Heartache
Willem didn’t go into detail about what he’d done to Victor, and Victor was certain he wouldn’t be able to replicate it, even though he’d witnessed it done. But he could feel that something had changed.
The waves were rough between England and the Netherlands. Victor dragged his body onto the boat and sat in his bunk like the dead, only moving to eat when food was handed to him.
His headaches and nausea that came and went in waves had tapered to a steady ache in the top of his spine and mild stomach upset. Both of which he could almost ignore if sufficiently distracted.
So, all in all, it was worth it to have visited Willem. But.
He’d seen his skin while getting dressed and the spiderwebbed scars that radiated out from his core. He’d never be able to take off his shirt in front of another without having to explain them.
Victor was peeling from exposure, and he’d have to get a haircut before meeting with Bradley King to sort out the lightning-damaged, singed bits. And that was just the surface.
Inside he felt . . .
It was like there was a cavern inside him where there should be warmth. Like there always had been, but he just didn’t know. And Willem had been the first to open Victor’s chest, light a candle, and look around.
It was a terrible thing to be judged and found wanting.
Victor fantasized about an alternate reality in which he’d never let Gregor’s goading get the best of him. Where he kept his head down, graduated, met Fitz at the pub and been connected with Willem that way.
He would have come by train instead of ship and been welcomed into Willem’s home under the recommendation of a respected friend. Could have tended the geese without Willem fearing for their lives. Could have learned to knit, learned about Willem’s currents.
Had long nights beside him in front of the fire, talking and inventing together.
He would feel Willem’s hands on his back or in his hair or at his feet and not worry about whether he deserved it.
He would not be as he is now. Wretched and damaged, cold, and shivering, at the bottom of a boat.
And even in the deepest contemplation of his pain, he could still hear Willem’s words. Flavored with laughter and the air of inevitability: Crying for yourself. Perhaps . . . you will have learned how to cry for Elias, too.