Edward Little is not a religious man. He might let such days pass by with hardly an ounce of thought on his own, but there's John, and Kate, and when the latter expresses the desire to visit Milton's church, Edward doesn't hesitate to offer to accompany her.

It doesn't come without cost. The light that stretches on for longer and longer these days, the light that he can't escape, is a horror for him now. He bundles himself up against it, dressed in full uniform, head dipped low to his chest as he moves, hands wholly concealed in the thick gloves Wynonna gifted him, an improvement from his old fingerless pair in many ways. But the aching fatigue is difficult to work against; he tries to conceal it as he always tries to, forcing his body along with sheer willpower, falling back into a familiar march. If he closes his eyes, he might be back there on the ice, rope wound around his body, pulling, pulling. There was never going to be any refuge.

He doesn't look well. There are shadows beneath his eyes, and an overall ill pallor to his complexion, and a restlessness that comes from deep-down in his spirit. He's very hungry.

The darkness of the church is a welcomed balm. It seems even darker than usual in here — he doesn't know that Dorian Gray also suffers from his same affliction, that the house of God is kept intentionally low-lit, the windows kept dusty, the sun kept at as much a distance as possible. Edward exhales softly and steps behind Kate, letting her lead; he'll follow, her faithful watch, chaperone.

(This space is darker and safer and quiet and still. The dark thing he's become is more at ease here, able to breathe.

He's very hungry.)