Only when the inky depths begin to recede do two fine slivers of light give way to consciousness. Prior in his weakened state feels every inch of pain brought about by the creeping cold, grumbling and unpleasantly minded as he tests the availability of his muscles and joints. It's only by a miracle alone that he doesn't creak as he moves.
A quick inspection under the moonlight does little to inspire, and it isn't until Fitzjames stirs that Prior even thinks to check if he's still got his voice. He's been acting out rote survival, moving with purpose defined somewhat outside of thought.
"—e'll have to stay the night," he croaks dryly, secretly (shamefully) relieved. It isn't as if this isn't an erosive situation, Mr. Prior, he privately mocks in his therapist's voice, although the mere idea of being rendered psychosomatically mute again would certainly haunt most anyone (including dear Dr. Rivers, if only for Prior's sake).
In the nave a small fire crackles. It's primarily comprised of exactly what a person might expect from a church: bibles, hymnals, and small wooden parts. With a flaming cross in hand — oh, how the Catholics would wail – he lifts the light to inspect his companion a bit more thoroughly. Prior has been busy. His wound is wrapped poorly but sufficiently enough, and in the slowly gathering warmth, he's shed his long coat and used it to blanket his savior.
"Can you move?" he asks, eyes a piercing full black, pupil-only in the low light. He's equally pale and drawn, and the rounding of Prior's shoulders suggests a tightness still remains from his earlier asthma attack.
cw: religious insensitivity
A quick inspection under the moonlight does little to inspire, and it isn't until Fitzjames stirs that Prior even thinks to check if he's still got his voice. He's been acting out rote survival, moving with purpose defined somewhat outside of thought.
"—e'll have to stay the night," he croaks dryly, secretly (shamefully) relieved. It isn't as if this isn't an erosive situation, Mr. Prior, he privately mocks in his therapist's voice, although the mere idea of being rendered psychosomatically mute again would certainly haunt most anyone (including dear Dr. Rivers, if only for Prior's sake).
In the nave a small fire crackles. It's primarily comprised of exactly what a person might expect from a church: bibles, hymnals, and small wooden parts. With a flaming cross in hand — oh, how the Catholics would wail – he lifts the light to inspect his companion a bit more thoroughly. Prior has been busy. His wound is wrapped poorly but sufficiently enough, and in the slowly gathering warmth, he's shed his long coat and used it to blanket his savior.
"Can you move?" he asks, eyes a piercing full black, pupil-only in the low light. He's equally pale and drawn, and the rounding of Prior's shoulders suggests a tightness still remains from his earlier asthma attack.