and if death really is the worst (a darlentina one-shot)
There were several theories that paraded to predict how Darna and Valentina would meet their fate.
They weren’t theories—not really. Rumors, actually. Gambles, to those who cackled boisterously well after the evening news, staple glass bottles treating to the endless slurred conversations done in groups at the corner of every street. Whatever kind of trivial, scandalized hushed guess roamed the streets of Nueva Esperanza, all versions ambitioning to be the future converged to one—death.
Two archenemies, one clad in red and the other scaled in a mosaic of green, destined by the people to die at the hands of one another. Only one can come out victorious, the consensus seemed to be certain.
Whatever did come out of the community’s most heated rivalry, it would be unknown to the population unless some god offered an epiphany.
Although no god seemed to rule over extraterrestrial creatures. None would seem to grant the mercy of truth, either.
There were, however, the evident facts that would resurface if one dared to reminisce upon the collective memory.
One—that some alien, General Borgo, threatened an apocalyptic end through an army-increase of hostile extras. Two—that Darna was as present as ever even upon the sliver of danger. Valentina, too, reigning her own kind of terror against the attacks with intention that no one could clearly read. Three—that after days of fleeing and seeking shelter, the birds chirped at dawn and the people could sleep to the sound of crickets once more, just as things were before. As if the threat of their gruesome deaths were clipped out of reality. As if a mass exorcism transpired as parents could recognize who their children were again, kind souls they’ve known all their lives finally snapping out of some violent daze.
No trace of Darna nor Valentina were to be seen again following the aftermath.
If one wished to recall further, there would be the stories of their neighbors, the changes they’ve noticed in the community.
One—that even in the reclaimed peace, most were in a disoriented state, simply thankful to see faces that they took for granted perceiving during slow afternoons. Two—that some seemed to wander further than anticipated, which could only explain the relief the Custodios expressed at their homefront upon seeing Narda who seemed to resurface only after days of absence.
And Three—that upon the cold and unreadable expression on Narda Custodio’s face, she announced, only failing to conceal the weight of her eyes, that Regina Vanguardia’s remains were to be laid to rest.
A silent, sound conclusion is planted in the collective consciousness: that the renowned philanthropist fell victim to the terror. Probably targeted by multiple extras because the lawyer was a walking target even without the extranormal situation, it seemed logical.
They didn’t need to know the details. They also didn’t need to know why the burial was held immediately, mixed in the blurry haze of an entire town in trauma. Most especially, no questions were asked when their beloved Narda moves away, seemingly for good, just a day after.
The people of Nueva Esperanza would never know the truth. Time designs its course for the townsfolk to forget. Or, at least, buried in the repression to be inevitably mechanized by the human mind.
They would never know, simply because they were not Darna. They weren’t Valentina, either.
Only the two knew the truth. No other person would be Darna, standing face-to-face with the reptilian woman amidst Borgo’s desired apocalypse, looking into narrow pupils until they began to resemble familiarity. Human eyes. Regina’s eyes.
No one else would have to stomach the truth as their best friend, approaching soft-curled and still exclusively gentle as ever, pleads to be let go, to be surrendered at the hands of the real enemy. To be exposed to the truth that Regina shared a body with Valentina, and that these two versions of a woman knew who she was without the winged helmet, was difficult to absorb without sending Borgo through a thousand suns. Not even Darna, with the flying woman designed to be embodied by several chosen ones, would understand.
Only Narda would carry the weight of it all. Only Narda, knees fighting the urge to crumble, as she pleads—negotiates—for a different ending, would know how it feels to fight the ache settling in her throat through tears, taking in the arms of the woman she’s held a countless number of times. “Regina, wala na ba tayong magagawa? Wala na bang ibang paraan?”
Because such a cruel fate is rare. Reserved for the both of them, it seemed.
“Hindi na ‘ko si Regina,” the other woman responds in a hush, almost like a secret, resembling a matured version of the woman who once feared being the snakes in her head; the same frightened Regina that Narda once held tight in her arms to deny such absurd allegations. Now, she sounded resigned to the truth, willing to execute its full acceptance.
It would be pointless for Narda to convince her otherwise after the jarring truth.
“Regina,” she stubbornly resorts to breathe out in defeat, not aiming to offer anything substantial beyond saying the name. Her name. Because the fear has never devoured Narda this much, and if the woman before her isn’t Regina, then how can the same eyes still offer the comfort they promised many moons ago?
And Valentina wouldn’t know how it felt like, either. Regina, however corrupted in distinguishing where the vile woman did not have her in a chokehold, would be the only one to know how it felt to be in love with Narda that it warranted the end of her life. It may have been a secret neither of them have ever uttered to one another, but looking beyond the stoic heroine and into Narda’s stubborn eyes, it felt too late to find out that they both just knew.
“Regina,” Narda calls out softly with the gravity of several lifetimes, as if they had the privilege to such blessing. “Hindi ko kakayaning mawala ka sa mundong ito,” she says, pleading. “Gagawin ko ang lahat, huwag ka lang mawala sa akin.”
Regina understands something that Narda doesn’t. To save humanity is of mutual understanding, but the truth proclaims that they don’t have the luxury of their own desires coexisting with the better good of this world.
So Regina does what she can do best—to choose for the both of them, but this time an altered version of a sacrifice, her being a woman of many plans after all.
Narda listens intently, taking in every word as if it were Regina’s last, using every second she can selfishly call her own to remember the face that would haunt her as each pound of her heart feels like a rupture.
Darna and Valentina are the only ones who know how Borgo was defeated. The people of Nueva Esperanza don’t dwell on the logistics other than the belief that both women saved them, with some iterations more gruesome than those that tried to paint the sacrifices as inspiring.
Narda would never forget how Borgo’s downfall was followed by a deafening silence—one that would last for the rest of her lifetime.
An isolated island surrounding the archipelago. A quiet flight with her Regina in her arms. A final moment looking into the eyes that have replaced home.
A lifetime of exile. Alive. Regina watches as Darna turns back and begins her ascent back to civilization.
She watches as Narda takes the sacrifice Regina has created for the both of them.
With a lifetime gifted upon their hands, death could not have seemed more kind.
