The effort to be the symbol was killing. Each step sent the shards of broken glass clattering up and down my spine and legs. But move I must, and I did, and I began to cut through the stunned fog that surrounded us.
I say that the effort to be a symbol was killing. There was a blessing, though, in the fact that the symbol swallowed the man. My own weaknesses were irrelevant, harmless as long as I could keep the shape of the symbol animated. Sebastian Yarrick could bleed, and he could wince, and he could wish for -- though not succumb to -- oblivion. But the commissar walked, and exhorted, and challenged, and was unbowed.