Wheeling Gull Isle treibloka

She spoke of anger in her heart. Of Bartholomew. Of the peace in god's voice. He listened to every word and tried to imagine this Heda of the past, a girl and her fury living in parasitic symbiosis. He was quiet for a long time.

Surrender, he finally said. That is... very difficult.

Physical submission to him was unthinking, immediate, limbic. Spiritual submission another matter entirely. Maybe it was pride that kept him from it. A deep trust for himself that obscured the view of any greater power. He had not always been so solipsistic but days spent among the Soldiers had made him withdraw into himself. The aura of repressed emotions shimmered around him like heat off of tarmac. But still he lay dormant, a clinical voyeur, a deer head mounted on the wall.

He had surrendered once before -- had given into something that had seemed larger-than-life. He thought, never again. In the end, yielding had granted him nothing but pain. Like the blind man suddenly cured, he had stared uncomprehending at a world ignorant of the miracle. Do you want to pray with me? Just for a moment, he assured. He rolled over onto his stomach and propped himself up on his elbows.