Fairest and dearest, your wrath and anger are more heavy than I

Host: The storm had rolled in without warning — lightning slicing through the sky like an old wound reopening. The castle courtyard glistened under rain, its stones slick with memory. In a small torch-lit chamber, Jack stood by a window slit, watching the tempest. His cloak clung to him, dark with rain, his jaw set in that familiar defiance that always looked one heartbeat away from sorrow.

Jeeny stood across the room, the firelight trembling across her face, her hair damp, her eyes blazing. A letter, half-torn, lay between them on the table — its ink blurred, but its truth unmistakable.

Host: The air between them was thick, not with hatred, but with something heavier — the weight of words unsaid, of love bound by pride.

Jeeny: (quietly, yet burning) “Marie de France once wrote — ‘Fairest and dearest, your wrath and anger are more heavy than I can bear; but learn that I cannot tell what you wish me to say without sinning against my honour too grievously.’”

Jack: “I know the line.”

Jeeny: “Then you know why I brought it up.”

Jack: “Because you think I’ve wronged you.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Because I think you’re about to wrong yourself.”

Host: Thunder rolled like a beast awakening in the distance, shaking the walls. The candles flickered, throwing shadows that danced like the ghosts of their argument.

Jack: “You call it honour, Jeeny. I call it pride. You’d rather wound both of us than speak what you really feel.”

Jeeny: “And you’d rather I betray myself than let silence speak for me.”

Jack: “Silence isn’t noble. It’s cowardice dressed up as virtue.”

Jeeny: “You think truth is easy? You think love survives honesty without cost? There are words that once spoken cannot be taken back. Even the truest confession can become a weapon in another’s hands.”

Jack: “And yet, you accuse me of not understanding you.”

Jeeny: “Because you don’t. You live by your logic, your ideals of clarity and proof. But not all truth can survive daylight, Jack. Some truths live in the shadows because that’s where they can breathe.”

Host: The wind howled, pushing open the wooden shutters, rain splattering onto the floor, hissing as it met the fire’s warmth. The two didn’t move. Their eyes locked, each unwilling to yield first.

Jack: “You want me to say something I don’t believe.”

Jeeny: “No. I want you to admit what you do.”

Jack: “And what is that?”

Jeeny: “That you love me.”

Host: The word hung in the air like a sword suspended above both of them — shining, dangerous, inevitable.

Jack: (after a long pause) “Love is a word people use when they want to own something. You mistake my loyalty for desire.”

Jeeny: “No. You mistake your fear for honour.”

Jack: “Fear?”

Jeeny: “Yes. You fear surrender. You fear needing someone. That’s why you hide behind your logic. That’s why you speak of honour and duty — because they give you walls to live behind.”

Host: Her voice trembled, but not with weakness. It was the tremor of someone holding back a flood. The storm outside echoed her heart’s tempo — wild, unrestrained, impossible to contain.

Jack: “You want me to say the words that would unmake everything I am.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe everything you are needs unmaking.”

Jack: “Do you even hear yourself? You’re asking me to sin against my own code — to speak feelings that would betray everything I’ve sworn to protect.”

Jeeny: “You’ve sworn to protect yourself, Jack. That’s all. Don’t call it honour when it’s fear wearing armour.”

Host: The fire cracked, sparks rising, light flickering across their faces — his, carved from restraint; hers, sculpted from pain.

Jack: “If I tell you what you want to hear, it won’t be truth. It’ll be surrender.”

Jeeny: “No. It would be freedom.”

Jack: “Freedom from what?”

Jeeny: “From this — this war between what you feel and what you’ll allow yourself to admit.”

Jack: “And if my silence is the only thing keeping me whole?”

Jeeny: “Then maybe you were never whole to begin with.”

Host: A gust of wind blew out one of the candles, smoke curling upward like a soul departing. The room darkened, the shadows deepened, and still, neither looked away.

Jack: “You think love sanctifies everything it touches. It doesn’t. Sometimes it corrodes. Sometimes it asks you to trade your integrity for comfort.”

Jeeny: “And sometimes honour asks you to trade your humanity for principle.”

Jack: “Principles are what keep us from becoming chaos.”

Jeeny: “And love is what keeps us from becoming stone.”

Host: The rain softened, whispering now against the stone walls like a confession. The flame danced between them — small, but alive.

Jack: “If I say the words, Jeeny, if I let them cross my lips, it’ll change everything.”

Jeeny: “Good. Change is what truth demands.”

Jack: “And what if truth destroys us?”

Jeeny: “Then it destroys us honestly.”

Host: For a moment, there was only silence — that aching, trembling kind of silence where two souls see each other completely, without disguise, without armour.

Jack: “You think me cruel for holding back. But I can’t tell you what you wish to hear without sinning against something sacred in me. My honour may be all I have left.”

Jeeny: “And yet that honour keeps you alone.”

Jack: “Better alone than false.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Better true and broken than perfect and empty.”

Host: Tears welled in her eyes, not from weakness, but from the terrible clarity that comes when love meets its limits. The thunder faded, the fire dimmed, and the storm outside seemed to exhale.

Jeeny: (softly) “Do you know what Marie de France meant? She wasn’t writing about defiance. She was writing about the cruelty of love constrained by duty — the agony of wanting to speak and being silenced by honour.”

Jack: “Then maybe I am her echo.”

Jeeny: “No. You’re the man she pitied.”

Host: The last candle guttered, and darkness crept in, soft and relentless. Jack stepped closer, his hand reaching halfway across the table, but not touching hers.

Jack: “Jeeny…”

Jeeny: “Don’t. Not if it’s only to soothe your conscience.”

Jack: “No. To say that you were right.”

Jeeny: “About what?”

Jack: “About fear.”

Host: The wind quieted. The rain stopped. The night, exhausted, finally rested.

Jack: “You think honour and love are enemies. But maybe they’re just two sides of the same torment — one begging to be spoken, the other begging to be preserved.”

Jeeny: “Then speak it, Jack. Let one of them win.”

Jack: (whispering) “If I do, I’ll lose you.”

Jeeny: “If you don’t, you already have.”

Host: He looked at her, and in his eyes, there was the kind of anguish only those who have loved silently can understand — the torture of restraint, the sacrament of words unspoken.

He opened his mouth, but no sound came — only the echo of rain returning somewhere beyond the walls.

Jeeny: (after a long moment) “Then let silence be your honour, and let it be the grave of what we might have been.”

Host: She turned away, her cloak catching the firelight, a brief flare of crimson before the door closed behind her.

The room fell still, save for the soft hiss of dying embers.

Jack stood alone, his reflection faint in the window, the stormlight fading. He whispered something — a name, a confession, or a prayer — and the night swallowed it whole.

Host: Outside, the sky cleared, and a single star appeared, fragile, trembling — like honour and love meeting, at last, in the same breath of silence.