The Eye of the Beholder

[Sören]

A voice pierced misery he’d rather have left unwitnessed, and unwanted hands smoothed over his head as someone joined him in the dirt of the alley floor. Sören’s fist squeezed on instinct, fingers scraping raw against the concrete, but calling the runes only sharpened the agony and flung it into the reckless winds of a hurricane. He let go quickly. 

No words answered the foolish samaritan who thought to cradle his head. His reserves pulled inwards, muscles corded tight, as though this was a physical battle he could win with just enough focus. Pain was an old and familiar mistress. The carving ache of his stomach when he’d first learned to starve himself across the boundaries of the dreaming world; the rip and chew of the power’s maw before he had learned the secrets of control.

But pain without purpose left him as frustratingly vulnerable as any mere mortal. His teeth grit.

Must she watch?

Hands hauled him up. Whatever compensation his good eye fought to win, it left his world a blurry smear. She was a haze of dark hair, stamped with wirey red letters that scrolled too fast to capture, even if he could focus. He didn’t need to try hard to imagine the expression of concern engendered by her words, though. “Redundant question,” he accused. The words growled a reflection of pain. “Nonetheless, your assistance is unnecessary.”