Was that what he wanted the other priest to tell him? Expected? Yes. Wanted? No. It was part of the reason why he had avoided the sacrament. What he wanted to hear was how to rekindle the old flame. How to get out of this mess. But perhaps no advice would be good enough if his will was not strong enough.

He remained quiet and listened. Some air was allowed to return to his lungs when father Brennan continued. Gabriel nodded and quickly wiped his face with his sleeve.

"Y- you're right, father. I suppose I have allowed the former sins to weigh me down along with the recent ones, because that is what it felt like." He breathed in deeply. Father Brennan was right, he had made a clean start during his last confession, even if he had struggled again with the same temptations. "Yet I've still sinned again, against my vows and against this poor man, by not keeping my distance, and by having impure thoughts about him." And eleven guilty wanks, but saying that once was enough. "I don't know how to regain control over myself."

"Can you?"

If he struggled so much; if he strained to keep control and failed to do so. Could he regain that control?

Why should he, but Malachi did not give voice to that inquiry.

He closed his eyes, and let his hands rest comfortably over his lap.

"Perhaps if you cannot, you should try something else, since you are so incapable of handling yourself this way."

Was he feeling bitter about effectively being called depraved? Was he still frustrated with the way this man and the guests he'd offered shelter had treated him that morning? Was he considering how much easier it'd be to avoid the bishop's wrath if there was not another priest around to complain about him?

Perhaps.

Once again Gabriel felt like his heart stopped and the air was pressed out of his lungs by the other priest's verbal blow. It was not the advice he had hoped for, though he didn't know exactly what would have been.

Perhaps he deserved this severity. Did the other priest believe him so depraved that he was beyond help? Or perhaps this was the kind of chastisement he needed to put him back on the right path at last. He was certainly in more pain now than any discipline or fast could inflict.

Tears would have come again, if he wasn't so lightheaded and unable to breath. He put his hand on his chest, trying to force himself to inhale. He drew in a small breath, then coughed, and struggled again to breathe, until at last he managed a shaky inhale. Then a few rapid breaths. He felt like he was going to be sick. He wanted to leave.

"I'm sorry..." he breathed at last. "I will try harder, father." He closed his eyes, but opened them again, for it made him feel like he was spinning.

For a while, all he heard was breath. Malachi could not know if his words had truly reached Richards or not, or if they had stumbled against the partition and fallen back onto him.

If he struggled so hard against what he was supposed to be, his mind repeated, could he ever regain that control?

He'd never had much of it in the first place.

An apology finally passed through the grate. Malachi let it linger between them, while he watched what low light caught the shape of Richards on the other side. Black fabric. Hands. Dust. The ever-present ghosts that haunted every church.

"Trying is not always enough," he told them. That Richards happened to be there, too, was secondary.

"Have you anything else to confess?"

Did father Brennan seek to crush him underfoot? It certainly felt as though he was stamped on again before he had the chance to get up. But before he could completely drown in despair, the other priest moved on, and Gabriel saw a chance to finish soon and drown in despair in the privacy of his room instead.

"I lost my temper this morning at our guest. And I went to do some house calls, but I wasn't available to the people, I wasn't attentive to them the way I should have been and was in a rush to leave, even though I had nothing urgent to do." Whatever other sins he had on his list, he had forgotten them now. "For these and any sins I may have forgotten to mention, I ask God's forgiveness," he finished.

So the answer was no. As Father Richards repeated his lesser sins, Malachi looked tiredly away from the grate.

It was exhausting, this kind of relentless self-deprecation. He had contributed to it some himself, but in ordinary circumstances he would not have allowed his own beliefs to influence the advice he gave out. Richards was hopeless -- not because he had to be, but because he refused to accept that he could be anything else, regardless of his desperate attempts to correct himself.

He did not need correction. He needed to open his eyes and see beyond the pews.

"Gabriel," Malachi managed in a gentler tone. "Sometimes all you need is a moment to breathe. Take your time, go out and visit people when you want to, and not because you are obligated. Pray for strength without straining to find the right answer. It will come to you when God decides you are ready for it."

What Richards needed wasn't another visit to a monastery, but a holiday away from the church entirely. Malachi considered saying more, but left it there, for the other priest to pray as he wished.

That, at last, offered some balm, both the kinder tone and the words. Gabriel could feel his shoulders relax a little, as if the metaphorical yoke was lifted a little. Do visits because he wanted to. He used to want it. But these days he did not do anything because he wanted it. He did not know what he wanted at all. He had tried so hard to kill his desires.

It would be nice to do things because he wanted them again.

Perhaps father Brennan was right. Perhaps he was trying to force a change too hard, rather than wait for God to answer his prayers. Could he be more patient, and kinder to himself?

Could he be kind again?

The realisation brough fresh tears. Quieter ones. There was a glimpse of a way out.

“Yes, father. Thank you,” he said softly.

The man on the other side of the screen sounded a little less upset, so there was that.

How much he had actually helped or hindered his emotional journey, Malachi had no idea. He straightened up and made the sign of the cross, and then began reciting in Latin the prayer of absolution.

"...Ego te absolvo a peccatis tuis, in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti," he concluded, "Amen."

Maybe Richards would last a little longer before snapping at their guests now.

A priest could dream.

What? No penance? Father Brennan moved right into the absolution, and hurriedly, Gabriel made a whispered act of contrition. He crossed himself as the absolution was given, though his mind was still distracted. Perhaps father Brennan believed his harsh warnings had served as penance.

"Deo Gratias." He muttered, when the prayer of absolution was done. "Thank you, father." He got up, eager to leave and nurse his wounds in the privacy of his room.

By the time he was up the stairs, the glimpse of light that father Brennan's last advice had offered was clouded over by the memory of father Morgan's warnings that he had been too easy on himself and that it was a sign either of lack of love for God or perverse self-centeredness.

The bedroom door fell heavy behind him and the darkness of the room stared at him.

Malachi could hear the whisper underneath his words and carried on without pause. He'd given him the chance to give his prayer, and Richards had spent that time sniffling and offering thanks instead.

As soon as he was finished, the other priest left the confessional. Malachi exhaled a sigh before he went to follow.

Out of the church, into the presbytery, down the hall -- until Father Richards disappeared into his room, and Malachi eyed the darkness that obscured the little gap beneath the door.

That wasn't very promising.

Malachi stood there a moment longer, then turned. Again he departed from the presbytery, not to return until morning light.