Chapter 4 : Martin

"Are you really sure this is a good idea Henry?"

Martin strides up and down in what a less charitable man would call pacing. He doesn't look at the other man, instead preferring to run his hands along Henry's leather-bound books softly. He's always had a soft spot for the written word, despite certain…unsavoury associations that the smell of old paper can bring up.

…a small study, a roaring fire, his nerveless fingers fumbling with the buttons of his shirt…

With the ease that comes from long practise, Martin banishes the memory. He doesn't, however, stop pacing.

Henry Fogg is not by any definition a generous man. Indeed, he is more blunt and to the point than even the average American, especially when it comes to the safety of his students.

"Martin," he says, not unkindly, "You've said it yourself. Ember and Umber have been grooming magicians, good magicians, often from my own school, and using then as disposable power sources."

"Damaged goods," Martin murmurs. "Who's to say that they would be able to function in society in any case? By all accounts Eliot was drinking himself to an early grave. We Chosen"- he imbues a certain sardonic air to this word, "-have neither the best of lives, nor the best of coping habits. Perhaps they are doing us a favour, allowing us to dedicate our lives to some greater good before we burn ourselves out."

Henry snorts. He rises from his desk, and moves to stand behind Martin, carefully staying in his line of sight. It's for the best, Martin supposes, he is still jumpy at the best of times, and with all the memories that this unfortunate incident is unearthing there's no telling what he would do if he was startled.

"You don't truly believe that," Henry replies, "Or you wouldn't have agreed to meet me."

Martin shakes his head. He's not sure what possessed him to come.

"You came because you want to help. Because you don't want what happened to you to happen to anyone else."

"Was I talking out loud again?" Martin asks. He's not too worried. It happens. At his age he's stopped worrying about appearing eccentric: he is after all a white man with an accent; he can get away with some eccentricities.

"No. But I know you. I've known you for years."

Martin finally sits down, taking perverse pleasure in claiming Henry's office chair. Henry says nothing, although the set of his mouth does look a little strained. Good. The day that he stops being able to take pleasure in pettiness is the day that he dopes himself catatonic and gives up on the world.

"It's not that simple." Martin says. "You don't think that over the years I've tried to stop them? Do you know how many Chosen ones I've saved Henry?"

He laughs bitterly.

"None. Zilch. Zero! In fact, over the past seventy years, one could even say that I've saved negative one."

"Jane's death wasn't you fault," Henry says gently.

"Don't talk to me of my sister, and don't tell me what I have or have not done." Martin says tightly.

He takes a moment to compose himself.

"In any case, even clever Jane wasn't able to completely save a Chosen."

Martin makes a quick dismissive gesture with both of his hands as if shaking off droplets of water, and the illusion magic melts away. Dull gold gleams around both wrists. He can almost feel the weight of a crown on his brow, although thankfully Jane was at least able to dispose of that.

"I can't get rid of them. Magic, mundane methods. I even tried taking a chainsaw to them after having consumed a distressing amount of cocaine. Not even a dent."

He presents both wrists to Henry with a particular flourish, a magician's 'Tada!'. The brand on his chest itches, but he ignores it.

"I can never truly escape Fillory. And so long as I wear these, I'm afraid that I can't act against Umber and Ember either. Not in word, or deed. It took all of my strength to tell Quentin that the button was likely located in Plover's house. There is no possibility that I will be any help in this conflict."

Henry rolls his eyes and stands up abruptly. Martin doesn't flinch but holds himself carefully.

"Look at you man!" Henry fairly roars, "You're a powerful magician, perhaps one of the most powerful on Earth! Magic is pain, and you've been through enough of it to power several goddam nuclear missiles. You know the lay of the land, the secret rituals, simple logistics like where they keep the Chosen. Stop blaming the Universe for dicking you over and get over yourself! So, you can't attack those overgrown farm animals: have you finally wallowed in self-pity for long enough that your mind has atrophied? Or is that that the astounding number of drugs you've poisoned yourself with in your fucking search for death have finally made your what's left of your brain dribble out your ears?"

Silence.

"Fine." Martin says at last. "Fine. Once the children get back from their little quest in England, I'll attempt to drum something of use into their heads. You understand though that they'll have to be the ones doing all of the footwork," Martin continues quickly, cutting off whatever objection Henry was going to make, "As I literally can't work against Fillory."

"I'm sure that we can find a way around that- "

Martin snatches a letter opener from Henry's desk and viciously slices it down his wrist in one practise movement. Blood spurts out, and he takes satisfaction in the fact it will be a pain to remove from the antique hardwood floor.

He doesn't notice his illusion dropping, and it is sixteen-year-old Martin Chatwin that look up at Henry, blood dripping down his arm finally obscuring the hated cuff, a feral look in his eyes.

"What-?" Henry starts, but his stops short as he sees the spurting blood subside, and then stop entirely. Martin uses his sleeve to wipe away the red liquid and holds his arm up to display nothing more than a pale white scar. One of many.

"They took away my ability to resist in every way possible," he says. He turns his back and starts preparing a portal. He's finished being nice. Henry's guilt trip was successful enough: he'll help this doomed group, but that doesn't mean that he wants to stick around listening to 'motivational' speeches until then. In any case, he needs to take the opportunity to find enough narcotics to dull the pain of being if he's to relive any memory of Fillory. Especially since he's seen the stack of Fillory books on Quentin's bed, and spotted the fanatical gleam in his eyes as he introduced himself. Perhaps an emotion bottle would do the trick.

"Let me know when the survivors return from England, Henry. Don't contact me until then." He glances back once before stepping through.

"Don't look so glum Henry!" he says lightly, "Worst comes to worst I can at least act as cannon fodder. And who knows? Maybe it'll take this time."

And with that he's gone.

"Fucking drama queen," mutters Fogg.