DRAKE, reyna selene

[reyna drake]

reyna selene drake.
seventeen ,, washington dc ,, roman praetor ,, heterosexual ,, survivor
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one reason she never regrets.
( one thing she's had cause to regret )

regret is stupid, she tells herself, had always told herself, starting from the very first time she'd done something wrong - ie. break her sister's beloved Mr Snuffles which had earned a the Cold Shoulder for a week - because when one door closes two more open. all she has to do is look, and she'd see, because she had to believe the two open doors were there or what would she have? but she ignored the slight shiver she felt when she saw the ragged boy, around her age, dock at circe's island. it was stupid of her, painfully so; how many times had she been told not to doubt her woman's intuition? never mind that she was scarcely out of her girlhood at the time, a maid of fourteen. sea-green eyes had met hers, dazed and yet oddly bright, and she had known. what she knew she had no idea at the time, but there was something about him. their gazes caught for but a second - he was no doubt marveling at her cleanliness, considering his own state - but serene, composed reyna selene drake felt oddly green herself. her cheeks felt hot, the rest of her cold, her mind an edgy mess. nothing at all like the polite, capable young woman she had made great strides to being since first arriving. it was because he was a he, she reasoned. and yet so young, unlike the rest of the brutes who arrived every few months, half-deranged. reyna felt her lips curl slightly, or perhaps she made them do so. when the girl, the brunette, stepped forward next she was herself once again, or the herself she tried to be. she led them to circe, not once looking at the black-haired boy again, with his unnerving sea-green eyes.

she remembered his name, though, percy jackson; she made a point of remembering it for the next three years. but then she learns that she's had it wrong for three year, three whole years, and she smiles. she'd lost her old home, but she received the twelfth legion, a new home that fitted her better than the old, and a friend by the name of perseus jackson.

one letter she's never sent.
( if nothing else, she has to be strong )

hylla,
i miss you something awful. i do. i know i'm not supposed to say so - daughters of bellona, are we not? 'ours is the fury', or so goes our legendary words. but its true, no matter how i feel about it being true. i've missed you, hyl, and i know you don't miss me in the slightest.

no - that isn't fair, i know, but damn it, it hurts. together forever, you promised me. you had my back, you said so, so why did you drop me off in this god-forsaken place while you went off and partied with the amazons, of all people? that decision is yours, hyl, but you should have told me. if nothing else, you should have said why. i'm here and you're there and i don't know, hyl, and it isn't freaking fair. there, now i'm whining like a little twit and i hope you're happy. i'd learn to hate you, you know. it'd take a while but it could happen. it will if i want to, you know i get what i want. but i guess not this time, huh? have i been having too high an opinion of myself all this time? has it actually been 'reyna could have whatever she wants so long as hylla doesn't say otherwise'? i could hate you, hyl, i really could, if not for the fact that it'd be like hating myself. narcissistic, i know, but i just can't seem to. i miss you, hyl, so i hope you're happy. i could have joined lady artemis, you know? be a girl forever - though, admittedly, that would mean treating guys like...i don't even know, nothing, i guess - and just living. screw what you and bellona want, because this is me, isn't it? its my life, and if i want something, why not? its my life, hyl, and you had no right to just drop me off like this. its not fair. i thought you were better than that. but hey - i'm pretty sure you thought i was better than this, huh?

camp isn't bad. its better than i thought it would be; better than the romans with us at circe's ever said it was. i like it, i guess. it fits me. i was supposed to have letters - bellona neglected to mention that, or simply couldn't be bothered - and for a moment i was scared. i was scared, hyl, and you weren't there. so thanks for nothing. but there was this guy, this guy who stepped forward and accepted me. not, like, a 'welcome to the family' with a big fat bearhug or anything like that but the roman equivalent, i would say. his name was jason; blond hair, blue eyes, around my age with a hell of a bod. you'd approve, not that i care. but you would. he's a genuinely nice guy - weird, i guess, definitely not what i had been expecting, but a nice guy nevertheless. he wasn't warm and fuzzy about it but he showed me around, showed the ropes, slapped me on the back and told me to get going. you'd approve of him, hyl, if nothing else because he reminds me so much of you. stiff upper lip and all that stuff. it's disciplined her, like at circe's but different. the boys are disciplined too, at least most of the time, and...that's different, right? i can't remember our life with father much anymore, honestly i can't, but i don't think mortal boys are much like that.

i don't mind living here, but i wish you're here with me.

one conversation she's never heard.
( its for the best, or so they say )

"mother, she is a child. a child, look at her." the warrior's voice was edged with fear and anger, a dangerous mix, the two together acting like acid on her usually smooth vocal cords.

they were doing more heinous deeds to her mind, her logic, her reason. bellona knew this, knew that if it were not so, her daughter would be insisting on their plan herself. hylla had always been such a good girl, the daughter she had always wanted. a true daughter of war. in silence the dark-haired goddess eyed her other daughter, a slip of a child at fourteen, pathetically curled on the floor fast asleep. there was an openness on the child's features, a naivete the goddess had rarely seen; would never have expected to see on her own. the sight confused the goddess - but romans were a practical lot. she saw a problem; she had the solution. all was well, in the end. it was for the best, truly. did not all mothers want the best for their daughters?

bellona had insisted on naming the babe herself, though by than she cared little for their father. reyna, she had told her mortal lover with steel in her eyes. queen, the name meant. she was born to be a ruler, to be first among equals. but before bellona turned to leave she paused, hesitated, relented. she bent to kiss her daughter lightly atop her head, knowing what was to come, wishing it wasn't so. such hard, hard years were in store for both daughters of war, but that had always been the way. bellona had shown weakness in that one moment - and that weakness seemed to mark her younger daughter every step of her life.

but than again, the girl had never been tested - how was she to have proven herself when hylla was always there, always a step ahead, always remembering, always protecting. some battles had to be fought alone - and when her daughter was to be tested, the girl was to be ready.

"she is no child, but a daughter of war."
"let me prepare her-"
"like you've been preparing her so far? the twelfth fulminata will do the job better than you ever did-"
"she's never been with others her age"
"than its about time. i will not be disobeyed. you have your place, and she has hers."

and so, when her sister awoke, hylla told her bluntly that she was to go to the roman camp, the twelfth fulminata, and serve her purpose there. alone. hylla always saw reyna as - well - reyna. the baby of the two, the more soft-hearted, the weaker. but she'd not seen a blade as sharp as the glare reyna gave her before the girl ran off.

next thing she knew there was a missive from the roman camp with but two words. "happy? -reyna". this time, maybe for the first time, it was hylla who broke down in tears.

one oath she'll never break.
( sworn in blood, before the styx )

she remembers her sisters at circe's island, the only family she has ever known, and the dagger slips. the steel kiss was stinging, surreally real when the rest of her felt like she was still dreaming. blood drips, slow and thick, onto the wet earth before the temple of her mother. never again, she promises, low and steady. bellona would not accept hysterics. she was a warrior, a praetor raised. she was a praetor of the twelfth legion, despite having first arrived a nothing. she was praetor, queen, just as he mother had prophesied. she had been but a child before, but no more. never again. next time danger came, she would assure that she and hers were ready.

^{hey, so i'm lyss. i've been roleplaying for four years-ish now. you can reach me by email/pm if you need me for anything. i found made up stories like son of neptune and i'm pretty glad i did. here's an example of mah skillz. (:}

Aug 18, 2011 0:44:49 GMT -5 @summerstories said:

Away.

It was the only thought that fueled her actions, the one word enough to propel her into moving, preferably before the inhabitants of Aslan's blessed land drove her over the edge of insanity. It was no wonder, truly, that she rode her midnight black horse in a hell for leather gallop as though the hounds of hell were snapping at her heels. As it was, the elder queen's voice floated after her on the wind, reminding the Archenlander about some scheduled dress fitting or another for later that evening. Not even one for her bridal dress, even, which was a work already in progress, though it seemed to her to be getting nowhere. The honor of making the garment had been awarded to the dwarves, you see, and a whole group of them delighted in nothing more than coming in to terrorize check her measurements daily to ascertain that they were still accurate to the nth degree. Nay - the fittings the Gentle Queen reminded her about were for even more Court dresses, in all sorts of colors and Narnian designs, in Narnian-made cloths. Halfway through the first round of these, more flustered by the attention than anything else, had fumed over this presumed snub at her own country's fashions before one of her fellow Archenlandish ambassadors had looked her in the eye, saying quite baldly: well, you're to be a Narnian queen.

Oh dear god - it was a miracle that she didn't either faint dead away at Marissa's words or ride off to murder the scheming Wilmarc where he stood. Natalie hadn't been wholly able to look any of them in the eye since. She wondered, sometimes, what they thought about it all, about her. They used to be one of the few constants in her life; they were compatriots in a foreign land, and like as not, all they had was each other to ward off the worst of homesickness. They grew quite fond of each other, truly, though all would deny it to their death bed, each member of their snug little group having grown used to Mardel's serious mien, Michale's relentless flirting - and the subsequent attacks by angry papas, match-making mamas and irate husbands - Marissa's cool elegance and Natalie's restless energy. But Natalie had spent the better part of the previous year searching for their late king, and the rest of it preparing for her upcoming wedding with the High King of Narnia as ordered by the new king, Raoul's brother-in-law. She couldn't even recall the last time she'd conversed with any of them, and now after such a long estrangement, she didn't even know how to start. She missed them, but the bickering and laughter of happier times seemed like something from another lifetime, forever lost. She would be happy with Peter, she was quite sure. He was amusing, and he'd endeared himself to her long since. She loved Narnia and adored his siblings. But it wasn't anything like before, could not possibly be.

There were doubtless some who thought her better off; Natalie didn't have to be a genius to figure that out, what with the number of envious glares she felt on her back every time she was forced to attend a public function and the saccharine-sweet smiles of the faces of the girls bound by decorum and social hierarchy were just as telling. Not that she could blame them; previous to the engagement she was a sarcastic, vivacious wallflower who had a knack of turning her nose up at all the wrong people - ie the most haughty and boring, and thus the most powerful - and with no intent of bettering her social standing. Of course, as a Duke's daughter, there hadn't been much higher she could go - but she did it. Brava, the girl congratulated herself with a wry smile, eying her surroundings. Where Raoul would only tell her to "don't get eaten by anything", Peter had insisted on her taking two guards whenever she ventured outside the so-called 'safe' walls of the castle. Since Edmund's kidnapping and Raoul's disappearance and subsequent death, however, the entire nation was still on high alert even a year on, thus the reason for Natalie's uncharacteristic amiability.

Minutes, or maybe hours later, her horse slowed as she rode it towards the mound of dirt that marked Aslan's stone table, pulling the reins to guide the creature to the entrance. Moments later she was dismounting, almost before her horse was fully settled, and the lady nearly fell onto her arse for her efforts. Flushing slightly and yet too anxious to be properly annoyed, Natalie accepted the lighted torch that was handed to her by a coolly impervious guard - her one condition was that they didn't treat her like some snotty child. Slowly, eyes glittering, the girl approached the cracked majesty of the Stone Table as the two men stepped a respectful distance away. But Natalie, true to character, didn't cry prettily and beg for future and past transgressions, didn't kneel and pray, didn't make any contact at all with Those Who Might Be Listening. If Aslan was who everyone said He was, He should be able to hear her without any problem at all. Besides, she didn't know the words, nor was she at all inclined to sit still for any length of time, still on the adrenaline high that brought her there. Instead she prowled the cave, circling the table as though hoping for answers, for something, windswept golden hair and billowing scarlet cloak making her look something of a lion herself, gold hilt of her sheathed short sword glinting dangerously in the light of her flame.

She had came in need of something borrowed to complete her wedding ensemble for next moth. She knew exactly what to ask, and from whom.

Courage.

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[thalia grace]