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The knight stands in his chambers again.
Just as he did last time.
And the time before.
And before.
He's forgotten many things, but he won't be able to forget the clawing, aching, rending, cleaving of his soul.
He feels sometimes, he is more made of broken promises than flesh.
More empty space than sinew and tendon. If he were sky, he would have one star to his tapestry.
He is as empty as the spaces between.
"Your resolve changes with the wind, oathbreaker."
The same words. Time and again.
He never sounds surprised. Never sounds judgemental.
"I wish to take up my oath again." His lips taste of children's blood. The corpses are on the altar upstairs. Their parents are screaming below.
Helm with flaming eyes sear through him. Lay him bare to the one who broke free.
Maybe it isn't terrible to have no oath. To live with the breaking and sundering. To stop trying to fix it and break it further.
He is a vase thrown down ravine after ravine.
Little more than dust remains.
No silver, gold, or platinum to stick pieces into a familiar shape.
Throw out the remains.
Start over with only the memory of how the vase should be.
Hope this time it will not break.
"The price must always be paid."
There is no gold left. He gave it to him last time.
And the time before that.
And before that.
He doesn't say anything. He kneels before the knight.
He can't afford it.
In any way.
"Though these powers come from darkness, they need not be used for ill."
They will be.
It's all he does.