The silly Jonelias Fantasy AU continues!
***
“How did it go?” Georgie asked him.
“Fine,” Jon said curtly.
“Oh,” she said. “That bad, huh?”
“I said it was fine!” Her smile was soft, sympathetic; she did not deserve to be treated that way. Guilt crept up Jon’s spine, and he tried to soften his tone. “I suppose it could have gone better.”
“I figured,” Georgie said. “Would you like something to drink, then?”
“Please.”
Jon adjusted his glasses and went back to the manuscript, already dotted with notes and corrections. It was a lot of drivel, honestly; he felt stupider for having read it as many times as he did. Well - editing wasn’t the most glamorous of jobs, but it paid the bills.
Few minutes later, the Admiral trotted up to him and rubbed against his legs. Jon scratched the fuzzy little head, and smiled involuntarily when the cat jumped up and curled onto his lap. Sharing the flat with Georgie after their breakup was awkward at times, but he reckoned he wouldn’t want to move out, even if he could afford to.
The Admiral kept him company as he worked, eventually falling asleep. Jon felt like the worst kind of criminal when the time came for him to leave, but he had to get Admiral off his lap. He did so as gently as he could, lifting him and placing him down on a cushion; still the Admiral meowed and twisted around, claws scraping Jon’s hand, wordless accusations in his eyes.
“Sorry,” Jon said. “I have to go.”
He wasn’t being forgiven that easily; the Admiral hissed and turned his back on him, stomping away in the direction of Georgie’s bedroom.
It was well past midnight. He made it to the training area with ten minutes to spare. Unsurprisingly, it was almost deserted: the last few stragglers were leaving, and by the time the clocks struck one a.m., Jon was alone in one of the smaller rooms.
Each room had a similar layout: an arena, encircled with a powerful barrier enchantment that absorbed all errant magic, and chairs or benches outside the barrier, so that spectators could safely watch whatever was happening. Bigger rooms had rows and rows of benches, to accommodate for duels, competitions, spectacles, or other events that invariably drew in huge crowds. That Jon, invariably, avoided.
He sat down in the sand and took out his old textbook. It wouldn’t do him much good right now; lamps and candles had a nasty habit of exploding when exposed to too much magical energy, so they weren’t permitted inside the training rooms. He’d have to rely on what he remembered.
There was one last thing to do. Just one thing.
He ran his fingertips over the clasp of the bracelet. There was no need to worry; no reason to hesitate. Nothing would happen. Nothing could happen. The barrier around him was impenetrable. He had to remember that.
The clasp snapped open. He watched, hypnotized, as the bracelet uncoiled from his wrist and slipped to the ground; it seemed like a living thing, woven from a myriad of delicate strands, each one reflecting the sparse moonlight in its own way, casting a shimmering pattern upon the sand.
It crept around him; Jon held his breath. He could see the light now, more clearly than before. He could see the barrier further away, the intricate pattern of spell work designed to absorb and dissipate energy. He could see every grain of sand seemingly shift in the wind, even though the air was deathly, unnaturally still. He felt the moonlight on his skin like a brand, burning through the layers of flesh. He had thought the room was silent; but there was sound all around him, the delicate chime of his discarded bracelet, buzzing of the barrier, and the rapidly quickening beat of his own heart…
He forced himself to exhale and raised his shaking hands. They looked—they looked like they belonged to a stranger, sluggish to obey his commands, and felt like a thousand needles pricked his skin, sending electric currents down his nerve endings. But he had to—he had to control them. He would control them. It was a simple spell, he knew the gestures and the words, he knew how it should go.
He held his palms together and tried to focus on the space between them. A single point. See it. Feel it. See the infinite possibilities, see not what is, but what could be…
Sharp, sudden pain laced through his palms. Powerful spasm seized his muscles. He collapsed onto the sand, gasping for breath, a wordless scream tearing out of his chest.
It took an agonizingly long moment for his muscles to relax. The pain in his chest subsided once he managed to draw in a handful of unsteady breaths.
Right. So that was that. That’s what would usually happen.
He tried, again and again. Conjuring light was the easiest trick in the book. He had seen children do it without issue. Yet here he was, struggling to do even that.
“You do realize you are going about it completely backwards, do you?”
This time, when the light burst from his hands and momentarily blinded him, Jon yelped and fell backwards. There were spots dancing across his vision and a ringing in his ears.
“How about you mind your own business?” he seethed through clenched teeth and tried to push himself into an upright position. “I don’t recall asking for your advice, so kindly go and fuck yourself—“
The barrier flared; sand shifted. Jon looked up at the approaching figure, and felt his arms give in.
“Master—Master Bouchard.”
Of course it was. Such was Jon’s rotten luck, apparently.
“Hello, Mr Sims,” Bouchard said, clearly amused.
“I didn’t know you’d be here,” Jon said.
He was still flat on his arse. Bouchard was looking down at him. He scrambled to get up with as much dignity as he could muster in this situation.
“Yes, I figured,” Bouchard said. “I do owe you an apology. I did not mean to frighten you.”
“I’m not frightened,” Jon snapped. “I—why are you here?”
He felt the cackle of electricity on his tongue; he could almost see it in the air around him.
Inexplicably, Bouchard’s smile widened. He offered Jon his hand and Jon took it without thinking, letting himself be pulled upwards, until they were eye to eye and—
He saw a reflection of himself in Bouchard’s pale eyes, the image clear and sharp, every detail of his own face, the messy hairdo, skewed glasses, sheen of sweat on his forehead; his own eyes, widened, dark, a faintest glimmer within the depths of them; his half-opened mouth; and then he was looking at the man in front of him, the images superimposed on one another, and then stretching all the way to infinity, like standing between two mirrors…
Strong arms caught him as he was about to collapse, a terrible ache splitting his head open. His vision swam, and blurred; he tried to close his eyes, but there was no reprieve to be found in darkness.
“Breathe, Jon.”
He tried to focus on that: the movements of his chest, the flow of air through his lungs.
Eventually he realized he was clinging onto Master Bouchard like a swooning maiden. He was almost too mortified to let go.
“What’s happening to me?” he asked, in a voice that was dangerously close to a whimper.
“Well, it appears you are attempting to weave magic you have absolutely no control over,” Bouchard said. “Which is rather foolish, if I may add.” Jon blinked. “I already know how you feel about unsolicited advice,” Bouchard explained, smirking.
“Oh! Oh.” Jon took a hasty step back and rubbed his upper arms, gaze stuck on the ground by Bouchard’s gleaming shoes. “I—apologize. That was rude of me.”
“No, you were in the right. I shouldn’t have startled you,” Bouchard said. “But it seemed like you were in danger of hurting yourself.”
“I wasn’t—“ Jon began. A quick glance at Bouchard’s raised eyebrows stopped him in his tracks. “Well. Maybe. Maybe a bit.” He let out a long breath. “Thank you, Master,” he said stiffly.
Bouchard’s smile worried him; his gaze worried him more. Yet Jon couldn’t bring himself to look away once their eyes met.