Although the room was still bathed in warm darkness (and Elias knew this to be truth), his own vision filled and emptied and filled again with pitiless, unsparing light -- bright and violent in its undulating wrongness. He refused to relinquish hold on the events around himself, but he couldn't see them. For once, for once, he couldn't see in the darkness. But he heard her between cracks in the light. And when her hand set itself, butterfly-light but commanding, on his arm, he had the sense of being grounded strongly by some force stronger even than the light that had all but incapacitated him.
His hand came up in a movement that could have clasped the hand on his arm -- but stopped short. He felt the heat of her radiating off her skin and and hitting his palm, and that was enough for now. Enough to hold to. He knew better than to touch her - her, a complete stranger, no matter how compelling she was.
And now, after each burst of light, between the shards in his head, he saw... something. He couldn't name it. He had never seen its shape. But he would never, ever forget it now. Was it responsible for the light, the pain? Was it an attack? Was it attacking this woman Charlie as well? He couldn't focus his eyes; the light was blinding, even when it faded -- and now the something appeared in the spaces between the brightness. He should be seeing the floor of the lobby. He was seeing a different floor. A different shape. What was it?
And then he heard the sound of clicking - dog claws on the floor - and the sound of Charlie all but fleeing. Whatever it was -- whether she suffered from the same thing as Elias himself or whether it was a different malady -- she should not be left to her own devices.
"We should follow her," he said to the nameless she warming his palm and his arm with her touch. His voice was difficult to use. It sounded strangled. It felt worse. But he knew what he must do -- what they must do. It meant breaking away from her... He hesitated, just for a second, then as the light faded and the strange image -- a beast, it had to have been, some sort of beast -- played itself in his sight again, he stepped in the direction he had heard Charlie take. When he felt her hand drop from his arm, something twisted his stomach.
And then that strange twist was forgotten in another stabbing wash of pain. It was far worse than the migraines he'd been getting lately. It buckled his knees. But his thoughts were calm. Methodical. He'd detached from the pain. It was. But it would not stop him. He gave no thought to the oddness of his drive to ensure that this stranger, this Charlie, was safe. It was, as well. His hand snaked out and blindly caught the back of the bench where he'd been sitting. He pushed himself back up to his feet. "We shouldn't let her--"
And then he sealed his lips again, because the next thing out of them would not have been words. His throat made a dry clicking sound and the tendons in his right hand creaked as he clutched the back of the bench.