She knows he is watching her, he is always watching her, and so she is careful to roll the bundle loosely before she sets it down on the small table outside the temple. She knows that it will fall open, and that he will see the clean robe and the small vial of scented oil inside, and thus will he know that she means to bathe after completing her duties for the day. She knows that he will follow her, just as he always does, and as always she will give him all that she is able.
He knows that she is not aware of him. She has never been aware of him; she has always had eyes only for his brother. No matter. If he cannot have her as his mate he will gather what gleanings he can. He will follow her to the hotsprings, and defile with his tainted vision that which he cannot touch with his body.
She hates herself at times, because she has never been able to decide if what she does is vanity, or kindness, or cruelty. She has entreated the Goddess more than once to enlighten her. She has been angry at the Goddess' silence. She has begged forgiveness for her failings.
He hates himself, always, but he has accepted that we do not command those we worship: they command us. And so he crouches in the shadows as she steps into the spring. He watches hungrily as she smooths the water over her skin, shoulders, breasts, throat, hips, legs, turning and bending and stretching. She sits on the mossy bank afterward, washing her feet like offerings, then leans back and strokes between her legs, her eyes closed, whispering, whispering ...
He buries a dagger in his thigh to stop from rushing across the water and claiming her as his own.