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III.

In the days that followed, you learned what becoming a follower meant for Lemuria and her sea god.

“Being your follower is like being in love with you, when you think about it.”

Rafayel dropped the shell he was playing and whirled at you with a scandalized look.

“Why would you say it like that?” A flush bloomed across his cheeks and his ears, which was a darling contrast to his hair.

“But the way you explained it ...” You paused, struck with a thought. “I've never been in love before.”

“Oh, really?”

“Then again, I wouldn't know what being in love feels like, so who am I to say?”

“That's right.” Crossed hands, then a nod. “You wouldn't know what it feels like.”

“I suppose so.”

You turned to him. Rafayel sat across the room, surrounded by his little trinkets. This was what confused you: the weight of a Lemurian bond rested primarily on its god, the one who had more power between the two. It didn't make any sense: Rafayel having to follow your words like a dog pleasing its owner. But, perhaps, that was the point: devotion as vast and deep as the sea itself. Something enormous like this required an equilibrium. Hence: a lesson on selflessness.

You smiled at him. The blush crawled down to his neck, his chest. “In that case, should I fall in love with you?”

IV.

I will gladly give you my heart, if you wished it. This is my vow:

I will be your most—and only—devout follower, worshiping every strand of your hair, your lashes. I will scoop the sand off your footprints and keep them in small bottles. Every step you take leaves traces of sea in its wake. I will cup the lingering scent of salt in my hands, swallow it in my mouth down my throat so the sea stays within me in all its loneliness and enormity. You will be the only truth I will know, and your voice will be firebrand in my bones, eternally beating.

I will love you and only you, my water god my nacre heart, until the end of my breath, and beyond.

I will forever drown in my love for you, if you only said yes.

V.

He fell in love with you the moment you kissed him, and there came his first lesson: devotion as nothing but the willingness to drown.

maybe the next too [the sand]

i.

The desert reminded him of the sea, sometimes. Vast. Lonely. Had a habit of pulling you opposite of where you wanted to go. At times playful, at times rough, but always had a lesson to teach you.

And this lesson, Rafayel thought as he swam to the water's surface with you in his arms, was a cruel one in its stubborn unforgetting.

ii.

You tended to tilt your head slightly to the left when you're curious about something. This was the second thing Rafayel learned about you.

The first, of course, was that your heart could bring back Lemuria. The sea in all its infinity. A god's heart was powerful, after all.

The third: there was longing in your eyes that Rafayel couldn't ignore, try all that he might. This longing felt like an echo, a whisper of devotion made so long ago, uttered by a warm set of lips that almost touched his skin. It felt like fire. It felt like a brand.

It felt like drowning.

This was another thing that the desert and the sea were alike: if you strayed from your path, they would never, ever let you return.

iii.

He did not fall in love, he couldn't afford to. What was the point? He was a figurehead before he was a man, and what could be more important than a nation trying to bring back its home?

“I understand,” you said, tremulous smile captured by the moonlight pooling over you both. “I am yours, Rafayel. My heart is in your hands.”

The correct answer was to take it—your heart. It was the only way, you and he knew it. You were handing him what he needed on a silver platter. He only had to take it.

His hand twitched for your offer. Then it trembled.

Then it clenched so tightly it left indentation that would last for days.

A long, harsh exhale poured out of him.

Rafayel closed his eyes. He only prayed that he would not regret it.

iv.

“Rafayel, will you let me come with you?”

There you were, rumpled as windblown laundry, chest heaving from so much running. Too much running—just to catch up to him. Your voice cracking with each shout of his name. It was almost endearing, if not for the maw that opened inside Rafayel's ribcage.

You shouldn't be here. He had let you go and left behind the only thing that could grant his wish. It was a lesson on selflessness and he had learned it—painfully so and with great sacrifice.

But you—

You.

He wanted to laugh. He wanted to cry. He wanted to scream. Was this how drowning truly felt like?

“Rafayel, please.”

What else could his answer be? There was only one option left to take.

v.

The desert was vast and lonely, just like the sea. And still Rafayel walked on, one foot in front of the other, towards a place that could give another answer to his question.

Beside him you followed, a little tired but whole. Devoutly whole.

we’re eternally together [the vow]

1.

In one life he's a lost soul and you found him amidst the battering waves, pulled his hand up and saved him from being completely adrift.

In another you don't remember him, and it hurts but that's all right—he's going to make you fall in love with him like how he has with you, like a foolish dog devoted to its one and only owner.

After all, in the game of waiting, Rafayel has already emerged the victor.

2.

Sometimes, there's a shadow in his eyes that you glimpse in his quieter moments. But he's good at hiding it, surprisingly. If it weren't for the first time you caught it—by accident, and just in the periphery—you'd never thought that Rafayel could possess such capacity for darkness.

It saddens you somehow—that bitter slant of his gaze, the sardonic tilt of his mouth. It's most obvious when he talks about his past. Around his past, when there's something he doesn't want you to know.

There's still a lot of things you don't know about Rafayel.

But that's okay. You're patient, and Rafayel's not ready yet. You'll take whatever he'll give you—and that's enough for now.

3.

“There's a saying,” you begin, “that the human heart is a fish.”

Rafayel doesn't pause in his sketching, the scratch of pencil on paper studiously unceasing as you talk. He hums, though.

“Do Lemurians have fish hearts too?”

That makes him stop. Over the sketchbook Rafayel's eyes are twin whirlpool states of baffled and unamused. You tamp down the urge to laugh at his expression.

“If Lemurian hearts were fishes,” he finally says, “then we'd be dull as any actual fish in the sea.”

“You're being mean to your brethren.”

“Where did you hear that, by the way?”

“Oh, in another country during my last mission.” A seagull swoops closely by the window, and Rafayel goes back to his sketch. “They say that the fish-heart yearns to swim outside your mouth, so you should never, ever let it.”

“And why is that?”

“Because once it does, it will touch the air, and it will die.”

Silence. It may appear that Rafayel has stopped listening to you, but you know that's not true, because there it is again: the shadow, bracketing his narrowed eyes.

Rafayel's heart is a fish. And he can never reveal it. Because to let his heart swim out of his body means to display the most vulnerable parts of him. And for Rafayel, being vulnerable is dangerous. You may not know his whole story, but you can draw a partial image from the scattered puzzle pieces he inadvertently—or willingly—leaves behind.

At times like this, you think of the idea of devotion—the unconditional commitment of one to another, the totality of its embrace. Perhaps this is how you are—how you will be—with Rafayel, devoted hand and heart, body and soul. Maybe not now, but somewhere in your veins, in the marrow of your bones, the certainty exists. It is inevitable.

“I think mine is a fish,” you say, carefully watching him for any reaction. “So you have to promise me—that when it escapes you have to catch it, okay?”

He doesn’t say anything in return, and the strokes of his pencil are what’s left of the ensuing silence.

4.

In your dreams you've begun to learn of the sea's language.

Long, rough waves but short, playful ripples. And always—always—lilting loneliness.

In one of those dreams, you're a follower of a sea god; in another, a princess whisked away by a vagrant assassin.

But every one of them—every one of them—involves drowning in some form. You plunge into the sea to devote yourself to a god; you plunge into the desert to devote yourself to a vagabond. The sea's lonely whispers permeate, diving inside your flesh, making a home between your bones, around your heart.

At first, you did not understand its words, but through repetition, you've picked up some of them: follower, heart, drown, truth,

yes

The first complete sentence you've learned:

loneliness begets desire

The most recent:

rafayel, please

When you wake, your mouth tastes of salt and sand.

5.

Rafayel turns up at your doorstep at precisely the beginning of sunrise, sweaty and panting. His hair is a mess, bangs clinging wetly to his forehead. His clothes are disheveled, as if he's braved a thunderstorm and survived. His eyes are a little wild, manic, sleepless, but ardently luminous.

“I lost,” he says in between lungful gulps of air, “but in a way I still won.”

“Rafayel, what—”

You don't get to finish: Rafayel grabs you and slots his lips into yours.

So this is what it feels like, falling into the sea.

Rafayel kisses you like a man drowning: desperate and dying and you're his lifeline that he has to hold onto.

When he lets go, his eyes are closed and a smile teases at the corners of his mouth.

“I guess between the two of us, it's only me who's the fool.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I'm tired of waiting. Lesson learned. I lost. You won. I always lose, when it comes to you.”

The smile unfurls fully, and finally—finally—he answers the question you've asked a thousand lives ago:

“It's still a win, so yes. For you, it's an eternal yes.”

my water god my nacre heart, this is my devotion, my forever vow to you, and only you

Having a depression is hard. Like really hard, it makes your life harder. That's why you took your friend's advice when she said there's this one therapist that is highly recommended.

And that's when you met Vyn. In your darkest times, he was there to light up your path. And you were so grateful to him.

He changed your life. He was there when no one was able to help you, even if it's not his work hours. He told you it's okay to contact him if you needed.

That's why whenever your anxiety hits or you feel like you can't anymore, you always contacted him and as Vyn promised he always came to you and comfort you. Even though he was your therapist he became your friend..a trusted friend.

One time that you contacted him you were crying...

Because when you told your parents about your condition, they suddenly act differently towards you. Like when you suddenly get hit by sadness and anxiety out of nowhere they just stared at you. You feel like you shouldn't have told them anything cause they would just judge you.

Vyn saw how you cried. He don't know why, but when he see you cry his heart always ached. Vyn hope he could take away your pain. But the only thing he could do is comfort you.

He also gives you advices when you needed.

He patted your back while he said "You know maybe because they don't know what to do, that's why they just looked at you. Because this is their first time seeing you like that, right?"

"I guess..." You said as you lean on his shoulder.

"Also (name)... they're your parents, they would never judge you, they would love you no matter what, they care about you...think about this, when you are sick they're there, right? They took care of you when you are sick. So I'm pretty sure they would be there for you too now" he explained.

"Just give them some time..." He continued.

You nodded as you closed your eyes for a second.

"Do you...really think they still love me?" You asked as you opened your eyes again and looked at the ground.

Vyn looked at you. "Of course, you are their child, so of course they would love you" he said as he was convinced.

You sigh softly as you looked at him. "...Thank you"

"Always" He said as he softly smiled at you. Making you smile slightly.

After a moment of silence. You decided to break the silence by asking something to Vyn. "Can I be honest with you?"

"Of course" he answered as he looked at you and wait for you to speak your mind.

"...I don't know why, but seeing people nice to me or some of them telling me they love me...I feel like they are lying, I feel like they meant the opposite...my feelings are so weird."

He listened to what you said and think for a moment before saying something. "(Name) it's normal for you to say that and feel that especially after one of your friends...left you..."

He looked at you for moment if you had a change in mood after he said that. But he saw how you just nods at his words. Looks like you already accepted it.

He then continued. "But it doesn't mean that people are like that...true some people just use you while others are genuine... but give a chance to the people you think or feel that they are genuine, let them be kind to you and love you."

After he said that, you looked down for a bit before looking up at him. You smiled at him and nods "Alright... I'll try"

Vyn smiled back at you. He was contemplating if he should tell his feelings to you, but he thought if not now then when will he do it? He sighed and looked at you. "And maybe...you can let me too?" He asked.

You tilt your head and looked at him confused. "Huh? What do you mean? We're already friends aren't we?'

Vyn chuckled because of your reaction. "I meant that...can you let me love you? As partners..."

ฅ⁠^⁠•⁠ﻌ⁠•⁠^⁠ฅ

You try to imagine it–eternal penance for a crime you could hardly remember. You imagine bearing a sword and a curse, one and the same, for hundreds of years, and your heart recoils at the misery that wraps around it. You can hardly believe that that is to be his fate-you refuse to. It cannot truly be his choice, not one made in any good faith at least. Or perhaps any faith at all.

You suspect he lost it ages ago.

“Do you ever think…” You begin hesitantly. “That you could leave it behind? All of it?”

Dainsleif, your lover, sets down his book. It's one of the ones you’ve kept around, and it seems he finally has time to peruse them, however borrowed that time it is.

“All of it?”

“...Yeah.” 

“No. No.” He reiterates. And he smiles for you, because he knows how much it makes your heart warm. 

“I can't abandon my duty, neither can I abandon you. They are one and the same.  You are…woven into me. Cutting you off from my life would be cutting away the fabric of my soul. I could never.”

“...Why do you feel they’re one and the same?” A weight on his heart. Perhaps.

He fingers the worn pages of the book, his eyes dark in thought.

“I have a responsibility to the world, and you are a part of the world.”

“Those two sound so very far removed. I'm just one person, but if I could decide, my sole desire would be just to rest with you.”

He chuckles, good naturedly, like always. “If the world was ruled by our desires, I'd have been forever and solely yours already. And there would be no gods, but you.” For a man who rages and detests the divine, you’re not sure how to feel about that.

“But alas, the world often ignores our most fervent desires, unless we force it to acknowledge us that is.” A weight tugs his brow down, and his features buckle under it. Something like grief. “And that…is a very hard thing to do.”

“Alas.” 

You nod, and return to your wayward gaze out the window. You imagine a life where he lives for you, and nothing else. You try to deny in your mind that he would want anything else. What could he find out in the world that he cannot find in your arms? A cursed man, believing himself content in penance and self flagellation, of service to the world at large.

But he is yours. You deny the world in his place.

{II.THERE IS A ROT THAT REPLACES THE MARROW OF HIS BONES}

It is woven into him, and he cannot escape it. He has long stopped trying.

It wears and tears at his soul, and marks his skin in scars, and he continues on.  Fate has decreed that he will do so forevermore, until the day the abyss drags him down into its depths, its spindly fingers already grasping at him in twisting, molted blues. But he tries, because when you kiss the expanse of cursed flesh, a blissful smile on your face, a sudden rush of heat makes his skin prickle. It’s not love, though he loves you. It's rage.

Its disgust, and sick vitriol. You deserve better, you deserve more. You don't need this broken tapestry of pieces clinging onto some semblance of humanity. You don't need your nights interrupted by his nightmares, or his form clinging to your doorway, bloodied and offering the only tribute he knows to your altar.

He does not worship the Gods, but he knows something more divine, having long since slipped into the pews of your chapel.

“...I’m sorry.” You rush towards him, and he leans into the shoulder you offer him, letting you pull him into your bathroom where he stains the white porcelain.

“If you were sorry–” you huff as you set him down. “You wouldn’t get hurt so often.”

You pull out the first aid kit, and set to patching him up, removing layers of clothing to see the hurt beneath. He hardly winces, but his heart tugs.

“...You know I can't help myself.”

“You’re just one man, Dainsleif, there's too much for you to do on your own. And we both know this is about more than just your honor, or duty.”

“...Yet I am beginning to wonder,” he mumbles as you wipe away the blood. “Whether it has always been my fate to deny Fate.”

“What do you mean.”

You sound too upset for it to sound anything like a question. A demand, perhaps. He sighs. He is tired. So tired. He’s always been.

“Whether Fate is truly something we can overcome, or whether my rage is just a by-product of providence. If it was all preordained.” He shuts his eyes.

“The Gods that cursed us, the people and the nation I failed, my curse, my duty and obligation; I wonder if you too are foredoomed, just another predilection.”

“Is that why you do all this? To prove, what? Fate wrong?”

He doesn't answer, but he does open his eyes to see your mouth flatten. You continue patching him up, taking care of him, but he sees the way your eyes tremble.

“...Or perhaps just self-actualization?”  

“...I have an obligation to the world, and to you–”

“Don’t say that, don’t pretend that this is for me, this is not for me. You’ve been doing this long before I was a thought on the breeze.” Centuries wear down his memory, but the tug of your mouth and brow pulls at him like a drawn bow, piercing through the fog of his fatigue.

Your shoulders shake next. “So if I asked you to stop, would you?”

He doesn't answer, even when the tears spill from your eyes.

“I don't care for fate, destiny or whatever. I care about you. Keep your honor, keep your anger, but stay with me. Is that not enough?”

“....It’s for you, too.”

“...I don't appreciate being your excuse, Bough Keeper.”

Celestia always watches, but even he cannot help but utter a prayer to some unknown god, that their eyes do not fall on this wayward moment.

He is fine with cursing the stars, his fate, with breaking body; he is fine with letting the heavens bear witness to his rage.

But not his grief.

It settles, thick and cloying on his tongue. The sour tang drowns out everything else.

{III.HE WILL NOT CHOOSE YOU. WHEN DESTINY TUGS AT HIS CLOAK AND BIDS HIM LOOK, HE WILL TURN FROM YOU}

You know he wishes he never met you. That he never fell in love with you. You try to take it as a compliment.

You would give anything to remove the burden on his shoulders, if only he were not so adamant on carrying it. You do not see the reason why–you would rather love a coward than mourn a legend. You would rather he stays home with you, in your arms, than leave and come back, over and over and over and over again.

You know he wishes he never knew you.

Dainsleif, he holds you, works in the garden with you, bathes with you, loves you–but his hands are tense, and his eyes stray to the world outside your window. You at least know that when he is gone, that he leaves because he is thinking of you, that he cannot handle being perceived by you for too long; It renders him asunder.

“Like a predator, staring at the open carcass of my soul,” he once said. “You just make me feel so…”

‘So what?’ You had wanted to ask, but you had known better, didn't he just tell you? So you acquiesce, but on the inside you ache. You plead and you beg, and you don't let the words spill past your lips; You hold them in your chest and your eyes and watch him leave.

You trade chaste kisses for letters in your mailbox, blissful sighs for dandelion fluff on the wind. Your love is like a hot air balloon, you cannot keep him close but you can keep him tethered even as the rope frays and tears at your hands.

Welcome him back with them open, and settle for apologetic kisses on your knuckles, from your knight, for a ring on your finger. No god would hold your marriage sacred, anyways, despite your tears.

“And what knowledge have you gleaned from your travels this time, my love?” You smile. Please don’t leave me again.

“Nothing that I don’t already know dearest.” I’ll do anything. Just give me the word. Just give me the knife.

“Which is?” Why don't you ever ask me? You know I'll do it.

His eyes, so deep and somber. They know, but they don't answer. “Fate has foretold that I will return here, as always.”

“Of course.” And he will always leave. 

{IV. WHAT IS IT LIKE TO LOVE SOMEONE WHO IS ALWAYS RUNNING, ONE FOOT OUT THE DOOR? TIME DOES NOT SIT STILL, FOR NO ONE.}

Celestia is always watching.

Even here in this quiet moment, where the night holds vigil to the stars' homily, as they drag their forms past that pale corpse of a moon.

It's a still moment. He has removed you from his arms and you continue to sleep peacefully, your chest rising and falling, your heart the drum that starts off all his nights and days.

He is going to lose you, but before that he will lose himself.

Even now, he could feel the curse, like an ever burrowing parasIte, slowly consuming him. It replaces him. Eats away at him, fills him with rot, and he has the audacity to find solace in  your garden. You dig out the rot and replace it with something far kinder, but that doesn't stop the curse from growing.

He is like an inteyvat flower. Hardened and unable to wilt unless placed back in the soil of his home. You’ve decided to love a dying man, and stand vigil, always, at his never ending wake.

Sunshine from a past life. Peers who trusted him and stood at his side and back, carrying the weight of honor. He doesn't remember them, but he remembers the sunshine. He remembers how he failed them. He remembers only what he can and only knows what he should. And he knows this tale like the back of his hand, the curve of your cheek.

This was fated to end in tragedy.

You move in your sleep and he startles. You roll over, and Dainsleif waits until you settle, to breathe easy again.

He can not reconcile who he is with the man he was before he met you. He doesn’t wish to go back, but he muses on how much easier it would be. He could deny the Gods, defy Celestia, the Archons, even Heavenly principles, even Destiny. But he cannot choose to remain alongside you as well.

He mourns this indecisive fool you turned him into. He will not survive without you, but that is alright because it has to be. Not every story has a happy ending, but every story needs a narrator. He'll re-read your scripture and memorize your chapters for as long as you remain, and even after.

And he will remain long after you are gone.

{V. IF NO ONE HAS EVER TOLD YOU ABOUT YOUR FATE, I WILL BE THE FIRST}

The sunlight paints the fields honey and gold, and soon it will be time to return to your little cottage. There will be cherry wine waiting on the table, and some mending you still need to finish, but beyond that you take in this moment, drink it down greedily; an open bud unfurling like a fist to an open palm, demanding the world its due.

Your lover on the other hand does not share the same attitude. His head rests in your lap, but you feel the restless energy in him, and stay still in the hopes of encouraging him to do the same. It doesn’t work.

“Settle down, Dain.”

“I am calm.”

“No you’re not. You’re fidgeting.”

“...I’m afraid I’m going to have to leave soon.” Ah. As always.

“Then all the more reason to relax now, while we have the time.” He scoffs at that word, time. He rises to meet your eyes, and you smile at his mussed hair.

“I might be away longer than I usually am. I’m not sure how long I'll be away for.”

You crack a knuckle in anxiety. “But you’ll be back, of course?”

He only pauses for the slightest of breaths. “Of course. Will you still want me back?” Your face takes on an exasperated look, but he waves it away.

“Do you not get tired of waiting, always? Are you not tired of constantly grieving, of having to love this broken piece of tapestry?” You are shaking your head before he's finished.

“No. If you are torn I will mend you. If you’re just a piece of tapestry then I’ll stitch you onto something better.”

“Leave behind these metaphors and poetry. I would rather believe you pity me rather than actually love me.”

The words hit a chord deep inside you. It carves a gorge, and anger rushes in to fill it.

“So what? You would rather me love a stranger? Someone who would understand me less than you do?“ You stare him down.

“..If I must–”

“‘Must’? Well you don’t. And by whose order? Whose words? Is that truly something you would allow, or what you tell yourself you should let happen?” His face doesnt twist, but you know the tint of misery that spreads under his skin. It's blue-black, like a bruise, like the stretch of his right arm.

“No. You will truly be damned thrice over if you allow that. You are so content to let the world, to let fate, decide how things are and should be–I don't believe in that. My fate will be what I say it is, and I say you will be with me forevermore. If you must leave, then leave, but come back to me, don’t let go of me!”

“I am ruined,” A wave rustles the grass, like a crowd gone silent. “I am ruined, cursed, damned as you say. You do not want this. You should not want this.”

“I don't believe that, and you shouldn’t either. Who has told you this, has Celestia personally decreed your fate? Or do you continue to let tragedy be the narrator of your life?” You grasp his face, pull him closer to your eyes.

“I have you. I want you. And it is reciprocated, As long as that is, things will not change. I refuse anything else.”

His eyes go back and forth between yours, and he sighs.

“As long as I breathe, I will return to you. But that does not change the fact that this was never supposed to be. If not by destiny’s nature than my own; It is only a matter of time before this too, ends.” 

“Then forget what fate or destiny has told you. I am your fate, I am both your penance and redemption. If no one has ever told you about your fate then I shall be the first.”

Ans he is drawn, he listens like your words are rapture, like the first believer in the front pew of a sermon. So you smooth back his hair, and speak a prophecy.

“We will go home, and pick the tomatoes in the garden. They’re ripe now, and we’ll use them in our dinner. We’ll wash the dishes, unwind. Bathe. I’ll wash your hair and you’ll scrub my back. The sun should have set by then, so we can go to bed. As it gets darker I could read to you by candlelight, or, we could make love.”

“We’d need another bath, and to change the sheets then,” he mumbles, the slight pink hue high over his cheekbones.

“So would you rather we make love earlier? Or in the bath to save time?” You grin, and it draws soft breaths of laughter from your lover. You go on with your spiel.

“We’ll go to sleep together as always, and in the morning you’ll be baptised by the morning dew and the fresh brewed coffee. Much like today, you’ll laze in the fields with me, and when the time comes for you to leave, I'll give you my blessing, and my hopes as always, for you to come back to me.”

“So forget duty, when you are with me. If you are cursed I will be your balm. If there is rot in you I will scrape it out, and use it as fertilizer for my garden.“ He scoffs under his breath.

“You think this is a burden easy to unlade.”

“Yes, if you would only just let it. For by my decree, the Twilight sword shall be laid to rest in my presence, for I will be it's sheathe.” You only half jest and he looks at you quizzically.

“Did you just make an innuendo–”

“--And your words shall always be sweet, for my kisses shall honey your breath.” You kiss him to emphasize, or to quiet him, and he leans into you with a shudder, like a cat seeking affection, only something more desperate.

“If you care not for starlight, I will fasten you a crown of dandelions,” you continue. “And garb you in silks and sighs.”

“Fanciful daydreams,” He mutters, eyes closed. You trace the faint veins on his eyelids , violet blue in the dappled sunlight. 'Like crocuses.'

“Not when I’m with you,” you shake your head. “I’ll make them a reality, I swear. On all the love I have for you.”

He shakes his head in answer, a denial ready on his lips.

“The Twilight sword––”

“As I said– Shall be laid to rest in my presence.” You look at him as if to dare him to refute. He doesn’t.

You turn tender. You scot closer, practically in his lap now, if only to see his lashes flutter, pupils dilating.

“If you do not worship a god you may worship me, as I do you. That is your fate.”

“...Alright.” He sighs then, shakes his head, as to rid himself of the trance you put him under. He stands, and offers a hand to you.

“Alright then. Let your words be what I live by–I am yours, if you so say.”

You take his hand and head home.