He's used up all his words on those babbling prayers, but he nods. As Claude pries up the roots binding his wrists, Wilhelm jabs the full weight of his focus into him. If he doesn't look, he can pretend that the dimness around them is empty. The others, whose screams sawed through him, whose bodies popped and cracked, were never really there. They were like the fungus crusting his skin, bursting from every abrasion: a hallucination.
He feels like he's only half there himself, blurred at the edges, blending into the dark — and at the same time, like he's too much there. There's a jaggedness in him that digs into every second and gets stuck there.
When the vines are cleared, he lets Claude haul him up to his feet. Unsteady, he leans against him, clings to his side. He thinks he mumbles thank you. Then he makes the mistake of looking.
He doesn't mean to. His gaze lurches away, and in the murky glow of the mushrooms that line the rocks, he sees a mangled body still tangled up in vines. Blood slicks the ground. Wilhelm forgets how to breath, how to put one foot in front of the other. Paralyzed, he can only tighten his grip on Claude.
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He feels like he's only half there himself, blurred at the edges, blending into the dark — and at the same time, like he's too much there. There's a jaggedness in him that digs into every second and gets stuck there.
When the vines are cleared, he lets Claude haul him up to his feet. Unsteady, he leans against him, clings to his side. He thinks he mumbles thank you. Then he makes the mistake of looking.
He doesn't mean to. His gaze lurches away, and in the murky glow of the mushrooms that line the rocks, he sees a mangled body still tangled up in vines. Blood slicks the ground. Wilhelm forgets how to breath, how to put one foot in front of the other. Paralyzed, he can only tighten his grip on Claude.