so hey, remember when I said I wasn’t going to write any more Jonelias? but then things happened, we started chatting about a fantasy AU on the Jonelias discord server, and, uh. I wrote a short ficlet set in said AU…?

***

Jon knocked on the door, once, twice; his hands shook slightly, so the rhythm of it was unpleasantly erratic. Should he knock again? He didn’t want to appear rude or impatient, but he also didn’t want to risk being too quiet. If the man didn’t hear him, if he thought Jon was running late—

“Come in.”

He took in a steadying breath and pushed the door open. Immediately he stepped into a patch of sunlight, streaming directly from the huge, ornate window on the opposite wall. He blinked, narrowed his eyes; the desk was silhouetted against the bright sky, and it took him a moment to adjust.

“Mr Sims, I presume?”

“I—yes. Jonathan Sims. Er.” Jon cleared his throat. “Thank you for agreeing to meet me, Master Bouchard. It’s an. An honour.”

“Oh, the pleasure is all mine,” Master Bouchard said smoothly. “Please, take a seat.”

He gestured at a chair in front of his desk. Jon took a few careful steps in its direction, and then sat down on the edge of the seat, taking care not to slouch. The bag he forgot to take off his shoulder dangled awkwardly. He had to shuffle around to remove it, and first placed it on his lap, before setting it down on the floor next to the chair. His hands were sweaty; he wiped them off on his trousers before he could think better of it, and then attempted to smooth the resultant creases in the fabric. His left cuff rode up an inch, so he tugged it down, and made sure it laid snug and secure around his wrist. Only then did he manage to look up.

Master Bouchard was watching him, the corner of his mouth twitching momentarily before settling into a polite smile. His steel-grey eyes flickered down to Jon’s hands, no doubt noting all the nervous gestures. His gaze felt—weighty. Not unsympathetic, just—

Jon swallowed.

“Shall we begin, then?” Bouchard asked. “Your resume is quite impressive for one so young, Mr Sims. Five publications across two journals…”

“Three,” Jon said. “I mean—I wrote three articles. For the other two, I was a co-author… mostly editorial input…” Again, he tried to clear his throat. He shouldn’t have interrupted a Master; he should have kept his mouth shut. Damn.

But Bouchard didn’t seem frazzled by the blatant disrespect. He opened a file on his desk – Jon’s file. Jon’s resume, his letter of recommendation, a printout of the articles, his diploma… Bouchard skimmed the contents. Had he read them before? He must have had. Or maybe he didn’t have time in his busy schedule to review every single applicant. But, then again – why invite Jon for a meeting?

“Why do you want to study Divination, Mr Sims?” Bouchard asked.

This question, Jon knew to expect. He managed to recite his well-rehearsed answer with no incriminating pauses or unnecessary repetitions. Finally.

“What about practical spellwork?” Bouchard asked.

Jon paused for a second. “I don’t—I’m not really well-versed in that area. I prefer theory to practice.”

“Did you take any of the relevant courses?”

Damn. Damn.

“I, uh,” Jon stammered. “I took one semester of the introductory module. It was—well—it wasn’t a subject I wanted to pursue.”

Let that be it, Jon thought. Obviously it came up; it had to come up. Very few people enrolled at the Institute to study theory.

“Can you show me what you have learned?”

“I didn’t learn anything,” Jon said sharply. He flinched, then, at the tone of his voice, and at the implications – that he was too lazy or too stupid to learn. It made him look exceedingly unprofessional. “I meant—I don’t see how this is relevant to the position I’m applying for,” he amended. Then, hastily: “Master.”

“A peculiar question,” Bouchard said. “You yourself wrote several paragraphs on the potential interference of errant magic on pre-existing enchantments.”

“I do not use magic,” Jon said. “I won’t be causing any interferences.”

“Even so. Accidents happen.”

“They won’t.” Jon grabbed his sleeve and shoved it upwards, exposing his wrist, and the thin, silver bracelet encircling it, with its webbing of faintly pulsating strands. “Whatever magic I might accidentally use will be fully suppressed. It’s not going to be a problem.”

Bouchard was watching him attentively, gaze flickering between the bracelet and Jon’s face. He didn’t seem surprised; was it written down somewhere in Jon’s file, then? Or did he have some other means of detecting such objects? Some mages were reportedly able to sense the subtle alterations in a person’s aura, the miniscule difference between absent and suppressed magic, even without the relevant spells or implements. But Jon could hardly believe those reports. They seemed rather far-fetched.

“May I?” Bouchard asked. His meaning became clear when he leaned forward and extended his hand, palm up, inviting. Jon examined it, warily. Was he expected to remove the bracelet? Bouchard wasn’t expecting him to do something that foolish, did he?

It seemed rude to keep him waiting, though. And Jon was on thin enough ground as it was. So, slowly, he placed his hand on the desk, within range of Bouchard’s touch.

He couldn’t help flinching in his seat when the man’s long, slender fingers brushed his bare skin. Bouchard’s hand was warm, textured with callouses, scars and imperfections; its movements were clever and purposeful, as he examined the bracelet. He wasn’t using magic, as far as Jon could tell. Or maybe he was, and it was too subtle for Jon to notice.

“Remarkable,” Bouchard said under his breath.

Jon slipped his hand from the man’s hold and drew back, tugging the sleeve down, nearly to the level of his knuckles, to make sure the thing was completely covered. He didn’t want to meet Bouchard’s gaze. Mostly, he just wanted to go home.