Neither Emperor Zarkon nor his wife were known for their gentleness. There were rumors from the older of the Galrans that Zarkon had not always ruled with such an iron fist, that his prerogative had not always been to dominate the universe, that at one point he and Haggar had acted like a couple of lovestruck teenagers. It was hard to believe now, though. Zarkon was hardly seen aside from business or direct battle, violent and colder than you'd thought possible for a living, thinking being. Haggar, or Honerva, used the disobedient ones in the inner circles as experiments for her 'robeast' creations.

But the two still obviously shared respect. There were no couples fights, no violence, no battering, not a whole lot of actual talking but they treated each other as equals and partners, they knew they shared a life.

The most obvious sign of that relationship was Haggar's semi-regular pampering. She got special treatment as Zarkon's right hand, visiting a special area of the ship to have her ever-growing pristine white hair taken care of and the rest of her made up to be comfortable in her aging. Immortality did not come without its aches and pains.

So here she lay again, under your hands, head tilted back for you to wash and care, hands steepled in her lap, legs crossed at the ankles. Her usual alchemy or Empress robes had been swapped for that of simpler, smoother fabric. Her eyes could've been easily mistaken for closed if it weren't for the light yellow glow that emitted from them, brightening her cheeks and eyelashes, ensuring you—for comfort or for stress—that she was still clocking every one of your motions.

For someone who worked closest with her, with the woman who pulled men from their stations to violently interrogate them or change their very physiology, she had never made a problem of any part of your work. The job, on paper, sounded incredibly stressful, being under such scrutiny with such high stakes, but she'd never minded when the water splashed a bit or if the brush caught and pulled.