Rhys was a man of a severe countenance: sharp-jawed with an aquiline nose, his long grey hair streaked through with white worn tied back in a tight, practical braid. His light eyes betrayed nothing, and presently they were fixed on the subject of his current displeasure.
Jonah stood before him, expression forced into a detached calm despite the tremor in his hands. He'd been summoned to his office on short notice - to report promptly and alone.
"You grow willful, boy," Rhys said, arms folded as he stared Jonah down. He lowered his voice to a hiss and leaned forward, resting his palms on the table between them. "You owe me more than you could ever seek to repay. Is that not true? And yet you still cause such trouble."
Cowed, Jonah dropped his attention to the table between them and swallowed thickly around the nervous knot in his throat. He wasn't entirely sure what he'd done to draw his attention, but he had no desire to fight him on it. "You're right. Please forgive my insolence, I- I forget myself."
Rhys sighed through his nose, but his expression and posture softened just slightly. "Consider it forgotten." The sudden shift only made his heartbeat quicken. He'd always been mercurial, but any act of forgiveness was only ever in his usual pattern - threaten, then rescind only on the expectation of further obedience. Rhys drummed his fingers on the dark wood, polished to a gleam even in the low light. "So long as you remember your purpose here. Our lessons do not come free."
Jonah kept his head down and said nothing, but nodded once. Rhys had always been testy about his subjects only speaking when they were instructed to do so, but it was also pertinent to not to have one's silence mistaken for inattention. Even though he'd been given this speech before, he couldn't risk his temper by tuning him out. It was a fine line to walk, especially when their meeting had already begun on such uncertain footing.
"As it stands, Vessel, we thought you to be empty. We've tried a number of things to remedy this, and you have always tried to help us see these things through," he continued - almost sounding proud when he spoke of him. Jonah knew well enough by now that any praise or show of kindness was just to keep him to heel.
The sound of him stepping around the table made him lift his head - worried he'd missed some cue to respond.
"Your blood has always been the catalyst, but you have always been the offering. You are a vessel, but with your magic…" he trailed off, lifting Jonah's chin with one hand and studying his face thoughtfully, "I was wrong. You are not empty, not really." When he heard Rhys reach into a pocket, Jonah didn't dare try to look down with his hand still on his face. He held his stare as best he could as he felt Rhys tap the blade of a knife against his cheek.
"I know that you have to be the one to draw it. You have to be the one to invite them in," he murmured, dropping his hands to close Jonah's own hands around the knife handle. "Both arms - wrist to elbow, best you can manage. I'm told it will only hurt for a few minutes."
He blinked owlishly at him. He understood what he was asking of him, but he couldn't believe it. Still, it hadn't been an order - he was giving him an opportunity to do this of his own will before he yanked the leash. He knew it wasn't kindness, it was a test of his obedience.
With a step back, Rhys watched him carefully - leaning his arms against the table behind him. "We have every reason to believe that this is the answer."
Jonah nodded mutely, dropping his attention to the knife in his hands. It took him another long moment to find his voice. "I understand." He sank to his knees, considering what options he even truly had. Could Rhys even give this as an order? Or would it not leave room for him to put his own intent behind it? He didn't know. He doubted Rhys did either, but he knew with a nauseating certainty that he would find out by trying.
It needed to be his own will.
He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, trying to force back every self-preservation instinct that railed against this act. If he didn't focus on the intent, it wouldn't matter that he'd done it himself - he still risked simply bleeding out here if he couldn't keep himself together. He'd drawn them out before, now he had to take them in. This was to make room, to empty the vessel.
With a sharp inhale he steeled himself and dug the blade first into his left arm - just below the heel of his palm. He bit back a pained cry and his stomach knotted at the sight and the sensation of it.
The edge was well sharpened, but the pain as he pulled it through the soft flesh of his forearm was still enough to make his vision tunnel. When it was done, he choked out a gasp, chest heaving and body trembling as he traded the knife to his left hand. Between the blood slicking his palm and the damage he'd just done to his muscles and tendons it was far more difficult to grip, but he mirrored the first wound as best he could.
He didn't realize he'd dropped the knife until he heard it clatter against the stone of the floor, bloodied palms open and upward on his knees. He looked up to Rhys who watched on in silence before his attention slipped past to the coiling dark behind him.
Each of his shades roiled in his periphery, approving and hungry, but only one came forward. The shadow that peeled itself off from the rest was a slinking, animal thing - its body and limbs all sharp angles - but when it stopped before him it kneeled in a gesture that was remarkably human. Its hands were cold when it took his jaw in its hands.
Hello, beloved. It stroked a claw over his cheekbone, cutting a thin red line into the thinner skin beneath his eye. Will you let me in so I can help you?
His breathing was ragged and shallow, barely clinging to consciousness as the edges of his vision greyed. It was the clearest he'd ever heard one of them speak but he could barely comprehend it. Still, he managed a quick jerk of a nod. It would have to be enough.
Jonah's muscles seized when the shade pressed itself fully against him, then sank into him. It felt as though he'd been hit by a frigid gale that cut deep into him and then settled into his marrow.
With a shudder, he slumped forward - a jolt lancing up to his shoulder as he barely managed to catch himself on one forearm. A wave of pain seized him and he curled forward to press his forehead against the bloody floor. He heaved and retched - coughing something black and viscous and threaded with blood onto the stone. His arm twitched and his elbow buckled, dropping him to the ground with a grunt.
Another spasm of pain made him stretch his opposite arm forward, fingers flexing as nails became claws, tendons tightening to pull the new bone into place. He couldn't process what was happening - overcome by a clamoring panic that he couldn't act on, all pain and animal fear. There was a desperate ache in his shoulders that he tried to relieve by rolling them, but it did little to ease the spreading burn of the tearing and re-stitching muscle and tendon; nor did it do anything to relieve the pressure that built in them as they shifted to accommodate something entirely new.
He could hear as much as feel the wet crunch of shifting bone throughout his body, and when he felt his spine move beneath his skin. He wrapped his arms around himself to dig his new claws into the skin of his back and tear in an effort to find relief and when his skin finally tore from the press of bone beneath it, Jonah let himself scream. It was more animal than human - a desperate shriek of pain and terror, but the pressure had finally subsided. The new limbs felt dead, limp at his back before sensation rushed in - pins and needles as nerves connected and skin moved to grow over bone and sinew.
A maddening undercurrent to the sharper pains was the itch of his skin changing, feathers pushing through along his back before spreading to cover the rest of him. Mixed into his blood there was what looked almost like tar - thick and clinging - yet wicking away at the edges. Where the new feathers grew, something akin to bruising spread - a deep shadow bleeding beneath his skin.
He hissed in a breath and rocked forward onto both forearms as he felt his skull begin to reshape. He couldn't breathe through it, choking on air around the changes. Even through the worst of it, all he could think about was Rhys standing there - watching with cold indifference. He felt disgusting, more exposed than he ever thought possible as he was made into something new, skin and clothed alike in bloody tatters - pinned under the stare of someone he'd been fool enough to trust.
It felt like it took hours - each moment stretched into an eternity - but it took only a few minutes before all that was left were the lingering echoes of pain. He let himself fall fully to the ground, wheezing as he tried to make sense of everything that had changed. He couldn't make sense of it - he was wrong, he wasn't himself anymore, he needed to fix this.
He began to try to push himself upright, but -
"Stay down."
- he dropped as though an anchor had been weighted to his neck and he went still, breath coming in ragged gasps. Was this what Rhys had expected? What he'd wanted? He tried to speak but all he could force out of his throat was half a sob and half an aborted, animal whine.
"Be silent."
The collar tightened and he choked, forced again into compliant silence. Rhys's expression was a mix of disgust and detached curiosity, studying him in the way that one might try to discern the species of a decaying animal corpse.
He approached, stopping briefly at his head before walking around him in a slow circle. He twitched when he felt Rhys nudge at him with the toe of his boot, but he said nothing and continued his circling.
"Not entirely what I expected, but clearly we are making… some form of progress with you." He let out a huff through his nose. "Hopefully this isn't permanent. Can't pull your weight if we have to keep you hidden away. Get up."
The pressure on his neck vanished and he heaved a breath as he scrambled to do as he was bid - stumbling as he tried to find his balance on reshaped legs.
He circled him again, examining more closely and barking orders to extend his limbs, turn his hands, bow his head - it was clear he had no desire to touch him like this.
Jonah had no choice but to obey, swaying unsteadily on his feet as he complied with every command. Through the dissociative haze of confusion and pain, the clearest thought he had was how viscerally he wanted to kill him.