Lyse had never been good with Aether. She could barely even sense it when she was younger. Yda had enough control to get them both by — a few healing spells here and she learned more as she went to school in Sharlayan. Yda tried to get Lyse interested in the study but the goggles Yda showed her gave Lyse a headache. Lyse learned to rely on her fists even more so than Yda and that was one of their differences.
So it is no surprise that when Papalymo, with red, puffy eyes and shaking hands, starts to cast the spell that would bind them — that would make Lyse Yda — she gets sick. The sensation is overwhelming, the feeling of Aether so powerful like she has never felt before. It's foreign and invasive. It's not hers. Her body starts to reject Papalymo's Aether and she digs her nails into his shoulders with a hiss.
Papalymo tightens his grip on her arm and through clenched teeth, he growls, "Hold...hold still, woman."
Her knees shake despite her kneeling position and her vision blurs. She feels her stomach lurch. She tires to ask how much longer before the spell is done but her the only sound that comes from her throat is a sharp groan. Papalymo curses. Lyse has never felt Aether sickness before but Papalymo is keenly aware of what it looks like. All of his attention is on the spell he is casting that he can't help her so instead he concentrates on trying to speed up his casting. This has exactly the opposite effect.
Lyse jerks, biting her lip and whining. He tries to hold her up but she's much too heavy and when she falls forward, she takes him with her. Papalymo lets out a string of curses as she faints but when he pulls himself out from under her, he's able to make sure the spell is finished without her erratic movement. Yet, looking at the Sage Mark, red and pulsing with his own Aether, he's unsure of his actions.
Could he really just replace Yda? He swallows, mouth dry and feels the string of tears again. Lyse stirs almost as fast as she lost consciousness. He would have been impressed if he could tear his thoughts away from Yda.
"Is it done?" Lyse's voice is hoarse.
Papalymo shakes his head to clear his mind as Lyse slowly sits up and leans to the side to dry heave. He can't take his eyes off the mark as it slowly bleeds from angry red to the bruised purple he is so used to. He is very tired from the spell and the whole situation. He rubs his temples. Papalymo sits down heavily, bones popping.
"It is done," he says finally when she looks over at him. The color still hasn't returned to her face and her eyes bluer, vivid and shining with pure Aether. He's glad for the mask because he doubts that will fade with time so long as she keeps the mark.
After that, there is weight settled around Lyse's neck. It's heavy like a noose, reminding her of her lie and her duty. She made this decision though and she never once regrets it. But neither Papalymo or Lyse have any idea the extent that the spell may effect her. For weeks she struggles with the Aether sickness and the harsh pull towards Papalymo. She is hyper-sensitive to his mana and the Aether around them. It irritates Papalymo because he can feel it too; her mana building up inside of her with no release.
The freedom for both of them comes when, after days of snapping and yelling, Papalymo finally succeeds in teaching her to weave Aether into her fighting style. The transition is slow and a few of the other members point out an improvement in Papalymo's personality and in Lyse's strength. It isn't until Y'shtola is retrieved from the Aether that she notices that it's not even Lyse's Aether that she uses. The color is wrong. Y'shtola had long since suspected Yda dead and Lyse a replacement but when she sees the blue Aether cocoon in the sky the same shade as the punches Lyse throws, Y'shtola knows.
When Lyse returns without her Sage Mark and the noose around her neck gone, the color of her fists is red, not blue. Y'shtola thinks the color is better on her.