1st of Ymiden 718, Early Morning
Jonathan woke again. Thankfully, from a sleep that was full of good dreams. Not confusing dreams like sleeping with Hob or adventuring into Emea. No, he'd fallen asleep and awoken inside a geode, and spent the rest of his dream looking at the crystals and laying lazily on his back. He laid on his stomach, sighing and nuzzling into his pillow a little bit. He wanted to go back and visit that dream. It had been so peaceful. So serene. So full of nothing but his own thoughts and the quiet scintillation of the crystal. He closed his eyes again, but Emea wouldn't come. So he ran his fingers through his hair and put his chin on his forearms...or tried to. Something poked him sharply in the chin and he jerked his head back. Confusion, horrifying and cold, crept through his thoughts. Why couldn't he feel the pillow under his arms? He slowly lifted a forearm and rotated it around so he could examine it properly.
Skin gave way to rock. Tiny little shards of what he believed to be topaz stuck up out of his skin, growing until they knitted together like dragon scales. While they laid somewhat flat against his skin, they also caught on things. He had to gently extricate his transformed forearm from the bedsheets so he could look at it properly. The fingers of his other hand danced along the crystals as if afraid to touch them. He could feel when the moved them, or experimentally wiggled one. Tugging one was just as painful as trying to rip out fingernails, and he stopped that almost as soon as he started it.
It was...beautiful. He lifted his forearm to the morning light. Orange light threw itself against the wall of his room, sunlight filtering through the amber-colored gemstone studding his arm. It extended up to his palm and elbow, where it artfully petered away into tiny filaments of yellow and clear stone. It looked like his arm was afire, frozen in time. Jon tapped at one of the larger crystals. Hm. There was a line along his forearm where he couldn't quite feel anything anymore. When he laid his arm down on the bed, he could feel pressure, but not the softness of the sheets. He shifted his arms to pull himself up onto his knees, and winced when he heard the loud punctuation of tearing. Oh no. He looked at his other arm and picked a tangled rag out of it. That had probably been part of his sheets. He sat up properly and moved his arms. Light refracted through them and painted his walls the colors of sunsets.
This was a strange thing to have happen but...he liked it. He moved to lay on his back, and felt a similar 'grab' of the crystals against his mattress. Uh oh. They were there too? He pulled himself up again, shimmying his back to try and prevent as much ripping as possible. It occurred to him he'd have to get stronger sheets, or tell Alistair what had happened. He winced; he wasn't sure his lover was going to like this. Just the thought of the shifting back and forth while in the missionary position meant he'd be slowly cheese-grating the mattress. But if this was what it was like to gain power with his magic...he grinned. His spark was making him reflect who he was on the outside. His love of rock and gemstones had burst forth from his skin, transformed from soft flesh into cold beauty.
His grin faded when he felt a little coolness on his face. Or rather, in a place where that temperature shouldn't be. The inside of his mouth. He froze, the expression molded on his face but his eyes going wide in panic. Why did his face feel so strange? He lifted one of his hands, shaking this time, and all of the joy from the crystals went sour. He touched his lips, and felt a wide split. He could feel where his lips had neatly separated, right in the center. They opened up in a V shape, pulling his lips wide and exposing his gums to the air. Jon stopped his smile and the lip pieces settled up together. Dear gods, what was this? Had he been mutilated? Attacked? He pulled one half of his lower lip, and fingered the inside of the separation. No, no raw pain or wound greeted him. This looked like it had been there years despite appearing overnight. Fear washed over him and he yanked himself out of bed, tugging on his trousers and rushing to one of the mirrors Alistair kept in the surgery.
He looked normal. At first. Just a little seam starting at just below his nose and ending at his chin bone. He tried to grin again. His lips spread wider, wider, then slowly peeled apart. He moved one half first, watching in grotesque fascination as the left half of his lower lip waggled independently in the air. Then the other half. Then the upper lips both together and apart. "Hah!" he tried yelling at the mirror, baring his teeth. That produced the most interesting reaction. His lip flaps opened up wide and flung outward, exposing his teeth, gums, mouth, and most of the area his lips would normally cover. He could see every fleshy part of his mouth and it horrified him. Jon snapped his face shut, and retched.
It was lucky this was a surgery. He seized a small bucket and vomited in it.
That was a mistake. Vomit caught between his lips and he had to clean in between them as well as the main horizontal slit. Touching them made him retch again. What had happened to him? He didn't feel any agony other than the pain in his stomach. "W-why are these here?" he mumbled to himself. Thank the gods, at least he could still talk. How could he fix it? Sewing it up? Maybe he could get Alistair to...shave a little flesh off each side and sew it up. Yes, yes that would work. He set the bucket down, turned, and nearly ran into Hob.
'Stop. I can't stay here for long, not like this, but stop it. Right now.' Hob said sternly. 'Don't you dare ask your mate to fix this. You aren't broken. This isn't a curse. It's not something horrible. It's a gift, Jon. We have consecrated ourselves to each other. Your face looks like mine. Be grateful you didn't sprout rabbit ears or have your tongue split. Sharing ether has become less of a bond and more of an umbilicus. We both break it at our own peril now. Separation is now next to impossible. We are each others', for better or worse. Now, zip up your face. It won't separate unless you move them independently. You're going to have to start thinking about them as four pieces instead of two. Gentle pressure will move them both together. Try it. Open your mouth, and press inward with your lips.'
Jon slowly regained control over himself. He took in deep breaths through his nose, closed his eyes for a few minutes, and then opened them. Hob was gone. He slowly did as Hob commanded, opening his mouth as wide as it would go while gently pressing inward with the flaps themselves. The affect was almost...normal. He sighed in relief and sank down to the floor of the surgery. He let his arms flop at his sides, and winced when he heard the loud tinkle of crystal on stone. A glance reassured him that the mutations weren't chipped or broken, and in fact had left little white scars on the floor. These would take some adjusting to.
'Good. You'll be fine. Not all of these are visible. Yours just happened to be. You might discover more things about yourself that you need to learn...seep your ether into the floor. Flex your muscles.'
Jon looked at the scars in the floor, and spread himself into them. His ether plunged into them, seeking them out, and pulling forth the little shards of stone he'd chipped off. They dragged them along the floor as if on the backs of tiny, invisible ants. The tiny chips settled into the scars, fitting the broken bits back together. A little more pushing, and the parts became a whole once again. The littlest fragments seemed to melt back into one like ice into water. He could repair things now. Repairing stone felt beautiful, it was like stretching a sore muscle and feeling the satisfying ache that resulted. It was a spiritual thing. He laid down on the stone floor and spread his hands along the ground. He spread his power through the tiles. He strengthened rotten grout and pulled chipped stones back together. This was such a new feeling...he closed his eyes and savored knitting a cracked tile in the corner back together. The way the stone obeyed him and zipped up its own wound at his will.
Perhaps, it wasn't all bad. He found peace in that moment laying on the floor. Hopefully Alistair would agree.
Jonathan woke again. Thankfully, from a sleep that was full of good dreams. Not confusing dreams like sleeping with Hob or adventuring into Emea. No, he'd fallen asleep and awoken inside a geode, and spent the rest of his dream looking at the crystals and laying lazily on his back. He laid on his stomach, sighing and nuzzling into his pillow a little bit. He wanted to go back and visit that dream. It had been so peaceful. So serene. So full of nothing but his own thoughts and the quiet scintillation of the crystal. He closed his eyes again, but Emea wouldn't come. So he ran his fingers through his hair and put his chin on his forearms...or tried to. Something poked him sharply in the chin and he jerked his head back. Confusion, horrifying and cold, crept through his thoughts. Why couldn't he feel the pillow under his arms? He slowly lifted a forearm and rotated it around so he could examine it properly.
Skin gave way to rock. Tiny little shards of what he believed to be topaz stuck up out of his skin, growing until they knitted together like dragon scales. While they laid somewhat flat against his skin, they also caught on things. He had to gently extricate his transformed forearm from the bedsheets so he could look at it properly. The fingers of his other hand danced along the crystals as if afraid to touch them. He could feel when the moved them, or experimentally wiggled one. Tugging one was just as painful as trying to rip out fingernails, and he stopped that almost as soon as he started it.
It was...beautiful. He lifted his forearm to the morning light. Orange light threw itself against the wall of his room, sunlight filtering through the amber-colored gemstone studding his arm. It extended up to his palm and elbow, where it artfully petered away into tiny filaments of yellow and clear stone. It looked like his arm was afire, frozen in time. Jon tapped at one of the larger crystals. Hm. There was a line along his forearm where he couldn't quite feel anything anymore. When he laid his arm down on the bed, he could feel pressure, but not the softness of the sheets. He shifted his arms to pull himself up onto his knees, and winced when he heard the loud punctuation of tearing. Oh no. He looked at his other arm and picked a tangled rag out of it. That had probably been part of his sheets. He sat up properly and moved his arms. Light refracted through them and painted his walls the colors of sunsets.
This was a strange thing to have happen but...he liked it. He moved to lay on his back, and felt a similar 'grab' of the crystals against his mattress. Uh oh. They were there too? He pulled himself up again, shimmying his back to try and prevent as much ripping as possible. It occurred to him he'd have to get stronger sheets, or tell Alistair what had happened. He winced; he wasn't sure his lover was going to like this. Just the thought of the shifting back and forth while in the missionary position meant he'd be slowly cheese-grating the mattress. But if this was what it was like to gain power with his magic...he grinned. His spark was making him reflect who he was on the outside. His love of rock and gemstones had burst forth from his skin, transformed from soft flesh into cold beauty.
His grin faded when he felt a little coolness on his face. Or rather, in a place where that temperature shouldn't be. The inside of his mouth. He froze, the expression molded on his face but his eyes going wide in panic. Why did his face feel so strange? He lifted one of his hands, shaking this time, and all of the joy from the crystals went sour. He touched his lips, and felt a wide split. He could feel where his lips had neatly separated, right in the center. They opened up in a V shape, pulling his lips wide and exposing his gums to the air. Jon stopped his smile and the lip pieces settled up together. Dear gods, what was this? Had he been mutilated? Attacked? He pulled one half of his lower lip, and fingered the inside of the separation. No, no raw pain or wound greeted him. This looked like it had been there years despite appearing overnight. Fear washed over him and he yanked himself out of bed, tugging on his trousers and rushing to one of the mirrors Alistair kept in the surgery.
He looked normal. At first. Just a little seam starting at just below his nose and ending at his chin bone. He tried to grin again. His lips spread wider, wider, then slowly peeled apart. He moved one half first, watching in grotesque fascination as the left half of his lower lip waggled independently in the air. Then the other half. Then the upper lips both together and apart. "Hah!" he tried yelling at the mirror, baring his teeth. That produced the most interesting reaction. His lip flaps opened up wide and flung outward, exposing his teeth, gums, mouth, and most of the area his lips would normally cover. He could see every fleshy part of his mouth and it horrified him. Jon snapped his face shut, and retched.
It was lucky this was a surgery. He seized a small bucket and vomited in it.
That was a mistake. Vomit caught between his lips and he had to clean in between them as well as the main horizontal slit. Touching them made him retch again. What had happened to him? He didn't feel any agony other than the pain in his stomach. "W-why are these here?" he mumbled to himself. Thank the gods, at least he could still talk. How could he fix it? Sewing it up? Maybe he could get Alistair to...shave a little flesh off each side and sew it up. Yes, yes that would work. He set the bucket down, turned, and nearly ran into Hob.
'Stop. I can't stay here for long, not like this, but stop it. Right now.' Hob said sternly. 'Don't you dare ask your mate to fix this. You aren't broken. This isn't a curse. It's not something horrible. It's a gift, Jon. We have consecrated ourselves to each other. Your face looks like mine. Be grateful you didn't sprout rabbit ears or have your tongue split. Sharing ether has become less of a bond and more of an umbilicus. We both break it at our own peril now. Separation is now next to impossible. We are each others', for better or worse. Now, zip up your face. It won't separate unless you move them independently. You're going to have to start thinking about them as four pieces instead of two. Gentle pressure will move them both together. Try it. Open your mouth, and press inward with your lips.'
Jon slowly regained control over himself. He took in deep breaths through his nose, closed his eyes for a few minutes, and then opened them. Hob was gone. He slowly did as Hob commanded, opening his mouth as wide as it would go while gently pressing inward with the flaps themselves. The affect was almost...normal. He sighed in relief and sank down to the floor of the surgery. He let his arms flop at his sides, and winced when he heard the loud tinkle of crystal on stone. A glance reassured him that the mutations weren't chipped or broken, and in fact had left little white scars on the floor. These would take some adjusting to.
'Good. You'll be fine. Not all of these are visible. Yours just happened to be. You might discover more things about yourself that you need to learn...seep your ether into the floor. Flex your muscles.'
Jon looked at the scars in the floor, and spread himself into them. His ether plunged into them, seeking them out, and pulling forth the little shards of stone he'd chipped off. They dragged them along the floor as if on the backs of tiny, invisible ants. The tiny chips settled into the scars, fitting the broken bits back together. A little more pushing, and the parts became a whole once again. The littlest fragments seemed to melt back into one like ice into water. He could repair things now. Repairing stone felt beautiful, it was like stretching a sore muscle and feeling the satisfying ache that resulted. It was a spiritual thing. He laid down on the stone floor and spread his hands along the ground. He spread his power through the tiles. He strengthened rotten grout and pulled chipped stones back together. This was such a new feeling...he closed his eyes and savored knitting a cracked tile in the corner back together. The way the stone obeyed him and zipped up its own wound at his will.
Perhaps, it wasn't all bad. He found peace in that moment laying on the floor. Hopefully Alistair would agree.
