Prior's position adjusts accordingly, no space to be had between them. There's a sense of... camaraderie that goes beyond the shared experience of near-death by wolves, apparently, and for whatever reason, Prior's clung to the idea. That, or he feels he owes this man a life debt. But who's truly counting? And for that matter, it doesn't look like Fitzjames will have all that much time collect, so what the Hell.

"Prior," he says, somewhat abruptly. A name to go with a face would be helpful. As a second thought, he adds: "But not the prior." In case that isn't obvious. Not Benedictine, Cistercian, nor bloody Premonstratensians, thank Christ. He can't recall the last time he'd visited a confessional for more than unrepentant reasons, and woe be anyone who trusts him with that position of power (never mind all the secrets that come with it).

He reaches to help tuck the peacoat more precisely over Fitzjames'. "Which means I don't— do Last Rites." His flat intonation — one that mimics London too well — echoes with the vestiges of his earlier asthmas attack. Upon waking, he'd coughed hard and long for minutes. The cold air had cut like knives but eventually it had faded to the regret still burning in his overburdened muscles. Still, it's a rhythm to follow: A handful of words to a single, raspy, short, painful breath. Rinse, repeat.