Hurts harry

Which was a fine trick. But I knew the Sword’s secret. I wouldn’t have to incapacitate Butters to get him out of the way.
I strode forward, winding up with my left hand.
“Harry,” Butters said, tears in his eyes. “Don’t.”
I lashed out backhanded, striking at Butters’s face.
He held up the very nonphysical Sword in a parry.
. . .
And my world became pain.
. . .
There was no warning, no anything. The second my arm touched the plane of the blade of light, everything shifted. The power of the mantle wrapped around me vanished like mist before the morning sun. Every injury, every hurt, every ache and scratch and bruise and strain, all came crashing onto me at once. I staggered, my limbs weak, as if I had suddenly gained several hundred pounds.
I felt Rudolph. Felt his terror. His agony. His confusion. His humiliation. His remorse. His sick self-hatred. I felt them all as if they were my own. I saw myself through Rudolph’s eyes, huge and vicious and deadly, implacable as an avalanche.
And Murphy.
Oh God. Oh God, Karrin.
My clarity withered before that light, before the star-bright blaze of pain in my left arm. I had to shield my eyes against the light of the Sword with my right hand, though the mere movement caused me pain enough to threaten the contents of my stomach.
The stench of my own charred flesh filled my nose, somehow laced with the scent of sulfur, brimstone. There was a blazon of blackened flesh along my left forearm, starting just above my shield bracelet and running to my elbow, straight as a ruler.
I fell to my knees.
I dropped to my right elbow, cradling the burned flesh against me.
The scream of pure pain that came out of me wasn’t loud. It was hardly human.
And in its wake, I broke.
I sobbed.
While Sir Waldo, the Knight of Faith, stood over me with that blazing Sword, between me and Rudolph’s curled, helpless form.
“I’m here, Harry,” Butters said, his voice thick with tears. “Harry, I’m here.”
The light dimmed and went out, and I felt him crouch in front of me, felt his arms go around me. “I’m here, man. I’m here.”

Battle Ground Chapter 23, Page 212-213


Sanya had broken my nose for me, I realized. Not that I hadn’t earned considerably worse. Sobbing hysterically with a broken nose isn’t real dignified. Or practical, for activities like breathing. It took me half a minute of coughing and spitting to get things cleared up. By the time I had, and had swiped at my eyes with a cleanish portion of my coat’s sleeves, the burn of my broken nose and the aches and pains had once more faded beneath the staticky curtain of the Winter mantle.
Except for the burn on my arm.
That one hurt. Period.
I’d dealt with burns before. This one wasn’t the worst I’d ever gotten. Even so, it throbbed and pulsed and made me feel a little queasy and shaky.
And it made me feel . . . human.
I’m not saying pain is what defines us as human beings. But it is, in many ways, what unites us. We all recognize other people in pain. Damned near all of us are moved to do something about it when we see it. It’s our common enemy, though it isn’t, really, an enemy. Pain is, at least when our bodies are working properly, a teacher. A really tough, really strict, and perfectly fair teacher.
I didn’t enjoy the steady, throbbing pain coming from the burn the holy Sword had given me.
But I did find it immensely reassuring.
The pain on the inside of me was something else entirely.
Carefully, I put that aside. I didn’t try to bury it or freeze it. I just set it in a different room of my mental house and swung the door mostly shut.

Battle Ground Chapter 24, Page 216