04-20-2022, 04:05 PM
Divinity fit Malachi like a well-tailored glove, hollowed out and conformed to his shape. It ended with the tips of his fingers and reached only so far as he did; a blanket of protection that sealed him in as well as it kept all else out. A barrier, made empty without his warmth. A fabric spun into the illusion of real skin.
The cassock didn’t fit him anymore.
It hadn’t changed since he’d pulled it on. It still ended at his wrists and ankles, and carved a looming silhouette. It looked darker, or perhaps his skin had paled; a starless night sky against swirls of purple and green and blue that still littered his form. Most of them were covered. One dared extend to his hand, while another painted the corner of his forehead beneath a healing wound.
The hand slipped into his pocket. The other pushed his hair to the side, obscuring any color.
No, the cassock hadn’t changed at all. It was Malachi that looked wrong wearing it.
A rap of his knuckles against the door brought a butler to see him in.
If anything had brought any solace to him as of late, it was Nettie’s efforts to settle comfortably into Whitby. Malachi didn’t know shit about embroidery, but he’d been glad to hear her interest in attending a club devoted to it. With any hope, she’d make some friends – she was more than pleasant enough to be around, and there was no reason for anyone not to like her.
How had he raised such a kind and well-adjusted woman?
It was… a wonder, to say the least. But he did take pride in it. In her, and all the things that she could be.
Malachi passed by the stairs, heard voices in the room he was heading to – Nettie’s voice? – and entered the sitting room quietly, but a shadow that wished not to impose.
“Nettie?”
The women were crowding in a doorway, and he saw Nettie-
-… saw her…
…oh God.
Was it too late to turn around and wait outside? Had anyone seen him? Heard him? Well he was coughing now. Nearly choked on his own spit. Malachi turned, hiding his face in the crook of his elbow as he found his breath. Why was he here? Why was Nettie talking to him?
He wasn’t coughing anymore, but he stayed turned away. As if that would magically erase him from everyone’s sight.
The cassock didn’t fit him anymore.
It hadn’t changed since he’d pulled it on. It still ended at his wrists and ankles, and carved a looming silhouette. It looked darker, or perhaps his skin had paled; a starless night sky against swirls of purple and green and blue that still littered his form. Most of them were covered. One dared extend to his hand, while another painted the corner of his forehead beneath a healing wound.
The hand slipped into his pocket. The other pushed his hair to the side, obscuring any color.
No, the cassock hadn’t changed at all. It was Malachi that looked wrong wearing it.
A rap of his knuckles against the door brought a butler to see him in.
If anything had brought any solace to him as of late, it was Nettie’s efforts to settle comfortably into Whitby. Malachi didn’t know shit about embroidery, but he’d been glad to hear her interest in attending a club devoted to it. With any hope, she’d make some friends – she was more than pleasant enough to be around, and there was no reason for anyone not to like her.
How had he raised such a kind and well-adjusted woman?
It was… a wonder, to say the least. But he did take pride in it. In her, and all the things that she could be.
Malachi passed by the stairs, heard voices in the room he was heading to – Nettie’s voice? – and entered the sitting room quietly, but a shadow that wished not to impose.
“Nettie?”
The women were crowding in a doorway, and he saw Nettie-
-… saw her…
…oh God.
Was it too late to turn around and wait outside? Had anyone seen him? Heard him? Well he was coughing now. Nearly choked on his own spit. Malachi turned, hiding his face in the crook of his elbow as he found his breath. Why was he here? Why was Nettie talking to him?
He wasn’t coughing anymore, but he stayed turned away. As if that would magically erase him from everyone’s sight.
