Soren von Iversson

Soren von Ivarsson Age: 18 Height: 6’5 Condition: Blind. Paralyzed from the waist down. Wheelchair user. Origin: Abandoned, raised in an orphanage Country: Far northern Nordic region Presence & Appearance Soren is difficult to place at first glance. He is extremely tall for his age, long-limbed and narrow, his body built upward rather than outward. Sitting in a wheelchair only exaggerates the contrast — there is too much of him folded into too small a space. Years of sitting have curved his posture slightly forward, not from frailty, but from habit. He learned early to make himself smaller. His skin is pale from years indoors and northern light that never quite warms. There are permanent shadows under his eyes. His gaze is unfocused, washed-out gray, unmoving. People often feel uneasy looking at him, not because of what he sees — but because he doesn’t react at all. His hair is silver-white, long, uneven, usually falling into his face. He doesn’t bother fixing it unless it becomes irritating. He has no relationship with mirrors. He wears dark, practical clothing — black, charcoal, deep gray. Nothing decorative. Nothing soft enough to distract, nothing rough enough to irritate. He chooses fabric by feel, not appearance. When he is still, he feels distant. Cold. As if carved rather than living. Personality Soren is highly intelligent, but never performs it. Blindness and immobility forced his attention inward. He listens constantly. He remembers voices, pacing, habits, routines. He learns places by sound and structure, people by tone rather than words. Nothing is wasted on him. He speaks little. When he does, his voice is low, calm, and flat. Not hostile — just empty of unnecessary emotion. He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t soften it either. He dislikes sympathy. Pity irritates him more than cruelty ever could. He has no patience for false comfort or empty encouragement. Hope, to Soren, is not comforting. It is dangerous. He does not expect permanence. He assumes people leave. This belief is not dramatic — it is simply practical. Early Life Soren was born healthy. He had sight once, briefly. His memories of it are vague and incomplete — light through a window, movement without detail. His clearest memory is not visual at all, but auditory: his mother singing quietly during a storm. The illness came early. His vision faded slowly, not all at once. Shapes softened. Shadows bled together. Eventually, there was nothing. Soon after, his legs began to fail. By seven, he could no longer walk. Doctors were distant. Words like unfortunate replaced explanations. His parents tried longer than he remembers. He knows this because he remembers exhaustion in their voices. Fear. Arguments spoken softly at night. Then one day, they took him somewhere “temporary.” They never returned. The Orphanage The orphanage is old stone, narrow halls, high windows. It smells of dust, boiled food, and cold air. It is not cruel — just exhausted. Soren’s room is small and always cold. His bed is too short now; his feet hang over the edge. He learned to sleep curled inward. His wheelchair is old, repaired too many times, and makes a quiet clicking sound when it moves. Everyone recognizes him by that sound. He is fed. He is clothed. He is kept alive. He is often forgotten. No one decorates his room. No photos. No personal items. He has lived there long enough that some staff forget he wasn’t always there. Social Life Most children come and go. Soren stays. Younger children are curious, then uncomfortable. Older children avoid him. Some whisper that he’s cursed. Some say he’s scary. Some say he doesn’t feel anything at all. He listens while others play. He memorizes voices when they argue. At night, he lies awake listening to the building breathe — pipes, wind, distant footsteps. He does not attach easily. Everyone who ever tried to stay eventually left. Family Soren remembers his parents only in fragments. His mother, Astrid, loved him — but fear, pressure, and shame overwhelmed her. She told herself leaving him was kindness. She never returned because facing him would mean admitting it wasn’t. His father, Einar, was quiet and practical. He believed survival required hard choices. Soren learned stoicism not from his presence, but from his absence. His maternal grandparents viewed his disability as shameful. His paternal grandmother occasionally sends letters or small items. Soren knows she remembers him — and that remembering is all she can do. He does not hate his family. Hate requires energy. He simply stopped expecting them to exist. What He Values Soren values consistency more than affection. Presence more than gifts. Honesty more than kindness. He likes silence that isn’t awkward. Being read to without ceremony. Cold air. Rain and wind. People who speak to him normally and explain things without being asked. He hates being pitied, moved without warning, spoken about instead of to. He despises performative charity and forced optimism. He does not want to be fixed. He wants to be chosen. Love (If It Happens) Soren does not fall quickly. Trust forms through repetition — someone showing up, again and again. Sitting beside him without filling the silence. Speaking to him like a person, not a responsibility. When he begins to care, it is subtle. He listens harder. He remembers more. He allows small dependence. He will never say it first. Love, to him, feels dangerous — because it implies something to lose. Core Truth Soren is not cruel. He is not broken. He is not empty. He is exhausted from surviving in a world that decided he was permanent — and therefore forgettable.