The other’s movements were slow, as he approached. The only indication that Malachi noticed his looming presence at all was the darting of his eyes, trained on Arthur’s hands.

They came closer. Too close.

Malachi tried to swallow, just to be impeded once again by the pressure of the rope around his neck… but he didn’t move. Even as Arthur knelt down at his side, the priest didn’t even bother to lift his head, and watched him from the corners of his eyes alone.

Wearing his old glasses, Arthur really did sound like his father. But Lyle, at least, had never dared him to walk outside. Never challenged him the way that Arthur did, and Malachi never challenged his orders in return.

His fingers fell out of the tiny gap they’d made when Arthur untied the rope. Rubbed raw and bloody at the inside of the joints, stinging from the burn of friction.

Malachi took another breath, deeper this time, and coughed blood onto the floor.

…Fuck. Falling, and fighting, and everything else he’d done over the last few days – it must have agitated the internal injuries he’d sustained weeks before. That, or (perhaps in addition to) the pain in his throat was more serious.

“Y-o- u to- l–”

Malachi had always possessed a voice that existed in a low, somewhat calming registry. The voice that escaped him now was scraped out like gravel, despite his attempts to modulate it.

He shut his eyes, one hand reaching for his throat to hold it. It hurt. More so than when Arthur’s bare hands had closed around it, and more so than any time he’d been choked in his youth. He lowered his head between his shoulders and, rather than scramble away, leaned in to rest it on Arthur’s thigh.

“Y-es,” he managed, barely a whisper. “Yes.”