- "God dammit!"
There was a sharp, distinct smell in the air. It was suffocating like smoke, but it didn't taste like fire; instead it felt like the weight of the world bearing down, or maybe like the crushing sensation of a steel-toed boot on your chest. The waves lapped seamlessly at the shore like a video on smooth, uninterrupted repeat. Around Shiloh was a small ring, the stone-sand shore smoldering where it had been touched with magic.
Shiloh's hands too—they were a mess—bloody and smeared red and burned open. He flexed them experimentally as a bead of sweat rolled down the side of his face. Cursing, he went to the shore of the beach to dunk his hands into the saltwater, and god did it sting, the expression on his face twisted with pain. When he tore them away, they were soft with moss, the burns all but gone, but the deep gashes along the meat of his hands still deep and sore.
He had to practice his magic if he wanted to go anywhere with it. As a principal, he had a whole s**t load of magic, but not enough experience to do anything with it. As the key in particular, he wanted to expand on his abilities as a lock. He could open things, he could close things; he wanted to control the flow of things too, and that's why he was here, far away from civilization where nothing could be harmed by the sheer influx of his own magical potential.
A box cutter came out of his pocket and into his palm again, right along the same deep gash. In a slow circle, he let it drip out along the circle, his movements a little haggard and tired. It was clear he'd been spending the bulk of his afternoon doing this.
Taking his spot in the center of the ring, his eyes drifted shut. "Okay... again."
He could feel the swath of magic collected around him, building up within him, venting through the pores in his skin and the cuts in his hand. The ring started to sprout with flora, the drops of his blood serving as a conduit for their existence. He let that magic build, and build, and build, and—and he could move it, at least he felt like he could—like play-dough, or something else that was soft and malleable. Again the air started to charge. Again it felt heavy, like a catastrophe was about to happen. The plants were wavering, the air was turning blue, the ruby-red blood was starting to darken to a deep, earthen color.
His palms were curved towards each other, gently hovering around a physical form of the magic present and building, as if what he was holding in his hands was a tiny bomb. And then his hands drew back with a quick motion, and like a snap they clapped together.
The ring exhumed a sharp sound, a prismatic structure bubbled up into a dome with Shiloh in the middle, the air felt crushing. Shiloh was holding his breath, keeping hold on his focus, pushing all that magic he'd collected out.
And the dome collapsed—shattered like red hot glass—and the ring burned and suddenly the plants were engulfed in a sulfuric smelling flame and the connection he'd used—the blood—his hand blazed too, and he screamed.
"God DAMMIT."
Back to the ocean. Wash, rinse, repeat.
What are you trying to do, little lamb? When he got mad—frustrated—he always heard her voice gently chastising him. And here I thought I taught you better...
He dragged himself back to the center of the circle and sat down, his posture slumped and exhausted looking. Maybe he was going about this the wrong way. Maybe he was being too brash and impatient and harsh. Maybe he needed to be gentler. His eyes fell shut. His hand stung like it'd been swarmed with hornets. Breathe in. Breathe out.
"Again."
This time he drew with a small trail of light—the symbol of a lock, one that he'd used so much in recent events. It stayed there, hovered in the air in front of him.
His hands touched the ground. The circle, the sand-turned-glass, the rocks that had shattered from the heat of the magic, they shifted slightly. Focus on the magic, feel the magic, allow the magic to flow through you and serve you. His hand lifted again, the blade came out, the blood dripped into the earth. This time he smeared it against the lock, and he said forcefully: "STOP. BLOCK."
The dome never came this time. Instead the light of the lock shot out to form its own ring, parallel with the circle aggressively burned into the ground, and the light broke apart to spell things in symbols and words that Shiloh couldn't read or understand. They were more complex than that—racing through his mind right now were memories and emotions. Alexis losing their powers. Eve stripped of hers. The room he'd met Noeh in, how it felt like his magic had passively been blocked. Memories weren't a language, but if they were, the runes spelled around around him would've been the closest thing. There was no sharp sound. There was no feeling of weight, of pervasive doom.
The ground around him promptly de-saturated into a dark gray-scale, spread out until it hit the edge of the ring. Shiloh's breath caught like he was afraid to move, and yet his eyes opened with an untamed curiosity.
His magic felt dead. He stood up. No flowers grew, the scent of rain had long passed, even his veins stopped itching. The flowers on his palm withered slowly and fell away, the blood on his palm running thinly. Here, in this ring, the magic was forced out. It was at bay.
"Open."
His voice was a whisper, but the magic reacted with a rush, the color returning, the magic flooding back into him. The ring broke with a quiet sound. His hand flourished into flowers again and nothing burned. He snapped his finger and the sensation returned—the dull, the grey—snapped his finger, it stopped. On. Off. Lock. Unlock.
"About ********' time..."