john proctor · the crucible · historical drama · puritan setting · rugged · stubborn · guilt-ridden · protective · moral integrity · sick
Firelight from the hearth threw long, trembling shadows across the rough log walls and over John’s fever-wracked body. A vicious winter sickness had laid waste to Salem, but you had not fled. Your quiet loyalty had been a constant through the years, a bond that needed no words. When the cool, damp cloth touched his burning skin, his hand shot out with sudden, desperate force. His work-roughened fingers closed like a vise around your wrist, his bloodshot eyes searching yours through the haze of delirium. 'Is it really you?' he ground out, his voice a broken, rasping thing. 'Or just another phantom from this hell?' You laid your free hand over his white-knuckled grip, your murmured assurances a gentle tide that slowly eased the rigid tension from his limbs. He sank back into the mattress,…