#reginadalys

1.

SHAKESPEARE:

LEAR: Of all these bounds, even from this line to this, With shadowy forests and with champains rich'd, With plenteous rivers and wide-skirted meads, We make thee lady. To thine and Albany's issue Be this perpetual.- What says our second daughter, Our dearest Regan, wife to Cornwall? Speak.

REGAN: Sir, I am made Of the selfsame metal that my sister is, And prize me at her worth. In my true heart I find she names my very deed of love; Only she comes too short, that I profess Myself an enemy to all other joys Which the most precious square of sense possesses, And find I am alone felicitate In your dear Highness' love.

CORDELIA: [aside] Then poor Cordelia! And yet not so; since I am sure my love's More richer than my tongue.

LEAR: To thee and thine hereditary ever Remain this ample third of our fair kingdom, No less in space, validity, and pleasure Than that conferr'd on Goneril.- Now, our joy, Although the last, not least; to whose young love85 The vines of France and milk of Burgundy Strive to be interest; what can you say to draw A third more opulent than your sisters? Speak.

REGINA: [in a starter]

She watches the priest baptize the children, as if this water could truly purify their souls, like a casing of holy armor around the intangible thing. Regina believed that everyone was born a blank slate, neither filled with light nor darkness, that these things sought you out later in life. Darkness had found her, a willing and empty vessel. No holy water could chase it away, for no water had magical properties. It only served to purify the mind’s conscience, not the soul, for the mind, like these babies below, is an easily manipulated thing, poised to be shaped however one commands, so long as they believe hard enough. You can trick the mind into thinking almost anything, including that this stuff works. The only thing purified is one’s folly. It’s pathetic, if you ask her.

2.

SHAKESPEARE:

REGAN: What might import my sister's letter to him?

OSWALD: I know not, lady.

REGAN: Faith, he is posted hence on serious matter. It was great ignorance, Gloucester's eyes being out, To let him live. Where he arrives he moves All hearts against us. Edmund, I think, is gone, In pity of his misery, to dispatch His nighted life; moreover, to descry The strength o' th' enemy.

OSWALD: I must needs after him, madam, with my letter.

REGAN: Our troops set forth to-morrow. Stay with us. The ways are dangerous.

REGINA: [in conversation with Vivianne Sloane]

“I was at the bar the target was expected to visit, which he did. However, he was unexpectedly with a Montague — the one called Perdita, to be specific. I wasn’t sure what she wanted with him, but I thought completing the assignment was more important.” Regina spoke of murder so clinically, as if it were another thing on their laundry list. “However, somehow, they’d anticipated my presence — or the presence of some obstacle, if they did not know specifically that I was assigned to this target.” It was all speculation, of course, but the thought had surprisingly stayed itching in Regina’s mind since that day: someone had gotten word that this man had too much knowledge. Someone had gotten word that the Capulets wanted him gone. Someone may have even gotten word that it was Regina who was assigned to take him out. The question was: how?

“They had Celia waiting to attack. Because of this, I was unable to get to the mark, and he left with Perdita. It was an organized ordeal from them.” While their expression remained neutral when they said that, there was a flash of something more underneath, something rare. Regina might not have even had the words to describe it, but it was almost angry in nature, perhaps more hungry than anything else. It was thus: the Montagues had stolen the pleasure of the kill from Regina, and they craved it still. They had some sort of organized front, something new, something to keep an eye on — something to destroy. The beginnings of something that looked opposite of apathy simmered. The transparent steam rose in green curls of jealousy

3.

SHAKESPEARE:

SERVANT 1: Hold your hand, my lord! I have serv'd you ever since I was a child; But better service have I never done you Than now to bid you hold.

REGAN: How now, you dog?

SERVANT 1: If you did wear a beard upon your chin, I'ld shake it on this quarrel.

REGAN: What do you mean?

DUKE OF CORNWALL: My villain! Draw and fight.

SERVANT 1: Nay, then, come on, and take the chance of anger.

REGAN: Give me thy sword. A peasant stand up thus? [She takes a sword and runs at him behind]

SERVANT 1: O, I am slain! My lord, you have one eye left To see some mischief on him. O! [He dies.]

REGINA: [in conversation with Boris Kovrov]

Wait, he now says. Regina had heard plenty of others beg for their lives; the sound was nothing new. And yet, he does not beg. He does not say a word beyond that, and she takes a step closer, still shadowed, to get a better look. He is not special for being before her gun. But his expression is amusing, and so, she entertains it for a moment.

This is Renata Gelli, and she is currently hemorrhaging her way to the end from a bullet in her body, if not already dead. He watches with a little tug of regret as red ichor bubbling from past her teeth and lips and gracelessly onto her chin, her neck, her pristine pressed shirt with flowers on the collar. She smells very suddenly of piss -- Boris isn’t sure if that’s because a bullet struck her in the bladder or if she was so terrified of death her body reacted without realizing. Or it’s the biological function of dying. He’s never looked into it. He knows it happens, sometimes.

Boris is also praying to God that he’s not next, which is why he has two hands up in a hold on gesture, staring at the woman on the other side of the warehouse, holding what very well may be a smoking gun. Ah, cherry on top.

Difficult week.

“Please, an ambulance to the Cathedral–please! Please, my sister has been shot!” Perhaps it was the common knowledge of the Cathedral’s location that allowed the paramedics to arrive so quickly, or maybe it was Dio’s last-ditch effort to save his beloved saint. Regina doesn’t have time to dwell on the unknown, not when the stakes are so high. The medics move to Catherine first, then Grace; they move with precision of people who know that time is of the essence, of people who know that they’re dealing with a woman closer to death than life. And still, though deep down they all know it’s in vain, they work to save her. 

If you had told Regina Daly that Catherine would have jumped in front of a bullet for her, she’d laugh in your face and tell you that you were wrong, that, if anything, she would be the one to take a bullet for Catherine. She’d tell you that she’d never put her younger sibling in such a situation, that she is her sister’s keeper and will always be–even if that meant that she had to sacrifice on the blonde’s behalf. Oh, how wrong had she been…

                                                It all happened so quickly...

“Regina,” Catherine rasps, lips barely parting enough to allow the name to pass through them and the oxygen mask on her face. “Are…you alright?”

The middle Daly’s head shoots up in response to her name. Her eyes are bloodshot, her cheeks splotched with red; incredulity coats her strained laugh and tears continue in rivulets down her face as she answers, “Am I okay? Catherine, la mia angela, you always worry about the wrong things.” 

She hums softly in acknowledgement, a ghost of a smile flitting across her visage. “I’m glad you’re okay,” she manages, head lolling to the side so she can get a better look at her sister–so she doesn’t have to waste so much energy trying to keep it straight. Catherine looks exhausted and utterly spent; she dons the appearance of a dying woman well and with a sort of fondness, as though she was preparing to greet an old friend. 

Regina refuses to acknowledge this.

“We knew this would happen, ‘gina,” Cat murmurs after a few moments of silence. 

“Che cosa--?”

“That Grace would be the death of one of us,” she elaborates tiredly. “I’m just... Grateful it was me and not you.” 

                                                It all happened so quickly...

Before Regina has enough time to collect her thoughts, machines in the room began to beep. She’s not a medic like Grace, but she knows well enough that a flatline on a heart monitor machine is the least desirable result. “Catherine? Catherine!” She squeezes the now-limp hand with her own as though it would be enough to bring her little sister back. 

Nurses rush into the room and push Regina out of the way. “You need to go,” the head barks, and when Regina doesn’t move, she is forced from the room. 

“Cat--no, stop, that’s my sister! Cat!”  

                                               It all happened so quickly...

“We’re sorry. We did all that we could.” 

For the first time in what seems like years, Regina is numb. The room is silent and the nurses are gone. The machines no longer beep--they’re off, as the woman they were monitoring is no longer depending on them. Regina pads into the hospital room, arms wrapped around her torso to steady herself as best as she can--though, bitterly, she knows that nothing could prepare her for such a tragedy.

She looks so peaceful now, with the oxygen mask no longer on her face and the IVs no longer dotting her arms. “Sorellina,” Regina breathes as she approaches the bedside, though she knows that she won’t get an answer. She can’t bring herself to reach out and caress Catherine’s cheek--no, she can’t brace herself for the coldness that she would feel. Instead, simply kneels by the bed, elbows resting beside to Cat--but not close enough to touch.