[Alia listens quietly – for all her faults, she remains a good listener, beyond all likelihood otherwise. Her cheek rests on Diarmuid’s shoulder, and she looks up at him with her intent, oddly-wide-set eyes, unblinking.]
You did not choose that path, then. It was yours from before you were able to know it was. Is that right? [If there’s a trace of bitterness, a touch of grief in her voice – well. Perhaps the story is a familiar one.
But Alia is cagey with her past, her stories – except when she’s caught off-guard, like now. Diarmuid offers to pray for her – for her, demon and goddess and monster and abomination. He doesn’t know, he can’t know what she is, else he would surely never, never offer.
And yet: he does. And Alia’s smirking mouth goes soft, for once.] I should like that. I think if there is anyone listening to prayers, they will hear yours.
no subject
You did not choose that path, then. It was yours from before you were able to know it was. Is that right? [If there’s a trace of bitterness, a touch of grief in her voice – well. Perhaps the story is a familiar one.
But Alia is cagey with her past, her stories – except when she’s caught off-guard, like now. Diarmuid offers to pray for her – for her, demon and goddess and monster and abomination. He doesn’t know, he can’t know what she is, else he would surely never, never offer.
And yet: he does. And Alia’s smirking mouth goes soft, for once.] I should like that. I think if there is anyone listening to prayers, they will hear yours.