"I honestly can't promise that it is. The first turn is hard." They're all painful, bones breaking and reshaping, skin stretching, teeth growing. But the first one, "It's on a cellular level. You're going to feel it. I let most people get a little drunk beforehand. It's up to you; the change will cleanse the alcohol out of you but it can dull the pain at first."
More sober than John has probably ever been, his system cleaner than it was even at birth.
"...I think I'd rather be sober, honestly. I don't like pain. But. I'd rather face it honestly. I'd rather remember it. It... happened almost incidentally the last time." And those are not good memories. "I-if it's all the same to you. Just, um, don't be alarmed if I cry out, all right?"
"I'll be with you the whole time," he says, his voice finally softer, certain now. Jon can scream if he wants; Lark will be there beside him, cleaning up the blood, keeping him safe.
Edited (so many Jo(h)ns in Lark's life) 2022-12-29 04:07 (UTC)
The lights are low in Lark's cabin, there's a fire burning in the fireplace for the first time since he's been here. There are blankets spread out on the floor, and there's Lark, barefoot, relaxed when he opens the door and pulls Jon immediately into a hug.
Jon wasn't expecting the hug, but once he's gotten it, Lark might be surprised how hard he's hugged back. Jon's still Jon, of course, but the strange otherworldly aura, the feeling of pressure and of being watched, all the things that had always just been there about Jon are gone.
As are the scars that had littered his face, his hands, his throat. There are still tufts of white hair in the blond, but in many ways, he feels and looks like a very different person.
Not smaller or bigger, not more or less... just different.
Different. Like seeing his friend through a new prism; the same man, in different colors.
And he's about to change again, to take on another aura that might drive some people away, but it will draw others closer. And Jon won't be alone with it.
He leads him to the fireplace and sits cross-legged, motioning for Jon to do the same. There's a knife.
Jon nods, and it's obvious he's not sure where he ought to put his clothing at first. He's got the robe on at this point, and a pair of pants that he's all right with losing, and he decides after a moment to just put it beside him as he settles on the floor across from Lark.
He takes Jon's hand and turns it palm up, and then slices his own along a well-worn pink scar that runs the length of his little finger, all the way to the heel of his hand. He looks at Jon, then cuts a much smaller gash under Jon's thumb.
Then he ties their hands together, wounds flush against each other. "Just breathe," he says, his advice for the change. Remember to breathe. "It takes a moment for the blood to hit, for enough of it to take hold. You can ask me anything but I feel like over the years I've already told you everything."
Jon makes a squeaking noise at the cut, a soft exhale at the binding. There's a part of his brain rebelling from the lack of biohazard safety being done here, another part staring at the first with a raised eyebrow, and the rest of him well aware that all of this nonsense is just to not focus on the fact that it's happening, that he's here, that he's willingly trading away his human-ness if not his humanity to be something else after he just got it back.
He doesn't regret it, at all. Especially not when he'll have Lark there to look out for him. He knows that's the case.
"Do you remember when I became a wolf that once? A flood a few years back?"
"Mundane, stupid things," he admits, "almost certainly to keep myself calm. It's much easier to remind myself how ridiculous it is to expect some sort of clinical blood transfer, considering what we're doing, than it is to let all the other actual concerns come flooding through."
He chuckles. "I'll be honest with you, we could have done this in the infirmary. Or I could have borrowed some needles and tubes and done it that way. But this is how I was changed. I'm not sentimental but this goes back through our bloodline all the way to the beginning."
"And one never knows what parts of a ritual are fluff and which are necessary," he says with a soft huff of amusement. "I can handle this, as I said. Though I'm curious if there's anything you have to do consciously to have this happen. O-or how long it might take, you think."
"You'll feel it. It hits like a truck." In a few very short minutes, Lark expects, watching Jon for the moment his pupils are blown wide and it begins. When that happens they won't be speaking; Lark will be untying them so Jon can contort through his first change.
Every change after this one will happen in seconds, clean but still painful. This one will take minutes, and not everyone survives. Lark unties them and then he strips and changes, too, licking up where their blood spilled, waiting to lap up Jon's when his skin tears. Ready to welcome him when he comes through in his new form.
Jon is exactly as much of a wimp about pain as he told Lark he would be, so it starts with a howling cry and all throughout, there are whimpers, shivering gasps and cries and his throat raw even as it changes shape, even as all of him change shape. Blood spills as bones move into places they aren't supposed to go, and skin tears and after a while, the noises are less screaming and crying and more dog-like and pained.
He survives, yes, yes, he survives, because he always survives... but he's a little shakey on his legs as he tries to stand up for the first time in the ruins of the pants and the folds of robe that is now thoroughly blood-soaked.
Lark is there, just as he promised he would be, licking Jon's face, tail wagging furiously when Jon stands. Or tries to stand; Lark can't offer much support except to encourage him to breathe, to gather himself. The strength will flow in as the pain ebbs.
The one thing Lark will notice as Jon stands is that... he is quite a bit of fluff. The meat in there, well, it's not nearly as impressive as all the fluff would seem to imply, blond fur that never quite tips over into white, but he's always been on the leaner side and that's the same here.
It might change once he gets an appetite, but that remains to be seen.
The strength is there, you see, it's just that he needs to feel it past the echo of the pain. The senses, on the other hand, are where he has the least amount of trouble, oddly enough, since he's well used to taking in much more input than human beings normally would. In some ways, it's a return more than a new thing, even if the information and its source is very different.
He feels better for it, though. Something about being able to smell blood, even if its his own, feels right.
He'll steady himself and lick Lark in return as he gets a handle on things and then his tail is going to start slooooowly lifting as he begins to turn his head back and forth.
Some pass out. He's proud that Jon didn't, selfishly glad because it means he gets to be with him sooner. He turns and trots to the kitchen, to the lower drawer where he keeps the beef jerky, and he brings it back over.
The best way to shake off the pain, he thinks, is to explore what this new form does. Stretch the muscles, test the tongue.
Jon didn't pass out because terrible things can happen when you're unconscious and he'd much rather be conscious even if it's horrifically painful, so an act of will... definitely took place there.
Jon waits for Lark to return, though it's obvious as Lark comes back that he's practically vibrating with a desire to go and do and explore despite the pain, but when he sees the jerky, he's going to whine a little that he'd like some, pawing in place even as he waits.
Part of the fun of a bag of jerky is tearing open the plastic with your teeth. He shows Jon how, then nudges it over for him to try, so he can feel the tiny vibrations as the plastic yields, so he can hear the pleasant whispering rip of it that humans miss by opening it the proper way.
And then there's the jerky. God in Heaven the smell of the jerky.
His appetite is in tact. Good. The next stop, then, is going to be the proper kitchen.
But it means going through halls, smelling people and their pets, and for a while the pets are all going to smell like food, they're all going to ignite the urge to hunt.
For that matter so will some of the people, the angry ones, the frightened ones.
But Jon needs food, and Lark needs to see how he'll adapt, so he leads him to the door and paws it open.
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More sober than John has probably ever been, his system cleaner than it was even at birth.
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"...I think I'd rather be sober, honestly. I don't like pain. But. I'd rather face it honestly. I'd rather remember it. It... happened almost incidentally the last time." And those are not good memories. "I-if it's all the same to you. Just, um, don't be alarmed if I cry out, all right?"
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Trust, faith, unwavering and unshakeable. It doesn't matter what he's heading into because Lark will be with him.
"I'll be there in a minute or so."
And true to his word, in about five minutes, there's a knock on Lark's door.
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As are the scars that had littered his face, his hands, his throat. There are still tufts of white hair in the blond, but in many ways, he feels and looks like a very different person.
Not smaller or bigger, not more or less... just different.
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And he's about to change again, to take on another aura that might drive some people away, but it will draw others closer. And Jon won't be alone with it.
He leads him to the fireplace and sits cross-legged, motioning for Jon to do the same. There's a knife.
"Get comfortable."
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Then he nods.
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Then he ties their hands together, wounds flush against each other. "Just breathe," he says, his advice for the change. Remember to breathe. "It takes a moment for the blood to hit, for enough of it to take hold. You can ask me anything but I feel like over the years I've already told you everything."
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He doesn't regret it, at all. Especially not when he'll have Lark there to look out for him. He knows that's the case.
"Do you remember when I became a wolf that once? A flood a few years back?"
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And it is, in fact, in that moment when his pupils blow wide, because if Jon's life obeys any rules on anything, it is the rules of comic timing.
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He survives, yes, yes, he survives, because he always survives... but he's a little shakey on his legs as he tries to stand up for the first time in the ruins of the pants and the folds of robe that is now thoroughly blood-soaked.
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The strength, and all those new senses.
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It might change once he gets an appetite, but that remains to be seen.
The strength is there, you see, it's just that he needs to feel it past the echo of the pain. The senses, on the other hand, are where he has the least amount of trouble, oddly enough, since he's well used to taking in much more input than human beings normally would. In some ways, it's a return more than a new thing, even if the information and its source is very different.
He feels better for it, though. Something about being able to smell blood, even if its his own, feels right.
He'll steady himself and lick Lark in return as he gets a handle on things and then his tail is going to start slooooowly lifting as he begins to turn his head back and forth.
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The best way to shake off the pain, he thinks, is to explore what this new form does. Stretch the muscles, test the tongue.
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Jon waits for Lark to return, though it's obvious as Lark comes back that he's practically vibrating with a desire to go and do and explore despite the pain, but when he sees the jerky, he's going to whine a little that he'd like some, pawing in place even as he waits.
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And then there's the jerky. God in Heaven the smell of the jerky.
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But then there's jerky, and he's never devoured anything with the ravenousness he turns on the jerky.
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But it means going through halls, smelling people and their pets, and for a while the pets are all going to smell like food, they're all going to ignite the urge to hunt.
For that matter so will some of the people, the angry ones, the frightened ones.
But Jon needs food, and Lark needs to see how he'll adapt, so he leads him to the door and paws it open.
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