Fingers had not been pointed but there was a sense of...weakness when try as one might to get another to see, they could not. Perhaps if Diarmad had been a better man he'd have been able to make her understand long ago what truly was being done to them. How all her acts, how each passing year in such a state, only further destroyed them. Not just him, but both. Neither truly was without wounds but it was Diarmad had taken the weight. Who had been beaten upon endlessly for so long now that he could scarcely even recall all the years.
Even now she did not understand that her words of dismissal did mean something. But it did not somehow fix all problems. It did not rid his own word; it did not cast away his own oath. And it did not give him back that piece of him that she'd taken. A step yes...but not one so final as she wished to act as though it were.
She acted as though he should be able now to just walk away. Pretend as though nothing remained. But how could he truly do so? She held still his heart and she had still his oath. Both were not so meaningless that they could just be left behind...
Steps forward? Truly could she question why he did not see such in the way she wanted to? Not weeks ago she had called him slave. Not weeks ago she had demanded, ordered, he stay against his own wishes to not. Not weeks ago she slapped him in the face with that disrespect and yet she wished to act as though she'd only made steps forward and never once gave him reason to question each and every step? How could he hold hope in the steps when so often she went straight back to how it had been.
Demanding those words of mistress. Forsaking his name to speak him slave.
Respect and trust had to be earned and each time he had begun to believe as though perhaps her eyes had started to see....she stepped upon those beliefs, crushing them down with the heel of her own boot. It was she who had proven him wrong. She who took the easier path of falling back to her own ways rather then seeing the hurt in his eyes. The anger for the disrespect, the humiliation. Yes he was angry. He had been angry for centuries now. He would continue to be angry still for centuries to come.
But that anger had never killed out all sense of care. No matter how many times it would be easier if it had.
She moved and Diarmad stayed still. His stance was near to the door, his arms at his back, he stood still as a guard would stand. Not truly relaxed, but far from distant. His eyes were trained upon her, not out the window or wandering the room. It was she that had his attention; it was as he had given her so many times before. That complete focus...but so many times it had seemed to matter nothing. How could a man, a guard, ever feel as though they truly meant anything to another when treated in such a way?
And how could they in turn, truly forgive themselves for caring for one that wounded them like no other. Warriors had stolen his family away; they slaughtered those he loved right before his very eyes. And though that cut deep against his heart it was a fate of life he could understand more then the act of treating another as though they were worthless. Treating them like a slave.