It looks at Electra--briefly stopping to consider the greatly reduced distance between them; their breaths mingle for a moment. It swallows. It wouldn't be polite to speak into her face at this distance. I think. It turns back quickly in something askew of but not totally unlike girlish embarrassment.

(the angel's exhalation smells like iron and incense, fresh like cold metal)

"...I should be very clear that this is a point of theological theory. Not authoritative doctrine. And... my opinion is of relatively little import in a matter under contention like this one."

It clenches its hand a few times. In and out.

"...But it suffices for me to understand that all of creation descends from the light of God, and that it all descends from Him, and all his designs are perfect; his guidance comes from Being itself, not from any exceptional intervention. From the ordained Goodness of material and supernal reality, and the paths they were willed to follow in the act of their creation. I am comforted and humbled by the simplicity and perfection of God's action."

The angel closes its eyes, momentarily lost in a blissful meditation. Its halo twinkles slightly, but doesn't quite brighten.

It's breathtaking. True belief is … intoxicating, in a way that she didn't really appreciate before enlisting. She's entranced by the halo - it manages to be bright while not washing out the surrounding area, like it's collimated just for her.

"Isn't that a camouflage issue? Putting out light like that is dangerous when you're trying to hide."

The angel's light winds down, slowly, and its eyes snap open, beatific expression falling into a sheepish grimace.

"Um- well, of course. Yes. We... did not typically have much use for hiding, when crusading? But it is quite a significant point in my... retraining. Certain patterns of thought must be avoided out of turn. And by consequence certain exercises of theurgy. To avoid announcing one's position."

She hides her dismay. How could she make it cover something so beautiful? "I didn't say you have to stop."

The angel pauses, blinking a few times.

"...Would you like to join me in prayer? Or... for me to dedicate one to you. It is not... trivial. At my current state."

"I wouldn't force anything from you, outside of a combat situation."

"...I did not mean that it would be an imposition. Only that it would be... purposeful."

"I would expect nothing less. Your kind are made for a Purpose, no?" A slight smile.

The angel smiles wider.

"As is your kind. Should you choose to walk in step with it. Would you will a prayer, then?"

"Usually something like oh god, let me kill this bastard before he kills me, but not far from the truth. I'm afraid you'll have to lead me in this one, but sure."

"Tell me your graceful heart's desire and I will gladly lead a prayer, acolyte."

" ...Do you speak any Greek."

She shrugs. "Ξέρω λίγα ελληνικά." She hesitates, and then, "That I might see you again?"

Slow blink.

"Joy! That is not a prayer I have ever made before. I am humbled and blessed by this opportunity. Very well. Repeat every verse after me, if you will?"

"I can do that."

Few angels will know enough to teach a human how to pray. It is not that they are so close to God that they know little of devotion in the form of prayer—it is that they know too much. Nevermind the infinite chorus to the glory of God that can be heard all throughout heaven, or the million-word litanies sung by hosts of archangels; an angel might pray not only through its mouth, but by its ears, its tear ducts, its pores... it might pray by tremor or intention. It might bare its body to the light rather than bow its head. It may shriek or sing. It may speak so quickly that it cannot be heard. At best, their routine prayers and spoken but thousands of words long.

A guardian angel is a more grounded thing, meant to live among humans and understand them. It knows their limitations, and has considered how to interface through them. And, still, only the most experienced of archangels would consider themselves truly fit to instruct a human in how to pray, rather than what words to say.

But, by god, they will not run out of verses.

The angel takes a deep breath, mind relaxing, allowing its connection to the Light to flow forth, wisps caressing its muted halo.

"...At your own pace. This prayer I offer to you."

The halo starts glowing again...

She stands at attention - it feels irreverent not to do so, somehow. Her lips feel dry, and her skin clammy. It's not every day that one touches something this close to divinity.

Any angel's prayer is a spectacle. This one takes a bit to pick up: the slow ascent of its light, the certainty of its voice.

It is looking right into the acolyte's eyes, an expression of perfect beneficence on its face; relaxed, kind eyes, fondly smiling lips.

(Its serene gaze penetrates through her skull, as if to search for God.)

"O Kúriós mas pou briskótan péra apó ton ouranó;"

"Díkaios Patéras, pou diatássei ta pánta stē sōstḗ tous thésē;"

"Elpízō se séna, en agnoía tou plḗrous skhedíou sou."

Our Lord, thou who art beyond heaven.

Just Father, who ordains all in their proper place.

I hope in Thee, in the ignorance of Thy full plan.

An angel's prayer is meeting with a self beyond self; an identity as an extension of the other. Placing oneself in relation to God.

The room gets brighter. Angel eyes and angel's crown; angel hands and angel's lips. It begins to glitter. Every syllable scintillates.

1:4 "Kaló Pneúma, ē khárē tou opoíou mporeí na emphusḗsei se ólous;"

1:5 "Se iketeúō, agnoṓntas tē dúnamē tou téleiou eléous."

1:6 "Eleḗmōn Uiós, pou ékhtise to drómo pros ton ouranó stēn plátē sou;"

Good Spirit, the grace of which may be infused into all.

I beseech you, in the ignorance of the power of perfect mercy.

Merciful Son, who built the road to heaven on Your back.

Somehow, despite being bottom of her class in languages, the words touch her ears and suffuse her tongue with meaning, deep and moving. The sound of bells around them, and the room falls away.