That was the thing about Paddy Steadfast. It wasn't that he was mortal, although perhaps his mortal perspective was part of it. He didn't have the time to rest on his laurels; he cut through to the heart of the matter. It was unnerving and relieving at once, and either way, Solomon had to resist the urge to fidget. He hadn't fidgetted in centuries.

He still clasped his hands to keep his nerves from showing as much, gazing sightlessly down at them. How was it that a mortal priest could see through him so clearly, when Solomon was the one who could see souls? There was almost no point in obfuscation, even if Solomon had felt that urge. For the first time in a long time, with this man alone, he felt no such urge. For whatever reason, he trusted Paddy in a manner that was almost completely alien.

"I wanted a reminder of what it felt like to stand unafraid," he confessed. "You have to understand--Necromancers are Necromancers because they fear death just that much. I was no different. And then when Tenebrae ..." his voice failed on him for a moment before he summoned the words. "He offered me a choice. He was always going to take my eyesight, but he offered me painkillers in exchange for information as to how and why I'd chosen to leave Necromancy. I refused it to protect Gabe, and for the first time I ... felt brave. I didn't want to lose that feeling."

Not by giving up what he'd endured to feel that way. Except that that feeling hadn't lasted. He looked up, his face ragged, expression all the rawer for the blankness in his eyes. "For the first time I knew myself for all those centuries as a coward. I don't want to be that again."

He was just tired of the endless maelstrom of colour. The reminder of the danger he was in. Of everything he'd lost. Proper sight. Proper colour. Proper views. Writing. Reading. Autonomy. He was practically helpless. It was unbearable.