Eliot shakes his head. "It's not, it doesn't matter, it's not a good thing, they-they mess with time..." It's too much to explain though; the tree itself is only part of the worry, because it is out of place, and that's where Eliot's real fear lies, the rules have been tossed away and the neat fairytale order of Fillory is upturned and twisted, anything could happen now. It's never just a dream, especially not when it's Eliot's head they're in. He doesn't trust himself, not exposed, lost, defenseless. Not like this.
"It was supposed to be fun," he manages to say, though it comes out petulant and childish. "This isn't want I wanted, I want—I don't want to be here, I want to go home."
Shit, he sounds so stupid. He can't do this, he can't be like this with Johnny watching. He turns abruptly away from the tree, to get out of here, to find some other way to go.
But he can't. Of course he can't. There's no going anywhere, not now.
The man stands among the trees like he's been there all along, his hands neatly folded in front of him. There's something wrong with his hands. There's something wrong with his everything, and Eliot knows this with a bone-deep certainty. He can't move, he can't, and it doesn't matter that he wasn't even in March's class that day because they all heard the story, everyone at Brakebills knew what happened and now it's happening again. Eliot tastes something sharp and burning in the back of his throat and he can't swallow.
The man tilts his head, though it's impossible to read his expression because his face is obscured, the little leafy branch hovering in front of him, not attached to anything. Eliot wants to shudder, or vomit, or look away but he can't, and he feels so very cold. Please, he thinks, just let it be over quickly.
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"It was supposed to be fun," he manages to say, though it comes out petulant and childish. "This isn't want I wanted, I want—I don't want to be here, I want to go home."
Shit, he sounds so stupid. He can't do this, he can't be like this with Johnny watching. He turns abruptly away from the tree, to get out of here, to find some other way to go.
But he can't. Of course he can't. There's no going anywhere, not now.
The man stands among the trees like he's been there all along, his hands neatly folded in front of him. There's something wrong with his hands. There's something wrong with his everything, and Eliot knows this with a bone-deep certainty. He can't move, he can't, and it doesn't matter that he wasn't even in March's class that day because they all heard the story, everyone at Brakebills knew what happened and now it's happening again. Eliot tastes something sharp and burning in the back of his throat and he can't swallow.
The man tilts his head, though it's impossible to read his expression because his face is obscured, the little leafy branch hovering in front of him, not attached to anything. Eliot wants to shudder, or vomit, or look away but he can't, and he feels so very cold. Please, he thinks, just let it be over quickly.