Robert stared down at the priest, whose torch was now lowered, the warm light casting a soft glow over the man's features. His hair was white, cut short, a stark contrast to his amiable face—one lined with age yet absent of weariness. A quiet understanding lingered in the mirthful curve of his lips, in the steady gaze of his brown eyes.
There was no judgment there. No pity. Only patience.
Something about that patience made Robert's shoulders sag under its weight.
With a deep sigh, he reached up, fingers fumbling briefly before he loosened the knot at his throat. The rope slithered away, the coarse fibers scraping against his skin one last time before it hung limp around his shoulders. "Fine," he muttered, more to himself than to the priest. "But make it quick. I've no patience for sermons."