"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.

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?"

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.

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.

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.