halcyon_houses

Who: Anastasiya and Diarmad
Where: Their Suite
When: Saturday Night after Rebecca's post
What: God these kids are stubborn

More than a week had passed, and still he remained. Nearly two weeks. His only movement had been to his classes, and then he was right back to his self appointed station.

And Diarmad called Anastasiya stubborn.

How many times had she gone to the door, thinking to open it, to speak to him, to plead with him, to convince him as she’d failed to do already. He was free, as free as he could be. No, Asya couldn’t offer him that, but she gave what she could. Not good enough, but there was nothing more to do. Nothing short of ending both of their lives. And that he wouldn’t allow either. Of course, neither would she. She didn’t want to die, didn’t want Diarmad to die, and thought that perhaps, he wouldn’t want her dead either.

But Asya never knew what of what he said and did was duty, and what might be more.

She’d thought… perhaps… after all, it had seemed so. But she’d been wrong, hadn’t she? Like a servant girl broken and weeping at his feet. She had, in that moment, given her all for him, left herself completely bare. Nothing. There was nothing from him.

And it was Anastasiya that so many called Icy.

It was servants that spoke to him, every few hours, and reported back to their mistress. Always the same word. No Mistress, he’ll not relinquish his post. Short of causing a scene in the hallway, which she felt his continued presence their did regardless, Asya was at a loss in what to do. There was one who’s opinion she always valued in such tough situations, but he was currently standing outside her door like, well… like she was a princess and he her guard.

No, the irony was not at all lost on her. If irony was even the right word. Whatever it was… Asya was at a loss. Not to mention she felt humiliated, doubly so, and a sickness in the pit of her stomach that had begun in Germany and begun to fester the night of her return. That Diarmad had not slept was obvious to her, mostly because she had not either. Not one day or night since then, though, in the beginning she had tried. Neither had she fed. Her time anymore was spent gazing at the door as though she could see him through it. The problem was, no matter how much she wanted to push him away, and make him go away… she didn’t at all want him to. She wanted him right there by her side. Not as servant. As Diarmad.

Maybe if she’d never admitted it it would be less painful. Yes. She was certain it would be less painful. Before she’d prostrated herself she at least had her pride. Now she didn’t even have that. She had wealth, opulence, anything of value she could desire right at her command. But none of that mattered did it? These things she had always had. These things did nothing to fill the gaping hole in her heart. A hole more obvious now than ever before.

Work actually gave her chance to forget herself for a few hours a day. Forget herself. A strange concept, but the only way of keeping her sanity. For those few hours, the pain felt to be more of a dull throb then a piercing ache. Though a frantic journal entry from Rebecca had brought back a surge of emotion. Anger.

Her first thought was to find the culprit and give them a bit of pain of their own. And those who taunted Rebecca as well, Asya wished to see them suffer as well. She did neither… yet. The first thing she did was to go to her door. She hesitated but a moment before she opened it. “Your niece needs you.” She said. “Someone has attacked her.”

He hadn’t left. Asya could feel him still, just outside her door. In her minds eye she could see him even. The only thing she couldn’t see was his thoughts. Why he did any of what he did. Did he know how broken she was? Did he care? Had he wanted it to be worse? When Sergio had sought to demoralize her, she had shaken of course, quaked under his powerful grip. But what Diarmad had done in his inaction had been far more damaging than any pain Sergio had sought to inflict.

She drew her bath alone, not wishing to be seen, or to see, any of her servants. When any came near they were answered with complete silence, ignored, or else a hissed angry reply. After a moment, none thought to bother their mistress. She wanted only to be left alone. A fact that bothered them all, as “alone” never before excluded them. But Asya now knew that even when surrounded she was utterly alone. And always would be. And yes, she knew also that it was all by her own choices. A fact that did nothing to make any of it any easier to stomach.

Yards away he stood. Four walls separated them, and nearly as many doors. Anastasiya undressed, aware of the scar, hideous to the eyes, tender still to the touch. She thought she’d never grow used to it. Nor did she want to. Ever. The idea of it sickened her. For reasons beyond the physical. With Diarmad so separated, she’d not have to worry about him seeing. Not have to worry about him asking.

Indeed it was better this way. But why wouldn’t he go? Why did he refuse to leave even when she said leave? He was done. His service to her completed. And if he couldn’t leave, then why was he not here at her side? Asya knew what she wanted. Knew what she ached for. But knew also… It could never be.

Diarmad could never love her. She had made sure of it. By every word, every action, certainly every selfish deed. The most selfish had been in capturing the fallen hero, not allowing him the death he had earned. How she’d wanted him. It seemed so simple a matter than, no matter the complications in bringing it about. Nothing was too much for her desires after all.

How foolish she’d been then. How foolish she was still.

When: Monday Night
Where: Their Room
Who: Diarmad and Asya

Diarmad could feel her in the air; he could sense her movements cutting through the falling rain. Still he stayed perched upon the balcony railing, large wings curled around his large form as his dark eyes pierced through the night. Watching. He had not moved for hours, taking place the moment the sun had fallen from the sky. He knew tonight she'd return, she'd waited as long as she could and now returned knowing Diarmad had been pushed past all points of patience. All words to allude to nothing more then a vacation away were a waste, a pathetic attempt to treat him as though he were a fool.

She stayed this long away for reason. What that reason was, the why of it, he knew he did not truly wish to know. Yet he knew he had need to. If she would speak it, that was another matter all together. He was only slave and had no rights to any answers. She had made that clear to him before leaving. Reminding him always of his place in this life she had created for them.

Rain fell; the soft sound of it filled the night and yet brought no ease to Diarmad's frame. The sting of the rain did not chill the bare flesh of his shoulders; it did not sooth away troubles or ills as he waited. It was simply background to racing thoughts that would not still even when she finally showed herself. Such thoughts had not stopped for days, weeks....

To many it was obvious something was amiss, something troubling him that he'd not speak. Even words with Rebecca and Cora had been brief. There was little he could say to them, no words to truly offer. He knew to curb his anger, he knew to keep control and that he had many reasons that made that need so. Yes he knew, he understood, he had for centuries now. Constantly fighting those urges to simply give in, to let all of who he was slip away.

But honor bound him just as her own blood did. He could not disgrace the blood in his veins that was not hers. His family. They taught him strength that he could not forget.

Nearer and nearer she drew to the school, not even a muscle twitched in movement. Diarmad was still as a statue, appearing nearly frozen as though stone skin kept him there. But eyes surveyed the area seen from that balcony. Diarmad was awake as he’d been for weeks now. Waiting.

Soon the car could be seen in the distance, the headlights cutting through the night. Diarmad could see the outline of the driver, a servant that would be put in charge of ensuring all her bags were brought to the room as well. Never would the princess drive her own self nor carry her own bags. Though she was princess no longer in this world, little would change her ways.

The car stilled, the man scrambled with the bags as Diarmad watched. He did not leave his perch to give aid. His eyes were trained on the car where he knew she sat, delaying. Not even the movement of the servant at the door bringing those bags in turned Diarmads gaze. No he’d wait as long as she. He’d make her face him from first step out of that car.