It was not like him to conceal his thoughts from her. Even when he changed them, when he warped them into something more palatable, more acceptable, less distressing from a man like him – he thought it important to keep some measure of honesty between them.

Yet, as he walked at her side and tried not to let his mind linger on what they left behind them, he found that task was nearly unachievable.

Malachi glanced her way at the apology, noting the way she’d lowered her head, as if she’d done something shameful. Not even in the hardest days of his youth had he ever been ashamed of her. Not even when her actions, however typical of a child, got him in trouble; not even when she’d thrown that rock hard enough to draw blood in his ‘defense.’ Never had he punished her for any of her thoughts, her questions, her beliefs; not once had he even raised his voice.

Why, now, did she hang her head in shame, like his judgment was something to be feared?

“No, I want to escort you,” he insisted, giving her a gentle nudge with his arm.

If he was still around, that was.

“And if I ever can’t, I want you to be careful. I know that you can take care of yourself, but I worry about you too, you know.”

Malachi managed a smile, and after a moment it felt less forced. His head ached where his hair still covered the bruises.

“Now, please. You still haven’t told me about your meeting.”

Ah. That… clearly had not come out the way he had intended it.

Malachi blinked, staring forward as he processed her… valid concern. Valid, yes, because he had found himself in dangerous situations far more often as of late and could not exactly guarantee his safety at all times, nor could he guarantee that he would even be careful, but he hadn’t meant it like that.

But the words stuck. Lodged themselves just south of his throat, burrowing gradually into his heart.

I won’t have you thinking about leaving me just yet, alright?

And the way he interpreted it – he knew that it wasn’t what she meant. He knew, or at least he assumed, that she hadn’t meant for it to make him feel even worse for considering leaving the priesthood, but it did. For almost as long as she had lived, he had been a priest. It was as fundamental to who he was as his love for her; did leaving it all behind mean leaving her, too? Or at least leaving behind some part of her, some part that idolized a faithful priest?

He said nothing, for no words came to him then. This life might not have been the one he would have chosen – it was not even the one he wanted now, if he was being truly honest with himself – but he had always had someone else to consider in that choice. He was glad when she followed his quick change of subject.

“…This is for me?” Malachi asked, as if to confirm that he hadn’t misheard. Took the handkerchief when it was handed over, turned it over in his careful hold to examine it. Distractedly, he said, “don’t be sorry.”

How could an embroidered handkerchief stab him in the heart the way it did? His fingertips felt too warm where they smoothed over the design; too destructive, too dirty.

“It’s beautiful,” he finally said, low voice thick in his throat. “It’s better that you gave it to me now, I would have hated to ruin it. Thank you, Nettie.”

Malachi took a steadying breath and lowered the item, but kept it in his hand, holding tightly to it.

“And – please, tell me you’re settling in well?”

Nettie’s arms pulled him closer.

Malachi had never felt so far away.

Fingers tightened their grip on the handkerchief, arms remaining awkwardly at his sides. He’d never minded closeness with her – (tried not to mind it, convinced himself enough that he didn’t) – but in that moment it felt constricting. Suffocating, for her worried words had stolen his breath and her handkerchief covered his face.

His eyes had reddened, but his cheeks were dry. Gently, as if the slightest force could damage her, Malachi set his arms upon her shoulders in return of the hug.

“Please,” he repeated, quieter this time. “Just tell me something good.”

There was a fragment of him that’d splintered off; no longer needed, or perhaps simply no longer appropriate, left to rest and rot and fall dormant. Only it hadn’t truly severed itself – it found life in every curse he spat, every greedy mouth he ever kissed, every surrender, every complaint, every perversion of the gospel he shared and every shattering of once-solid vows. It scratched incessantly at the confines of his skull and begged, no- demanded, to be given a choice of its own.

To be selfish.

To be allowed to not be okay, without worrying all the more for what his own condition did to someone else.

To be his own person, for once, to not be a priest of, the son of, the orphan of, the ‘father’ of.

Malachi nodded and stepped back to walk at her side, though the answer left him dissatisfied. He looked over the handkerchief again, thumbing over the initials she’d stitched onto it. And how selfish it was of him, he thought, to feel this way and to make her suffer for it. To distance himself from the only person that still lived that loved him.

“Yes, I suppose you’re right,” he agreed distantly. “It’s always fine.”

He slipped the handkerchief into his pocket. Lifted his head, and with an embarrassed smile, said, “I didn’t mean to press. I just want to know that you’re doing well here, that you’re…”

Still alive. Still happy. That she hadn’t woken up one day to find that she shared the sentiments of the rest of the family and that he was beneath her.

“…It just makes me feel better to hear about you. What you’re doing, how your friends are. Your letters were always the highlight of my days,” he admitted, and tried not to sound too ashamed of it.

Wait, what? He turned his head immediately when Nettie mentioned having met a boy, a frown pulling at the corners of his mouth.

“What bo- ow!”

Malachi winced as she slapped his arm, jerking it out of her reach before she could think to do it again. Wouldn’t have hurt on a normal day, light as she’d done it, but all the bruises and scrapes were yet to heal.

He couldn’t blame her for her frustrations, of course.

“That isn’t…” he let his arm fall back to his side. “You aren’t a burden.”

Why had he raised her to be so caring? Couldn’t he have raised a rich little bastard like everyone else? At least then he wouldn’t feel so guilty for making her cry.

“It also isn’t your job to worry so much over me. I’m only embarrassed that you feel there’s so much about me to stress over – as if I’m incapable of managing myself,” he said.

Back in the house, in those few minutes he’d spent out of sight, it had felt like finding part of an answer. Not all of one, but enough to guide the way forward. Now it all felt obscured, and the fog was thick enough that he couldn’t even tell where he was trying to go.

“Tell me about the boy,” Malachi requested, “or I’ll be stressing over that.”