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The queen is a superior being. Or, at least, she appears to be to some if not most. She is not called one without reason, for her nature and history on the battlefield speak volumes. But one does not need to observe her amidst bloodied soil and soulless carcasses to know that she is to be respected. Her eyes will tell you everything—eyes that will pierce through your very existence and demand what is expected of you.
The queen is a ruthless individual, a brute if one had the gall to say so. But even if you did call her so, even if you did tell her that right in front of her face, it is nothing new to her. To her who thrives in bloodshed and in the cries of those getting crushed under her heel; it is but a fact, one that she embraces with the entirety of her person without fault.
The queen is not someone so pathetic. Never was, never will be. No one will dare say otherwise lest they no longer want to be at her mercy, lest they want steel and nails so sharp to pierce through walls made only of flesh and bone. And that is what everyone was to her, flesh and bone—easily penetrable, human and mortal.
The queen is no stranger to injury nor the pain it inflicts. She is no stranger to the graze of alloy and copper against her skin or the way blood seeps through an opening. They are all but minor nuisances at the very most and nothing to her at the very least.
It’s nothing, she tells herself. But she doesn’t know how much longer she can resist the shiver that threatens to run down her spine or when the gash on her shoulder will stop aching. She refuses to look at it, even if she is a little too aware of the way blood drips down her arm, so, it’s nothing.
Yet it is something; something that she knows will only add fuel to the still-burning fire if she acknowledges its presence. So she ignores it as she does with every little scratch and bruise that has been planted on her skin, but this time, she can’t help the way her body feels a little heavier than usual. Either that or she pays too much attention to what she believed are minor nuisances this time.
And maybe this is how she is being punished for what she did or, rather, what she failed to do.
The queen is not someone so pathetic. She is a superior and ruthless being that gets what she desires no matter what. Yet there hadn’t been enough blood on her hands that day. There hadn’t been enough casualties she’d done, there hadn’t been enough damage she’d caused, there hadn’t been enough souls for her to take. But the spike is defused within the few hours they were allotted and everyone on the team is still standing by the time that they are fetched.
Regret is this pestering feeling that had always wanted to be reunited with her consciousness, and now it has come to shake her core once more. And if only she had the courage to admit it to herself that it has come back to haunt her, she would know that the tightness within her chest and the churn of her stomach were not because of motion sickness.
“How much longer do we have to wait?” When she asks, she makes no effort to hide the hiss in her voice. She couldn’t care to hide it, not when so many things are bothering her at once. Mostly, as of now, she just wants to be somewhere that is not up in the air and not on an island made only of rock, ice, and snow.
It’s quiet for a while, and although the peace is something the queen is usually given without fault, it is also not very wise to leave her unanswered, especially when her patience is running thin. But within those few seconds, no one seemed to want to be the bearer of bad news, maybe to salvage themselves from the potential wrath that will come with her temper.
Finally, Brimstone decides to be the sacrifice, as any leader should. He clears his throat with a subtle agitation that doesn’t go unnoticed. “Considering we just drove out of Canada, we should land in about two hours, give or take.”
She bites back a complaint, maybe to spare herself and the sorry souls from a problem any of them wouldn’t like to have the trouble of fixing. When she didn't say anything else within the next five seconds, the whole plane seemed to let out a quiet breath of relief.
With that, she finds it in herself to lean back against the little amount of cushion the chair could provide and close her eyes. And within the darkness, she attempts to sleep in hopes that time may pass quicker, but it doesn’t come easy with the way her open wounds still sting and serve as some bitter reminder of what had happened that day. There were too many mistakes on her end, so when she tries to find someone or something else to blame, she ends up with no one and nothing but herself.
A Radiant is an individual whose abilities set them on a pedestal that no mere mortal can reach. If she can’t be that, then who else would she be?
She doesn’t get to know the answer—and, internally, she is thankful—because her attention drifts to the sound of footsteps. Quiet, light; but their agenda is not of secrecy. She knows those footsteps well, she knows who it belongs to, but she does not open her eyes even when those footsteps stop in front of her.
“I don’t want your gift,” but the queen’s words lack the bite they usually have.
The voice that replies is soft, composed with that hint of insistence. “But you need it.”
“Obstinada,” the queen says. At the same time, she finds that she doesn’t mind the mutiny. If anything, it is something she has grown on.
No room is given to argue, not when she feels that cool sensation rush through her limbs and veins like a river on a spring day. She can feel tickles where her skin had been cut, and it’s quite the odd feeling since skin wasn’t meant to be mended on its own. Where it blossomed with purples and blues, it’s icy and warm at the same time until the ache they give resides into nothing. In under those few seconds, the sting on her shoulder is no more along with the gash that would’ve needed stitching.
The next thing she hears is the light creak of the seat beside her and the little click of something being opened. This time, she finds it in herself to open her eyes, to see what the one beside her was up to. Her gaze first lands on hands—dainty-looking, but her majesty knows that there are light callouses that pad the fingertips—that rummage through a kit and pick out items a little too efficiently.
Her eyes then flit to the face those hands belong to, and she can’t help but pay attention first to the light crease in between the brows and the slight narrowing of the eyes. She knows that look to be of persistence, so full of purpose and never wavering. But at the same time, there is something benign in the other’s gaze; it alleviates whatever tension that threatens to disrupt the serenity of a healer’s nature.
Even the queen does not dare to ask nor resist. She only watches as those hands damp cloth with water and something fragrant before they move to her shoulder, hovering over the spot she knows where the gash once was. There, she gets a better look at how the blood had dried up and dripped down her arm over ink-embedded skin. It’s messy, a sight that she may have found pride in if it weren’t for the fact that it was her own blood instead of a victim of her hunt.
But the next thing she knows, she feels the touch of those calloused fingers slip underneath her arm and take hold with a grip not too loose nor tight. And for a second, she relishes in the coolness and familiarity those fingertips bring.
A queen isn’t to be touched so freely, yet a healer who knows no shame towards her majesty manages to get away with it alive and unharmed.
Soon, the blood on her shoulder is wiped clean, not a stain left to dirty the ink that decorates her arm. Not a word was uttered during that time, not even a ‘thank you’ from her majesty once the deed was finished. Instead, their eyes meet for the first time in those last few hours; a quick look into each other’s minds.
And she swears that, for a brief moment, the facade of gentle sternness breaks into something softer. She can’t quite tell what that look holds or means, but she hopes that it isn’t pity. As a Radiant, it is a downright crime to look down on her and think of her as anything less. If you do so, you must pray for your own soul.
Whatever it is that she saw in that gaze leaves as quickly as it came when the other stands from where she sits. Yet the queen’s attention can’t help but remain on her as she moves.
“Rest, Reyna,” the healer tells her as she walks away.
The queen isn’t one to be told what to do, but she leans back down against the cushions and closes her eyes anyway. At the same time, she dares to wonder what Sage saw in her eyes that caused that shift in her gaze.
-
Headquarters wasn’t the most ideal place of rest nor is it a place befitting for someone like her majesty. But the rooms that they are provided with are enough to provide that subtle feeling of comfort. While she may like to be amidst the chaos and the destruction she implements with her own hand, a place of repose outside of gunfire and death isn’t something she is against either.
She wouldn’t call headquarters home, but she can admit that it’s second to it with that hint of familiarity in the air. Familiarity in the sense that the majority in the protocol like to gather during meals or bond during whatever time they have left to spare. And she had to learn the hard way that they’re a lively bunch, especially with the number of youngsters that made up their team of agents. She isn’t very old herself, but there is that sense of seniority that comes when she’s around souls she knows that are still fresh and growing.
For now, however, she doesn’t surround herself with the protocol. She doesn’t join them for dinner, even if she has been starving for hours—either for the lives of her enemies or actual food, no one could tell, not even her.
Instead, she thinks, which is odd because it’s something she never cares to do in moments of rest. There is no point of thinking, of going through events that have already happened, but she’s replaying the mission in Russia and listing down faults that she usually wouldn’t be so bothered by. But it’s different with how she remembers the feeling of cold sweat running down her face and the way her lungs seemed to be closing up on her. She remembers how hard her heart pounded against her rib cage, threatening to jump out of her throat.
For a moment, the predator felt like prey.
She could have expected the sniper, the entry coming from behind, the way she’d be trapped—she could have expected all those things. And it’s a frustrating thought because she really could have, but she didn’t; outplayed and outnumbered, she was lucky that Omen lurked. If he didn’t, then she would’ve died.
It’s an even more frustrating thought to think that death could have been so close, to think that she was within its reach, but luck decided to favor her that day for the first time in a long time. She’s still breathing because she was lucky, and, really, what a miserable thing it is to rely on luck.
In and out of the battlefield, she is called a queen. But there was nothing today that does justice to her alias; there was nothing today that made her feel as such. And if she can’t be a queen, if she can’t live up to her fullest, who else would she be?
The answer comes along with a steaming mug of tea.
“It’s ginger.” Sage hands her the mug. “Drink.”
It’s a demand, not a request. And what a daring little thing this healer can be, especially to her majesty, but Reyna complies wordlessly. She lets the spice and that hint of honey roll down her tongue with a heat that makes her chest feel so full. The heat turns into a warmth that spreads across her limbs, and it thaws the cold left by the air.
It’s a relief from the hunger that has been thrumming in her veins and pinching at her gut, but she is not thankful for it. Instead, she wonders what motive is there from the healer who sits next to her on the bed. But her temper is at fault and her rationality is on thin ice, so whatever motive she imagines the other to have is not the prettiest of ones.
“If you are here to patronize me,” Reyna starts, “I don’t want to hear it.”
Yet when their eyes meet, she finds that the other’s gaze is anything but. Whatever it is, she doesn’t like it.
There is disregard when Sage, instead of a reply, asks, “Why didn’t you come down to eat?”
“Always so nosy.” Two can play at that game, and Reyna is never one to back down from a challenge. “Shoo, leave if that’s all you’re going to be.”
But the other does nothing of the sort. There is a frown that forms upon the healer’s face, one that Reyna would find amusement in if only it were the product of mere tease. “Something is wrong. Tell me.”
“And what will you do, dear Sage?” Reyna can feel the sneer in her own voice. “You sound so sure that this is something that you can fix.”
“What about you, Reyna?” When she asks, there is no provocation in her voice. Instead, there is this quiet wonder, and it’s light, genuine. “Is this something you can handle on your own?”
The queen can taste the bitterness those words elicit from within. However innocent the intention behind the question is, she can’t help but let her blood simmer and her skin grow hot. But it’s not anger she feels, not exactly at least. She knows it’s not anger because anger is this restless need to kick and claw those who dare to oppose her until she sees red.
This is not anger, not when her fingers don’t twitch for the need of a weapon. And red wasn’t Sage’s color; Reyna found that it never really suited her in those times between life and death.
She doesn’t know what this feeling is supposed to be, and for a moment, she finds herself wondering the same thing: Is this something I can fix?
And in the next second, she shoves such a question down the depths of her mind as spite comes to play, making that unnamed feeling rise even further.
“I don’t want your pity,” Reyna hisses. Out of everyone in the protocol, the last person she wanted that from was someone who was the complete opposite of her. If she had Sage’s pity, then that would mean she has lost. “You dare disgrace my being with such a thing?”
“That’s not-“
“I am not to be looked down upon,” because that is not how a queen is treated. The queen isn’t someone so pathetic, she is a superior and ruthless being who gets what she desires no matter what. The queen is someone who is respected for her nature and history on the battlefield, she is someone who is feared. But if she can’t live up to her title, if she can’t be just that, then who else could she be?
“Zyanya.”
Suddenly, the air is taken away from her lungs so quickly that she can’t help but let the shock make her freeze and come undone at the same time. Her defense mechanism tells her to protest, and she tries to find the words to retaliate against unspoken ideals, but those callous-tipped fingers brush featherlike against her skin and a cool palm presses comfort on her cheek.
Those eyes—they’re relentless with the way they search her for something she tries with all her might to mask with some makeshift pretense of indifference. They’re dark and so bright at the same time that she can’t decide whether she wants to indulge in the beauty of the void or protect herself from the harshness of the light. Either way, she’s stuck where she sits, grounded by the touch on her face and the gaze that holds her captive.
But the queen, to put it bluntly, is a stubborn woman. So she manages to add, even if the frequency of her words borderline a whisper, “I don’t need your pity.”
“I do not pity you,” Sage answers with that cool, collected tone once more; voice as soft as the feel of her skin against hers, “and I most definitely do not look down upon you, but you are not in the best of states.”
“I am a Radiant,” Reyna tells her as a point to be made, but Sage has always been quick to counter.
“A Radiant you are, yes.” In the healer’s other hand is suddenly her majesty’s own, the latter squeezed into an embrace that has the queen’s breath hitched even further. “But you were human first. Being human will always be a part of you whether you like it or not, and that is alright.”
Amidst the weight that had settled upon the situation, it’s Zyanya’s chest that lightens first. And it’s odd because, after all the pride she has in her identity as a Radiant, to be told that she is still human is not a thought that she should be finding solace in. Yet here she is, a once-human-turned-Radiant who is still human in more ways than one.
The superior and ruthless queen is still human. She still has blood running through her veins and air rushing through her lungs. Her body is the same vessel she has used before First Light. She still has a name behind the alias violence and bloodshed had granted her.
The queen is still human. Should that be a surprising thought or not?
But Zyanya is not surprised nor indifferent to it. Instead, she laughs with a hint of a flutter in her voice she didn’t know she still had. It’s soft, short-lived; but it helps ease the tension out of her shoulders and the air until it isn’t so overwhelming. And it feels like it has been so long, maybe a little bit too long, ever since this light feeling had come over her. She doesn’t count the days, but she knows that it had been too long since this sensation had come visited her.
Then, her attention shifts back to the one at her side, and finds that the corners of the other’s lips had twitched up into the smallest of smiles. Small, but Zyanya finds that she likes the way they quirk up to give shape to thin lips she has felt against hers countless times before.
She can’t help but sigh and lean into the other’s hand, pressing a kiss to the palm and fingers as her head shifts to the side. The thumb is brushed against her cheekbone in return, affectionate.
“Ling,” Zyanya calls her, “cariño, you are truly a blessing sometimes.”
Ling's response is a hum, followed by a kiss to the forehead that takes away whatever doubt remains in the surface. And it’s so gentle that Zyanya can’t help but indulge, alias momentarily discarded and worries forgotten.