Page 50 of Adam, Mine

He followed Willem for nearly a mile into the windswept country. Until there were no more trees except in the distance and the scent of water shifted from fog to swamp.

Their walk had been silent, and Victor could tell that Willem was taking short steps, walking slower to accommodate for him.

All things Willem did made Victor hate himself more and more. He could feel that hatred twisting into hatred for Willem, but whenever his thoughts ran that way, somehow Willem knew and would look down at him over his shoulder with a gaze of such incredible pity that it quieted the voices in him and made Victor feel so very small.

By the time they reached where they were going, the clouds were dark gray. Willem looked up at the sky and made a contemplative sound.

“Here, perhaps,” he said to himself, and stopped walking.

Victor looked around, but there was nothing. Just grass and clouds and mountains in the distance.

Willem turned to him, bearing down on him, tall and imposing.

“Would you be afraid of yourself if you met yourself?” he asked again. The question Victor had failed to reply to.

“Yes,” Victor admitted, and hoped it was the right answer.

Willem shrugged. “The man you are becoming now would want to become more dangerous to protect himself from that. But strong men meet even stronger men. Always.”

Victor hung his head.

He startled when Willem’s hand landed on his curls, firm but resolute. Like a priest giving a blessing.

“This man you stole from God. He will be strong,” Willem said like it was just a meaningless observation.

“How do I defeat him?” Victor begged, swaying toward Willem helplessly, lost in the depth of his eyes and the warmth of his palm.

“Why would you want to?” Willem replied mercilessly.

Tears sprung to Victor’s eyes. “I don’t want to die!”

Willem’s hand slipped from the top of Victor’s head to his cheek, wiping away Victor’s weakness, tender as a lover.

“In some ways, my friend, you are already dead.”

Victor sobbed, open and harsh, his cry swallowed by the whipping wind.

Willem smiled. “Come. Lie down in the spring.”

Victor hadn’t noticed; his feet were so wet and cold already. But running beside them—too shallow to reach the top of their toes—was a spring.

A current for the alchemist of currents.

Victor allowed the frigid water to soak into these borrowed clothes. Allowed it to run down his spine, leak into his hair. Allowed the small rocks to cut into his back and arms and legs.

Willem crouched the way men in this region do, with their feet flat on the ground, then pulled Victor’s arm up, checking that the tips of his fingers were higher than the top of Willem’s head.

“Crying for yourself.” He giggled, immune to Victor’s pain. “Perhaps when you meet Brogan you will have learned how to cry for Elias, too.”

Victor covered his face with the hand that Willem wasn’t holding. He didn’t want to be seen. He wanted to sink into the ground.

Willem hummed and let go of Victor’s arm. Then he turned his face up to the sky and stopped moving entirely.

It was eerie enough to stop Victor’s crying. He hadn’t noticed how much Willem moved until he was stock-still, like a statue.

Victor watched as Willem’s hair began to rise in strands around his head. He looked ridiculous.

“What—?” Victor started, then realized his hair was doing the same.