Answers were provided, though Zarik did not find himself happy with them. He thought of what Alistair said about eagerness, then considered his initiation into Transmutation… it seemed true enough. He’d been eager but hadn’t expected such pain, or his yearning for the tranquility of Emea. It hadn’t been his eagerness that got him through that initiation, for his enthusiasm had been forgotten in the first several trills of intense pain.
Kleine requested patience, as there was no possibility of ether being transferred to help Alistair's initiation. To the request, Zarik simply nodded. He didn’t find it an insult, though he mentally questioned whether the Lothar would hold true to his agreement to initiate Alistair. Especially after Zarik went through the process… it wasn’t his husband he was concerned about, but the other mage who might refuse Alistair through the factual claim that the couple could still produce heirs without the nobleman taking on a fifth spark.
He switched his attention to Alistair. There was little else he could do but extend trust in the matter. He had sincerely meant that he wanted to move forward swiftly, and if that meant he would have to initiate first, then it was simply another contortion of his boundaries that his Acrobat spark thrilled to twist into.
Before he did, however, he wished to center himself and visit his son. It could be the last time he’d see Asher. Zarik didn’t want to think that way, but he knew it to be true. While he had much to learn about magic, he now understood the risks well enough.
. . .
When he left the child’s room, a sense of purpose calmed him. Whatever would happen, he felt a sense of acceptance in prelude to his Becoming initiation.
Upon his return to the common room, Alistair instructed what was to be expected and he listened closely. Zarik felt a chill run along his arms. He nodded. The biqaj glanced at Kleine, then asked Alistair with a small gesture around the common room, “We’re going to do it here? Out in the open? What if one of the boys wakes or… one moment, please.”
Zarik left the common room in a swift stride. He went to the study, found exactly who he sought, and exchanged words with Damien: to let his confidant know what was to happen and to take care of the children if either woke during initiation... as well to act as a guardian to Asher in case of failure. Once finished with the exchange, he returned to the common room.
Certain the boys would be cared for, and kept away from the common room, it was then that Zarik truly began to prepare.
He started with the rings. Zarik took off the totems of his sisters, and his signet wedding ring, and gave them to Alistair. He loosened the collar of his shirt. He unbuttoned his crimson vest and in a swift snap of fabric, removed it. He folded it across the arm of a chair. Next, he took off his boots and set them neatly by the chair.
Zarik continued to strip. For it had been Fridgar who’d informed him that Becoming often ruined clothing and he wasn’t about to have his expensive recently-tailored attire ruined by initiation. He wasn’t entirely naked, however, for Zarik had specific undergarments on: ones meant for Alistair’s enjoyment. Though Kleine was able to observe the unique, black playsuit of interlaced leather, lace, and silk, Zarik didn’t act embarrassed. He was too focused on the initiation to come. He could replace the undergarment; it hadn’t been that expensive to commission.
His exposed mutated legs refracted rainbow light over the floor. Cracked horizontal splits in his shins shimmered with a hint of what appeared to be quartz crystal. He glanced at a golden scar along his forearm, then through the lace that covered his chest, at the palely scarred Mark of Faith. It was barely noticeable. He fixed his bangs, so they still covered his forehead.
Zarik checked his body one last time, to make sure he wouldn’t needlessly lose or ruin anything during the process. Other than his undergarments, he only had his self-totem ring on his thumb.
He went to Alistair next. Zarik held his ichor-stained hand, then kissed the other man passionately - so passionately that he forgot they weren’t alone. His hands dangerously wandered until he was reminded. Zarik broke away with glowing eyes of violet and a wanton sigh. He should have allowed for some distraction before they had returned to Ashvane…
. . .
Finally, he stood in front of Kleine. The Lotharro remained seated on the ottoman, in a display of patient waiting. He surveyed the other blond, then knelt on both knees in a submissive posture.
Kleine’s hands touched the center of his chest. Zarik tensed in reaction. His irises spun in different colors before settling between flashes of green and blue. He tried to keep his gaze forward, but he didn’t want to look at the Lotharro. Instead, he looked downward.
From the palms of Kleine’s hands, the skin on his chest dripped. Silver welled to the surface, spreading outward in spiderwebs of magically created veins. It went fast, without pause, and Zarik watched as his skin melted from his flesh. It traveled outward, the veins precluding trails of dissolution.
The biqaj lifted his hand, fascinated. Despite what he saw, he hardly felt anything. Only a tickle or a pleasant sense of stinging coldness that he rather enjoyed. The silver-lined veins continued to spread out through his body, twisting in spirals and corroding whatever skin was left.
Zarik’s eyes lost their blue color. Instead, the warmth of amber filled the irises then broke past in a powerful glow that consumed the orbs. His newly mutated wings fluttered wildly. Ether whipped from them in a display of boundless energy. The spreading spider-veins reached his legs. The crystalline limbs cracked in flakes before also melting away in translucent droplets.
As his skin gave way, his flesh pooled in a large puddle of himself around his knees. Zarik reached out and pressed his dissolving hand against Kleine’s leg. The palm squished, the flesh liquifying at a faster rate. He clung to the other man with a skeletal hand. Zarik’s gaze remained down, however, on the floor. His breath turned ragged, he panted like a dog in the heat of mid-Saun.
While it had felt simple at the start, the sensation compounded on top of itself. He fought with himself, to remain calm even as he watched his body lose shape. It was more visceral than with Transmutation, where he’d merely gone translucent and nearly disappeared. With Becoming, he could see his own flesh melt from the bones of his body.
His very figure bent on its own. A horrific and speedy array of skeletal contortions began. He shifted between what appeared to be silhouettes of rodent structure, then feline, then his ribs clattered in a display like how a predatorial insect would clack its pincers. His skull stretched in the form of a wild canine, then a razor-beaked bird, then into something so distorted that perhaps it was unknown to the physical world entirely.
Multiple narrow bones erupted from his undulating, lengthening spine at each vertebra. The insectoid skeletal limbs spanned the width of the common room. In sharp blade-like points, the unnatural limbs stabbed downward. The floor cracked underneath the vicious strength of each sharp tip.
Zarik dug his claws – no, fingers – no, hooks – no, fingers through Kleine’s clothing. He tore at the fabric, then the skin underneath. He didn’t know if he even still had his totem– he couldn’t be bothered to check.
Despite the visual display, Zarik did not feel lost nor confused. No pull of Emea called to him. His mind only shuffled through various representations of how he saw himself. If anything, Zarik felt… annoyed. He felt frustrated that it wasn’t happening faster. He felt the new spark, already accepted before he’d even sat down.
With his ethereal will, he grabbed hold of it and drew it deeper inside of his being. This was to be Zarik’s spark. His. There was no room for Kleine in this, only whatever was required to provide the spark with nourishment to grow independent. Necessity of survival dictated the acceptance of the other mage, but only until he felt the clearly defined possession of what was now his.
A growl rose from him, low and rumbling from a place far beyond his physical body. As it rose in volume, it turned into an animalistic hiss – not unlike a certain sound Alistair had heard once before, though Zarik would not remember it himself. He felt different…
…but unmistakably himself. Zarik claimed his spark wholly. The moment he felt it latch on, in union with his Ether Acrobat spark, he looked up.
His eyes, which had melted from his skull, returned in a flurry of light. The puddle around him, made of crystalline and fleshy colors, roiled in waves like a sea in a storm. Zarik slapped away Kleine’s hands from where they'd lingered at what had been his chest. He detached and disassociated from Kleine.
. . .
The biqaj stood in the pool of himself, a looming skeletal humanoid frame. His spine stiffened in formal posture as the violent limbs retracted. The puddle dripped upward, ether-drawn. Zarik raised a hand in gesture to coax it faster.
What had been himself, the elixir of his physical body, responded to his gesture. Starting at his feet, the liquid twisted around and wove his flesh into the crystalline Boneturner Legs. The turbulent elixir continued in a spiraled dance, moving up his skeleton as he recreated his body in his own defined image.
Zarik acquainted himself with his new spark, and his body gradually returned into physical form, he outstretched his arms as if in exaltation… of himself. The inclusion of a second spark did not prove subtle, for in the moment, Zarik discarded any insecurities about his self and form, and the connections between his aspects. He accepted everything - mind, body, and soul - down to each little quirk and trait, in primordial recognition of who he was.
His playsuit returned as well, the lace, leather, and silk reconfiguring along his slim waist. As his chest knitted his skin back together, the Mark of Faith glowed silver then faded to the pale scar it had been. The intricate black undergarment soon covered it up with lace. His arms were next, the flesh weaving about in constant loops around his bones.
The hissing from Zarik had silenced.
Now, he laughed.
Though it started quiet with restrained breathy giggles, as more of his body’s shape returned, he didn’t bother to soften his outright manic laughter. It was, perhaps, due to pain as his abused, traumatized body reconnected to every scar… or perhaps the laughter was due to unconditional acceptance of himself despite embodying traits that others might deem repulsive… or even, perhaps, something much more sinister than either of those things. Perhaps his mind had snapped somehow during initiation.
Whatever it was, Zarik accepted his temporary madness as much as the rest of himself. The laughter recalled his identity, in a deeply personal way. Though part of him remained aware that his unhinged expression was being witnessed. Alistair was his husband, who would accept and love him no matter what, and Kleine… he’d almost forgotten the other man was even there. His new spark had claimed whatever it could from the Lothar, then sealed itself off. This was his body and being. Kleine had no claim to any of it.
Lastly, as he laughed, his head reformed – as it was before, if not a bit more perfect in every way. His pale hair flurried as if rushed by strong winds that whipped around him. On the center of his forehead, the Mark of Faith revealed in silver, then crimson, then into a pale gold scar. His wings returned in a joyous expression of ether.
His laughter halted, without warning, followed by deafening silence. He hovered off the ground in subtle flight before he lowered to rest on his feet again. The floor was dry, every bit of liquid drawn back up and into his reformed body.
Zarik’s eyes glowed magnificently white in bright illumination. His lips were flushed, bloody red, and he grinned with an obvious sense of fulfilled ambition. He lowered his arms, finally. Slowly, almost methodically, he looked at Kleine, then turned his head to look at Alistair. His hair settled.
Along the sides of his slim waist, beneath the lace and leather of his playsuit, translucent iridescent markings spiraled and swirled. Though on both sides of his torso, even in their motion, the Becomer's witchmark remained symmetrical to one another and mirrored the woven design of his wings.
He was complete, and so was the initiation.
Zarik turned on heel to face Alistair, then outstretched his arms, in desire for an embrace. “My love, come to me.”
Once his husband indulged him, it wasn’t for a hug, but rather Zarik leapt onto the other man. He wrapped his arms around Alistair’s neck and his legs around his waist. Much like after his Transmutation initiation, he gleefully kissed the magister.
Unlike the first time, however, the kiss soon turned aggressive. He bit at Alistair’s lower lip, then jaw, then neck, before he returned to wild kisses. His wings fluttered enthusiastically, and in a moment of overwhelm, almost lifted him away. He held onto the larger man to use like an anchor. He gently laughed. His wings calmed and folded behind him.
Zarik licked his lips, coyly smiled, and said, “Your turn.”
