When they come to get Jon in the early morning, he's waiting, awake but quiet, sitting on the edge of his bunk. He just nods to his cellmates as he rises, and goes with the guards without argument. He hopes to see Martin one more time, but they take him in the wrong direction, through a door at the end of the corridor.
“That's not necessary,” he says in nervous irritation when they grab his arms to tie him. He doesn't pull away, but they still shove him hard against the wall, one boot jamming against the back of his knee to keep him there as they bind his arms. There's been an anger in the way the guards have treated him, every day since he was brought down here. It feels at fever pitch now. When the eye in the back of his neck opens to stare at the guard tying him, the man hits the back of his head hard enough that his forehead bounces off the stone. “Stop that shit.”
Jon doesn't answer, but the eye doesn't close.
He's taken out of the dungeon then, hustled through corridors of the castle, and shoved onto a bench in another small room. This one has a window, at least, but the view is grim. Jon stares out the window at the gallows, at the man rigging a noose from it.
He's afraid.
He's tired of waiting.
The two feelings don't lie well together and he hates it, the stomach-twisting nausea of it. It reminds him of the Distortion. And the Unknowing.
He tries again to reach the Horizon, not to escape but to escape the moment, but it remains out of his reach. He can't reach anything he might describe as a meditative state. He's not sure he ever has in his life.
By the time he's pulled up off the bench to come outside, every eye is open, and his view of the courtyard is fractured and confusing. He fixes three eyes on Ambrose when they meet at the foot of the new-cut wooden steps, and just nods. They have nothing to say to each other. The guard on his left – the same one from before – grabs the back of his collar to escort him up those stair. Jon makes the mistake of looking up, at the gallows looming above him. The noose is black against the bright blue sky.
He doesn't intend to look out at the assemblage either, but his eyes aren't giving him the option. It's the eyes on his shoulder, his ankles, that rove over those gathered, and he follows their gaze in surprise. Not enough people. That isn't enough people.
Jon's shoulders slump in relief when he realizes what's missing; the prisoners aren't here. Martin isn't here. But he spots Coraline just as the guards position him on the trapdoor. He meets her eyes, taking a shallow breath. All he can give her is a look of wry apology, and then he looks away again as they put the noose over his head.
When Ambrose speaks, Jon looks aside at him, his lips pressing thin. Until 'intention of lethal harm,' when his expression sharpens with offense. “You're a liar, Ambrose,” he snaps, voice raised above the High Mage's final words.
As last words go, maybe he can live with those.
And may be he won't have to.
Glaring at Ambrose, waiting for the ground to drop from underneath him, it takes Jon a moment to realize he's not just pausing for effect. A moment for the commotion below the gallows to penetrate.
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“That's not necessary,” he says in nervous irritation when they grab his arms to tie him. He doesn't pull away, but they still shove him hard against the wall, one boot jamming against the back of his knee to keep him there as they bind his arms. There's been an anger in the way the guards have treated him, every day since he was brought down here. It feels at fever pitch now. When the eye in the back of his neck opens to stare at the guard tying him, the man hits the back of his head hard enough that his forehead bounces off the stone.
“Stop that shit.”
Jon doesn't answer, but the eye doesn't close.
He's taken out of the dungeon then, hustled through corridors of the castle, and shoved onto a bench in another small room. This one has a window, at least, but the view is grim. Jon stares out the window at the gallows, at the man rigging a noose from it.
He's afraid.
He's tired of waiting.
The two feelings don't lie well together and he hates it, the stomach-twisting nausea of it. It reminds him of the Distortion. And the Unknowing.
He tries again to reach the Horizon, not to escape but to escape the moment, but it remains out of his reach. He can't reach anything he might describe as a meditative state. He's not sure he ever has in his life.
By the time he's pulled up off the bench to come outside, every eye is open, and his view of the courtyard is fractured and confusing. He fixes three eyes on Ambrose when they meet at the foot of the new-cut wooden steps, and just nods. They have nothing to say to each other. The guard on his left – the same one from before – grabs the back of his collar to escort him up those stair. Jon makes the mistake of looking up, at the gallows looming above him. The noose is black against the bright blue sky.
He doesn't intend to look out at the assemblage either, but his eyes aren't giving him the option. It's the eyes on his shoulder, his ankles, that rove over those gathered, and he follows their gaze in surprise. Not enough people. That isn't enough people.
Jon's shoulders slump in relief when he realizes what's missing; the prisoners aren't here. Martin isn't here. But he spots Coraline just as the guards position him on the trapdoor. He meets her eyes, taking a shallow breath. All he can give her is a look of wry apology, and then he looks away again as they put the noose over his head.
When Ambrose speaks, Jon looks aside at him, his lips pressing thin. Until 'intention of lethal harm,' when his expression sharpens with offense. “You're a liar, Ambrose,” he snaps, voice raised above the High Mage's final words.
As last words go, maybe he can live with those.
And may be he won't have to.
Glaring at Ambrose, waiting for the ground to drop from underneath him, it takes Jon a moment to realize he's not just pausing for effect. A moment for the commotion below the gallows to penetrate.