The completion of her question, the answer he doesn't tell her, all of that
possibility just hangs in the cool air between them. Would he have told her
that she was more to him than just a notion, a thing worth dying for? Would
he say that she's a woman, flesh and blood, and that doesn't have anything
to do with ideals at all? Anya wonders if she's a fool for thinking that
she is more than just a failure of duty to him. If she was a friend and
that is why he stayed his hand. She wants to believe that they are
friends now, that she hasn't been fooling herself. That her heart isn't
leading her astray. It hasn't before. It led her to Paris and while that
didn't go quite the way that she had hoped for, that she had fled in angry
tears back to the hotel, what Gleb has told her offers odd promising.
Without all of her memories, her instinct and intuition is all that she has
left. It is tell her something now. Encouraging her to keep going, that it
will be okay. Another possibility remains.
"Yes, exactly. There are certainly worse things. It could be expected and
unlucky," she lets out a small laugh, a mirthless thing as she tries to
grasp at a levity that has fled as awkwardness returns. Did she bring it
back when she moved her hand? She was just reacting to his lack of
response, going forward when there was nothing telling her to stay that
particular course. "But you're right. Luck will always matter, as will
having a strong and steady heart."
Those words, thought months ago as she looked over Paris are echoed here.
Fear, luck, and having enough courage to keep going. All of those are
necessary, but for this city and for this walk. The smell of the cold ocean
makes her sigh happily, memories of Russia carried on them mixed with sand
and salt and fish. "When I close my eyes, the air smells like it does on
the coast of St. Petersburg."
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The completion of her question, the answer he doesn't tell her, all of that possibility just hangs in the cool air between them. Would he have told her that she was more to him than just a notion, a thing worth dying for? Would he say that she's a woman, flesh and blood, and that doesn't have anything to do with ideals at all? Anya wonders if she's a fool for thinking that she is more than just a failure of duty to him. If she was a friend and that is why he stayed his hand. She wants to believe that they are friends now, that she hasn't been fooling herself. That her heart isn't leading her astray. It hasn't before. It led her to Paris and while that didn't go quite the way that she had hoped for, that she had fled in angry tears back to the hotel, what Gleb has told her offers odd promising.
Without all of her memories, her instinct and intuition is all that she has left. It is tell her something now. Encouraging her to keep going, that it will be okay. Another possibility remains.
"Yes, exactly. There are certainly worse things. It could be expected and unlucky," she lets out a small laugh, a mirthless thing as she tries to grasp at a levity that has fled as awkwardness returns. Did she bring it back when she moved her hand? She was just reacting to his lack of response, going forward when there was nothing telling her to stay that particular course. "But you're right. Luck will always matter, as will having a strong and steady heart."
Those words, thought months ago as she looked over Paris are echoed here. Fear, luck, and having enough courage to keep going. All of those are necessary, but for this city and for this walk. The smell of the cold ocean makes her sigh happily, memories of Russia carried on them mixed with sand and salt and fish. "When I close my eyes, the air smells like it does on the coast of St. Petersburg."