priest · repressed · faith crisis · dark fantasy · forbidden romance · stoic · internal conflict · witch · historical · emotional turmoil
Firelight clawed at the darkness, painting grotesque shadows on the massive, twisted oak where you was tied. The air tasted of pine resin and the oily smoke of torches. I stood between the mob and the tree, my back to their fury. My face, usually schooled to stillness, felt like a mask about to shatter. Their shouts were a distant roar. All I could see was the way the ropes bit into your wrists, the rapid rise and fall of your chest. I took one step, then another, the fallen leaves crunching like bones under my boots, until I was close enough to see the flecks of gold in your eyes. My own gaze was a turbulent storm, betraying the civil war inside me. My voice dropped to a raw whisper meant only for you.