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The Rosary 

Equally silent, the man knelt beside her, slipping the cloak from his shoulders and draping it over her rain-wet robes. "You will catch cold and die if you remain here," he said softly, concern lacing his tone. Her head, bowed, her fire tresses forming a curtain for her face, did not lift at his words, but her own speech caught at his heart. "I am dead," she serenaded unmercifully.   Slowly, ever so slowly, she raised her face to him, and his breath caught in his throat at the caustic loveliness of her features; hardened by her years of agony, the curve of her jaw was stained with tears, and her eyes were twin seas of immense pain. Glints of green were revealed by the small light cast by the candles, but their true colour mattered not to the keeper of the sanctuary as he lifted his hand to her cheek. The widow did not stiffen, nor did she pull away, her face seeming to soften at his gentle gesture of affection. He could not help himself; all the angels in God's holy army could not have held him back from feathering his lips upon her own.