Prior's horror deepens at the appearance of so much blood. Paling in the flickering light, he curses quietly under his breath, damning himself for not taking the time to do a more thorough investigation of Fitzjames' state when he'd had the chance. The cigarette is cast aside uncaringly – something he'll surely regret later – and he leans in toward the wounds, pulling in a deep breath. No gangrene, thank Christ he notes, but when his gaze returns to the other man's face, it's difficult to discern flesh over the skull-like impression Prior isn't sure how he missed the first time around.

The sound of his boots scrape as he stands, a hollow noise that rings out in the quiet hollow of the church. Knife donned, Prior snaps up the can of beans, tosses the remainder against an overturned pew, and collects the discarded chalice that must have once served this town.

"I'm going out." At the door now, he looks to Fitzjames. "Don't move," he commands, more lieutenant than captive for the moment.