god_touched | a great magician is magic

a great magician is magic

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.

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Enchanted forests were mostly all different in function...but in appearance? Mostly all were alike. This really was no different. Well, maybe save for the fact that the trees whispered among themselves as she passed, leaves rustling in a breeze that wasn't there. A swirl of petals wrapping around her before rushing off, an almost giggle like sound in their wake.

Birds landing in over head branches to watch her trot by, their little heads pivoting to follow.

The low sound of something that couldn't quite be called a whisper from around her, a general feel of surprise and excitement underlying it.

This forest was alive with both it's occupants and maybe something so much more. It was alive...and huge. She walked for hours, the trees keeping her occupied with ever changing trails while the wind rushed ahead to inform their kings and queens of the newcomer in their midst. And just when she would possibly be ready to sit and rest...there finally came a sound that wasn't hidden.

Hoofbeats. A gentle pace that was nevertheless quickly approaching, coming from behind her and slightly off to the left where there had been no path big enough for anything with hooves before.

She keeps getting her hopes up, knowing there's no reason to: this isn't Fillory. There aren't any dryads left in the forests around Whitespire. Julia has seen things most of the other Earth kids haven't, but she hasn't seen the forest like this.

Okay. It's a magic forest. Cool. It's not her magic forest.

Julia watches the birds as they stare, she smacks at the petals as they get in her space, rude, and curses out loud at the changing trails. The forest is fucking with her. The goddamn forest is fucking with her, and she probably shouldn't be this excited to be in a dickish forest just because it's magic.

The hours tick by, and her legs are aching, but she stops only a couple times, bringing her hands up in front of her to twist her fingers into ridiculous positions, fighting the Circumstances here like she does at home rather than working with them. That's what happens when you don't get a formal education, you figure it the fuck out on the fly instead of relying on being told exactly what to do all the time. Of course, the spell is far from perfect, and she keeps trying slight adjustments and iterations: compass north, compass toward Whitespire, compass toward some real goddamned people. The smokey needle that tattoos itself to the back of her left hand turns and turns half the time, changing with the paths.

But half a second before Jules hears the horse, she spots the needle spin back behind her. The sound stops her from letting out a frustrated shriek, and part of her wants to get off the road, now, hide. That would require trusting a tree not to just step out of the way, and she sure as hell doesn't trust that right now. Besides, what is she, a coward? She's not a fucking coward.

Julia stands her ground, in the middle of the path that definitely wasn't there a minute ago, and lifts her chin. You wanna go? She thinks, practically shouting in her own head. Let's fucking go.

It was a horse and rider that appeared through the trees. A dark, steel colored dapple grey Percheron, proud head held high and looking nothing like the plodding plow horse that his species had become in other worlds. This was a war horse, fit and light on his feet for being so large, but despite his size and fire...there was no bit in his mouth or headstall on his poll. And the man that sat astride his back did so without the benefit of a saddle.

Upon seeing her defiant stance in the middle of the road, the horse tossed his head and blew a challenge..but the man only chuckled and leaned forward to lightly pat his friend's neck. "Be easy, Niles. This is no way to meet a potential new friend on the road." His voice was soft, but the horse's ears flicked back the moment he started to speak, shaking his head a little but otherwise allowing the words to soothe the fight in him. And once the horse was settled, the man gave him one last pat before he swung easily down from his back.

"Please forgive him, his spirit is that of a fighter."

Steel colored, but not steel covered. Okay, probably just some country kid out for a ride in the magic forest. It's about as plausible as anything. Julia - feeling very stupid and very logical - takes a step forward when the horse reacts to her. So what if it's a horse? In Fillory, animals could talk, had whole societies like humans. Why should this forest be any different, and if the horse was tossing his head at her like that, then like hell she was going to back down. It'd just be an excuse to chase her down.

She thinks about baring her teeth at it, to really give that extra little je ne sais quoi, but the rider seems to do the job okay. Potential new friend, she thinks, and almost laughs as she approaches. Maybe she could just take the damn horse, give her feet a break.

"No shit," she mutters, and eyes Niles as she wonders if he's more likely to be ally or foe. If she makes a decision, it doesn't show on her face when she finally focuses on the man.

"Where are we?" First thing's first.

Just some country kid. He certainly looked the part, anyway. Soft leather trousers, a simple rough woven tunic. Nothing dyed, nothing particularly dirty, but nothing fancy either. The belt cinching the tunic in place didn't even have a sword on it. Handsome, and fit...but nothing impressive.

His smile was charming, though. "The Southern edge of the Owlwood. About a three day's ride from Ettinsmoor. From where do you hile, Stranger? And might I have the pleasure of your name?" His smile didn't falter, but he did give a confused brow wrinkle. "I must admit, I've never seen your manner of dress before.."

Behind him, Niles blew an amused snort, tossing his head a little as he moved up to bump his muzzle against the man's back in affection. Probably wouldn't get much help from him, Jules. Not unless he was just some dumb animal.

"Jesus fuck me!" She snaps together a couple curses, pinching the bridge of her nose in a gesture of irritation that goes so much deeper for her. It's anxiety, rage, fear, it's too many things wrapped up in a tight little ball in her chest. It keeps expanding, making it harder to breathe, and it is so much easier to lash out, to snap and be angry. She knows that if she gives in and does what she really wants, lay down in the middle of the road, she'll never get back up.

He's just another native, and she's been finding it impossible to dredge up enough patience for people back in the real world. He probably doesn't even know what electricity is.

Gritting her teeth together, Julia blows out a breath and stares at him for a long moment. Her gaze is the kind of dull that comes from too many terrible things happening too fast, but there's anger lurking there, protective and destructive. It's not really aimed at him, but aiming is difficult these days.

"All right. Look." She lifts her hands, a sharp gesture that, if necessary, could be turned to something magic - or just flat out try to choke him. If necessary. "I'm trying to get to Fillory. Castle Whitespire. It's important. You know it?"

He didn't recognize the words themselves, but the intent behind them was easy enough to understand. The smile faltered a bit, but he was quick to reach up and keep Niles from informing their 'guest' that she should keep a civil tongue in her mouth when addressing the High King. He wanted to keep his identity to himself for a while longer. She obviously wasn't from Narnia or even the surrounding areas...and when she made that gesture, there was whisper of chill that ran down his spine and made the hairs along his arms stand on end.

Magic.

At once, his hip ached for the weight of his sword. She had offered no harm to him yet, but magic was still a thing that brought back far too many memories of the White Witch.

"Fillory? I do not. The only castle is Cair Paravel, I'm sorry to inform you. It would appear that you are lost. My name is Peter. This is Niles. Your name?"

Yeah. That chill ran down her spine the second she walked into Brakebills, too. It wracked her spine every second since they told her she failed. Like she'd ever failed a test in her life. Her fingers don't twist or flex when he says exactly what she was afraid he would; instead her arms drop forcefully to her sides in frustration.

"Fuck." She snaps, turning to storm away only to come back after a few steps. It takes an effort to stop grinding her teeth together.

"What about the Neitherlands?" There's half a second of pause before she realizes he's asked her a question twice now, and it's not that Julia really cares about how she appears, but maybe the barest amount of pleasantries will get her what she wants. So: "Julia."

There was that word again and despite the suspicion that naturally came along with someone using magics, it's brash crudeness made Peter smirk again. He liked that word. It would drive Edmund rather silly, he thought.

"I'm sorry, Julia. There is no 'Neitherlands' in Narnia. Please, you must have been walking for some time to be so angry. Let me offer you something to eat and drink and maybe we can discuss where it is you're trying to get to while you rest your feet."

From behind him came the whisper quiet wing beats of a raven, the bird eyeing the woman with those sharp eyes as it alighted on a branch over Niles' head. It looked between Julia and Peter for a few seconds, then did something she might not have expected. He heaved a put upon sigh. "Your Majesty, perhaps that is not the wisest choice you could make." His voice was smooth and cultured, even a little condescending.

Peter sighed. "Sallowpad, please inform my brother to stop sending his henchmen to follow me. (Here, the bird gave an indignant caw and fluffed his feathered) And while you're at it, inform the kitchens that I'll be entertaining our guest and would like an afternoon tea prepared, please."

She considers telling him to fuck off and keep walking, she's Julia Wicker and if she needs help she'll goddamn ask for it.

Except, she does kind of need help. What is she going to do, force this place to eject her back into the Neitherlands? If she knew how to do that - if that was even possible - she'd have done it already and hauled her ass back to Fillory.

In lieu of cursing out loud again, Julia rubs her temples with one hand, then scrubs at her face with both. Okay, so she's a little tired. A lot. Her feet are doing that numb throbbing burning thing that means she's given herself blisters, and her legs don't even want to hold her up standing still, but fuck them, they don't get a say.

When the bird flaps in, she drops her hands to stare at it, and when it sighs, she does not look shocked in the least. Of course it fucking sighs. She wants to sigh, who wouldn't sigh right now--did it say Your Majesty?

Eyes narrowing, Jules drops her gaze to Peter again. "King?" She's known a couple. Sort of. Technically. Elliot and Quentin make shit kings.

"High King." The answer came not from Peter, who in fact looked like he was trying not to roll his eyes, but from Niles. The horse tossed his head, his black mane whipping a little as he danced to one side, pleased with himself for finally being able to confront the woman about her lack of manners.

Peter sighed, running a hand through his hair before he finally just shaking his head and looking back at Julia. "Just Peter, please." After all, she wasn't Narnian. Overhead, Sallowpad gave one last huff and feather fluff before he spread his wings and soared off to make the reservations his king had asked for and Peter stepped away from Niles to instead offer a hand to the woman on the path. "He'll beat us no matter how fast we ride, but if we don't want cold tea, I suggest we put in at least a little effort to keep pace..."

Julia does roll her eyes when Niles corrects her. She stares at the quadruped, half daring the war horse to start a war. She's reasonably certain she could cast a circle around him before he could even bite at her finger tips.

She very nearly tells him - both hims - that she doesn't like horses, they're bumpy and obviously they're jackasses and who fucking rides a horse, anyway, besides the stupid mounted cops? Exactly. But it's not like there's anything else to ride, and she's a great fucking magician, but there are still limits, damn it.

Sighing sharply, she takes Peter's hand, though it's more like she slaps her hand into his. Manners? Please. She doesn't have time for manners. She doesn't have energy for it either: while she's angry it's easy to miss the bags under her eyes, the general wan appearance. She fell out of habit of taking care of herself in the mad search for magic, and just when things were going good again, Reynard--

Nope. No. She's not going there, because if she does she'll dig her nails into Peter's hand and won't let go.

"Just give me a leg up." Who rides without a saddle? Seriously.

Unfortunately for her, Peter has a rather annoying habit of being able to see past one's mask infuriatingly well. She was exhausted and it showed in her foul mood...but mostly in her eyes. She was a magic user, yes, but her anger was masking fear and he could understand that.

After all, he saw it every time he left for the Moors from Ed's sharp tongue and biting farewells.

"OF course. Niles, if you wouldn't mind..." He took her hand and guided her over to the great beast, waiting until Niles had given one last snort before stretching himself out so that he was lower to the ground. He brought her hand up to the dark mane, wrapping her fingers in the thick hair, then one hand went to her knee, the other to her ankle. "On the count of three, jump. I'll get you settled. Niles is the steadiest mount you could ask for."

One, two, and up she went, lifted by his hold on her leg as easily as someone would lift a child. Apparently, Peter was a bit more fit than the average 'country boy'. Once she was settled, he hoisted himself up behind her and Niles danced a little to the side to get the feel of their weight before he set off down yet another path that hadn't been there when she'd stopped.

The look she gives him is nearly hostile, and maybe that's hiding something, too, like how hard she's ignoring the instinct to pull away when he guides her hand up, or how a muscle in her leg jerks when he touches her knee. She doesn't flinch from the contact, but she does look ready to fight over it, if he gave her the slightest inclination it was necessary.

"I doubt it," comes her acerbic mutter, but she winds her fingers in the horse's mane, ready to pull herself up. She lost a lot - too much, maybe - weight in her obsession period, but she still has her doubts that he'll lift her on his own. And she's completely wrong, because before she can even start pulling she's up and on the asshole horse. That's the first thing that actually surprises her, though it doesn't survive long on her face.

When he mounts up behind her Julia has to stop herself from leaning forward, and then has to stop herself from thinking about stopping herself from leaning forward. She coils both hands in Niles' mane, low near her lap, and digs her nails into her palms. "Are we going to your castle?" She wonders if Niles is going to sass her again for not using his title. It's hard to think of High King as something worthy of respect: Elliot is still kind of a stooge in her opinion, and he's the only other High King she knows.

Fortunately for him, he gave her no indication of anything that could be hostility. In fact, he did his best to give her her own space even on the broad back of Niles. He didn't hold her hips or wraps his arms around her to hold onto his mane. He didn't even lean forward to press the space between them closed. In fact, if anything, he gave her more space than what was probably comfortable for him, riding more on Niles' rump than on his sturdy back.

"It's not my castle, but yes. We're going to Cair Paravel. It is, after all, my home and I did invite you to tea. Also, if there is anyone in Narnia other than Aslan Himself that can help you find what you are looking for, it is my brother." He smirked as he spoke, knowing full well that the only thing Ed was going to be doing was yelling at him, at least in the beginning.

The ride wasn't short, but it wasn't terribly long, either, the path a pleasant wind through the forest in a way that it hadn't been for her. And when the forest finally ended and they left the trees behind to their dances, the castle itself was in plain view. Nestled in the ridge of rock where sea met coastline, the huge castle appeared to be made out of the rock itself, polished by the salt air and carved by the waves themselves. Animals of all species were milling about, hard at work in their daily lives. Most of them smiled and bowed their heads briefly as their High King rode by, but more than a few openly stared at the woman who rode in front of him.

Peter chatted easily with the animals who called out to him, but he ignored those who stared, instead urging Niles to head to the stables instead of the front gate to avoid going through the main market place. The horse obliged, picking his way through the streets as neatly as you could please, despite his hulking size and dinner plate sized hooves.

The forest is giving her the middle finger on their way out, and she doesn't try to hold back the sullen glare she shoots around them - at the path, the trees, the fucking birds. Dicks, all of them. Fine, they want to make a path for their High King and tell her to fuck off, that's their prerogative. She'd resist from burning the place down around them, mostly because she's not sure she'd actually survive that.

She spends the ride in silence, but not once does she let go of Niles' mane or let up on the pressure of her nails against her skin. It's not a big deal; she barely feels it, but it's either exhaustion or an anchor. When they reach the bastion of non-forest society, Julia takes it in with more silence, ignoring the people conversing with Peter and, at first, staring right back at the people so caught up with her. This proves to be exhausting, though: her attention shifts to a point in the distance through Niles' ears, something far and maybe nonexistant that makes her eyes go blurry. If they want to stare, fine. Fuck 'em. Why should she give a shit? She didn't choose being here.

It's that same stubbornness that doesn't let her be grateful they aren't winding their way through a main thoroughfare: and not that Niles isn't great (she'd never say this in any tone that wasn't sarcastic), but riding is not for this city girl, at least not riding a horse. Do they have giant leopards here? That sounds like a much better option.

When the stable finally looms ahead, a small sigh escapes her. Relief? Maybe. She won't cop to it. "Impressive," is the only word she manages, eventually, and she says it so neutrally that it's hard to tell if it's meant honestly or satirically.

He brings her through the side passages toward the stable. Of course he does. Thinking nothing of what information that might give a Telmarine spy. Were she of Archenland she'd know precisely where she was and even if Sallowpad insists the trees are certain she simply appeared he can't help finding that somewhat difficult to believe.

Even if there's a whisper of something familiar in it. Something about Spare Oom and... a lamp post...?

Thoughts he dismisses, even more frustrated by the moment and when he hears the steady clop of Niles' hooves he moves to stand in front of the stable, frowning, hands clasped before him, ever bit of the Judge in his demeanor. He's even wearing the same heavy somber garb he wears in court, deep dark blues and understated gold accents. Only one sword at his hip, which speaks volumes to the trust he's placing in Peter. But the crown resting on his brow also speaks volumes to how mad he is. He rarely wears the crown in the privacy of the castle.

"Majesty." Not Brother, not his name. His Title. A reminder of his place and the potential danger he is putting his kingdom in by being so unquestionably welcoming. He even shifts his weight a little, a practiced motion that makes his cloak sway aside slightly, opening his stance so that he might draw his sword in the span of a heartbeat. It may seem nothing to her, unless she is practiced in fencing, but Peter will recognize that oh so subtle threat for what it is. And so will Niles. "And this must be the Daughter of Eve the trees are so worked up over."

At least she thought the castle impressive, no matter how dry her tone was. He smirked, giving Niles a light pat as they turned off the main path and into the stable yard. Around them, horses and centaurs gave them curious looks, but no one stopped to talk. At first, Peter thought it was simple respect....

..then he saw the figure in the arch of the breezeway between the castle proper and the stables. The figure who was in full court cloths. And was that a glimmer in the sunlight at his brow? Peter sighed.

"You're going to have to forgive my brother. He means well, but he can be far too paranoid sometimes." The words were quiet, meant only for her, though he knew Niles would hear them as well. The horse stomped a hind foot down against the cobblestone, but he didn't say anything against what Peter had said.

Upon reaching the breezeway, Peter gave his brother a look before he easily dismounted and offered a hand out for her to take should she need it. "Julia, may I present my brother, King Edmund. Ed, this is Julia. She is lost and I invited her for tea. Would you care to join us?"

The shift in Edmund's weight goes unnoticed as anything but that: Julia knows a lot, she'd be the first to cop to it, but the only way she's a fighter is in the fact that she's still alive.

Besides, even if she knew, she wouldn't blame him. It's smart. Maybe no one taught Peter not to trust strangers, but someone clearly taught Ed. And she's probably as strange as they come in this bizarre place.

She almost laughs; there's not smile, but Julia feels it bubbling in her breast, the desire to just bark out - something like a laugh, anyway. She recognizes it as something that wouldn't be welcome in polite company, and though she hasn't qualified as polite company in a while, she keeps telling herself to be nice until they prove themselves useless. The least she can do is take advantage of Peter's generosity. She could use a hot shower - bath, she corrects herself internally. It's not Fillory, but it's close.

Julia starts to ignore Peter's aid, shifting to one side on Niles' back. Except, it's pretty far down, this stupid horse is a lot bigger than she thought. Her exhalation is frustrated, and she finally extricates her hands from Niles' mane, taking Peter's offered hand to balance herself on her way down. It's not graceful, but it's better than it would have been alone. Peter might notice flecks of dried blood on his hand, later: she never stopped digging her nails into her palms.

On solid ground again, her legs feel shaky but she still manages to look Ed over coolly. She doesn't know him from - hah - Adam, but she still recognizes something in him. Whatever happened must have happened young, because Julia can't imagine being chill like that for years to come.

She nods to him. "My mom's name isn't Eve."

It's a necessity of his position. Not that it didn't come naturally now, after all that happened with the White Witch. Cool and detached, able to look at things objectively no matter what his feelings might be on a matter.

For example, he'd very much like to assist a young woman in need.

Objectively, however, that is a terrible idea. They've no idea where she comes from or what danger she might pose. Even her manner of dress is bizarre.

"You would think that if the High King's subjects are concerned he might do well to assuage their fears with some manner of caution." Telling Sallowpad off, making light of his own concerns, dismissing the trees that sought to mislead her for fear of her origins. And here is Peter spitting in the face of all that well founded concern.

"I mean to say that you are human. And do not hail from the Isles nor from Archenland. He says you are lost, which means you have a destination in mind. But he says nothing to your origins. Telmar? Calormen?" Finally addressing her and not his brother. Peter knows damn well he's messed up and the fact that Edmund is willing to lecture him in front of this woman says as much.

Peter frowned at his brother, safely hidden away from Julia by virtue of standing behind her to smooth the hairs on Niles' back. Lecturing him like that in public wasn't something that was to be taken lightly...but that wasn't entire fair of Edmund, either.

Ed was paranoid of everything. Sallowpad only followed him because Ed had wished it. And the trees? The trees kept her walking because they wanted to give him time to get there. No one was running terrified through the streets, shouts 'spy' at the top of their lungs.

Save Edmund.

Sending Niles away with a light pat and a look, Peter moved to stand next to their newly arrived guest, not saying anything until after she'd said her fill.

"I wonder how many of these questions Mr. Tumnus asked when he found a girl lost in the snow. Or the Beavers." The words were light, but his tone was heavy. This wasn't 'Peter' talking, but the High King, and the look he gave his brother was sharp in those storm colored eyes. "She has broken no law, made no threat, and given no lies. I think I'd rather lead a country that helps the lost rather than automatically sees them as pieces on a chess board."

"Jesus Christ." Julia drops her head a little, rubbing the space between her eyebrows with one hand. She needs a cigarette to deal with this fraternal spat, kings or not. Maybe a beer. Maybe twelve beers.

She grinds her teeth a little while they talk, and while her patience is pretty much shredded, Julia is very smart, and very observant. She hears the changes in Peter's voice, the coolness taking over the ease. She doesn't have time for this, she wants to scream. Who knows how much time is passing back home for every hour she spends here? This is - well it's not a nightmare, she lived the nightmare already. It just fucking sucks.

"Look," she finally says, voice sharp and impatient and ready to burn the world down around her. "I don't have a lot of time to waste here, so if you two could get it over with and move on, that'd be great."

And because she is pretty sure that just her tone - which has stopped a lot of jackasses in their tracks - won't be enough to convince Edmund, she rounds on him.

"I'm from Brooklyn." It's surprisingly difficult not to add bitch after that, which sort of surprises her. Huh. "And I don't know where Calormen or Telmar are, so let's get the fuck on with this already. You wanna know where I'm headed? Fillory. If you can't get me there, then I need to get the fuck back to the Neitherlands so I can do it myself. Is that good enough? Cause if it's not I'm good to march my happy ass back to your asshole forest."

She is really not good to do any marching, and the absolute lack of a car to not-wire her way through is grating on her. Reaching into a pocket, Julia pulls out a pack of cigarettes, shoving one into her mouth before fishing out the lighter. Which, she remembers, as she tries and fails to light it, ran out of juice a while ago.

Fuck it. She's tired. She needs the cigarette. Her lips move silently around the rolled paper, her hand twists oddly at her side, and she clicks the lighter again. The flame springs to life, and she only kind of tries to hide the way the fire has sprouted from her thumb rather than the lighter. It's a fast thing, and she shakes it out of existence the second she can inhale, and inhale deeply.

Pieces on a chessboard.

It's so clearly an accusation, an allusion to Jadis, that Edmund goes from casually on guard to standing ramrod straight in an instant, all ease vanishing from his posture. His stomach drops into his toes and for a moment he feels like he might be sick from the sudden, all encompassing wave of guilt. A measure of caution before inviting strangers into the castle through back entrances and paths that could be used by their enemies hardly seems like treating her as though she is nothing more than a chess piece.

For as much as his posture changes, though, his face steadily becomes more and more neutral, closed off and empty. He nods to his brother, bowing slightly as he does so, about to dismiss himself as clearly as Peter has dismissed him. He doesn't even catch all of what she says at first.

A list of places he doesn't know, though Brooklyn sparks strangely in the back of his mind, as does the gesture to retrieve a cigarette, a vague impression that makes him think of a father, their father? Why-

But she mutters that incantation, flame catches from her fingertip and however subtle she tries to be Edmund is far too horrifyingly familiar with the shiver of magic on the air, especially the kind that bends the laws of nature and elements to the whims of it's user. He could shut down and restrain himself against Peter's words but against this blatant show of witchery on the steps of Cair Paravel he can't stop himself from reacting.

One hand dropping to the hilt of the sword at his side but it's Peter's words that make him hesitate in drawing it, even as he side steps, places himself at an angle to her, not quite next to Peter but in such a stance that his sword would be between them the second she went after the High King.

But she doesn't, not yet, and Peter has been defending her all this time.

He forces himself to ease back, to relax the grip on his sword hilt. His gaze flickers to Peter for only a moment, wounded, betrayed and disgusted. But he barely takes his eyes from her and the threat she poses.

"You choose to bring her hence knowing what she is capable of..." Cold and clipped. "Why not take her to the Table itself if you're so eager to put your faith in her?"

It's mean, biting back just as Peter snapped at him but it's only so because it's the only way to hide the fear that crawls up his spine and breaks his skin into gooseflesh.

"100 years the Witch sought our thrones and now, not 10 years banished you escort another here to take her place. And you accuse me of playing with lives. You never were very good at chess, Brother." And partially because he cannot abide to stay in her presence, partially because he feels it is his duty to warn the staff and his sisters of just what manner of woman Peter has brought them, Edmund steps back, a solid 3 paces before he dares to turn his back and march straight back into the castle.

He felt the chill of magic against his spine just as he'd started top open his mouth to apologize...and then it was too late. Edmund was moving, realization dawning in his little brother's eyes and Peter didn't flinch only by virtue of years of battle and court experience.

He wanted to point out that magic was not an inherently evil thing. He wanted to point out that the Deep Magics were all around them, governing them just as they governed the people. He wanted to remind his brother that they'd once stood next to a Lion who'd breathed the life back into statues that had been stone for nearly a century.

Instead, all he could do was sigh at Ed's retreating back.

"Well. That could have gone better." He tried to make his tone light as he turned back to the woman who'd caused such a fuss in their otherwise wonderfully quiet day. "Come, we'll have our tea in the garden and discuss this 'Fillory' of yours." He gestured with an arm back towards the entrance of the stables and away from the castle proper because now there would be no tea. At least, no tea that wasn't prepared by Peter himself.

Hell, Peter was liable to have to make his own tea until after he'd ridden out again. Maybe not even then, if Edmund's anger was enough. His heart ached, but he tried to keep it from his face as he lead the way to an outdoor seating area.

"Please, sit. You look like you could use the rest."

It's so hard not to laugh at Edmund - not at first, his reaction puts her on high alert and she thinks of half a dozen offensive spells that she thinks she can cast before he can draw that sword. But when he pauses, when he talks, she wants to cackle. Seriously, not even laugh, it's a cackle that's hovering in her breast, halted only by the smoke she's working so hard to breathe in.

When he calls her a witch, though, she barks out a noise, half coughing on the smoke. She has zero problem blowing it right into Edmund's face in the process. A witch. Sure, okay, whatever, it's not like she got into Brakebills, right, not like she's a real magician, just another hedgewitch. Well this hedgebitch has no patience left for boys playing king, no time for this - this kid shit, because it's not her kid shit.

She thinks about flicking her cigarette at Ed's retreating back. Maybe doing the rainbow spell, her very first real one, and smearing the colors across his face. They'd come out in a few weeks. It's all small, petty stuff, and she knows it, and she still wants to laugh and do it anyway. Is this hysteria? This feels like hysteria.

Grinding her teeth down together, Julia presses her fingers against her face, balancing the cigarette without any real care of whether or not she gets ash on herself or burns her fingers.

Still, she follows him, and hates a little bit how rote it is. She should be making her own way, she has been for so long; maybe that's why this is easy. That's why she drops heavily into the chair. Tea matters less than a place to rest, right now. "What's the problem here, Pete?" She rubs at her eyes, drags the cigarette until her lungs feel full of smoke. She wishes they would stay that way, didn't burn for oxygen. "You obviously got some killer fucking magic here, so what's his deal?"

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I'm so sorry he's like this

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