The thing is, he knows that Erik isn't really there. The dead can't come back — but maybe there's something of them that never left, slipping through the cracks between life and death. Anyway, Wilhelm doesn't care to what degree it's real. He hasn't been allowed to talk to his brother in almost a year, and so his desperation for it to be real — for any light to cut through the darkness — makes it so.

Without really meaning to, he strains, by subtle degrees, away from Istredd's grip on his arm. His eyes wander the dark beyond the wobbling light Istredd holds.

"What?"

It takes him a moment to realize what Istredd is referring to. The fungus devouring his skin doesn't register as a cause for concern any more than a pimple would. Brow furrowing, he shakes his head.

"You don't have to worry about it. It's not a big deal."