[You're Alia, as if that is so different than being a monster. As if there is any great change between the shadows that lick like fire at the corners of Alina’s mind and the girl kneeling before her, knees scuffed by the carpet, eyes red with tears she doesn't know how to weep. And Alia should welcome it, should slip the mantle of abomination onto her slender shoulders, let its weight etch into her bones, her sinew, let it make her into the image of something untouchable, something fierce and ferocious and empty inside, save for the holy fire of a war, a messiah, a man who cannot be Mahdi and brother both. Paul has no choice like Alia has no choice like – Alina has no choice.
But she chooses, still. She touches Alia's hair, fingers trembling in the curl of it, and she stares until her dark, bright doe eyes are as wet as Alia's and she chooses to stand and she chooses to speak and the words are no declaration of love or hope or light. They are as dark as the snarl of grief and fear and bitterness beneath Alia's breast, knotted around what could've been her heart, were she just a girl, just a daughter of the desert with blood in her veins instead of scourging fire.
And Alia chooses to, with her teeth in her lip and her eyes closing against her tears, turn her face into Alina’s hand and nuzzle the palm.] Then don't. [Soft, a breath, a press of bitten-raw lips to the heart of that hand.] Don't trust me, don't tell me, don't give me any more than what you already have, and I will dwell within it as long as you allow it, just-Alina. Be a girl or a knife or just a warmth in my bed and I will love you and I will follow you and I will fall to my knees before you still.
[Rocking back, looking up, the long pale line of her throat working on a swallow, Alia tosses back her hair and bares her teeth on a sob of a laugh.] Let me be a hound at the hearth of you, Alina, and it will be more than a thousand worlds could've offered. I don't ask you for more than that.
I won't. I can't swear anything else, but I can swear that, with all the blood and water in me
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But she chooses, still. She touches Alia's hair, fingers trembling in the curl of it, and she stares until her dark, bright doe eyes are as wet as Alia's and she chooses to stand and she chooses to speak and the words are no declaration of love or hope or light. They are as dark as the snarl of grief and fear and bitterness beneath Alia's breast, knotted around what could've been her heart, were she just a girl, just a daughter of the desert with blood in her veins instead of scourging fire.
And Alia chooses to, with her teeth in her lip and her eyes closing against her tears, turn her face into Alina’s hand and nuzzle the palm.] Then don't. [Soft, a breath, a press of bitten-raw lips to the heart of that hand.] Don't trust me, don't tell me, don't give me any more than what you already have, and I will dwell within it as long as you allow it, just-Alina. Be a girl or a knife or just a warmth in my bed and I will love you and I will follow you and I will fall to my knees before you still.
[Rocking back, looking up, the long pale line of her throat working on a swallow, Alia tosses back her hair and bares her teeth on a sob of a laugh.] Let me be a hound at the hearth of you, Alina, and it will be more than a thousand worlds could've offered. I don't ask you for more than that.
I won't. I can't swear anything else, but I can swear that, with all the blood and water in me