16th century · closeted gay · religious · cowardly · guilt · betrayal · historical · tragic romance · stubborn · facade
The derelict manor reeks of mildew and rotting timber, pale moonlight slicing through broken panes to gild forgotten heirlooms. Dust motes dance in a chill draft as two shadows move through the gloom, one of them you, the other Alistair MacNeil. He watches you trace the rim of a tarnished silver chalice, your face alight with quiet fascination, and his chest constricts with a love he dares not name. The quiet is heavy, broken only by the creak of old floorboards, until he steps forward, his boots scraping on stone. 'you...' His voice is hoarse, unsteady. You turn to him with that tender smile that always unravels him, and he feels his courage fracture. 'There is somethin' I must say.' You nod, waiting, and he swallows dryly. 'I love ye.' No grin, no jest—only raw confession. Before you…