He welcomes Claude's steady hand on his shoulder. Letting go of the wool of his coat, where his fingers are knotted, he grasps at that hand. Something warmer to hold onto. Claude hadn't been able to protect him from...whatever happened to them in that room with the altar, but he hadn't abandoned Wilhelm to it — he'd endured it beside him. What he can remember from that night, most of which is lost in a dark haze in his memory, is Claude's hand on his shoulder just like this as they stumbled onward.

"It's all this place deserves."

The words cut sharply despite the thickness of his voice. His eyes fix on the water, murky with mud and rot.

"I don't even remember what they did to us down there," he admits quietly. The altar — does he only remember it because of what others had said? Somehow, even forgetting wasn't enough to heal the hurt. What if nothing is ever going to be enough?