Regina Saxony
on the topic of strength
They carried him in a car, a training sailor from the base that was younger than Regina expected.
“Are you Ms. Regina Saxony?” The boy’s voice squeaked, a telltale sign of a posing young soldier. Ilya groans in the backseat, his head rolling around uncontrollably as he breathes heavily, fog emitting from his exhalation in slow spurts.
“Yes, I am,” Regina removes a handkerchief from her pocket, dabbing her eyes.
“Alright, you live on the fifth floor?”
“Yes. I’ll assist you,” Regina puts away her silk square and begins to approach the car. Ilya’s eyes aren’t opening and the street lights ahead of them buzz with their orange, artificial daytime, mocking, and stalking the shadows to infiltrate them with their buzzing hums. Before the boy could protest, Regina put up a hand, “I can manage, sir. I don’t think there’s another man around to assist us anyways,” she frowns, staring at her Ilya.
Pushing up his thick glasses, the boy shrugs his shoulders, a sigh erupting from between his parted lips. “I’m sure we should be able to find someone, ma’am, that would help us deliver a wounded sailor fighting the war back to his home,” he murmurs in disdain.
“If the world was perfect, yes,” Regina replies, “My Ilya,” she cusps his sweaty face with her two gloved hands. The leather removing the initial sheen of sweet beading upon his cheekbones.
“My Ilya,” she smiles, trying to ignore the crutches and the box of bandages lying in the seat.
He smiles, wrinkles heightened in the orange of the night, it wasn’t necessarily dark and it wasn’t necessarily light. It was a shadowy blue cast upon them, with the snow swirling around them in invisible patterns Regina did not understand. Their beauty fleeted her as it chilled her to the bone.
Yet, when she watched the snow at the foggy windowsill, she was enamored. “Ptichka. Ptichka.” He musters.
“Ma’am, if you’d move, I’ll go ahead and help Mr. Volkov down. Could you catch his other side?”
“Sure.”
Regina fought tears the next thirty minutes it took them to ascend each and every one of the one-hundred and fifty seven stairs. He writhed in pain, calling out, whimpering in agony as they hobbled him up the stairs and onto the bed Regina had made for him weeks in advance. The young soldier (or sailor) was Peter, Peter Yanokovich, Regina had come to learn he had lived near her when her family moved to that plantation her mother resided in, seemingly all alone these days.
When he was settled into bed, Regina wiped her tears away, even seeing the tender, young boy wipe his own tears away. “The nurses have a letter in the bandage box down in the car, I’ll go fetch that.”
“Thank you, Peter.”
Peter leaves and takes the stairs slowly from what Regina calculates. Once out of earshot, she rushes to Ilya’s side and kneels next to his heaving chest taking those painful haggardly breaths in a desperation of life and death, pain and discomfort. He had made improvements since they had transferred him to a hospital on the land, but he was still not the Ilya Regina knew. She doubted that he’d ever be that Ilya again. “Ilya,” She presses the hand against her face.
“Regina,” he smiles, eyes still closed, “Oh Regina, if you were any stronger you could’ve carried me.”
She realizes his words are jumbled, but those words stuck with her in a stark clarity. Never had she seen herself as strong, she just saw herself there. Regina Saxony, daughter of Emelia Saxony of Dorset, England. Strong.
“He should sleep fairly well,” Peter clears his throat as he enters the apartment once more, “Where do you want me to put this box, Ms. Saxony?”
“On the table, also, grab yourself a gingerbread. I won’t take no for an answer,” Regina demands, keeping Ilya’s hand in her own.
Peter smiles, taking a cookie off of the plate and smiling, “Thank you, Ms. Saxony, and have a nice Christmas.”
Regina feigns a friendly smile, not because she disliked the boy, simply because she wasn’t in the mood to smile. “No, thank you, Peter. You have a blessed Christmas too.”
With that, the boy shuts the door and leaves their presence, a small part of their lives they’ll remember for years to come. Regina squeezes his hand tighter, trying to somehow fix this mess, attempting to squeeze something back into him besides a moaning, pained, mess. “Do you want a gingerbread?” She chuckles, eyes widening in a sarcastic, childhood glee.
Ilya smirks. “Maybe later, it hurts to talk.”
“Sorry.”
“You’re fine,” he whispers.
“Stop talking.”
“I’ve missed you, Regina Saxony. I’ve missed saying your name.”
Regina laughs, tears falling down her cheeks all while she is so fanatically happy, “It’s not a special name.”
Ilya snickers, which develops into a hacking, unproductive cough, “But, isn’t it yours?”
“Stop it, that is too much for me,” Regina wipes away tears with Ilya’s hand in her hand. Resting her head beside him, she beams into the mattress, only wishing that he could have returned to her just as innocent and as healthy as he left.
But, nevertheless, Ilya Volkov came back to her.
“Are you Ms. Regina Saxony?” The boy’s voice squeaked, a telltale sign of a posing young soldier. Ilya groans in the backseat, his head rolling around uncontrollably as he breathes heavily, fog emitting from his exhalation in slow spurts.
“Yes, I am,” Regina removes a handkerchief from her pocket, dabbing her eyes.
“Alright, you live on the fifth floor?”
“Yes. I’ll assist you,” Regina puts away her silk square and begins to approach the car. Ilya’s eyes aren’t opening and the street lights ahead of them buzz with their orange, artificial daytime, mocking, and stalking the shadows to infiltrate them with their buzzing hums. Before the boy could protest, Regina put up a hand, “I can manage, sir. I don’t think there’s another man around to assist us anyways,” she frowns, staring at her Ilya.
Pushing up his thick glasses, the boy shrugs his shoulders, a sigh erupting from between his parted lips. “I’m sure we should be able to find someone, ma’am, that would help us deliver a wounded sailor fighting the war back to his home,” he murmurs in disdain.
“If the world was perfect, yes,” Regina replies, “My Ilya,” she cusps his sweaty face with her two gloved hands. The leather removing the initial sheen of sweet beading upon his cheekbones.
“My Ilya,” she smiles, trying to ignore the crutches and the box of bandages lying in the seat.
He smiles, wrinkles heightened in the orange of the night, it wasn’t necessarily dark and it wasn’t necessarily light. It was a shadowy blue cast upon them, with the snow swirling around them in invisible patterns Regina did not understand. Their beauty fleeted her as it chilled her to the bone.
Yet, when she watched the snow at the foggy windowsill, she was enamored. “Ptichka. Ptichka.” He musters.
“Ma’am, if you’d move, I’ll go ahead and help Mr. Volkov down. Could you catch his other side?”
“Sure.”
Regina fought tears the next thirty minutes it took them to ascend each and every one of the one-hundred and fifty seven stairs. He writhed in pain, calling out, whimpering in agony as they hobbled him up the stairs and onto the bed Regina had made for him weeks in advance. The young soldier (or sailor) was Peter, Peter Yanokovich, Regina had come to learn he had lived near her when her family moved to that plantation her mother resided in, seemingly all alone these days.
When he was settled into bed, Regina wiped her tears away, even seeing the tender, young boy wipe his own tears away. “The nurses have a letter in the bandage box down in the car, I’ll go fetch that.”
“Thank you, Peter.”
Peter leaves and takes the stairs slowly from what Regina calculates. Once out of earshot, she rushes to Ilya’s side and kneels next to his heaving chest taking those painful haggardly breaths in a desperation of life and death, pain and discomfort. He had made improvements since they had transferred him to a hospital on the land, but he was still not the Ilya Regina knew. She doubted that he’d ever be that Ilya again. “Ilya,” She presses the hand against her face.
“Regina,” he smiles, eyes still closed, “Oh Regina, if you were any stronger you could’ve carried me.”
She realizes his words are jumbled, but those words stuck with her in a stark clarity. Never had she seen herself as strong, she just saw herself there. Regina Saxony, daughter of Emelia Saxony of Dorset, England. Strong.
“He should sleep fairly well,” Peter clears his throat as he enters the apartment once more, “Where do you want me to put this box, Ms. Saxony?”
“On the table, also, grab yourself a gingerbread. I won’t take no for an answer,” Regina demands, keeping Ilya’s hand in her own.
Peter smiles, taking a cookie off of the plate and smiling, “Thank you, Ms. Saxony, and have a nice Christmas.”
Regina feigns a friendly smile, not because she disliked the boy, simply because she wasn’t in the mood to smile. “No, thank you, Peter. You have a blessed Christmas too.”
With that, the boy shuts the door and leaves their presence, a small part of their lives they’ll remember for years to come. Regina squeezes his hand tighter, trying to somehow fix this mess, attempting to squeeze something back into him besides a moaning, pained, mess. “Do you want a gingerbread?” She chuckles, eyes widening in a sarcastic, childhood glee.
Ilya smirks. “Maybe later, it hurts to talk.”
“Sorry.”
“You’re fine,” he whispers.
“Stop talking.”
“I’ve missed you, Regina Saxony. I’ve missed saying your name.”
Regina laughs, tears falling down her cheeks all while she is so fanatically happy, “It’s not a special name.”
Ilya snickers, which develops into a hacking, unproductive cough, “But, isn’t it yours?”
“Stop it, that is too much for me,” Regina wipes away tears with Ilya’s hand in her hand. Resting her head beside him, she beams into the mattress, only wishing that he could have returned to her just as innocent and as healthy as he left.
But, nevertheless, Ilya Volkov came back to her.