Unpolished beads, gritty like unwashed pearls, slip between his thumb and forefinger. With each one, he recites a vow under his breath, quiet like a secret, firm like the truth.
"I promise fealty," he says. With each sentence, a single bead drops into a clay vessel beneath. Against the campfire's light, orange and dancing across his skin, the container's interior is shadowed in black, every vow disappearing into the abyss. "I promise devotion unwavering. I promise my body, my flesh and my blood, it's purity and trust. I promise my heart and its contents, for you know it truly. My love shall be undivided."
The rest of the party is deep in sleep. The summer heat has broken, but all they need for warmth is the fire's warmth. The paladin has tucked himself into the grass, close enough to protect in need be, but far enough that dew has soaked his knees. His metal armor has been shed, his shirt hung to dry.
"I shall be your temple, your mouthpiece, your sword." A chill pin pricks up his spine and he wonders if it's his god or if it's simply his body reacting to the weather. "I shall be grass in the wind, a mustard seed, a servant seeking reprimand. With you, I am nothing, for you are everything."
The last bead drops. Carefully, he scoops it all into his hands again, cupping it up towards the sky before beginning again. This time, there's a change in his tone: a plea.
"I ask for strength. I ask for guidance. I ask for-"
A movement catches his eye and his body reacts, hand on his sword, feet suddenly underneath his frame. Magic arcs between his fingers and the hilt, threatening to gather and smite the moment his weapon swings, but then his brain catches up with his body. It's just you, propped up from your pillow, draped in moonlight and your slip. A smile slips across your face when he notices you.
"Do you pray every day?" you ask. There's no judgement to the question, but his face erupts in a blush anyway. There's a shame he finds in your attention, in the way it focuses in on him so directly. It feels like sunlight on an August day: he wants to bask, but the intensity feels too strong to bear. He sits again, back into the wet grass.
"Twice," he admits. You are lounging on your side, knee pulled forward, and the hem of your dress is pulled high. Without his permission, his eyes trace over the leg, from ankle bone to calf to thigh to hip-- a pang his hit gut so hard that it aches. "Morning and evening."
"Rough schedule to keep as an adventurer." You study him back, an airiness to your tone. Women have told the paladin that he's handsome before and he wonders if you think the same, even with his scarred lip and shaven head. It's a possibly that he both wants and hates,
"Oaths would be a lot easier if you could stop upholding them when things got difficult," he replies.
You tilt your head curiously. The cheap cotton of your nightgown is nearly see-through, just enough that he can can only imagine-
Hus hand squeezes his beads so tightly that they dig into the tendons. Pain hardens his resolve.
"You give up a lot to be a paladin, don't you?" you ask. The creaks of cicadas, the crackles of fire, the snores of the party: somehow, even surrounded by life, you two feel alone. Even without your make up, with your hair tied up and your-
"And I receive a lot in turn," he whispers. "I need to finish prayer.
"Don't stop on my account. "
"I don't want to bother you."
You slip back down to your pad, eyes never leaving his other than to flutter down to his lips.
"I like listening," you whisper. "You have a nice voice."
The paladin lingers a moment, then turns back to the vessel. Usually, he prays for safety and rewards, but today, he can only think of one blessing he needs from his god.
"Give me strength, give me guidance." A bead drops. "Give me strength, give me guidance."
When the final drops, he looks back at your now sleeping form, chest lifting with every breath. He studies you, then feels that pang again, this time softer, this time sweeter.
Again, he gathers his items and presents them to the sky before starting again.
