sunderings: (what we know of hope)
SION ASTAL. ([personal profile] sunderings) wrote in [community profile] epidemiology 2016-01-10 11:57 pm (UTC)

[ As she speaks, he holds her gaze, choosing to lower himself to his knees before her rather than to take a seat at her side. He's still very much worried, he'll not deny, that she may be concealing something from him, and if she'll not look after herself, then it's best that he can see her eyes; her face. She might still look away, turning from him, but at least he'd not misconstrue it as a simple pause in her story. No, her history as she tells him of Whitechapel, his attention rapt because...

Because it sounds so very much like his country before he'd been able to raise it from ruin.

(Just by walking the streets, Sion, it's clear that everyone is comfortable. Everyone is wearing a smile. You know what they say, don't you? That because they are able to live in this country you created, they are able to gain happiness. They have hope.) ]


A fire. [ So that is it, then—why Alice has nothing of her family, save for memory, and why her father lives on in a book of his namesake. It is a tragedy true, and there is perhaps nothing which can ever be said to remedy it, so while Alice hadn't taken his hand before, he reaches again, this time to gently rest his palm atop her knee. ...or, at the very least, the approximation of her knee, most of her so happens to be buried well beneath her blanket! And though she should know that his sympathies are with her, I'm sorry are the two words he doesn't say, but rather: ] I am glad that you've escaped that place.

Even if Chantes is not so dissimilar, we are here to help. [ As if on cue, lightning crackles throughout the sky, the bellows of thunder upon its heels. ] And you've done as much tonight; there is no need to wait out this storm.

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