It was a phase Anastasiya had never gone through, a lesson she’d never learned in her stunted growth. The ability to put herself in another’s shoe, the ability to feel what they feel without ever having experienced it herself. In fact, when she had been near to feeling such selflessness, wanting to give her toys to the servant’s children, her father had laughed and told her they were undeserving of such finery… that they’d not appreciate it as she did. He taught her well the difference between her and others. And her maids did well to enforce all that he taught.
That might have been the end of it, and for hundreds of years it actually was. But that had been before her fascination in watching this intriguing man. That had been before he stirred feelings in her she never knew existed. And it had been long before he had grown ill and Asya had been the one to care for him
She had learned much in those few weeks. About him, perhaps also a bit about herself.
And she had thought her treatment of him had changed since then. Old habits as they say, really did die hard.
“And if it causes me pain to have you so near?” She asked. Anastasiya shivered slightly, as though her own iciness chilled her. She wrapped her arms about herself. “I don’t know how to make things right.” She admitted. “I don’t know how to undo what I’ve done.” A reference to so much. To everything. Would she have done anything differently if she knew? Possibly her dealings with Sergius, yes. But should she have left Diarmad to die?
That was a question that had haunted her for almost as long as he had.