Arthur couldn't tell if the difficulty he felt breathing was due to anxiety, or because of the density of dust in the air.  Both were very real possibilities.  Between breathes, as the smell of lavender he so adored on Malachi got stronger, darkness swallowed more and more light.  Very soon, Arthur was walking down the corridor blind, only relying on Malachi's guidance to move forward.

The flicker of candle light when it finally came felt as burning as the sun.  Arthur squinting against it for a few long seconds, the hand that had been abandoned pressed to the wall to stabilize himself.  The stone stole away the warmth Malachi had given him.

As soon as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, Arthur wished they hadn't.  The utter lack of anything in the room - if it could be called that - was abysmal.  It was just stone, lavender, and sadness.  For maybe twenty-two years, Malachi had stayed here.

Twenty-two years.

Oh.  Arthur's first glance around had been wrong, it seemed.  There was more in this room indeed; rags, and bones.

Malachi's words did not seem to register to Arthur as he stepped closer, returning to his side.  The doctor was cautious to keep his foot steps quiet, as if hearing the echo from them off of these walls would cause them to collapse around them.

"Darling," his voice was similarly quiet, barely a whisper.  He paused there for a long moment, unsure of what to say.

This was - this was Hell.  It was the only word Arthur felt encapsulated the cruelty, the evil it would take for someone to lock a child here.  For twenty-two years.

"No wonder you killed your father," he managed.  "I hope you made him suffer.  He deserves to have suffered for - for making you live here.  Malachi."  He caught a glance at the fabric Malachi had tried to pick up.  He couldn't quite tell what it was, less so now that it was practically dust.

"I'm sorry," he said, not sure for what and still meaning it with every inch of his being.  "What was that?"