He was in shock. Some part of Solomon knew that, but it was too distant a part to quite take control. He trembled, whimpered, his breathing fast and ragged. He heard Tenebrae's voice, but distantly, through the throb in his head. His vision swam before him, half grounded by the physical and half a wash of blurred colour, without definition. Something in his eye twitched, and that still-distant part of him realised it was the muscle spasming without a buffer.

Cirurgie hadn't just taken his sight. He'd taken the whole eye.

For an interminable time Solomon was unable to move, unable to respond, locked in that state of shock. Cirurgie's assistant moved around him, testing the IV line, making sure he couldn't escape by passing out. Slowly Solomon's consciousness ebbed back together with his awareness, enough that the unending whimpers finally subsided. Enough that he could blink the eye he still had, slow and holding it shut, feeling the tears of plain water he wept.

There were so many things he couldn't say. So many things he wanted to, didn't want to, couldn't. Only one thing came out, soft and agonised but cutting with razor-edged steel, through the ragged pants. "I--am--not--your--cleric."