With his preparations complete, Oleksandr made his way to the grand church, his boots softly scuffing the stone floors as he walked. The air inside was thick with the scent of incense, candlelight flickering in the dim corners of the sanctuary. The icons of saints and holy figures lined the walls, their golden halos gleaming in the low light, watching over all who entered.
Ahead, by the altar, stood the king, his men gathered around him in somber silence. Princess Savka was there too, standing behind her father in a lavender, velvet dress. A delicate headscarf covered her hair, framing her face, adding to her noble grace. Though her expression remained calm and neutral, Oleksandr could see the slight tremble in her lips, the way her breath quickened as she fought back the emotions threatening to spill over. Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears, betraying her composed demeanor.
“Oleksandr,” the king's voice broke the silence, deep and commanding. “Come, let us say a blessing before you depart.” Oleksandr walked forward, his eyes briefly meeting Savka’s. He could see the worry she held for him beneath her poised exterior, and for a moment, he wanted nothing more than to comfort her, to tell her that he would return, no matter the dangers that awaited him.
But now was not the time for such words.
He stepped beside the king, standing tall and resolute. The priest approached, raising his hands in blessing. In the stillness of the church, the murmur of prayer filled the air, and Oleksandr bowed his head, allowing the ancient words to wash over him.
“Lay down your weapons, Sir Knight,” the priest intoned, his voice echoing in the vast, stone-walled chamber. Oleksandr nodded solemnly and stepped forward, unsheathing his sword and placing it carefully at the priest’s feet. His other weapons followed—the daggers, the bow, his second sword—all laid reverently before the altar. These tools of war, now lying in the house of God, seemed foreign in such a peaceful place, but the blessing was vital before a dangerous journey like the one ahead.
Returning to his position, Oleksandr lowered his head in respect, hands clasped before him as the priest, surrounded by his deacons, began the sacred ritual. The priest lifted the aspergillum and dipped it into the holy water, then sprinkled it over the weapons while chanting ancient prayers in soft, melodic tones. The deacons echoed his words, their voices mingling with the low hum of the incense smoke that swirled in the air like a veil between the spiritual and the mortal world.
After the weapons were blessed, the priest turned his attention to Oleksandr. He approached, holding a white cloth, a symbol of purity and protection. Gently, he draped it over Oleksandr's head, murmuring a final prayer of blessing. The words were soft, yet carried the weight of centuries of tradition, calling on divine protection and strength for the trials ahead.
“May God guide your steps, give you strength in battle, and protect your soul from harm,” the priest said. His hand rested briefly on Oleksandr's head, a paternal gesture that added a sense of gravity to the moment.
Oleksandr lifted his gaze, meeting the priest’s kind eyes for a moment before bowing his head once again. The deacons prepared the communion, and when it was ready, the priest offered him the holy bread and wine, the body and blood of Christ. Oleksandr accepted, the act filling him with a quiet sense of resolve. He felt the warmth of the wine on his tongue, the dry bread dissolving in his mouth, and he closed his eyes, letting the moment anchor him in his faith.
"O Lord, God of Hosts, Almighty Defender, and Protector of those who trust in You, we humbly ask You to look down upon Your servant, Sir Oleksandr, who stands ready to face great peril. Bless him with courage, wisdom, and unwavering faith. Guide his steps, shield him from harm, and let Your holy angels surround him as a fortress. May no weapon formed against him prosper, and may every snare of the enemy be broken by Your power. Grant him the strength of David, the courage of Gideon, the protection of Saint George, and the sword of Saint Michael so that he may overcome all adversaries and return safely.
O Lord, stretch forth Your mighty hand to uphold him in every trial, granting victory over those who rise against him. As he carries his sword and shield, may he bear also the shield of faith, the helmet of salvation, and the sword of the Spirit, which is Your Word. Keep him under the shadow of Your wings, and may Your light shine upon his path, for You are our refuge and fortress. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, now and ever, and unto ages of ages. Amen."
As the priest held out the crucifix, Oleksandr leaned forwards and reverently kissed it. As he rose to his feet, he echoed the priest's affirmation. May no weapon formed against me prosper.
"Amen."
The king placed a firm hand on Oleksandr's shoulder, a silent gesture of respect and support. The weight of the moment hung in the air as the group began to file out of the church, the echoes of the blessing still ringing in the silence. The stone walls of the church seemed to hold the solemnity within them, a sacred promise shared between them all.
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Once outside, Oleksandr paused, his gaze shifting from the king to the princess. Princess Savka stood just behind her father, her head slightly bowed, the velvet of her purple dress catching the sunlight as it filtered through the pine trees. Oleksandr's eyes lingered on her, drawn to the subtle movements of her breath, the delicate way her fingers gripped the folds of her dress.
He met her gaze, and for a moment, the world around them faded. The king, the priest, the advisors, they all seemed to vanish in the glow of that shared look. His heart stirred, not with the battle-hardened resolve that had carried him through years of war, but with a softer, deeper emotion that he rarely allowed himself to feel.
Without thinking of propriety, without a second thought for the eyes of those watching, he took a step closer to her. His large hands, calloused from years of combat, gently enveloped hers, holding them as though they were something fragile and precious. Savka’s eyes lifted to his, glistening with the tears she had fought so hard to hold back.
“I will come back to you,” Oleksandr whispered, his voice low and full of quiet determination. A single tear slipped from Savka’s eye, trailing down her rosy cheek. She squeezed his hands gently in response, her lips parting as though she wanted to say something, but the words seemed to falter. Instead, she simply nodded, trusting him with a promise too deep for words.
Oleksandr leaned in, his hand gently cradling the princess's jaw, the warmth of his touch sending a soft shiver through her. For a moment, he simply looked into her eyes, searching them as if committing every shade of their color to memory. Then, he closed the distance and pressed his lips to hers. The kiss was slow and sweet, imbued with all the words they couldn't say aloud. It was a kiss full of unspoken promises—promises of return, of protection, of love that would endure no matter the distance or dangers ahead. Oleksandr lingered for a heartbeat longer, savoring the warmth of her lips, the closeness he knew would be scarce in the coming months.
When he finally pulled back, his thumb gently wiped away the tear that had escaped her control, a silent gesture that spoke volumes. His hand stayed on her cheek a moment longer, as if he were reluctant to let her go, but he knew it was time. Duty called him away, and though it pained him, he had to answer.
Oleksandr turned to face the king. The older man had been watching, his eyes betraying a mixture of emotions. There was resignation there, knowing he couldn't protect his daughter from the world forever, but also a bittersweet smile, filled with discomfort at seeing his cherished, sheltered daughter so intimately kissed by a man—let alone by a man who, at the end of the day, was a barbarian by their standards. For all his respect for Oleksandr as a knight and warrior, the king was not accustomed to seeing such a sight. The king cleared his throat, offering a nod to acknowledge the moment without lingering on it.
“Take care of yourself, Sir Oleksandr,” he said, his voice gruff but laced with the weight of the responsibility he was entrusting to the man standing before him. “Return when the job is done, and return whole.” Oleksandr bowed his head slightly in respect, knowing that behind the king’s words lay a father's unspoken plea to return not only for the kingdom, but for the daughter he loved more than anything.
"One last thing," Oleksandr said, his voice low but steady. He reached under the fold of his hood and pulled out the tiny tabby kitten he had found earlier, its soft fur trembling slightly in the cool air. With careful hands, he presented it to Savka, watching as her eyes widened in surprise "To comfort you and keep you warm in my absence," he whispered, his gaze unwavering, drinking in the sight of her delicate features framed by the dim light. The kitten mewed softly, its tiny body curling against her fingers as she cradled it against her chest.
"Thank you," she whispered, her voice thick with unshed tears, the emotion evident in her tone. Her fingers gently stroked the kitten’s back, grounding her in the present moment despite the weight of sorrow pressing down on her heart. The tiny creature’s warmth seemed to ease the chill that surrounded them, a small beacon of hope amidst the impending separation.
Savka gently passed the kitten to her father, her hands trembling slightly as she made the transfer, ensuring the little creature was cradled safely in his large hands. The king looked down at the kitten with a mixture of surprise and affection, his stern demeanor softening for a moment as he felt the warmth of the tiny body. Then, with a determined glint in her eye, Savka reached into her pocket and pulled out a small silk sachet. She opened it and took out a black cord, the color stark against the pale fabric of her dress. Taking a deep breath, she stepped closer to Oleksandr, her eyes locking onto his with a mixture of resolve and tenderness. She grasped his hand, her fingers warm and delicate as she shifted up the sleeve of his tunic to expose his wrist. With grace, she tied the cord around him, her fingers moving deftly.
As Oleksandr looked closer, he realized the significance of the cord. It was a lock of her hair, intricately braided and woven into a fine band. The weight of its meaning sank deep within him; this was more than a simple token. Knowing she had never cut her hair in her life made this gesture all the more profound. It was a piece of her, a symbol of trust and love, an assurance that despite the distance between them, a part of her would always be with him.
Savka’s breath hitched as she finished tying the cord, her gaze searching his for a moment of understanding. “It will keep you safe,” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. “Every time you look at it, remember that I’m waiting for your return. It'll bring you back to me.” Oleksandr felt a surge of warmth wash over him, a mixture of love and gratitude. He reached up to touch the braided cord gently, feeling the texture beneath his fingertips, as if he could trace the essence of her spirit within it. “I will cherish it, Vidosavka,” he promised, his voice steady despite the emotions swirling within him. “It will remind me of you, and it will guide me home.”
With that, Oleksandr reached for the dagger at his belt. Quickly, he lifted the dagger to the nape of his neck, fingers finding one of the fine braids that hung there. With a swift yet careful motion, he severed it, the sharp edge slicing through the strands that had been a part of him for so long. Savka gasped softly at the gesture, her eyes widening in surprise, the impact of his action sinking in. Oleksandr, his expression resolute, placed the braid into her hands, gently closing her fingers around it, as if sealing a promise.
“I’ll be seeing you, Vidosavka.”
The blonde braid, now cradled in her hands, would serve as a reminder of him, of the love that bound them, even across the distance that would soon separate them.