Author's Note: This is my first fanfic, so please be gentle. I have not yet attempted dialogue, so this is a POV piece. Also, I am struggling with the basic issues of uploading and formatting for the site, so please forgive any layout issues.
Litany
Richard Castle has never been a particularly religious man. As someone who embraces the possible, it isn't that he doesn't believe in God, more that he feels comfortable that they share a sort of mutual non-interference pact. He doesn't blame God for the bad stuff or ask for favors, and in return he chooses not to be tortured by any particular guilt for not trying to behave in a certain way. This isn't to say that he has no code of behavior, no sense of honor, or for that matter any guilt. He just chooses to set his own terms, choose his own code.
That said, he is a writer, so he's done his research. From cathedrals, to synagogues, to mosques, there is hardly a major faith in the world that he hasn't studied or observed. He has watched in fascination as a roomful of people speak a prayer in unison, losing himself in the sibilance of their solemn recitation; Witnessed the murmured words of a priest delivering last rites to a dying man; Felt goose-bumps rise on his skin at the haunting sound of a cantor delivering ritual prayer on a high holy day. But until now, he never fully grasped the power of repeated ritual to bring peace and calm in the midst of turmoil.
As he reflects on his life, he can see the line so clearly, the line that changed him from the man he was, to the man that he is. It's odd to him that at the time he casually stepped over it, he couldn't even see it. Yet in the poor reflection of his mental rearview mirror, it has become a gaping chasm that couldn't be traversed if he tried. Not that he would even want to attempt it. He likes the man he is now, the man she has made him. It hasn't been an easy or pain-free prospect, God knows, but it has been the most exhilarating, terrifying and stimulating ride of his life. Adrenaline junkies, with their bungee jumping and skydiving, have no idea what a rush loving Kate Beckett can be, balanced on a knife edge between joy and pain.
And so, like those faithful worshippers speaking their faith into being, he has his own litany now, a free-flowing tone poem of words and pictures, smells and touches. Every memory of her, tender and terse, broken or strong beyond strength, they have fused together in his brain, his heart. For now, while they are apart, he is her supplicant, her high priest, her humble servant. But just for now. Because he still has enough grasp of wisdom to know that when they do come together, they will worship each other, as equals. On that day he will whisper his litany against her skin, and they will find peace, together.