Resenting the Hero by Moira J. Moore

grew roots, and expanded. Jagged agony crawling across my brain, cutting in, pushing out, until it threatened to crack my skull open from the inside.
    I opened my eyes and found myself staring at my own Shields. Never before had they appeared to me as an image. Thick walls made of solid black bricks. The bricks wanted to slip apart, I could see them shivering in their places, but I held them up with my hands and my mind. That was causing the pain. If I released the bricks, the pain would stop.
    Where had the wind come from? Ragged, slicing wind that filled my ears and tore at my throat. I winced.
    The bricks were growing heavier, the mortar flaking away. The bricks loosened. I saw one sliding away from its fellows. Through the red haze of pain I glared at it and willed it back into place.
    And a part of my mind went black.
    More bricks shook and slid, scraping apart piercingly. I grabbed at them and pushed them back. But it was hard to move my hands. They were sluggish and slow, it was like pushing them through water, only there was no water there. My hands were numb; I could not feel. I pushed my hands against the bricks, and they disappeared within them. My throat was raw, my ears shrieked, and I could not see.
    What the hell was going on?
    Another part of my mind darkened, and then another. Panic welled up and was forced back down. More and more bricks trembled, started to fall. I pushed myself to catch them all. I felt my skull cracking under the pressure.
    And then it all disappeared.
    When I woke, the first thing I became aware of was a headache so intense my nose stung and my stomach heaved. Knowing my head wouldn’t survive an action so violent as vomiting, I took careful shallow breaths and kept my stomach under control. My skin crawled. My clothes felt cold and grimy, soaked with sweat. My throat felt like it was stuffed with cotton, cotton filled with broken, rusted razors. And every single muscle I possessed was tied into a thousand little knots.
    I opened my eyes. Big mistake. I shut them again.
    â€œShe’s coming up,” said a voice I didn’t know.
    â€œI can see that,” was the tense response. That was Aiden.
    Water hit my forehead. It did not feel good. I let my breath hiss through my teeth.
    â€œWhat happened?” Aiden demanded.
    I presumed he was addressing me. I had no intention of answering, not right then. I was in no shape to be answering questions. I was pretty sure I was supposed to be dead. Though no one ever died while they were channeling anymore. Except when they were really old, or drunk, and didn’t have the focus for it.
    â€œTalk to me, Dunleavy!”
    Shut up, Aiden. Can’t you see my brain is in danger of exploding?
    â€œ Talk to me!”
    â€œZaire, mate, back off,” said the voice I didn’t know. A wonderfully sensible woman. “She’s not settled back, yet.” She wiped more water on my forehead.
    I raised a feeble hand. “Please, no,” I muttered in a terrible, rasping voice.
    â€œAye, girl, no worries. Rest for a bit. I’ll look out for you.”
    She had an interesting voice. Oddly clipped consonants and flattened vowels. I wagered she could insult people impressively.
    I woke again when someone started poking at me. I could open my eyes without feeling pain, and glare at the man who insisted on pressing my temples. That didn’t feel wonderful. “What are you doing?” I asked in a pathetically weak voice. I sounded like I had a vicious cold. My throat felt that way, too, only worse.
    â€œYou collapsed for no reason,” he said.
    â€œWho are you?” I asked bluntly.
    â€œHealer Dickens.”
    â€œHealer Dickens, there is nothing wrong with me that lemon tea won’t fix. Sorry for the wasted trip.” Especially since he wasn’t going to get paid for it.
    â€œI’m not finished my examination,” he said, trying for my temples again.
    I blocked his hands and glared at