Vyarin nodded, looking away at the baroque-esque decorations lining the walls. If she could speak Prozdy, then how many others here? This sort of information was not the sort of thing he'd like to have getting out.
"He was the better man," Vyarin said, through gritted teeth. It was the truth, after all.
It was the second thing she said, however, that really shook him. He almost swung around, his massive frame almost jostling a nearby couple, to face Annalise. Slowly, he pointed to his own eye, the one on the left. The broken one, the useless one. Then, his right eye flicking about a bit, he pointed to hers, on her right and his left.
"I am sorry," Vyarin said, slowly. The only thing he knew to say at the moment. Secretly, he was almost glad, as sadistic as that seems. The two of them were not dissimilar, not in that way. "Sometimes it is difficult to walk for you as well? To break things you did not see and strike walls and doors with your head?" He spoke softly, nearing a whisper, not daring to raise his voice and make this private moment known to the entire hall. In his own mind, he can imagine his own left eye, unbroken and uncovered, but blind nonetheless, staring into hers, that connection never being made. Maybe it was wrong of him to talk about it so. "It is unpleasant. I don't want for our mutual annoyances to interfere with our good conversation." He thought about what he could say. Anything, anything else at all. " . . . Perhaps you have visited my homeland once, as I am visiting yours? If you ever return there, I must ask you to see the Zhonov-Kremazov Music Hall, built in honour of my father by the noble Prince Ulyin of the clan Zhonov. I have seen many beautiful buildings, and that one is highest among them, on the inside and the outside. Excepting of course your home . . ." He added the last sentence upon remembering himself. It would be an insult to her clan were he to so emphatically declare anything of theirs so superior to anything of hers. "Perhaps, in good luck, I will host you there."
"He was the better man," Vyarin said, through gritted teeth. It was the truth, after all.
It was the second thing she said, however, that really shook him. He almost swung around, his massive frame almost jostling a nearby couple, to face Annalise. Slowly, he pointed to his own eye, the one on the left. The broken one, the useless one. Then, his right eye flicking about a bit, he pointed to hers, on her right and his left.
"I am sorry," Vyarin said, slowly. The only thing he knew to say at the moment. Secretly, he was almost glad, as sadistic as that seems. The two of them were not dissimilar, not in that way. "Sometimes it is difficult to walk for you as well? To break things you did not see and strike walls and doors with your head?" He spoke softly, nearing a whisper, not daring to raise his voice and make this private moment known to the entire hall. In his own mind, he can imagine his own left eye, unbroken and uncovered, but blind nonetheless, staring into hers, that connection never being made. Maybe it was wrong of him to talk about it so. "It is unpleasant. I don't want for our mutual annoyances to interfere with our good conversation." He thought about what he could say. Anything, anything else at all. " . . . Perhaps you have visited my homeland once, as I am visiting yours? If you ever return there, I must ask you to see the Zhonov-Kremazov Music Hall, built in honour of my father by the noble Prince Ulyin of the clan Zhonov. I have seen many beautiful buildings, and that one is highest among them, on the inside and the outside. Excepting of course your home . . ." He added the last sentence upon remembering himself. It would be an insult to her clan were he to so emphatically declare anything of theirs so superior to anything of hers. "Perhaps, in good luck, I will host you there."
