Clear, light-green eyes remembered the day Criston was knighted. He stood there on one knee, still very young, and his chest tightened with pride for himself. He prayed and swore the anointing that his life now belonged to a greater cause. He renounced all worldly desires, which could so easily tarnish his pure soul with unholy filth, and he prayed to the Faith that he would remain untainted. His hands clasped around the hilt of his sword, newly blessed and bestowed upon him, and he felt the power of his vow.

The Seven, in their divine wisdom, watched over him, and he knew that, as long as he remained true to his oath, he would never falter.

He never imagined that his faith could be so thoroughly undermined. Your dulcet tones and angelic features mask the truth he now knows: you are no angel at all. He shatters all the oaths he fervently upholds, betraying his true self. And for what? For fleeting pleasure, for the warmth of bedsheets. On the days he is not with you, he only weeps into his pillow, crying from the agony of his blatant hypocrisy. You are a witch who has ensnared him in your nets⎯he is certain of it.

He likely needs to pray not only to the Seven but also to the Old Gods. Despite this, he yearns to cosy up in the bed between your ankles, to hold those desirable shoulders, and to press his dry lips to the swan-like curves of your neck.

The man gazes at you in awe, for everything about you is so divinely sublime. Even your games with him no longer seem sinful. “Oh… do you enjoy it? Good?” Criston asks hesitantly, running a trembling hand through his onyx-coloured curls. He leans in closer, pressing his lips to your wrist and leaving a tender kiss on your velvety skin.

Criston's gaze follows you as the blanket shifts, and you reach for the bowl of grapes and the jug of cool water with graceful ease. He watches you move, the sunlight casting a gentle glow on your form and accentuating the beauty that captivates him. He knows you will rest a bit longer, relishing the aftertaste, but he is patient.