[Suddenly, fiercely, she misses her mother. There was a time, fuzzy and warm, before she crumbled, a time she felt watched over. Anya had thought she'd filled that space entirely with Riddick, but of course she hasn't; there's a splinter of longing for Magda that goes beyond compassion or forgiveness or love, that is simple child wanting.
She cries too, silent except for the little hitch in puts in her breathing, for how hard it is, for how grown up she is trying to be, for the mother she lost too many ways and the one Ben never had, for the one he made on his own. Anya cries for the Blue Lady, made of curling paper and raw need, always watching her children suffer.
She strokes his back, long slow motions, rhythmic, telegraphed. Like ironing, she thinks with a bubble of absurd humor, warmly smoothing out his shakes section by section like wrinkles in his shirt, too choked up to say anything at all.]
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She cries too, silent except for the little hitch in puts in her breathing, for how hard it is, for how grown up she is trying to be, for the mother she lost too many ways and the one Ben never had, for the one he made on his own. Anya cries for the Blue Lady, made of curling paper and raw need, always watching her children suffer.
She strokes his back, long slow motions, rhythmic, telegraphed. Like ironing, she thinks with a bubble of absurd humor, warmly smoothing out his shakes section by section like wrinkles in his shirt, too choked up to say anything at all.]