it so fucking easy, and Julia would have killed to have that kind of chance. Would have, past tense, no going back now. She needs the Beast to get to Reynard. She needs Fillory to get to the Beast. She needs Fillory to kill a fucking god and she's not going to stop until she's got exactly what she needs because she is Julia fucking Wicker and she doesn't do anything in half measures.

Revenge is not something you half ass, and it has consumed her just like magic did. There's no settling down for her, no dealing with what she's pretty sure is PTSD, no planning for anything except this. Get to Fillory. Get the Beast. Turn him on Reynard. She has plans upon plans, and every single fucking one of them gets tossed in the fountain in the Neitherlands that she's forced to jump into thanks to the rampaging lunatics calling that place home.

For a second, when she lands, Julia thinks maybe she started cursing herself for no reason. She'd been headed for the Fillory fountain, maybe she only thought she got turned around. Cause this looks a fuckton like the Southern Orchard, maybe, which means Castle Whitespire shouldn't be far, and thank fuck she drew that map on the underside of a table because it's still seared into her brain like a brand.

But even as she angles her feet in the direction she thinks the castle should be, Julia knows it's wrong. She's voracious with knowledge and information, and she's observant, and she's not fucking obtuse, okay? She knows what fountain square she made it to, and it wasn't Fillory. There was a stupid lion head on the fountain, not a Umber or Ember's goat emblem. There's no way it's Fillory, and she has no way back, and--

She keeps walking, trudging through the forest, almost running. She's not ready to give up yet, and the only direction her pounding heart will let her move is forward.