Archive of Our Own ^beta

“All my grief says the same thing — this isn’t how it’s supposed to be. And the world laughs, holds my hope by the throat, says: but this is how it is.” — Fortesa Latifi

Her face is wet when the others find her. 

She watches her Sisters burst around the corner of the grey, empty chamber, weapons drawn for a battle that has already ended. Beatrice sits in the wreckage, quiet and numb, a sob caught in her throat.

“What happened?” Camila asks, eyes darting from the puddle of blood that was once Michael, to the puddle of blood that was once Adriel, to the puddle of blood that was Ava before Beatrice pushed her through the Arc. 

“She did it,” Beatrice says, soft and bitter, “Adriel is dead.”

Camila’s eyes dart from the blood to the tears on Beatrice’s face. “And Ava?”

Beatrice closes her eyes. Swallows the grief. Chokes on the sob. Tries to remember how to breathe.

Tries to remember how to live.

“Gone. She’s gone.”

The van ride back to Dr. Salvius’ villa is silent. They pass thousands of people wandering the streets, formerly possessed, recently freed, and still so terrified. The confusion of those who were lost, the relief of those who were waiting for them to come home. There are reunions on every street corner, in every door frame, at every alleyway. People hug and cry and laugh. Promise to hold their loved ones closer next time. Promise to call more often. Promise to say I love you more. Promise to never take anything for granted even though they will, eventually, when Adriel and his brainwashed followers are nothing more than a bad memory and a Wikipedia page. 

Beatrice leans her head against the van window, closes her eyes. Despite spending the last couple months fighting for just this, for freeing the world from Adriel’s lies, she can’t bear to look. Not with an empty seat beside her.

Dr. Salvius meets them in the courtyard, hands clasped together against her mouth and a terrified dread in her eyes as she scans the people exiting the van—the bruised Warrior Sisters, the battered Good Samaritans, a tired Camila, a bloody Yasmine.

Beatrice steps out last and watches Dr. Salvius’ fragile hope die with her. 

She catches Beatrice’s eyes, sees the grief reflected back at her, realizes that there are two people who are never coming home—Beatrice isn’t the only one who lost the person she loves most today.

The sob stays caught in Beatrice’s throat even as Dr. Salvius breaks, collapses and curls into herself, scratches at the cobblestone until her nails rip and bleed, not a scientist or CEO or millionaire, but a mother who has lost her son twice over.

Her son. The boy who went to the other side and returned older and changed. The boy with a divinium bomb in his chest. The boy with a destiny manipulated by supernatural beings. The boy without a choice. The boy Beatrice was jealous of because she thought he held Ava’s affection.

It all feels so silly now after everything, after Ava’s kiss, after Ava’s sacrifice, after Ava’s final words. 

After his death. 

Nobody stops Beatrice as she retreats inside.

Mother Superion appears in the doorway that leads to the room the Arc used to be in, looking at Beatrice with eyes so full of hope and faith that it feels like losing Ava all over again. Beatrice closes her eyes, braces herself, shakes her head. Mother Superion takes one look at her expression, at the empty place at her side where Ava always stood, and breaks. Her cane falls and she catches herself against the doorway. 

Beatrice tries to swallow around the sob that is still stuck in her throat but it chokes her. Her ribs close in, piercing through the fragile walls of her heart. She shakes her head again, struggling to breathe. Mother Superion closes her eyes, her hands trembling as she crosses herself and reaches for Beatrice, and Beatrice turns and blindly flees.

She ends up in Ava’s bedroom without meaning to. Beatrice can still see her if she squints, can see her gasping at the spacious room and spinning around happily, flopping onto the bed before goading Beatrice to join her, bathed in sunlight and laughing as she tucked herself against Beatrice’s side, warm and golden and beautiful. 

Beatrice blinks and the room is quiet and empty. She closes the door, sinks down to the ground, presses her back against the heavy oak. 

It seems so long ago, when they arrived here bruised and scared and in desperate need of help, when Miguel revealed he was actually Michael Salvius, the sickly little child who disappeared almost three months ago and sent Dr. Salvius into an unhealthy obsession with learning everything she could about the Arc.

The same Arc that just took Ava away from her.

Beatrice closes her eyes, leans her head against the door. She is aching and broken and tired, so tired that she wishes that the darkness would take her, wishes that she could forget the feeling of Ava slipping through her fingers, wishes that the sob in her throat would dissipate, wishes for some sort of relief. 

She dreams of blinding blue light and dread, of warm blood under her hands and fear, of the buzz of supernatural energy and grief. She runs and runs and runs but can never catch up to the golden light, always stumbling along, always just out of reach. 

Beatrice’s eyes are achy and dry when she wakes. The room is bathed in silver moonlight, the curtains billowing gently in the breeze. Ava was always terrible at remembering to close the windows, adoring the scent of wildflowers and damp earth and oak trees that the fresh mountain air brought. Beatrice used to wake up in the middle of the night to find Ava curled around her, warm hands against her side and a cold nose buried in her neck. She grew to appreciate the fresh air the same way Ava did, and she longs for those simple pleasures now, for a cold room and a warm bed and a pair of socked feet tangled with hers. 

For a second, Beatrice can pretend that they are still in the Alps, in the little bubble of happiness they managed to forge despite the looming threat of Adriel in every shadow. She can pretend that Ava is working the afternoon shift, that Beatrice left early to pick up dinner from Ava’s favourite sandwich shop, that they will spend the night watching cheesy movies on their uncomfortable futon, that she is just waiting in their apartment for Ava to return home.

She scrubs at her face and the scent of blood hits her, rusty and metallic like a handful of pennies. The fantasy shatters. She stares at her hands, feels the tacky blood half-dried between her fingers, tries to breathe around the sudden revulsion. They’re the same hands that held Ava, the same hands that let her go. The grief hooks into her chest, dull and constant and overwhelming. Her ribs creek with the effort to contain it.

She stumbles to her feet, bruised from the battle and stiff from sleeping slumped against the door. One of the bathroom lights is burnt out, leaving the room poorly illuminated. Beatrice looks in the mirror and almost doesn’t recognize her reflection. Her coif still covers her hair, a cluster of bruises forms by her left temple, tear-tracks cut through the dirt and grime and blood. 

She reaches out to trace the reflection’s features but flinches when she notices the blood on her hands again, swallowing back bile when she finally realizes that it’s Ava’s. She fumbles to turn on the tap, furiously pumping soap into her palm and desperately washing the blood from her hands. 

She scrubs and scrubs and scrubs until her skin is raw and red and aching, but the blood stays. It smears across her hands and crusts under her nails and stains her fingertips. It sticks to her tactical habit, darkening the black leathers further. It’s too much blood, too much to make sense of, too much to wash off with simple lavender hand-soap and lukewarm water.

It’s too much for one person to lose and still survive. 

“Ava is not dead,” she says to the mirror.

The reflection’s expression twists and breaks and crumples, unable to meet her eyes. It doesn’t believe her.

“Ava is not dead.” 

Her mouth forms the words like a prayer, like a salvation, like a confession. 

“Ava is not dead.”

But the grief sees it for what it is—a beautiful, cruel, bittersweet lie. 

She wakes in the morning surrounded by Ava’s shampoo, and she almost forgets. 

But the mattress beside her is cold, and the Spanish air is humid, and she still wears her bloody tactical habit, and her face is tight and itchy with dried tears. 

She stares at the empty bed beside her and remembers. 

Beatrice does her best to avoid everyone, wandering around Dr. Salvius’ villa like a ghost, wordless and unseen, drifting from room to room, hidden in shadowy corners and quiet hallways.

She hasn’t cried since that first day, since pushing Ava through the Arc, but that sob remains stuck in her throat. The grief is a band around her chest, holding her tight with its cold arms, sharp and patient, never far, and never simple. The roots of the love cut through her heart, twisting and folding over each other, tearing up the earth of her chest and leaving behind mangled tissue and regret. It dissects her heart, holds up all the shards that Ava touched to the microscope, pieces it back together all wrong. Flesh cut away from bones that still remember what it was like to be whole. 

And yet, if this is the cost of loving Ava, she would pay it a thousand times over. 

She spends the first couple of days still expecting Ava to pop up beside her, to bounce into the room and to her side. To grin and sling her arm over Beatrice’s shoulders, draping herself over Beatrice like her arms were made to wrap around her. The empty space beside her is a cruel reminder that Ava is gone.

Mother Superion talks about returning to the Cat’s Cradle more and more as the days spent recovering in Dr. Salvius’ villa turn to weeks. She talks about her plans to restore the OCS, to see if there are any other survivors hidden around the world, to prepare the remaining Warrior Sisters for the next divine apocalypse, for the coming holy war Lilith warned Beatrice about. Beatrice knows that they have to return eventually, but the thought makes the lead ball of dread in her stomach settle more firmly. Each day that passes here on Earth is unfathomably long in whatever dimension Ava is in—Beatrice doesn’t want to do the math, but Michael left as a child no older than ten and returned as a man in the span of two months. 

Ava’s been gone for two weeks already, and Beatrice tries not to convert the time difference between the two dimensions, but it sticks in the back of her mind like an itch that can’t be soothed.

“Beatrice?” 

Beatrice startles, looks up from the sunset, sees Yasmine standing in the same spot Ava had stood mere weeks ago, when she had asked Beatrice to run away with her, back to the Alps where they had made a home, away from Adriel and the First Born Children and demons and otherworldly divine beings and a world that so desperately needed saving. 

The same spot Beatrice had broke Ava’s heart because she was too scared to admit what she wanted, too scared to admit that she didn’t regret saving Ava’s life, too scared to admit that she would sacrifice the world again and again if it meant saving Ava. Too scared to admit to herself that what she wanted was Ava. 

Beatrice swallows around that sob in her throat and turns to Yasmine. “Good evening, Yasmine.”

Yasmine gives her a wavering smile, steps closer, fidgets with her fingers. “How are— How are you holding up?”

Beatrice folds her hands together on the balcony banister, twists her fingers together, wishes her habit had pockets. It’s one of the things she misses most about wearing casual clothes—in her habit, there is no where to hide her hands, no where to hide the evidence of her unease.

“I am fine,” she says, and the lie comes effortlessly. 

Yasmine gives her a worried look, and Beatrice knows she doesn’t believe her. She used to be unreadable, austere and poker-faced, but she knows that the grief and aching love is written all over her face for everyone to see now. It doesn’t matter how believable her lies are when she can see the heartache every time she looks in a mirror. 

Yasmine doesn’t push it though, and Beatrice is grateful. As much as she loves Camila, she can’t handle her gentle probing questions, can’t handle that sad knowing look, can’t handle the way Camila can see right through her. She’s not ready for that, not yet. Talking about it makes it real, makes the Ava shaped hole in her heart that much more obvious. Camila has only guessed at the depths of Beatrice’s feelings, before Beatrice was ready to admit it to herself, and Yasmine offers a kind of respite—she was there when Ava kissed her, after all, tears in her own eyes as she watched Ava phase through the floor. It’s easier, in a way, to let Yasmine in than it is to talk to Camila, who would cause Beatrice to shatter with one well placed look.

“What brings you out here?” Beatrice asks when the silence stretches on.

“I just wanted to talk,” Yasmine says, smoothing her hands over her habit.

“About?”

“I’m thinking of returning with you all,” she admits in a rush, “To the Cat’s Cradle. Mother Superion said that I would always be welcome there, and after— Well, after everything that’s happened, I need some time before I return home. My friends and family wouldn’t understand, and I don’t think I could even begin to explain. But with you all,” she takes a deep breath, turns to face Beatrice with hesitant hope in her eyes, “I don’t have to explain. I can just sit and process everything.”

Beatrice isn’t surprised at all. From the first moment she met Yasmine, she got the feeling that the girl would jump at an invitation to join the OCS. “What about your PhD? Surely it took a lot of time and effort to be accepted as a candidate. You would leave all of that behind?”

“I’m not leaving it behind. It’s the 20th Century—I can video chat with my advisor and professors as needed. And it’s not that far of a flight.” Yasmine shrugs, squints at the sun, bites back a small smile. “And Ava did make me a Sister Warrior, after all. That somehow seems more impressive than a doctorate, to be honest.” 

It’s a poor attempt at levity, but Beatrice appreciates it all the same, appreciates that Yasmine, in all her awkward, eager, warmhearted wonder, doesn’t treat Beatrice like she will break at the mere mention of Ava.

“That she did,” Beatrice says. She presses her lips together, turns back to the sunset. “Becoming a Sister Warrior is harder than she made it out to be.”

“I assumed as much,” Yasmine says, holding onto Beatrice’s every word. “But being inducted by the Warrior Nun has to help, right?”

Beatrice drops her gaze, doesn’t mention the fact that she’s not confident there will be an OCS anymore. It’s hard to be a Sister Warrior with no Warrior Nun to protect. 

“I’m sure it won’t hurt your chances,” she says instead, turning to give Yasmine a small smile. It’s the first time she’s smiled since losing Ava and her cheeks ache at the movement, rusty and unfamiliar. Her stomach twists at the thought, at the realization that, no matter how much she hurts, no matter how much she aches for Ava, no matter how much she wants to sit outside the dead Arc and wait, life goes on. 

Yasmine beams, bouncing a little on the balls of her feet. “I am glad to hear that.” She stays for a few more moments before excusing herself, the soft pad of her runners on stone fading and leaving Beatrice by herself in the the quiet evening air. 

Beatrice turns back to the sunset. Orange streaks the sky, smudged across the horizon as darkness encroaches. The sun glows gold, a circle of light hanging low over the sea in the distance. Beatrice stares at it, closes her eyes, sees it burnt on the inside of her eyelids, pretends that it’s the glow of the Halo, imagines that Ava will be there when she opens her eyes, hanging in the air and laughing at Beatrice, the Halo radiating light from her back, Converse skimming the tips of the trees as she swoops towards Beatrice.

When she opens her eyes, the sun has fully dipped below the horizon and she’s alone. 

Mother Superion sets a date for them to return to the Cat’s Cradle and Beatrice can’t conceal her dread. Here, in the outskirts of the city, hidden away in Dr. Salvius’ too-large villa, everything feels a little dreamy—having an actual end date for their time here fractures that dream, it makes everything seem real, means that Ava really is gone. 

Beatrice stares blankly at the wall of screens behind Mother Superion, doesn’t realize the others have left until Mother Superion sits down beside her. She startles, goes to stand, and only stops when a hand falls on hers. Mother Superion’s hand is calloused and dry, creased with wrinkles that tell of a long life spent fighting. Beatrice meets her eyes, still unused to the smooth lines of her face. The Halo healed her physical scars, fixed her bad leg, brought her back to life, and yet she’s still the same no-nonsense woman Beatrice has always known, albeit a little warmer, a little softer.

“Beatrice,” Mother Superion says quietly, “I have something for you.”

Beatrice slowly lowers herself back to her chair, watches as Mother Superion pulls out a slightly wrinkled envelope and offers it to her. She takes it, closes her fingers around the roughened paper and turns it over. 

Her breath catches on her ribs, tangling in her chest at the sight of her own name. She would recognize that clumsy cursive anywhere—she’s the one who taught Ava it, who spent hours guiding her through the alphabet, who watched her writing change from the blocky letters of a seven year-old to the messy scrawl of an adult.

“She left it for you,” Mother Superion murmurs, “Told me to give it to you in case she didn’t— Well, you know.” 

Beatrice’s fingers tremble against the envelope and a part of her wants to snatch her hands back, to hide the vulnerability away. Mere months ago, Mother Superion would have taken advantage of it, fixated on it, exploited it until she could work it out of Beatrice. Knowing what she knows now, about Mother Superion’s over-reliance on the Halo, about the way it rejected her, about what she lost, she can understand it. She can understand the bitterness, the fractured faith, the fear of losing more people, the desperate need to make sure that the Sister Warriors are prepared for what’s out there so they don’t die. She can understand how it can turn inward, make you hard and sharp and cold.

But Mother Superion is different now. 

Beatrice, too, is different now—softer, stronger, sadder. Ava cracked open her walls, left her vulnerable and exposed, and yet as scary as it is, she has never been more content than in those too few moments when Ava looked at her with that too tender, too warm, too adoring affection in her eyes—terrified, humbled, exhilarated. 

Beatrice runs her fingers over her own name, manages a small smile at the thought of Ava trying to sit still and write it out—the way Ava had fidgeted on the shoddy futon, the feel of Ava’s hand under hers as she guided her through the cursive alphabet, the way she’d held her breath every time Ava’s warm exhales fanned against the shell of her ear, the pride that coursed though her every time Ava turned and grinned at her.

“I miss her,” Beatrice whispers, unable to keep the words inside, unable to keep the love hidden away.

“We all do,” Mother Superion says. She sighs, hangs her cane on the edge of the table, studies her hands. “When she first came to the Cat’s Cradle, I never thought I would ever be able to tolerate her, let alone actually care for her.”

Beatrice thumbs the edge of the envelope. “She grows on you,” she agrees with a small, crumpled laugh. Her smile fades, fingertips aching to be this close to Ava and yet still so far away. “I just can’t believe she’s gone.” 

“Gone, but not dead,” Mother Superion corrects sharply, falling back into her strictness like a child’s comfort blanket, “Have faith in Ava, and in God. She has come back from death more than once, and if He intends her to live, then she will. Nothing can stop that. Not even otherworldly beings or alternate dimensions.” 

“Have faith?” Beatrice says in a short burst of disbelief—in another life, she might have bitten it back, might have pressed her lips together, might have stayed quiet. But in this life, she is finding it harder and harder to believe in God after everything she’s seen, after Adriel, after seeing what he did to prayer, after people so easily turned on each other, after demons and Tarasks infected this world, after her and everyone she loved was caught in a supernatural chess game between divine beings who didn’t care for the human pawns caught in the middle. The problem with making faith your business is that you lose everything when it falters, and hers is slipping through her fingers fast. 

She imagines she’s in the confessional of the church she attended as a child. She imagines saying the words buried deep in her chest, imagines confessing to her worst fear and being met with compassion and not accusations of sin, imagines her parents meeting her with love and acceptance instead of shipping her off to a Catholic boarding school in another country, imagines being able to say I’m gay without feeling like it’s an admittance of guilt. 

Beatrice closes her eyes, lets the confession slip past her lips: “I don’t know if I know what faith is anymore. I don’t know if I can ever find it again.”

Mother Superion stays soft and kind as if Beatrice didn’t just admit to faltering in her faith, as if she didn’t just admit to doubting what she had dedicated her life to, as if she didn’t just admit to virtually breaking her vows. She fell in love when she wasn’t supposed to, and it’s impossible to hide now. 

“It’s alright,” Mother Superion murmurs, her eyes wet but steady, “It is human to doubt, especially after all that we have been through. But I trust that you will find your way back, even if it takes time, even if it looks different than before.”

“How?” Beatrice asks and her voice breaks. She reaches up to touch her cheeks and is shocked to find them dry. The sob in her throat swells, chokes her, and then fades. 

Mother Superion reaches forward and pulls Beatrice into her arms, warm and gentle and nothing like the woman she was before Ava crashed into their lives.

“I can’t tell you that,” Mother Superion murmurs, “That is something for you to figure out, something between you and God. But know that we will always be here for you, no matter where you end up.”

Beatrice holds the letter close, tucks it against her heart and runs her fingers over the messy font of her name, but she never opens it. 

Unopened, it sits in some liminal space—a bus terminal at night, an empty gas station, a hospital waiting room, an abandoned church, a bar after closing, a quiet train carriage, a large bloodstained chamber, an alternate dimension—here but not, creased but unread, alive but gone. 

Unopened means that there is still some of Ava’s words left in this world, unopened means that Beatrice still has a chance to hear Ava one last time, unopened means that Ava is still alive, somewhere, somehow, even if only in a letter.

Despite how much square footage is in Dr. Salvius’ villa, Beatrice manages to run into Father Vincent nearly every day. He lurks awkwardly in the doorways and corners of every room, unwelcome and unacknowledged. Every time he meets her eyes, rage and bitterness crawls just under her skin. 

She thinks of Mary and the fury that blazed through her like a forest fire, uncontrollable and grief-fuelled, destructive and renewing. 

She thinks of how it ate at Mary, how it simmered and scorched after Shannon died. She thinks of how she had burned, bright and brief, right before the end. 

She thinks of Mary and Shannon, and how their deaths track a straight line back to Vincent. Of how the tangled lines of losing Lilith and Ava lead back to him too. 

She thinks of how he is directly responsible for so much loss and wants nothing more than to see him burn. 

He finds her in the courtyard, returning from errands for Mother Superion. Dr. Salvius has a lot of resources, but no black market contacts—there are very few places a nun can stock up on assault rifle ammo without being questioned and, despite Dr. Salvius’ offers, none of them can be entered by an Arq-Tech courier. 

“Sister Beatrice,” he greets. 

In spite of every thing that he has done, the people he’s taken away from her, the knife he jammed between her ribs, the years of good memories he tarnished, a warm greeting is on the tip of her tongue. She bites it back, tastes the blood of the betrayal, ignores his pathetic eyes. “What do you want?”

He flinches, keeps his distance. Satisfaction rushes through Beatrice as she pulls two duffle bags of weaponry and ammo out of the van. 

“I simply wanted to talk.” He slides his hands into his pockets, avoids Beatrice’s glare. “I have been wanting to ask you something for a while, but I haven’t found the right time.”

Beatrice scowls, huffs as she slams the van door shut. She doesn’t say anything, willing to let him dig his own grave as he has time and time again. 

Father Vincent shifts awkwardly. “I have just been wondering about that day at Adriel’s new Cathedral.”

Beatrice tenses, clutches the duffle bags, strides across the courtyard. Father Vincent, unfortunately, keeps pace with her.

“Why did you stop Ava?” he asks, “During the livestream. When Adriel— When Adriel murdered Duretti. Why did you keep her from destroying him then?”

Beatrice glances at him. She can still feel his throat beneath her palm. The frantic, cowardly flutter of his heartbeat. The sour stench of day-old alcohol. The resignation and guilt in each choked breath. 

“Why do you care?” she asks, sharp and caustic, acid eating through metal. 

Vincent recoils, adjusts his glasses, stares up at the sky. “I suppose I am just curious. I have never known a Sister Warrior so dedicated to the mission than you, to following the Warrior Nuns orders even when they put you directly in danger. I have never known you to defy that mission.”

Beatrice inhales and the fire simmering under her skin ignites, licking at her stomach and scorching her arms. She meets Father Vincent’s eyes, watches as he falters and takes a step back. 

“You’re a coward to come crawling back here after everything you did to us,” she snarls. The sob in her throat lodges more firmly, makes it difficult to breathe.

Vincent inclines his head, accepts the charge with grace. “Yes, I am.”

Beatrice stalks away and doesn’t look back.

Dr. Salvius finds her before they leave for the Cat’s Cradle. Beatrice has done her best to avoid the older woman, unable to face her after everything, but Dr. Salvius seeks her out with the same dogged determination that is evident in all of her work. 

“Sister Beatrice,” Dr. Salvius greets as she pushes open the door of Beatrice’s seldom used room—she spends her nights in Ava’s old room, more often than not, soaking in the little hints of Ava left behind, the clothes tossed on the floor, the crumpled sheets, the messy bathroom, the fading scent of jasmine and vanilla. “How is the packing going?”

Beatrice pauses, her hands on her travel bag, and meets Dr. Salvius’ gaze in the mirror beside the bed. She is smiling, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Good,” Beatrice says, cautious and uneasy, “We will all be out of your space soon enough. Mother Superion wants to leave right after breakfast tomorrow.” 

Dr. Salvius steps into the room. Beatrice straightens and resists the urge to drop into a defensive stance. Dr. Salvius isn’t going to hurt her, she knows that, that’s not Dr. Salvius’ style—and besides, it’s not as if Dr. Salvius could beat Beatrice in close combat, not when Beatrice has been the OCS’s best close combat fighter for years—but Beatrice’s skin still crawls with anticipation and adrenaline like her body is expecting a fight. 

“It’s alright,” Dr. Salvius says, eyes darting around the room and cataloguing Beatrice’s meagre belongings. “It has been nice to have other people here. Makes the house seem less empty.” Her eyes cloud and Beatrice swallows and turns back to packing just to give her hands something to do. “This house is too big for one person,” she muses quietly. She pauses, as if waiting for a reply. Beatrice pretends she doesn’t notice. “I have been meaning to talk to you for a while,” she continues when Beatrice doesn’t say anything, “About that day. About— About Michael.”

Beatrice fumbles with the zipper of her bag. Dr. Salvius shifts behind her, steps closer, breathes deeper. Beatrice’s hair stands on end. The ever-present sob in her throat expands.

“What happened?” Dr. Salvius continues in the exact the same tone as a detective playing bad cop on some crime show, “Nobody will tell me about that day, about what happened to Michael, but I know you were there.”

Beatrice stares at her hands on her bag, remembers Ava’s blood stuck under her fingernails, wonders what the truth will do to Dr. Salvius. All of them saw how she descended into a near hysterical obsession with the Arc after Michael went through it, who knows what she will descend into this time.

“What happened?” Dr. Salvius repeats, her voice desperate and grim.

Beatrice turns and catches Dr. Salvius’ eyes, sees her own grief reflected back at her, knows that she deserves to know. 

“He had a divinium bomb in his chest,” Beatrice says, keeping her eyes fixed on a point beyond Dr. Salvius’ shoulder, “He believed that it was the only way to defeat Adriel. When he went through the Arc, he was taught—trained by Reya to kill Adriel and she—” Beatrice sighs, shifts, tries to forget that she sent Ava to the same place that changed Michael, that damned him to a senseless death. Dr. Salvius isn’t all that different from her—both of them thought the Arc would save their loved ones, but it only took them away. “She put a divinium bomb in his chest and sent him back to find Ava. He was the explosive and Ava the trigger. The Halo blast activated the divinium and caught them both.” 

Beatrice finally turns to meet Dr. Salvius’ eyes, watches them cloud and dampen, troubled and tired. She knows that Dr. Salvius deserves to know what happened to her son, but she doesn’t need to know the entire story. There are parts of that day that are burned into Beatrice’s memory that she will never share with another soul. It is her burden to bear, her burden to shoulder so no one else has to suffer the knowledge. Dr. Salvius doesn’t need to know exactly what happened to her son, doesn’t need to know that Michael’s suicide mission was pointless because Adriel survived the blast, doesn’t need to know that Michael was dead even before the divinium bomb went off, doesn’t need to know that, by the time Beatrice got there, Michael’s heart was lying on the floor beside his lifeless body, doesn’t need to know how the divinium ripped through his flesh and tore his body to pieces, doesn’t need to know that he never stood a chance. 

“But Ava went through the Arc,” Dr. Salvius says slowly, too smart to not see the holes in Beatrice’s story, “If she was the trigger, if she was hurt badly enough to need the Arc, why didn’t they both go through? Why did you only save Ava and not my son?”

Beatrice flinches at the accusation, stares at her hands and wills the sob in her throat to make up its mind and let her finally weep or dissipate so she can breathe again. “Ava barely survived the blast,” Beatrice finally says, the partial truth tearing out of her like barbed wire through flesh, “Michael didn’t. The divinium shrapnel caught Ava as well as Adriel, and the Arc was the only way to keep her alive.”

“Why didn’t you bring him home then?” Dr. Salvius demands, shaking with rage and grief. “I deserve to be able to give him a proper funeral, at least. But you took that from me when you decided to just leave him there, cold and alone.” She gasps, choking on tears and crumpling in on herself. “I don’t even have a body to bury.”

Beatrice can’t meet her eyes. Can’t say that there wasn’t enough of him to bring home. Can’t tell her that her son was little more than a pool of blood on the floor and scattered pieces of mangled muscle and bone. 

But Dr. Salvius can see the truth in the words unsaid. She presses a hand to her mouth, horrified. “I see,” she manages. 

Beatrice swallows, shifts her weight, stares at Dr. Salvius’ shoes. “I’m sorry.”

Dr. Salvius excuses herself, her shaky breathing echoing down the hallway. Beatrice watches the door tremble in the wake of Dr. Salvius’ exit, forgotten in her haste. She blinks, breathes, and turns back to her bag.

Beatrice decides to go for one last walk through the gardens, taking in the greenery and stonework, illuminated by moonlight. She stops at the statue where Ava had practiced placing the crown on Adriel’s head, wonders what would have happened if Lilith hadn’t appeared at the last minute, wonders what would have happened if Beatrice was fast enough to slip the crown over Ava’s head, wonders what would have happened if everything worked out like it was supposed to.

She wonders if Ava would be standing beside her right now, holding her hand and indulging in Beatrice’s insomnia fuelled midnight walks. 

She wonders if things could have been different, or if this was always the ending they were destined for.

The Cat’s Cradle is the same as they left it, albeit dustier and quieter and with a few more holes in the ceiling than there used to be. It’s the only untouched convent in the global massacre that took out most of the OCS’s members in one fell swoop, having been abandoned by the time the attacks happened. 

After Father Vincent’s betrayal, Mother Superion had taken on the extra responsibility of single-handedly running the Cat’s Cradle chapter of the OCS without complaint. She had sent Ava and Beatrice away to Switzerland first, and then prepared the rest of the Sister Warriors to go into hiding, taking Camila and Lilith with her and scattering the rest of the Sister Warriors around the city, disguised as regular nuns in convents that knew nothing of the Warrior Nun and the Halo in her back and the Sister Warriors who protected her. She had warned all of the OCS about the possibility of an attack, about the possibility of Adriel infiltrating their ranks. They hadn’t listened, and Mother Superion had, unfortunately, been proven right. 

The Cat’s Cradle is silent and lonely when they return, fewer than ten of them in total. Even with the call going out to the Cat’s Cradle Sister Warriors and any OCS survivors, it will be weeks before they all return, weeks of too few voices echoing in the too empty halls of the convent, weeks of piecing the OCS back together, weeks of grieving those they lost. 

But life goes on, and it is waiting for them to pick it back up when they return, just like it always is—there are chores and paperwork to do, training and preparations to complete, new recruits and old friends to greet. Mother Superion cracks but doesn’t falter under the weight of rebuilding, and Camila steps up beside her, flourishing under the new responsibility.

It’s a position that Beatrice would have once held under Father Vincent, one that Lilith would have once killed for, one that Mary would have once refused, back before Ava took Beatrice’s fragile heart through the Arc with her, back before Lilith clawed her way back from death and changed into something unrecognizable, back before Mary died.

It’s a position that Beatrice doesn’t think she wants anymore. 

Beatrice watches as Camila thrives under her new duties, watches as she grows into herself. She watches Camila take on a bit of everyone they’ve lost—the steady heart of Shannon, the no-nonsense attitude of Mary, the intense determination of Lilith, the fierce compassion of Ava, the protective nature of Beatrice herself. She watches as Camila makes it her own, with her unwavering loyalty and tireless enthusiasm and steady optimism. 

She watches Camila take on the day-to-day duties of running the Cat’s Cradle while Mother Superion is busy rebuilding the entirety of the Order. Camila takes everything in stride, resolute and fearless. And yet, she still seeks Beatrice’s eyes whenever she falters, like she had in the first few months after joining the OCS, when Beatrice had seen something of herself in the girl and taken her under her wing, pushed her to do better, protected her from the others. Even now, Beatrice looks at Camila and sees herself, looking to Mary and Shannon for guidance whenever her responsibilities expanded. 

“You are doing fine,” Beatrice whispers to her while they clear the tables of breakfast nearly a month after they return to the Cat’s Cradle. The chores are never-ending in the convent, especially with so few Sisters here, but Beatrice doesn’t mind them too much—they keep her hands busy, keep her from counting the days. 

Camila startles, her dark eyes wide and surprised. “I didn’t— I don’t— I mean—”

Beatrice smiles, reaches to take the stack of plates out of Camila’s hands and place them in the clearing trolley. “I know you, Camila,” she says, fond and proud. “You don’t have to worry. You’re ready for this. You aren’t the same girl who arrived here. You’ve grown so much. I meant it when I said you are the best of us, that you’re our heart. You will be fine.”

“But what if I mess up?” Camila whispers, voice hushed like she’s scared someone will overhear her in the empty room.  

Beatrice looks at Camila, sees how she’s grown, sees who she’s still growing into. “You’re going to mess up. We all do.”

“Even you?” Camila’s voice is thick with doubt. 

Beatrice smiles, catches Camila’s eyes, thinks about all of the mistakes she’s made, all the times she’s faltered and stumbled, how all of it lead her here. “Even me,” she promises, “every single day. The more responsibility you have, the more you are going to mess up. That’s just how it goes—it’s inevitable. You aren’t going to get through this without making mistakes, you just have to learn how to own them, and how to apologize for them.” 

She thinks of Ava, of how she was quick with her apologies and even quicker with making amends. She thinks of the words Beatrice said to her mere days after the Halo was unceremoniously shoved into her back, of how Ava held those words close, took them to heart, shaped her life around them.

Because things change when you realize not everything’s about you.

Beatrice smiles around the sob in her throat. “You just have to try and do better next time.”

Camila sighs, sniffles, reaches for Beatrice’s hands. “I miss her too.”

Beatrice blinks, meets Camila’s knowing eyes, and nearly breaks. She catches herself, catches the tears before they fall, catches the sob before it escapes. “It’s different, for me,” she confesses, surprised by how easy it is to admit, “I loved her. I love her, I mean.”

Camila smiles, all sympathy and kindness. “I know you did. I know you do.” She takes a deep breath, steps closer, runs her thumbs across the back of Beatrice’s hands. “She will come back. I know she will,” she says with a conviction Beatrice can’t quite bring herself to feel. Beatrice nods, unable to speak, unable to hope. Camila’s smile changes, and her eyes glow with a hint of amusement. “Besides, there’s no way that Ava could kiss you like that and not come back to finish what she started.”

Beatrice laughs, surprised and embarrassed and just a little bit delighted. She’s never had a friend tease her about her love life before, never had a chance to between conservative parents and Catholic boarding school and a disapproving Church, and it’s overwhelming in the best way, tinged with sorrow and joy. She should have known that Yasmine would tell Camila about what she witnessed at the end of that golden hallway—Yasmine’s secrets are written all over her face no matter how well she keeps her lips sealed, and Camila has a way of getting the latest gossip out of even the tightest lipped people. 

“I’ve been thinking of leaving the Order.”

Beatrice blinks, startled when she realizes that it’s her own voice echoing around the empty dining hall. 

Camila pulls Beatrice into a hug, warm and gentle and bittersweet. “I suspected as much.”

Beatrice finds that hard to believe, considering the thought hadn’t even crossed her mind until it crossed her lips. 

“I know you too, Bea,” Camila says softly against her cheek as Beatrice sinks into her embrace, “It’s been written all over your face for weeks.”

Beatrice swallows and wonders when she lost the ability to guard her emotions. Like most changes in the past few months, she suspects she can blame Ava.

“I’ll miss you,” Beatrice whispers, breathes in the familiar comfort of Camila, the smell of her family, of her home, one that she found and created all on her own. 

“Don’t be a stranger,” Camila murmurs, “Or I’ll come find you in whatever corner of the world you end up in. And that’s a threat.”

Beatrice laughs, wet and choked. “I will hold you to that.”

It’s surprisingly easy to give up her vows. She requests a dispensation and receives it in less than a week. She wonders how many palms Mother Superion greased to make the process so painless for her and smiles at the thought. Mother Superion loves quietly, in small gestures and a steady hand—she can see that more clearly now.

The casual clothes sit on her more comfortably than they did the first time, like she has grown into them. She runs her hands over her habit one last time, leaves it on a perfectly made bed in a barren room she called home for over half a decade. 

It’s not that she’s turning her back on the OCS, or even turning her back on her faith, not completely. But the vows she took mean something different now, and she’s not as blindly devout to them as she once was, back when she was terrified and ashamed and full of self-hate, back when she had nowhere else to go. She can’t unreservedly commit herself to the Church, not after everything that she’s seen, not after losing so many loved ones to some supernatural beings claiming to be God. Not when all of her devotion and half of her heart is safely tucked in Ava’s hands, somewhere in some alternate dimension. 

She tells Mother Superion and Camila that she will always be a phone call away, that she will always come when they need her, that she will always miss them.

They tell her that she will always be welcome in the Cat’s Cradle, that she will always have a home with the OCS, that she will always be family. 

And then they let her go. 

She goes back to Switzerland because that’s where Ava wanted to return to, because that’s what she knows, because that’s where she’s comfortable. 

Because that’s where she and Ava built a home.

The bar is the same as it was, her and Ava easily replaced with other twenty-somethings trying to find themselves. If Hans is surprised to see her again after her and Ava abruptly quit and fled town, he doesn’t show it. He grins, pours Beatrice a water, and pushes it across the bar to her.

“Boss!” he smiles, teasing and warm, “Took you long enough to show up again. We were placing bets on where you and Ava eloped to.”

Beatrice smiles around the sob in her throat, doesn’t flinch and vehemently deny the accusation like she would have before. “We didn’t elope,” she corrects, “Just had an emergency come up and had to help out some friends.” 

Hans shrugs and gestures around. “Well we could use all the help we can get.” He leans across the bar, grins conspiratorially, “Bruno and Petrica are already reminiscing on your organizational skills. I’m sure they would rehire you in a heartbeat if you reapplied.”

Beatrice takes a sip of her water and nods. “I’ll think about it.”

“Between you and me, I think they even miss Ava and all her chaotic bartending.”

Beatrice smiles. Ava charmed everyone everywhere they went, able to make friends with anyone in half a minute. The owners of the bar, Bruno and Petrica, are a sweet older couple who were immediately taken in by Ava’s eager words and earnest smiles, hiring her on the spot despite her lack of experience and missing resumé. 

“Speaking of, where is she?” Hans pushes up off the bar and cranes his neck to look past Beatrice’s shoulder as if Ava is going to walk through the door. He looks so confident that Beatrice almost turns to look as well. “I’ve never seen you spend more than a few minutes apart,” he laughs, good-natured and teasing, “Even when you worked opposite shifts.” 

Thorns close around Beatrice’s heart, tearing through flesh and hope. “She’s travelling.”

“Lucky,” Hans grins, doesn’t notice Beatrice’s lie, “When is she coming back?”

Beatrice studies the glass in her hands. Remembers how Ava had smashed one just like this mere months ago, an excuse to actually do something about Adriel. An excuse to get Beatrice away from the girl who was teasing Beatrice about her pining. She wonders how she could have missed the jealously and longing in Ava’s eyes, the tender adoration in her smile. She wonders how much time she wasted on fear and guilt. 

She doesn’t remember the girl’s name, but she remembers how Ava was here, bright and brilliant and beside her, always beside her. 

“Soon,” Beatrice says.

She hopes that she’s telling the truth. 

The apartment is the same as they left it, a little dusty, a little messy, and more like home than Beatrice’s childhood house ever was. The OCS had paid the rent for six months upfront, unsure how long Ava and Beatrice would need to hide, which means Beatrice still has some time before needing to decide to stay or go.  

Beatrice runs her hands over the entry table where Ava used to haphazardly toss her keys and baseball cap. The bed is half made, one side perfectly smooth and the other rumpled from Ava waking up late the morning they left. A half finished puzzle sits on the flimsy coffee table in front of the futon, a way to calm down and compose themselves after the news about Mary. A plaid shirt hangs off one of the dining room chairs, abandoned by Ava every evening because she ran hot from the Halo. Two empty mugs sit in the sink, the rings of tea in the bottom of each cup long since dried up and cracked. A thrifted record player balances precariously on a fold up side table, waiting for the needle to drop on the slightly scratched vinyl sitting on the platter. The window is still cracked open, letting the cold mountain air into the apartment. 

The heartache tangles in her throat. Her chest cracks open, a gaping hole of mangled flesh and broken ribs, nothing left but aching love and grief. Her bones liquefy and she collapses in on herself. Her head throbs at the pressure of it all, tightens until her brain feels too big for her skull, fracturing and splintering along the fault lines. The edges of her body blur, hazy and indistinct, floating somewhere beyond the apartment, somewhere between life and death, somewhere between this world and the next. The first tears fall and she snaps back into herself, sharp and heavy.

The sob caught in her throat finally bursts free after weeks of choking her, aching and raw and full of unfulfilled love. 

In the morning, she leaves the window open and tugs the forgotten plaid around her to combat the cold. She leaves the bed unmade and makes her tea the same way Ava always did, too hot and overly sweet, every mundane thing an indulgence. She starts the record player and curls up on the uncomfortable futon. The puzzle sits in front of her, untouched and unfinished, waiting for Ava to come home. 

Beatrice sips her tea and listens to the record player and lets herself cry.

The apartment is as painful as it is a comfort. It makes her feel closer to Ava and incredibly far away, her fingerprints over every surface, her absence a glaring hole at Beatrice’s side. The weeks blur together, every day sharpening the ache and dulling her hope. She is rehired at the bar, and barely questioned about her abrupt resignation and disappearance. 

“It happens more often than you’d think,” Petrica says, waving a cavalier hand, “People come to this town to get away, and sometimes the past catches up with you.”

Bruno catches his wife’s flailing hand with his own, meets Beatrice’s eyes and smiles. “We’re just happy to have you back. Let Ava know she will always have a place here too when she’s done travelling.” His wrinkled face is kind, creased with laugh lines. Petrica pats his hand, age spots dotting her thin skin. Unexpectedly, it makes Beatrice think of Ava and wonder what it would be like to grow old with her, to watch as laugh lines wrinkle her skin, to love her for that long.

She falls back into the managerial role as if she never left, and the old and new staff welcome her back with open arms. Hans doesn’t seem to mind that she was promoted over him again—he’s more like Ava than Beatrice, extroverted and the happiest when chatting with customers and mixing drinks, lacking the patience and meticulous nature that Beatrice has. Keeping track of inventory and ensuring everything is in stock is something that Beatrice is good at, something that the rest of the staff are more than eager to pass on. 

Days turn into weeks turn into months, and Beatrice tries not to think about the passage of time. She busies herself with the bar, goes for runs in the morning and long walks at night, sleeps on her side of the bed and tries to ignore the empty space beside her. 

The regulars that ask about Ava are satisfied with Beatrice’s lie that she’s travelling. New customers float in and out of the bar. She revamps the inventorying system to make everyone’s jobs easier. She makes friends with the delivery people so they make the bar the first stop of the day. She learns how to bartend from Hans to fill in for staff needing time off. She treats herself to a blueberry muffin and hot coffee some mornings. She goes over to Bruno and Petrica’s home for supper on Sundays and lets them dote on her, their children and grandchildren long since grown and scattered around the world. Sometimes, she even goes to the Sunday service with them, sits in the pews of the tiny church and watches the sunlight dance through stained glass. 

She allows herself to befriend her coworkers—she no longer has any real reason to keep them at arm’s length like she did before, no world-ending secrets to keep. She gets gelato with them after work and acts as the designated driver when they manage to coax her into going out. She lets them in, just a bit. She tells them about her conservative parents, the Catholic boarding school she went to, the family she found and loved and then left. She gives them a heavily edited version of her past, and the world doesn’t end. 

Eventually, she tells them about Ava, about how bright and earnest she was, about her love of life and excitability, about how Beatrice loved her, about how Ava loved her back. She comes out for the first time among a group of people who don’t judge her, who all have a place in the queer community alongside her. Hans introduces her to his boyfriend like he’s never been scared to love him. Beatrice watches them together and wonders why she was ever jealous of the friendly banter between him and Ava. She watches them and smiles at the easy touches and the casual intimacy they share. 

She watches them and misses Ava and aches. 

She learns to live her life on her own terms, just like Ava told her to. Growing up with Diplomats for parents, she has never cared much for travel. All she really wanted was a home, and maybe someone to share it with. 

So she learns to live with the ghost of Ava in their apartment, learns to find joy in the small, mundane things, just like Ava did. A simple breakfast. The warm sunrise. Dew on the grass. A joke shared between coworkers. An evening walk. Rain on the pavement. A sweet orange. The streetlights at night. A borrowed plaid shirt and an unfinished puzzle. 

The summer fades to autumn fades to winter and Beatrice stays in the small Alps town. She renews her rental agreement, spends time with her new friends, buys cheap decor for her tiny apartment, picks up groceries for Bruno and Petrica when the sidewalks get icy. 

She’s content here, learning to live a simple life, surrounded by memories of Ava. She sits at the same corner table in the bar to work on the inventory and delivery schedules, organizing the work shifts and going through the profit margins. Bruno and Petrica have slowed down, and Beatrice has earned their trust and fondness enough to take on more responsibilities. Her and Camila reminisce on the easy days during their weekly phone calls, back when they had fewer responsibilities and heartaches—neither of them would give up their lives now, but it’s fun to miss what they once were, young and unburdened and still learning how to live.

Hans swings by to swap out her empty glass with a full one, grinning when Beatrice murmurs her thanks but doesn’t look up from the papers in front of her. He doesn’t linger like Ava used to, doesn’t distract her from her job with teasing quips and bad puns. 

She doesn’t take a sip until nearly half an hour later after finally figuring out how to schedule their newest casual server in for training shifts. The drink is fine—Hans is a good bartender, but he never makes virgin Cuba libres taste as good as Ava did. 

“Hey, it’s you.”

Beatrice blinks in surprise and glances up to find the same girl who teased Beatrice about pining after Ava what feels like a lifetime ago. “Lucia,” she introduces, holding out her hand, “Our time was cut short before we exchanged names last time.”

Beatrice looks at her hand for a second before shaking it. “Beatrice.”

Lucia falls into the empty space on the bench beside Beatrice, grinning and nudging her shoulder against Beatrice’s. “So, how have you been?”

Beatrice blinks. “I’ve been alright,” she says, and it’s not entirely a lie for once. “And you?”

“I’ve been good. I’m just in town visiting some friends. I wasn’t expecting to see you still holed up in this corner again though.” She laughs and takes a sip from her beer, smiling and teasing. “Have you even left this seat since then?”

Beatrice gives a small smile and twirls her pen through her fingers. It feels like a lifetime has passed since then, months of grief and heartache, months of learning how to live her life, months without Ava. 

“A few times,” she says.

Lucia grins and tosses her hair over her shoulder. She’s pretty, with smooth skin and large dark eyes and a playful smile. In another life, Beatrice might be nervous and flattered at the attention, unsure what to do with herself, but in this life, it just makes Beatrice miss Ava more. 

“Where’s that girl you were staring at?” Lucia asks, “Did you finally move past the pining stage or did you find another friend?”

Beatrice swallows the grief, smiles, presses the pen to the table. “I lost her,” she says simply. 

Lucia hums, sips from her beer, watches Beatrice closely. “Then go after her.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“You’re joking, right?” Lucia laughs, incredulous. “I could see your crush a mile away, both hers and yours. And you’re obviously still caught up on her if you haven’t found any new friends in that time, so chase after her.” 

Beatrice looks over at the bar where Ava used to stand, bright and brilliant and beautifully alive. She shakes her head, presses her lips together. “I can’t.”

Lucia tips her head and looks genuinely concerned. “Why not?”

Beatrice takes a sip of her Cuba libre, wishes that Ava had made it. “It’s complicated.”

“So you broke up?” Lucia assumes, waving one manicured hand, cavalier and casual, “Or you didn’t make a move, or got rejected, or whatever’s got you so down in the dumps. So what? Go out there and win her back. You don’t find love like that everyday. And I could tell she was as head over heels for you as you were for her,” she laughs and takes another sip from her beer. “I should know, I’ve never been on the receiving end of a jealous glower quite like hers. So shoot your shot and go for it. The only thing that should keep you from a love like that is death or something.” She laughs again, her smile bright and teasing.

It’s a joke, Beatrice knows it’s a joke, knows there’s no way this girl in this small town in the Swiss Alps could know how close to the truth her words hit. Yet grief hooks its dull claws back into her chest. That sob in her throat that she thought had dissipated months ago thickens, grows into something terrible and loving. “Or something,” she murmurs.

The flirty air about Lucia immediately drops. She sets her beer bottle down on the bench beside her, heavy and uncoordinated. She reaches to place a hand on Beatrice’s forearm and then thinks better of it, slides her palm over the slightly sticky table, retreats. “Beatrice,” she whispers, stricken and mortified and guilty, “I am so sorry. I didn’t know.”

Beatrice nods, swallows back the fresh wave of grief and forces herself to meet Lucia’s eyes. “It’s alright. You couldn’t have known.” 

Lucia swallows. “Still, it was a stupid joke.”

Beatrice presses her lips together. “Perhaps. But it wasn’t mean-spirited.”

They sit in silence, Lucia awkwardly searching for words and Beatrice quietly swallowing back grief. Lucia takes a drink and stands, searching the crowd for her friends. “I should leave you to it then.”

Beatrice blinks. “What?”

“I know when my flirting a lost cause,” Lucia teases, and then softens, “I hope you find peace.” She takes her leave with a kind smile and an apology in her eyes. 

Beatrice gives her a small smile in return, takes a sip of the mediocre Cuba libre, and returns to her profit margins.

The letter from Ava sits on Beatrice’s bedside table. She looks at it every morning before she gets out of bed, traces the messy, loving scrawl of her own name, touches the roughened paper, thinks about opening it but never does.

She runs her thumb over seal, holds it close, and then gets up to brush her teeth.

Beatrice returns to the apartment in the spring to find a half-demon sitting on her couch.

She pauses in the doorway, a paper bag of groceries in one arm and her coat in the other.

“Lilith,” she greets, doing her best to act unsurprised. She watches Lilith cautiously, knowing better than to underestimate her former Sister. The Sister who betrayed them and turned on them when it hurt the most. The Sister who lost herself and did her best to take down everyone else with her. The Sister who is staring at Beatrice from across the apartment, somehow uncomfortable and blasé all at once. 

“Beatrice,” Lilith says. 

“You look like you’ve seen better days,” Beatrice observes, slowly stepping through the doorway.

Lilith looks exhausted and ragged. The parts of her skin that are still flesh are pale and smudged with dirt and blood, her hair is streaked with more grey than brown. Her wings are poorly taken care of, covered in small tears and burn marks. Her eyes are unsettled and lost, dark bags smudged under both of them.

“I’m not here to listen to you criticize my appearance.”

Beatrice kicks the door closed behind her, sets the bag of groceries and her coat down, leans back against the front door, alert and wary. “Then why are you here?”

Instead of answering, Lilith stands and looks around. “So this is where you two were holed up?” She walks around the tiny living-room-slash-bedroom, peers into the kitchen, nods at the sole bed shoved in the corner. “Cozy.”

Beatrice resists the urge to lash out. To shut her up and shove her out the front door. To keep this tiny sanctuary of hers and Ava’s away from prying eyes.

“Why are you here, Lilith?” she asks instead. “You may be half demon, but I won’t go down without a fight. You know that. And you never could beat me, even when you had every advantage Mother Superion could give you.”

Lilith scowls but ignores the taunt. “I’m here because I was sent.”

Beatrice stiffens, dropping a hand to the folding knife she still keeps tucked in her pocket, even after months of calm, months of not having to fight. “By who?”

Lilith shakes her head. “It’s not what you think.”

“And what exactly do I think?” Beatrice asks sharply, “You betrayed us at every turn. So jealous of the Halo being shoved unwillingly into Ava’s back that you changed, even before you went to the other side, even before the physical changes. And then, when you needed help, when you started losing yourself, you went to Dr. Salvius and then Adriel instead of coming to us—your friends, your Sisters. You’re just like Father Vincent,” she spits and relishes when Lilith flinches, “You’re a traitor and a coward. So forgive me for having a hard time trusting you.”

Beatrice tightens her hand around the knife, stares at the silver scales that cover Lilith’s face, tries not to think of Ava’s broken body between them. Of the way Ava’s shattered bones had shifted under their hands, of Ava’s groans of pain every time they jostled her, of Ava’s blood staining Beatrice’s hands, of Ava’s blood staining Lilith’s claws. 

Lilith’s eyes shine with regret but she doesn’t defend herself. “It’s hard to explain.”

“Try me.”

“It’s about Ava—”

The knife is out and pressed against Lilith’s throat before the second syllable can fully pass her lips. “Don’t,” Beatrice hisses, “Don’t say her name. Not after what you did.”

“You always were the fastest of us.” Lilith smiles grimly and vanishes. Beatrice stumbles forward and nearly trips over the flimsy sitting chair that neither her nor Ava ever actually used, preferring to curl up together on the futon every evening instead. Lilith reappears in the kitchen, unfazed but cautious.

Beatrice lowers the knife but keeps it open. 

“There is a Holy War coming,” Lilith says, “And they need the Halo-Bearer for it. I said I was sent here but that’s not exactly true. I was sent to retrieve something—someone. I was sent to retrieve Ava. They need the Halo, but they also need her, specifically. They sent me on this mission to find her and bring her back to them, but I couldn’t ignore the implications. I couldn’t just go do it without— Not without telling you.”

Beatrice scowls. Lilith only rambled when she was truly uncertain, nervous, or scared, and Beatrice recognizes it easily. Lilith was always the most like her, methodical and guarded, albeit more hot-headed and ambitious—it’s why they argued so much in their early years, why they worked so well as a team, why her betrayal stung so much.

“What are you saying?” 

“Ava’s alive,” Lilith says and cracks Beatrice’s chest open, “And she’s coming back.”

Beatrice falters, staring at Lilith, hating the hope that bursts from her ribs, hope that bleeds and spurts like its sharp edges have sliced her carotid artery. 

“I can’t say when, exactly, but soon,” Lilith continues, “I’m telling you this because I respect you.” Her mouth twitches in what would have been a begrudging smile before everything, before Shannon died, before Ava became the Halo-Bearer, before Lilith became jilted with envy, before she died and crawled her way back from Hell, before she lost herself in fear and self-pity and doubt, before she turned to Adriel, before she helped Beatrice push Ava through the Arc.

“I’m telling you this because I know you love her,” the air hums with energy and the edges of Lilith’s body blurs, “And because we were Sisters, once.” And then she’s gone.

Beatrice crumples and the hope bleeds and bleeds and bleeds.

The days drag into weeks. She tenses every time she opens the door to her apartment, expecting to find Lilith waiting for her again, hoping to see Ava lounging on the futon.

Her apartment remains empty, and life goes on. The snow fully melts and the scent of blooming wildflowers touches the wind. She gets a new record player when the thrifted one breaks beyond repair. She learns how to bake from Petrica. She learns how to make homemade pasta from Bruno. Hans convinces her to take some time off and she visits the Cat’s Cradle, catches up with Mother Superion and Camila and Yasmine, avoids Father Vincent, helps them train some new recruits. 

Her apartment is still empty when she returns. 

She doesn’t believe in miracles, not anymore, but she believes in Ava. And so she waits. 

By the time she makes it back to her apartment, it’s long past midnight. She is exhausted from working a double shift to cover for a sick coworker and sticky from a clumsy customer who tripped and spilled their cocktail down the front of her blouse. 

She closes the door quietly so she doesn’t disturb her neighbours, sighing and leaning against it. It’s been an incredibly long week of month-end responsibilities, covering for another staff member who caught bronchitis, and avoiding her lonely apartment. Ever since Lilith showed up in her apartment months ago, it’s been harder and harder to stay here alone, longing for Ava but trying not to get her hopes up. 

It’s been a year since Ava crashed into her life, and the anniversary arrives with a bittersweet ache.

The sickly sweet scent of whatever cocktail was dumped on her is overwhelming, and she un-buttons her blouse. Her shirt underneath is a little damp but bearable for now. She debates the merits of taking a shower before collapsing in bed. She has tomorrow off, thankfully, so staying up a bit later doesn’t really matter.

She pushes herself off the door, sighs, and realizes she can hear someone else’s breathing. She tenses, her hand dropping to the folding knife in her pocket. The breathing is coming from the tiny kitchen. Beatrice drops her blouse, flips open the knife, creeps across the living-room-slash-bedroom.

She pauses beside the entrance to the kitchen, silent and invisible. Whoever is in her apartment sighs, sets something down on the table, and stands. The chair scrapes across the kitchen floor, overly loud in the silent apartment. 

Beatrice adjusts her grip on the knife, takes a deep breath, and jumps on the shadow that appears in the kitchen entryway. 

The intruder shrieks in surprise and they both go down. Beatrice rolls them away from the kitchen entrance and into the living room so she has more space to manoeuvre, gaining the upper hand in mere moments. She grapples with the intruder, her knife forgotten in favour of pinning their wrists to the rough berber carpet. “Who are you?” she hisses, “What are you doing here?”

The intruder laughs, the sound bright and carefree. Beatrice frowns, wary when they relax under her. 

“What a welcome.” 

Beatrice’s heart stutters, her ribs unable to contain the hope that flutters and struggles and bursts from her chest. 

“Ava?” she whispers, trembling, hoping, fearing. 

Beatrice shifts and the golden streetlight streaming in through the window hits Ava’s face, glows along her watery smile, shines in her adoring eyes, glistens in the tears on her cheeks.

“I always knew you would aikido me into submission one of these days,” Ava teases. Her voice trembles, thin and tear-filled, but her eyes are dark and bright and beautifully alive.

“Ava.” Beatrice gasps, tears slipping down her cheeks, hands shaking as she pulls Ava up and into her arms.

She is warm and solid and real and Beatrice sobs against her neck. Ava’s shoulders shake, her hands curling into Beatrice’s thin shirt and anchoring there. Her tears wet the side of Beatrice's temple, her breath harsh and stuttering in her ear. It’s the best sound that Beatrice has ever heard.

“I missed you so much, Bea,” Ava gasps, choked and earnest, “You have no idea.”

Beatrice pulls away, just far enough to meet Ava’s eyes. “I love you,” she whispers, her voice raspy with all the grief and love she’s kept tucked away in her chest for nearly a year. “I’m sorry I didn’t say it before you left.” 

Ava’s smile is nearly blinding, her eyes crinkled and her cheeks bunched up. “I know,” she says, laughing a little, “I knew. I love you too.”

Something releases in Beatrice’s chest, a small band of guilt and regret that has been squeezing her heart since she pushed Ava through the Arc, since she missed her chance. “I love you,” she says again, just because Ava’s here, just because she can, “I love you. I love—”

The words squish and muffle against Ava’s mouth as Ava swoops forward to kiss her. It’s more clumsy than their first kiss, messier as their tears mix and their teeth knock against each other’s and their noses squish together. But it’s happier, too. 

Beatrice’s fingers tremble against Ava’s cheeks, and she can feel the slight shake in Ava’s hand as she slides it up to the side of Beatrice’s neck. She kisses Ava until she loses her breath, even though it feels like her lungs are working properly for the first time since the Arc. 

Ava draws back for a moment, sucks in a shaky breath, and then kisses Beatrice again. Beatrice presses closer, releases one of Ava’s cheeks to wrap her hand around Ava’s wrist, relaxing only when she feels the steady heartbeat beneath. Beatrice is still crying when Ava pulls away to breathe, her warm breath fanning across Beatrice’s mouth. In the dim light of the streetlight outside, she can see tears on Ava’s cheeks too. 

“You’re a hard woman to find,” Ava teases, her lips brushing against the corner of Beatrice’s mouth with every word.

“I've been in this town the entire time,” Beatrice protests, or rather, tries to. It’s hard to sound defensive with Ava’s lips a breath away from hers, with such a wide smile on her face, with such relief and love coursing through her veins. 

“Liar,” Ava accuses, her voice light and warm, “I checked the Cat’s Cradle first, obviously. Apparently I missed your visit by a couple of days. And getting to the Alps is a lot harder when you aren’t there to make sure I don’t get on the wrong train.”

“You ended up in Portugal,” Beatrice guesses. 

“Guilty as charged. But I got here eventually.” Ava pauses in her rambling to kiss Beatrice again, chaste and warm. Beatrice sighs against her mouth, centres herself, realigns her heart to Ava. She lets Ava pull back but keeps her hands on her face and wrist, eyes drinking in her wonderfully expressive face and not feeling any shame or guilt for staring for once. Her hair is a bit longer than when she left, just barely brushing her collarbones, and there’s a tiny white scar on her chin, but she’s otherwise unchanged, perhaps a bit older, a bit softer, a bit wiser. 

She wonders what changes Ava sees when she looks at her. She certainly feels different than she did—more open, tenderhearted, a little less guarded. 

Ava plays with the strands of hair that have escaped Beatrice’s bun, touches the stud earrings Beatrice had gotten when she got her ears pierced around Christmas, wondrous and feather-light. “So, how long have I been gone? It’s obviously been a while if you’ve un-nun’d yourself.” Ava grins, obviously proud of her joke, obviously worried about the answer.

“Ten months,” Beatrice whispers, brushes her fingers against Ava’s cheek, reverent and terrified that she will disappear if she stops touching her. “For you?”

Ava cups Beatrice’s jaw with both hands, draws her close, presses their foreheads together. Her breathing evens out even as she sniffles. “I’m not sure. Years? Decades, maybe? Time passes differently on the other side. Days don’t really mean anything there, but I didn’t age. Not like Michael did. Because of the Halo, I think—time moved slower for me.” Ava trails off, closes her eyes, exhales. “It was a long time,” she admits, her voice breaking, “A long time to be without you.”

Beatrice nudges her nose against Ava’s until her eyes open again. “You’re here now,” she murmurs.

Ava sighs and kisses her again. “I’m here now,” she repeats, muffled against Beatrice’s lips.

Beatrice closes her eyes and sinks into the kiss, into Ava, into the fact that she is here and alive and in her arms. 

In the morning, a warm hand rests against her ribs and a cold nose is buried in her neck. Ava’s breath fans across her collarbone, socked feet tangled with hers and fingers twisted in her shirt. 

Beatrice blinks in the golden dawn light, breathes in jasmine and vanilla, and settles into a lazy morning. She finds joy in the small, mundane things. The fresh mountain air. A plaid shirt tossed on the futon. The new record player. The rumpled sheets. Two abandoned cups of tea. A finished puzzle. 

Beatrice breathes in Ava, here, in this world, in their apartment, in her arms. She brushes soft brown hair away from Ava’s sleep flushed cheek. Traces the slope of her nose. Ghosts her thumb along her parted lips. She lets herself openly look and love and want, shedding her fear and guilt, unafraid of being caught. 

Ava mumbles in her sleep, curls closer to Beatrice, fights against wakefulness. Beatrice smiles and curls her hand over her back, finding the gentle warmth of the Halo and the steady heartbeat beneath. She turns her head and presses her lips to Ava’s forehead, patient and quiet as she waits for Ava to wake up. The sob in her throat is back, but it’s made of relief and love and happiness instead of grief and heartache. She sighs against Ava’s forehead, smiling when Ava’s hand twists in the back of her shirt and she buries herself further into Beatrice’s arms.

Beatrice holds Ava close and listens to whisper of the curtains and lets herself cry.