He wore his faith on his shoulder; it hung there for everyone to see. It was a part of him. Not a liability, but surely not an asset.
A man devoted to Naga tearing through men's flesh on the battlefield; it was sickening to him. Still, he did it. And still, it got easier. Clanking armor, the sound of steal hitting flesh, the kind of screams that shake your soul and send it to cower in the corner; it was just white noise to him now.
Off the fields he tried to take pleasure in simple joys. Fine arts preoccupied his mind, but the feelings and memories were always mocking him in whispers. They liked to remind him of his sins; the way his victims convulsed when he sliced into them, their utter terror, their last second acceptance. They never died right away. He was always left to think of the lives he had broken with a single swing of his axe. Their families, their lovers, their children he left orphans. It was only polite to close their eyes if the battle permitted him time. They deserved rest.
Maybe that was why he'd married a Plegian, Tharja. Perhaps he could make up for at least a fraction of the people he had slain. All of his love and passion that wasn't dedicated to Naga poured into her, even if she was resistant. He'd dote her, and worship her, and lay in the same bed with her where they committed different kinds of sins.
Libra knew he could never be absolved of his transgressions, but why should he deny himself the sham comforts he tried to fabricate. He really did try to be a righteous man and consciously overflowed with a gentle kindness for others. After what he'd done, and what he continues to do, it felt like enough.
We all had our sins; we all had things we wish weren't part of us. But his faith was there, and he wore it on his shoulder for everyone to see.