When she comes, her eyes are black the whole way through, at least as black as space. She can’t see out of them, but she still can see everything else around her. The only thing strange about it is the sheer magnitude of sight, of a shieldless moment with sources internal and external, literal and extrasensory.
If it wasn’t sexual, she’d think it had some scientific purpose.
She lets up off her hand, or Kosh does for her—she strokes the wetness lazily, rubs her knuckles around the cushion of the chair and each other. Her physical sight should come back in a moment, but she knows what she looks like, how her skin is gleaming from underneath with Kosh’s presence, how the room itself is bathed in overwhelming light, and lesser things like the disarray of her hair and the condition of her scarf. It hurts to breathe, hurts to come down, hurts to sit. It hurts to live, considering how wonderful it feels when she’s more than that.
Kosh speaks through Lyta’s mouth—literally, she feels it burn. “You bear so much,” he says.
Sight returns, still black and cold—she answers him, his way. “It gets easier every time.”