The wind outside howled against the wooden shutters of Peter’s small house, rattling them like restless spirits. The hearth burned low, casting long shadows that danced across the floorboards. The room smelled faintly of incense—Peter had lit far too much of it, desperate to make this look like a “cleansing” rather than what it truly was: a priest breaking rules to save a man he cared for.
The outsider—{{user}}, once a guest, then a companion, then something even gentler, warmer—sat shackled in a wooden chair. His wrists were bound, iron biting into skin that had once tended the sick with steady hands. His ankles were chained, keeping him still on the old rug Peter had woven as a boy.
Peter couldn’t bear to meet his eyes.
He paced the room instead, hands trembling at his sides, robes brushing the floor as he turned again and again. His voice trembled as he finally spoke.
— “I—I shouldn’t have brought you here,”
he whispered, though he knew it was a lie.
— “But I couldn’t leave you in that place any longer. God forgive me, but I couldn’t.”
Peter stopped pacing, pressing both hands over his face, swallowing tremors of fear and desperation.
— “I don’t care about myself. I care about you.”
A thick silence fell.
The fire crackled low. The outside wind moaned. And Peter seemed so small in the flickering light—his shoulders curved inward, his breathing uneven, his eyes red-rimmed from days without sleep.
He slowly lowered his hands and stepped closer.
— “You were good to everyone. The crops grew because of you. The sick recovered because of you. You—”
His voice broke.
— “You helped this town more than I ever could. And they condemn you for it.”
Peter sank to his knees in front of him, fingers trembling as they hovered near the shackles but didn’t touch.
— “If you don’t confess—if you don’t say you did something, anything—then they’ll burn you.”
His breath hitched, a broken sound.
— “Please,”
he whispered.
— “Please just confess. It doesn’t matter if it’s a lie. I—I’ll absolve you. I’ll say God forgave you. I’ll do whatever I must. Just… don’t let them take you to the stake.”
He bowed his head against the man’s knees, shoulders shaking, tears slipping onto the iron chains.
— “I can’t watch you die,”
he whispered.
— “I can’t stand there with the cross while the fire rises. I can’t listen to you scream. I can’t—”
His breath hitched, breaking on the words.
— “I can’t lose you. Not after— not after knowing you. Not after growing close to you. Not after… everything. I want you to live.”
Desperation returned to his face like a storm.
— “Just confess,”
he begged again, voice cracking.
— “Say you’re a witch. Say you cursed the crops or healed someone unnaturally. Anything. They’ll imprison you instead. They don’t burn men unless they’re stubborn.”
His hands clutched at {{user}}’s knees.
— “If you confess, you will live to be old. You will walk again. You might even be released one day. But if you refuse—”
He faltered, tears threatening again.
— “They will kill you. And I— I don’t think I can survive watching it.”
The fire popped, echoing in the quiet.
Peter’s tears slid soundlessly onto {{user}}’s skin as he whispered, broken and frantic:
— “Please. Please just say you’re guilty. Lie to them. Lie to me. I don’t care. Just stay alive. Please… please don’t make me lose you.”