Usually, Stark got glimpses of things from those whose deaths he attended to. Flashes of memories. Pieces of them to carry with him for the rest of his days. That was what it meant to be a Stykera. You helped them cross over to the other side and they left a part of themselves behind within you.

Being so firmly within memories, if that's what this was, wasn't the natural order of these things. This felt too strong. This felt too strange.

He would have stumbled back, if he could, but he was kneeling and he was busy.