Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

loneliness is our darkest brand of pain (welcome to lady hell)

(My love, the Moon said once, overwhelmed with longing, Would you come and join me here? 

The Tide, to whom she was speaking, replied: There is nothing I want more. Pull me higher, she said. Pull me so that I may reach you. 

And the Moon said, Reach out farther. Reach out so that I may touch you.

But neither of them could have ever done more than they were already doing; the Tide could never reach farther than she reached and the Moon could  pull higher than she pulled, and when they realized that they both wept.)

Troy [1250 BCE]

In the first, Ava is twenty-two and dying. 

The trees blur around her as she stumbles through the courtyard, clutching a hand to her ribs. Shouts and screams ring out all around her, but she can hardly hear them. It’s all cold; everything except the hole in her side, nearly the size of her fist. That part of her is white-hot and nausea-inducing; Ava stumbles over a stone and the only reason she doesn’t black out right then and there is because she somehow manages to stay on her feet. 

It’d be dark—at least it should be, it would be—if it weren’t for the fires burning all around, scorching the ground and causing their homes to collapse. Ava’s not had a family for a long time, but there are people she recognizes all around; screaming, sobbing. 

Dying. 

So many are dying. 

The worst of the fighting seems to be happening in the main courtyard—which tracks, that’s where that goddamn horse is—and she’s finally able to slip through a half-destroyed doorway to escape to the outside. She’s still inside the walls of the city, of course, but there’s far fewer people around. Ava ducks under a tree and stands there, trying to catch her breath in a way that won’t cause her any more pain. She’s only about half successful. 

Then a man tumbles into her view, bleeding from his head and looking at her with wild eyes. He’s not Greek—she recognizes him, too, he’d been partying yesterday, him and his soldier friends—but that hardly matters at this point. The entire city’s long since devolved into chaos and the killing has only escalated from there. Some Troy soldiers seem to believe that if they turn on their brothers and sisters they’ll be spared. 

Ava doesn’t think that’s true at all. 

She doesn’t even know who’d given her the wound on her side; she’s been running since the first screams into the dead of night, and now the sun is about to rise in the sky. Ava’s slowly bleeding out, her bare feet are scratched and burnt, and her lungs don’t seem to be letting in enough air anymore. Startled and unsure, she freezes. 

He takes a step forward; his mouth opens, but nothing comes out. He’s holding a heavy broadsword, slick with blood, and he eyes her up and down as he finally croaks, “I’m sorry.” 

She’s already dying, but Ava’s never been one to lay down and just let it happen. She looks around her for something she can use to defend herself; there’s a rock nearby that she can maybe use to scare him away, but even just the thought of leaning down makes nausea rise in her throat. She sputters, “W—Wait—”

The man isn’t waiting. He goes for her, sword aiming for her throat, and all Ava can do is flinch away and close her eyes, waiting for a piercing pain that never comes. 

When she opens her eyes again, the man is not the only person in front of her. The man has dropped his sword, too; his forearm bleeding from a gash that had not been there two seconds ago. Beside him stands a woman with a sword of her own, dripping with fresh blood. 

“Wha—” the man lurches to the side, staring at this new woman with wide eyes. He holds his hands up, fingers scrabbling to cover his wound. “Wait,” he says; exactly what Ava had said just a moment ago. “Wait, hold on—”

Then the new woman does… something. Ava can’t describe it. She moves so fast that Ava can hardly follow her movements; she does some weird flip thing to duck under the man’s swinging arm which then, somehow, ends up with the hilt of her weapon connecting with his head. He crumples to the ground with a pitiful groan, and Ava’s genuinely unsure if he’s dead or not. It doesn’t really matter. He will be soon, if he’s not already.

Idly, half-curious if she’s going to be next, Ava takes her first real look at this new, deadly person. 

The woman is hardly taller than herself—the man from before had certainly towered over her—and her hair is so short that Ava could have almost mistaken her to be a man herself if it weren’t for the rest of her face. She has light freckles that spread across her cheeks, and her eyes are dark. Ava can see the reflection of the fires behind her in them. 

She is so easily the most beautiful woman Ava’s ever seen. 

For a moment she wonders if this is Helen; the Helen, the Helen who’s the reason for everything that’s happened, because Ava can very much understand starting a war for a face like this. But the thought’s ridiculous. This woman is wearing Greek armor. An enemy.

But she’d still saved Ava.

“Oh. Uh, hello,” Ava says. She manages a single tiny smile before her legs buckle underneath her. 

Her lower back hits the ground and knocks all the air out of her lungs; her side flares, and Ava bites her tongue so she doesn’t scream out loud. Dying hurts, apparently. She gasps for air and finds that breathing hurts, too, which is a new discovery. All she can see is the sky above, filled with smoke and the soft light of the rising sun. 

She had not thought, when she woke up yesterday morning, that this would be her last day alive. She should’ve done something else. Ava had spent her day gallivanting around with the rest of the city; they’d thought they’d won the war. She’d even caught a couple glimpses of that giant, wooden horse the Greeks had left behind. She’d thought it was beautiful. 

Whoops. 

Ava blinks herself out of her daze, suddenly realizing that the woman had not in fact walked away, but is now instead leaning over her, a furrow creasing her brow. She’s wrapped her fingers through the hole in Ava’s shirt and is probing the wound, presumably. Ava can hardly feel it. 

“You’re dying,” says the woman; an observation. “How long have you been bleeding?” 

She speaks in lilting Lydian, a charming accent curling at the ends of her vowels and deepening her voice. Ava’s glad, because she doesn’t know a lick of Greek and she thinks it'll be much nicer to go out like this; capable of talking to this beautiful stranger until the last of her senses leave her. 

“Uh,” Ava says. “Like. All night?” Everything she says is coming out slow; she’s not sure if that’s real or not. Judging by the woman’s dull expression, she’s not making much sense either way. “I got stabbed,” she says, just in case it’s not obvious. “Long… long time ago. Very rude.”

“Very,” agrees the woman, maybe just for the sake of saying something. She swallows and sits back slightly, though she stays within Ava’s line of sight. “You’ve lost too much blood. You know that?” 

“Yeah,” Ava says, because she does. “I know that.” She just lays there for a moment and contemplates the idea of knowing. “Help me sit up?”

The woman’s frown deepens. “I don’t want you to hurt,” she says, which is very nice of her but also makes Ava a little confused, because isn’t she supposed to be her enemy? This is all, in some way, the woman’s fault. All of this death, all of this pain, even just Ava’s own. 

But that’s a sentiment that Ava might have contemplated if she were going to live. Now it hardly matters at all; nothing does. “Help me up,” she says again. This time, the woman doesn’t argue. She curls her hand around Ava’s back and helps her get to a sitting position. 

It’s probably not a good sign that nothing really hurts anymore. 

“What’s your name?” Ava mumbles, half-delirious. There’s more blood seeping from her side. Her fingers feel cold. “I wanna know. My name’s Ava.” 

She’s dying, she knows she’s dying, and this woman—a girl, really, this girl with her stoic face and unfathomably dark eyes—is going to be the last person she sees. She asks for her name   because why not? Because Ava’s going to be gone and even if anyone survives this massacre it’s not like she’s going to be particularly missed. Ava’s only ever been an annoyance, someone to put up with. 

The girl looks at her and says, “Beatrice.” 

Ava smiles. “Beatrice,” she says, feeling breathless. “That’s pretty.” 

Beatrice’s face could be carved from stone. She says, “I’m sorry you’re dying.” 

“I didn’t know the Greeks let women into their ranks,” Ava replies, ignoring her. “Does that mean we were winning?” Past tense, of course. Ava’s not so stupid to think that there’s any coming back from this. 

“They don’t know,” Beatrice tells her. “That I’m a woman.” She gestures somewhere over her shoulder; looking past her, Ava thinks she can just make out the crushed metal of a helmet. “I wear it to hide my face,” Beatrice says. “And I don’t speak.” 

Ava tilts her head. By now she’s less sitting than she is just being held up by Beatrice, but she supposes that’s fine. It’s partly Beatrice’s fault she’s dying, anyways. “Why’d you want to fight?” 

Beatrice hesitates, so she adds, “Look, it’s not like I’m going to tell anyone.” Because it’s the truth. 

“I was told I could not. I joined the fight to prove them wrong.” 

Ava grins. “Cool.” Beatrice blinks, surprised, and she goes on. “I mean, just leaving to join—” she gestures to everything around them, where the carnage still roars. She’s tuned it out, mostly, but every once in a while there’s a piercing scream that she can’t not hear. “—whatever all this is? That’s admirable. I wish I could have just left. Maybe I wouldn’t have been a soldier, but anything is better than nothing.” 

“Were you all alone here?” Beatrice asks. “You haven’t looked around for anyone.” 

“Don’t have anyone to look around for.” Ava feels lightheaded. Air is getting harder to come by. “Sorry for wasting your time. I’m sure you have a lot more important things you could be doing right now.” 

“Not really. My helmet is crushed, so I won’t be able to hide any longer. I expect I’ll be sent home in chains,” Beatrice admits. “If I make it that far. My life likely won’t last much longer than yours.” 

Ava ponders that for a moment. Then she says in a voice that even to her own ears seems to be growing fainter, “What do you think happens after we die?”

“I don’t know. The gods are angry at us now. This fight was so…” Beatrice exhales through her nose. “ Unnecessary is a word for it.” 

“I’ve never cared much for the gods anyways,” Ava says honestly. “They didn’t help me when I was left all alone. Why should I care about them?” Beatrice doesn’t reply, doesn’t look away, and so she goes on. “This isn’t fair, you know. I never got to do anything.” 

Beatrice watches her for a long time. Something flickers in her eyes, but it’s swallowed up by some insurmountable grief that Ava doesn’t understand. “Maybe you’ll get another chance.” 

“To what?” Ava huffs a laugh, wincing when she realizes that still hurts. “To do this again? No, thanks.”

“This time you’ll know not to let a massive wooden horse inside your walls,” Beatrice says, teasing lightly. Then her voice changes; goes deeper, more sorrowful. “You deserved better than this.” 

Ava’s running out of things to talk about. Her head feels like danderfluff, all floaty and dream-like. She supposed that’d make sense. Maybe this is all a dream. Maybe she’ll just wake up in her cramped little bed over top of the carpenter’s workshop and she’ll be alive. But the cold in her side is only spreading, affecting her limbs and chest, now, and she doesn’t think dreams typically do that. Ava grasps for the feeling in her hands, tries in vain to move them; she’s beyond panic, maybe, but something just as sharp curls somewhere at the base of her spine: something disappointed and no less afraid. She’s surprised to realize she still has something to say.

“Have a good life, Beatrice,” Ava croaks, before she can’t form words anymore. Can’t let this pretty stranger see how scared she is. “Thanks for talking with me.” 

Beatrice’s face is growing blurrier by the second, but Ava thinks she can still make out the glint of tears forming in her eyes. She’s not sure why. Ava’s a stranger to her; worse, she’s an enemy, one of the people Beatrice was sent here to kill. But hey, Ava’s always known she can be a little charming, so maybe it’s not that big of a surprise. 

“Farewell, Ava,” Beatrice says; her name sounds differently on this girl’s tongue, and Ava’s no longer surprised when Beatrice reaches to take Ava’s hand with her own. She twines their fingers together, seemingly unbothered by Ava’s cold hands. She says, again, quietly, “You deserved better.” 

The last thing Ava feels before she dies for the first time is Beatrice’s hands on her spine, her fingers. They’re warm. Then she feels nothing at all.

(...That never lasts forever.)

.

.

.

(Here’s the thing: there are always differences—place, time, people—but there are also some constants. Her name is Ava. She rarely has her own people; she has family, often, but they don’t usually share her blood. She almost never gets to live the life she wants. She hardly even gets to live. 

She always dies.)

Chapter Text

in exchange for your time i give you this smile

Athens [405—406 BCE]

In the eighth, Beatrice is twenty-four and the world is ending. 

Well. Greece is. 

Athens is dying. Every day there’s news of more death, less reason to keep fighting. Food is growing scarcer and scarcer as the Persian-Spartan blockade on their shores continues to persist, and clean water is harder and harder to come by. Beatrice’s parents insist that life will continue as always, that the hard times will pass as they always have.

Beatrice isn’t so sure she agrees, but she doesn’t tell them that. 

She doesn’t remember a time where there wasn’t the threat of war with the Spartans. The peace treaty they’d brokered had officially fallen through when she was thirteen, and that was many years ago. Athens, her parents have said, used to be the site of perfection. Blessed by the gods. It’ll happen again, you’ll see. 

Athens is no longer the site of perfection, and nor does it seem to be blessed by the gods. The Athens of today is war-torn and empty; most of its men have long since gone off to fight, and rarely do they ever return. The only reason Beatrice’s father did not join them is because of his bad knees. Most of Athens is now desolate and empty, and their little town is no exception. Beatrice can’t remember the last time they had a proper meal—with courses, not just whatever they can find—and people tend to stick to themselves nowadays. Her parents believe Athens will triumph, but not everyone shares that sentiment. 

(Without this war, Beatrice would have been married off long ago. She reminds herself of that whenever she goes to bed hungry.)

Nothing much changes in Athens, which is why it’s such a shock when, one day, a new girl comes to their village. They’re a smaller community, in the depths of the mountains, and so word spreads quickly. She comes alone, with just one small pack slung over her shoulder and nothing covering her feet. The local winemaker—a man named Jonas—is apparently kind enough to give her room to sleep in, and suddenly Beatrice is seeing her every single day. 

Even from across the courtyard, this girl has the darkest brown eyes Beatrice has ever seen. Something tugs deep in Beatrice’s stomach when she looks at her, something strong and uncomfortable and eerily familiar, and so she doesn’t try to look again.

Their community, much like Athens, doesn’t often change,  so when someone new comes to the town, that’s all anyone seems to talk about. Strange, say Beatrice’s parents; to themselves, really, having hardly acknowledged her at all this evening. What kind of young woman travels alone? Something must be wrong with her. 

Beatrice’s mother says, Stay away from this girl, Beatrice, and Beatrice replies, on instinct: Of course. 

This does not last long. 

The newcomer corners her only three days after she first comes to town, finding Beatrice on a sideroad while she’s on her way back to the house from the market. There’s no one else around. 

“Hi!” says the girl. 

She’s beautiful up close, maybe the most beautiful person Beatrice has ever seen. Her hair is short—shorter than most girls’—and just barely brushes her shoulders. Her robes are unkempt and slightly dirty—which, horribly, seems to be more endearing than anything else—and when she smiles, it lights up her entire face, like she could never be more happy than in this exact moment. 

“Hello,” Beatrice says, caught off guard. “Did you need something? Looking for Jonas?” 

Perhaps it’s a mistake, letting on that Beatrice knows where the girl lives, but she doesn’t seem bothered; she just grins as she shakes her head, surprisingly (or perhaps not) easygoing. 

“I heard you were the one to talk to about cloth weaving. You’re Beatrice, right?” 

“Yes,” Beatrice agrees warily. “What about cloth weaving?” 

Her grin only widens, goes a touch sheepish. “Well, I kinda… don’t know how to. At all. And I know that I should probably learn. So, uh… Would you consider payment in flower crowns?” 

Beatrice says, “Oh.” And then, “You want me to teach you?”

“To weave cloth, yeah. I heard you were the best in town.” 

She is the best in town. She’s been the best since her mother showed her how, once, when she was barely five years old. Now it’s practically the only thing she’s still allowed to do. She hates it, maybe, but it’s all she knows. She’s definitely qualified enough to teach. 

The girl’s eyes soften. Her elbows jut out at her sides as she bounces up and down, as if she’s excited. “So?” She leans forward, just a tad, linking her arms behind her back. “Will you help me learn how to work like a proper woman?”

It’s an odd way to phrase it, all things considered. It’s a jab, maybe; not towards Beatrice, but directed at someone who isn’t here with them, someone who’s left a sour mark on her. Ava’s expression gives away nothing but a real-looking honesty that’s rare these days; her smile widens, opening further with a touch of pleading, and Beatrice… hesitates. 

Stay away from this girl, Beatrice, her mother had said. 

It’s her mother’s words that ring in her head when Beatrice says, “Of course I’ll teach you.” 

♱ ♱

(The girl’s name is Ava. She tells Beatrice that when they’re halfway through their first weaving lesson, which is surprising mainly because Beatrice hadn’t even thought to ask. For some reason she’d assumed that she’d been told already, though if you asked her, she wouldn’t have been able to say what it was. Strange. 

Beatrice fumbles, then, to reiterate her own name, and when Ava laughs—a stark, bright sound that shoots heat down Beatrice’s spine—she has to make a conscious effort not to shudder. I know, Ava says, and despite her tone, Beatrice knows she’s not making fun of her. You told me that already, silly.

I know I did, Beatrice thinks—but does not say—and leaves it at that.

Later, later, always later, she’ll remember that’s not even the truth, but by then, it’s too late to say anything about it.)

♱ ♱

Being around Ava, Beatrice finds quickly, is nothing short of intoxicating. It takes less than two days of meeting up before Ava begins to fit inside her life; Beatrice works as she always has, in the relative quiet and (near) solitude of her parents’ house—her mother out with the rest of her gossiping friends, her father to the school—and the only difference now is that Ava joins her, filling the space up so much that it’s almost—but not quite—stifling.

The one difference, then, is Ava (which is an oxymoron in its right; saying Ava after the words one change is wrong like poets fighting, like soldiers rhyming).

First and foremost, Ava is loud. She’s loud in everything she does—the level of her voice, yes, but that’s not all—it’s in the way she moves, the way she regards the world and environment around her. She walks like she owns the very ground she’s standing on, and there’s an easy confidence in the quirk of her shoulders as she exists inside of Beatrice’s parents’ house. She’s never purposefully destructive, never, but she’s clumsy, and that unsteadiness of her hand-eye coordination comes close to shattering more than one of their vases. Beatrice learns to put those away before Ava shows up. 

Ava’s a quick learner. She’s easily distracted but she’s also dreadfully smart, despite her tendency to say things without thinking.

Beatrice says, “Look, see where I put my hands?” and Ava’s immediate response is, “Yeah, but mine don’t work that way.”

“They’re hands. They work the exact same way.” 

“Not mine,” Ava says again, but there’s a curl to her mouth that Beatrice is beginning to learn means she’s kidding. Despite herself, she takes over her loom and spins another strand; it’s near perfect. This time, when Beatrice glances over at her, there’s a proud gleam in her eyes that hadn’t been there before. 

Ava’s a quick learner. In all honesty, she shouldn’t have needed more than three lessons. But she sticks around even afterwards, and her company is nice, so Beatrice doesn't mention it. 

“Do you not have any family?” Beatrice asks, once, and instantly regrets it. 

Ava stiffens and doesn’t so much as shut down as she does withdraw. She shrugs, immediately, and says, “No, they’ve been gone for a while,” and then doesn’t elaborate.

It stings; not her answer but the thoughtlessness of the original question. After a moment, Beatrice says,“My apologies.”

“All good,” Ava replies cheerfully; it’s almost eerie how quickly she bounces back—at the very least, she seems like she’s bounced back—but Beatrice still makes a promise to herself to approach similar topics with more grace in the future. “What about you?” Ava asks then, smoothly steering the conversation away from herself. 

“What about me?” 

Ava shoots her a glance, and almost all of that previous stiffness has vanished already. “Well,” she says, “I know you have parents—I see them out and about sometimes—but I’ve never met them. What are they like?” 

Unable to keep her immediate response tucked under her tongue, Beatrice says, “Stifling.”

It’s too much, she knows; a statement that gives away too much about Beatrice rather than her parents, but Ava doesn’t seem to mind. The opposite of that; she instead abandons her loom entirely, turning on her stool to better face Beatrice. “How so?”

It doesn’t feel like she’s probing, which is probably why Beatrice answers at all. “Well,” she says, still stalling, “the war certainly hasn’t helped. I’d just—like my life to be worth something, I suppose.” She hesitates again before moving on. “It’s cruel to say, but not even this war has made things interesting here.”

“I like how boring it is here,” Ava tells her. “But I guess if I’d grown up here I might feel differently.” 

Beatrice tilts her head, curiosity sparking in her stomach. “Where were you born?” 

This time it’s Ava’s turn to hesitate. She squirms on her seat, fiddles with her hands. “I can’t tell you,” she says eventually; it’s slow, but she doesn’t look away. “I wish I could, but I can’t. It’d be… dangerous.” 

Perhaps Beatrice could be concerned about that. Perhaps she should ask her to elaborate, or feel uncomfortable. Perhaps she should feel slighted, like Ava doesn’t trust her. But she doesn’t—all she sees is Ava’s clear discomfort about even saying this little, and she relents. Ava will tell her when she’s ready, and if not, Beatrice will happily take whatever she does tell her. 

It’s selfish, maybe. 

(Beatrice asks, later, “What if my life amounts to nothing?” 

Ava’s response is immediate. “What if your life amounts to everything?”)

Things continue much the same after that. Ava pulls her away, Beatrice drags her feet but always goes along with it; it’s a dance of their own making, one that Beatrice never expected she’d partake in. It’s nice. 

Then, one day two weeks into their joint weaving sessions, Beatrice’s mother comes home early, apparently nursing a headache. It’s not as if Beatrice has been keeping Ava’s lessons a secret; she’d explained to them the arrangement, and despite the lack of pay, her parents had approved of the situation. The only problem, then, is… 

“Who is this?” Her mother’s tone is sharp. 

Well. She simply hadn’t let on who exactly she was teaching. 

Ava flinches at the rather sudden (and particularly loud) voice, spins around on her stool to see who’d interrupted her (rare) moment of concentration. Her cloth comes to a standstill. Beatrice, who hadn’t expected this meeting, gets to her feet. 

“Mother,” she says. She’s stalling, her mind tripping over explanations before they can even leave her mouth. She ends up with, “This is Ava,” more in the hopes of delaying the impending conversation than anything else. 

Her mother raises one, strict eyebrow. “Ava.” 

Ava’s name sounds wrong in her mouth, and Beatrice realizes it’s because of the way she says it. Full of disdain, of something that feels holier-than-thou. Like she’s already condemned an opinion of Ava even before really meeting her. It’s not a surprise, nothing new, but it still makes Beatrice’s blood boil. 

For all of her (self-professed) social inadequacies, Ava seems to sense that this situation requires her best behavior. She also stands, giving one last affectionate pat towards her loom. She dips her head respectfully, making a conscious effort to brush the dirt off her robes. 

“You must be Beatrice’s mother,” she says; as quiet as Beatrice has ever seen her. “It’s an honor to meet you.” 

“Is it?” her mother snaps. “I assume you’re the student that Beatrice has taken to teaching?” 

“That would be me,” Ava says. She’s smiling now, but that too has been dulled. The sight of it makes Beatrice itch. “I’ve heard you’re the one to thank for her skills.” 

Her mother says, “Yes,” like she’s saying Drop dead, and Beatrice burns; keeps her mouth shut. 

The conversation deteriorates from there; Ava leaves not five minutes afterwards. She tosses Beatrice a quick glance as she heads out the door—she’s saying Not your fault, maybe; some sort of affectionate half-apology—and Beatrice expects to be scolded, but she’s not. Beatrice’s mother only sniffs, once, and then disappears into the house. That night at dinner her mother continues to say nothing, and neither does her father. Beatrice knows he knows, that her mother would have told him immediately, but they don’t seem to consider it an issue to argue about. Instead, neither of them speak a single word, and Beatrice doesn’t either. 

It feels like something of a victory. 

♱ ♱

(Do you swordfight? Ava asks her once, sitting so close that their knees are brushing. They’re taking a break— Come on, Bea, let yourself breathe for once, Ava had said—and have long since abandoned the loom and spool. Ava’s taken her to a hill just outside of town, where the stale smell of people’s despair is less fragrant. It’s sunny out, though not hot, and there’s a tree to sit underneath. Ava is making flower crowns, finally making good on her original promise.

Beatrice looks over at her, unsure. No? Why would you think that?

Ava goes quiet for a long moment. Studies her face, like she’s not even completely sure. Dunno, she says eventually, going back to winding flowers through blades of grass. Just feel like that’s something you’d do. I think it’d be cool to learn how to fight with a sword, defending Athens with the rest of the army. For the cause and all that.

Her tone makes it clear that she’s joking, and she drops the subject right after that. Beatrice doesn’t know how to tell her that she’s right, sort of—that the idea of holding a sword feels more correct than anything she’s actually good at. Doesn’t know how to say that she’s always thought so, but has never dared to raise the conversation. She knows how her parents would feel about it, how the village would feel about it. She knows she wouldn’t be allowed into the fight anyways. Still, Ava says Just feel like that’s something you’d do, and for some reason, Beatrice agrees. 

But she doesn't know how to say any of that, so she doesn’t say it at all.

When Ava places the flower crown on Beatrice’s head, her fingers graze her temple accidentally-on-purpose. Beatrice holds her breath and tries not to pass away entirely.)

♱ ♱

The war effort worsens, apparently. Beatrice hardly notices.

The bubble she’s fallen into with Ava gets smaller by the day, and while she notices that, she really doesn’t mind. Far from it; she welcomes the closeness, welcomes the feeling of having someone. Beatrice has never been one to make many friends. She was born in a time of fewer children, and her more quiet demeanor has always gone against her in social circles. She has no taste for gossip like her mother, nor does she have old soldier comrades like her father. 

But Ava seems to like her, for whatever reason. She has other friends by now; she’s on a first name basis with nearly everyone in the town, but no matter what, it’s always Beatrice who she ends up seeking out. 

Beatrice tries not to be flattered. They’re friends. This, however, makes it infinitely harder to keep her at any sense of an arm’s length. 

Somehow, sometime, Ava begins to get into the habit of kissing Beatrice’s cheek, both when she arrives and when she’s leaving; the first time she does it Beatrice nearly drops dead on the spot, pulse skyrocketing and face burning. Ava’s brightness shines in everything she does, it’s almost ridiculous how much she glows even when doing the most mundane things— You’re so warm, Bea, Ava says sometimes, and Beatrice has to bite her tongue before she responds with something equally doltish: Only for you, my skin lights up when you touch me— Ava skips when she walks, hums along to music inside her head, looks at Beatrice like she’s the most important person in the universe. She exists, somehow, and she exists inside of Beatrice’s space. 

Ava is the most terrifying person Beatrice has ever met, and maybe that’s part of why she’s also the person Beatrice trusts most in the world. There’s a strange comfort in knowing someone like this, in knowing that they care and won’t hurt you. It’s frightening, but Ava never once breaks her trust. 

She is so easy to trust. Beatrice isn’t sure if that’s a good thing or not, but she can’t help it. Ava is so easy to care for, to reach out to. Ava is easy to love. 

“Would you ever get married?” 

Perhaps the most surprising part about this topic is that it’s Beatrice who asks. 

For a terrifyingly long moment, Ava’s only response is to blink at her, wide-eyed. Beatrice regrets the question immediately, but then Ava recovers, sweeping the shocked expression back under her typical cheerfulness. 

“That depends,” Ava says slowly, “on who that person would be.” She leans back on her hands, abandoning her work entirely, and Beatrice regrets the question for a different reason. “In this hypothetical scenario, who am I marrying? Is it arranged? Some soldier that picks me out specifically?” She wrinkles her nose, and doesn’t sound particularly upset about it when she adds, “I doubt that’ll ever happen, anyway.”

She may not care either way, but the idea curls into Beatrice’s stomach, an unpleasant shiver working its way down her spine. The thought of a soldier picking Ava rings almost violent in her ears, and even worse is the thought of Ava enjoying it. Wanting the attention. 

Beatrice refuses to think about why it bothers her so (a lie).

She says, “Well, there’s very few eligible men here now anyways. Even fewer who are our age.” Her voice comes out flat to her ears, and she winces at the tone. 

Ava shifts beside her, trying to catch her gaze; Beatrice doesn’t want to look, but she’s helpless under the weight of Ava’s attention. Having Ava’s eyes on her feels like burning, like a river of lava under her skin. 

“Yeah,” Ava says eventually. “Which is why I doubt it’ll ever happen. Unless the war suddenly ends in the next few years, that is.” 

In silence, they go back to their work. Then, a few moments later, “What about you?” 

“What about me?” Beatrice asks. A silent plea. Let this die. Let my idiocy vanish into the distance. Don’t ask me. 

Either Ava doesn’t hear her prayers or she simply doesn’t care. She probes further, “Would you ever get married?” 

No, Beatrice thinks; a knee-jerk reaction that she’s always kept close to her chest. Her parents would be furious if they knew, and now, as she hesitates to answer aloud, she finds that that’s not the full truth anymore either—this time it’s worse than that—instead of No being the simple (if unacceptable) answer, her internal reply is now the same as Ava’s: It depends. Depends on what, Beatrice isn’t sure (although that may very well also be a lie). Depends on status, maybe (doubtful) or on how much her parents liked the man in question (not likely, if she gets any semblance of a choice). For herself, specifically, the person would have to be—

Well. She’d rather not think about it. 

(Which is yet again, coincidentally, a lie.)

So Beatrice says, “No,” and leaves it at that. She doesn’t look at her, she doesn’t give away any of what she’s thinking. 

Ava drops the subject. 

♱ ♱ 

Time goes on. Her parents grow more distant, and Beatrice cannot find it in herself to be particularly upset about that. She and Ava spend less and less time at the house, anyways, less time at the loom. Ava drags her to that same little hill nearly every day, drags her somewhere else if the need to switch it up hits her. The Spartans come knocking on the shores of Athens, apparently, but they don’t yet make it to Beatrice’s little town. 

They will eventually; she has no doubt of that. It’s only a matter of time. Athens’ navy has been decimated, and the Persians have only reinforced their blockade with the Spartans. Nothing is coming in or out. They’re trapped, and the only stake Athens has in this war now is that the armies have not yet breached their soil. 

Ava stays her usual upbeat self. She’s always seemed otherworldly and now is no exception—the worsening state of things doesn't seem to have any permanent effect on her, and Beatrice cannot help but admire that. 

Beatrice cannot help but admire a lot of parts about Ava.  

Time passes, Ava stays being Ava, and Beatrice thinks things she cannot be thinking; she cares less and less about that, too. They can ignore it all; ignore the war, ignore Beatrice’s surly parents, ignore the townsfolk that still sneer at Ava when they walk past. They can pretend. 

Until the day it all goes wrong. 

♱ ♱ 

On the day it all goes wrong, Beatrice is running horribly, horribly late. For all of Ava’s wonderful qualities, she does not have a positive effect on Beatrice’s time-management, and today she is supposed to finish a commissioned tapestry for one of her mothers’ friends; a tapestry in which she is only half-done with at best. She has never before gone over the prearranged date. 

Beatrice wakes up knowing that this project is running late and vows not to be distracted. 

Of course, it’s not all that easy. 

Ava comes tumbling into the house not an hour after Beatrice starts, and Beatrice sighs; she already knows that her productivity is only going to go downhill from here.

Then she actually turns to look at Ava, and all that faux irritation melts instantly away. A cold spike of fear trickles down her spine: Ava’s bleeding, red dripping from a cut on her temple. 

Slung over her shoulder is a pack, stuffed with items, and Beatrice feels her heart plummet to her stomach. “What’s all this?” she asks, and hopes her voice doesn’t shake. “Are you okay?” 

“Jonas—” Ava’s panting, she realizes; gasping for air and sweating under her robes. “—he warned me—gave me time to get away.” She straightens up, comes closer to Beatrice’s sitting figure much in the same way someone would approach a dangerous animal. “I have to go, Bea.”

Beatrice stands up. 

“Go where?” 

“I don’t know,” Ava croaks. She’s trying to smile, but it doesn’t come out like any of her usual grins; it’s hollow and wet, too many teeth and not enough of her natural glow. “I’ve just got to go. If I’m alive,” Ava says, like it’s a slim possibility, “I’ll come back and find you.”

Alive? Beatrice’s stomach turns violently, and she makes the decision in a heartbeat. “Can’t I go with you? I’d leave this place for you. You know I would. You know I hate it here.” And then, hoarsely, “I wouldn’t miss anything.” I couldn’t, not if I was with you. 

Ava’s chin trembles. “I can’t do that to you, Bea. You deserve better than this little town, but going with me would only be worse.” 

“But why?” Beatrice’s hands fist into the robes that spill above Ava’s shoulders. She holds her tight, refusing to let go. “Tell me,” she begs. “Don’t just leave. I thought—I thought we—”

She can’t say it. She doesn’t even know what she's trying to say. But Ava still seems to understand; with shaking hands, she reaches up to untangle Beatrice’s from her robes. She twines her fingers in between Beatrice’s, meeting her gaze with wide, sorrowful eyes. 

Then Ava says, “Bea, I was born in Persia.” 

And Beatrice says, “Oh.” 

It makes sense. Ava’s always been secretive about where she came from, about her family. Her accent, though near flawless—clearly practiced, in hindsight—has slipped a few times in the months that Beatrice’s known her. But that’s not a dead giveaway; plenty of people have strange accents, depending on what part of Athens they’d grown up in. Beatrice had just assumed that Ava was running from some sort of expectation; she’d never even considered this. 

Beatrice also doesn’t care. 

She nods, once; says, “Okay,” and then pulls away. Turns around. Fishes her own rucksack out from underneath her bed. “We’ll have to stop by the well before we leave,” she adds, clipped, without turning around. “I’ll take my parents’ waterskin. They won’t need it.” 

“Bea,” Ava says, voice high. “What are you doing?” 

“They’ll kill you if you stay here,” Beatrice replies shortly. “So I’m coming with you.” 

The sound of footsteps. “No,” Ava snaps, suddenly much closer, “you’re not.” 

“Ava—”

“No.” It’s Ava’s gentle touch on Beatrice’s arm that gets her to turn around, though she immediately regrets it. An Ava up close like this, seconds away from crying and still bleeding— gods, who’d hurt her, who had dared —is incomparably devastating. 

Beatrice says, weakly, “Ava, please.” 

“Please stay.” Ava’s fingers creep gently up Beatrice’s shoulders, mirroring the grip Beatrice had had on her only a moment before. “I don’t want you to have to run. You deserve better than that.” 

“I don’t want better,” Beatrice pleads, though they both know she’s already lost. It comes out as a whisper, her own hands scrabbling for purchase against Ava’s chest. “I want—”

Ava grins tearfully when Beatrice’s breath catches in her throat, unable to finish her sentence. Her teeth are stained a bright red, and Beatrice finds, horribly, that the color fits her more than any other ever has; like her blood is more than what it is, like it’s something that’s destined to bubble out of her skin, destined to drip onto Beatrice’s hands. 

“I’ll find you. I promise,” Ava says, and may the gods help her, Beatrice believes it. 

The kiss Ava presses to Beatrice’s face lands off to the side, more on her chin than anything else, but there’s a world of difference between this one and her usual cheek-kisses. Beatrice tries not to crack, and she doesn’t. She doesn’t crack when Ava rips herself away or when she turns to leave. She doesn't crack when the last of Ava vanishes around the corner. She keeps the words in her chest, as she always has. 

Some of the villagers—her neighbors; people she thought she’d trust to be sane—show up at her door soon after Ava leaves. Beatrice has nothing to hide; she watches, stone-faced, as they search the area. They don’t find anything. They leave much in the same way they’d come, loud and destructive, and Beatrice still doesn’t allow herself to shatter, not even when she’s left alone. Somehow the world keeps turning. 

Ava never comes back. 

♱ ♱ 

Beatrice survives the rest of the war and beyond. Athens is defeated, but not massacred, not entirely. Beatrice lives, her parents live—although they never have the same relationship again, she’s pushed much too far—even Jonas, the kind winemaker that had once given Ava his spare room and who had never judged her, stays safe and stays breathing. The flowers on their hillside continue to bloom every year. Greece changes, comes close to shattering, but it still breathes.  

Ava doesn’t. 

(So Beatrice doesn’t really either.)

.

.

.

(Here’s the thing: she has constants, too. Her name is always Beatrice. She’s always constricted in some way, always looking for a something else that sometimes doesn’t exist. She doesn’t often find it. 

No matter what, she’s always a disappointment.)

Chapter Text

the ghost in me was true (but you were haunted too)

Alesia [52 BCE]

In the eleventh, Ava is more of a weapon than anything else. 

She’s scarcely twenty years old and it’s not likely she’ll make it to twenty-one. In the eleventh, she has a father. They’re not bound by blood; though he had been young himself at the time, Vercingetorix had raised her since he found her at two years old, crying in the dirt, and in the eleventh, for most of her life, her father is enough. In the eleventh, Ava has a purpose. In the eleventh, she has talents that can be helpful to her people. 

In the eleventh, Ava meets Beatrice on a battlefield. 

Her father’s name means Victor of a Hundred Battles. Ava’s name means Living one, something she’s always been proud of. She’s been by his side for the entirety of Rome’s attempted conquest, and now, at the possible end of times and near-decimation of what Gaul has always been, that’s where she stays. Her father is the chieftain, and her father is a great strategist, and her father may not be the man to defeat the Roman invasion but by the gods he’ll try. And Ava will be there with him. 

They’re holed up in Alesia now, and no one says it but everyone knows: this will be the place of their final, choked stand. The Romans have surrounded them on all sides with an army so big that its numbers cannot even be guessed at; there are booby traps lined on the outskirts of the city’s walls, wooden formations and trenches being dug. The army of Gaul is now nearly eighty-thousand strong, but even they cannot last forever against the Romans, not when they’ve cornered them into this little city. 

Their relief arrives tonight, under the cover of darkness, but Ava doesn’t hold out hope that they’ll be able to make a sizable dent in things. It seems like the world’s destiny to be conquered by the Romans. Perhaps they’re fighting against fate itself. 

Her father says, Be ready to fight, and Ava tells him, I’m ready to die. 

Which isn’t true, but whatever. One less thing to weigh on his conscience, one more thing for Ava to lie to herself about. 

Tonight, Ava’s place is in her father’s empty room, just in case. The chieftain himself has been moved, quietly, somewhere deeper into the city, where he will stay until their relief arrives and the fight begins. It’s paranoid, maybe, but paranoia saves lives, and Ava’s perfectly capable of handling herself. Besides, it’s not as if her life is more important than his. He can lead their people, and she can’t. From there, it’s only simple. 

Point is, no one knows it’s her here and not her father, not even the guards that stand just outside the closed door, and perhaps that’s why, when the door is suddenly crushed open to reveal someone completely new, it’s not Ava who seems to be the most shocked about it. Ava’s not at all, really; she’d expected something like this. If anything, she’s more stunned about it being a woman. Ava jumps to her feet, keeping her limbs loose and free. 

For a single, tense moment, neither of them move. The new woman’s mouth opens in surprise, her eyes darting up to Ava’s face. “Who—”

Ava lunges. 

All of her weight hits the woman square in her chest that rattles her bones; she uses the surprise of her attack and capitalizes on it, sweeping the woman’s legs out from under her and driving the back of her head into the ground with one smooth motion. Nothing crunches under her hands, but the woman’s eyes roll back into her head; unconscious. Perfectly done, if Ava does say so herself. 

She makes quick work of the woman’s hands, tying them together and then behind her back. Grunting from the effort, Ava drags her towards the wooden beam in the room and then ties her to that— can’t be too careful—making sure to knot everything at least twice. Despite the easy takedown, the woman strikes her as someone who’s capable of handling herself, and Ava doesn’t feel particularly like fighting again. She’s got to save her strength for later. 

Ava doesn’t go check on the guards outside. If this woman’s here then they’re both dead, and she can’t go bother anyone important, not tonight. It’s her first and only order for the day; Play your role until the time comes. Keep yourself safe, but you’re on your own. 

Her father hadn’t liked giving her that particular rule, but Ava had understood (she always does). He’s too important, see, and Ava is a weapon. 

The woman twitches; she’s waking up quickly, which is another good sign. Ava takes a moment to sit down across from her, leaning her back against the small bed that had been shoved to the corner. Ava sits and waits and takes her in with a patience that surprises even herself. 

Armor on this woman is almost nonexistent; she’s dressed in a dark tunic and pants, though there’s still that telltale red cloth poking out from under the sleeve in her outer robe. Roman, then. Ava’s not surprised, really; everyone’s so high-strung that it’s not unfathomable that the guards allowed a single soldier to slip through their defenses, let alone a woman. They probably would’ve just thought she was a civilian of Alesia, if they saw her at all. Her hair is dark and pulled up out of her face, easily hidden with a hood. She has freckles, too, dotting across her nose and winding underneath two of the most captivating eyes Ava has ever seen. 

Beautiful, but the enemy. Ava remembers that when her eyes trail further down to the floor, where a tiny dagger hardly the length of her pointer finger now lays. The woman had dropped it when Ava jumped on her, though it’s the only blade she seems to have been carrying. 

“Why are you here?” Ava demands with a snarl. She shifts the dagger away with her foot, but she doesn’t pick it up. She’s always thought, privately, that the need to hold a weapon automatically makes someone less intimidating, and she’s trying that out.“You’re Roman, so I doubt you’re here to surrender respectfully.” 

The woman sneers up at her, blinking the last of her unconscious confusion out of her eyes. Her arms constrict as she tests her bonds; they hold, obviously. Ava has many talents. 

“There’s no reason to surrender,” she says, and despite her current predicament, her voice is full of nothing but calm confidence. She speaks Gaulish with a steadiness that’s surprising, though Ava herself could have very well continued the conversation in Latin instead, if needed. “Rome won’t be defeated.”

“Rome won’t be, no, but your proconsul will be.” Then, with a hint of pride seeping into her voice, “You were, too.” 

A beat. 

“I was not—expecting to come across another woman, or anyone but the chieftain, for that matter,” the woman admits staunchly. “Your being here was surprising. I won’t be surprised next time.” 

“Next time,” Ava tests the words carefully. “If you get a next time, that is. What if I kill you where you stand? Well, sit.” Then, when she doesn’t get a single response, she says, cheerfully, “Anyway, my name’s Ava. What’s yours?” 

The woman gives her a long, only somewhat puzzled look. She tests her bonds again, fruitlessly. Then she says, “Beatrice.”

It very well could be a lie. In all honesty, Ava probably should’ve given her a false name in the first place. But it’s too late for that, and Ava wants to think that it’s the truth. Beatrice sounds right, at least: sounds like bright eyes and strong shoulders and a calculating face. Beatrice sounds like the woman in front of her like Water sounds like the drip of a nearby well. Beatrice, Ava thinks, half-unwillingly, is a very pretty name. 

Ava’s name means Living one. She’s always taken a sort of pride in that, in being the one to live. She thinks names are the gateway to understanding someone; often the first step. She thinks names have a sort of power, which is probably why she offered her own up. She wonders what the name Beatrice means. 

“So, Beatrice,” Ava says. “Want to tell me why you’re here?” She eyes the dagger, still scattered on the ground in between them. “I’m guessing you weren’t just here to talk to anyone. Not that you Romans are very good at talking anyways,” she goes on, partly just to see if it strikes a chord. “You’re one of the first I’ve met who speaks Gaulish.”

“Have you met many Romans?” Beatrice asks. 

She’s cold; smart, Ava thinks, as a warning to herself. Her voice is stiff and contained, her eyes never still for more than five seconds. She observes her surroundings, calmly, going over every detail. She takes in what she can see of the ropes binding her, takes in the cavalier way Ava’s sitting on the floor, hardly even five feet away. Then, seemingly unconcerned about the enemy combatant before her, she begins to dedicate an impressive amount of time to looking at the door, of all things, which is just plain rude. 

“I’ve met enough,” Ava replies, allowing something like a sneer to creep across her face. “I’ve killed more.” Dramatic as the statement is, it does the trick: Beatrice’s eyes return to her, and Ava’s smile evens out, crinkling the corners of her eyes. She says, then, “You don’t seem to be a stranger to killing yourself.” 

Beatrice tilts her head and does a very good job of not letting a single emotion slip into her face. “Of course not. It’s what I do.”

“So you were sent here to kill my father,” Ava observes. It’s not surprising, nor is the thought angering. Beatrice won’t kill him now, won’t even get a chance, and so there’s no point in loathing her for a task gone wrong. 

Her face cracks: the shock that pools into Beatrice’s expression with that revelation is gone within an instant, but Ava catches it, even briefly. “I was not aware the chieftain had any children.”

“He doesn’t,” Ava says, if only to be annoying. Then she says casually, “You don’t look like any other assassin I’ve seen.”

“Then you haven’t seen a real assassin before,” Beatrice snaps in response, which is, at the very least, a very cool statement to make. “Who are you?” she asks. “You’re clearly talented—certainly more so than any of those soldiers standing guard outside.” 

It’s a genuine compliment, maybe, a rare recognition that burns down Ava’s spine. I know, she wants to say. I told him they weren’t good enough. I told him they’d crumble, that being here would only get them killed. But she doesn’t say that. It’d give too much away about her people, about her father, about herself. So instead: “Well, that’s what happens when you’re fending off a nation that wants world domination. You don’t get enough time to train.” That’s much better; cheeky with the right touch of resentment. 

“But you have,” Beatrice says, smoothly sidestepping the jab against her homeland. “Why?” 

“What makes you think I’ll tell you?”

“Because you haven’t killed me yet. And you haven’t gone to alert anyone else of my presence. I’m not sure why.” Beatrice’s brow is furrowed, her jaw set. “My only guess is that you’re up to something.”

Ava grins, and it’s only half-forced. “Says the Roman assassin who just broke into the most fortified building in Alesia in an attempt to kill our chieftain.” 

She gets another head tilt in response; not a surrender, but something like an acknowledgement. “You’d do the exact same thing if you were given the opportunity.”

This time Ava doesn’t reply fast enough, and Beatrice blinks at her silence. Then, “You’re planning an attack. Aren’t you?” she demands, when Ava still doesn’t respond. “But why? You couldn’t possibly hold up against our numbers. You know that.” She squints up at Ava as the realization begins to dawn on her. “You have relief coming.” 

“Maybe,” says Ava. It’s not too bad that she’s figured it out; the shadows in the room are deepening; outside, the sun is setting, which means that their reinforcements could be arriving at any time. Ava just has to stall her until they’re here. After that, well. She doubts either of them will end up being each other’s biggest problem. She plans to leave Beatrice alive, maybe. Truthfully, she hasn’t decided yet (and yet she already knows what she wants to do). So Ava softens her shoulders, tries for levity. “So you wanted to know my relation to the chief?” 

Beatrice watches her for a long moment. Then she sighs. It's small, more of a huff than anything else, and it’s more endearing than anything, like she’s simply bored of sitting here, tied to a pole in enemy territory. “If you must,” she says, and it sounds like she’s saying Give me time. Throw yourself into the depths of your imagination and see where I come out. 

So Ava, who’s never been very good at adhering to warnings, tells her. “The chieftain found me when I was just a baby,” she says; in the end, it’s not a very entertaining story. “He saved me from death then, and—I mean, I’ll never be able to fully repay him for that. He’s the one who taught me how to fight, how to defend myself. I don’t know who my real parents are, and I don’t care. He’s always raised me. I’d follow him into hell if I could.” 

Beatrice says, “You may very well have to,” and it sounds more like a warning than anything else. Curious. 

For her part, Ava’s smile doesn’t fade in the slightest. “Maybe,” she agrees. “But I’ll make sure you’re right there with me.” Then, trying to sting deeper, she winks. She receives nothing but an unimpressed look in response. “So what about you?” she asks. “Since we’ll be here for a while. What made you want to be an assassin?”

“We all have talents.”

“Yeah,” Ava says. “My talents include killing, too. But I wouldn’t make it my only job.”

Something in Beatrice’s face flattens out. “You don’t know it’s my only job,” she says defensively. 

“Then tell me.” Smiling wider, Ava leans forward, as if sharing a secret. “How am I supposed to know that? You’re the one who came here to kill my father, dressed in all black and with one little dagger.” 

It’s a shot in the dark, maybe. Beatrice doesn’t strike her as someone who’d willingly share anything about herself, but Ava’s seen just how much people change when they’re sure they’re going to die in a timely manner. It does something to you; makes you more willing to accept conversation, more willing to accept people at all. Ava’s lucky enough to have made it this long, but she doubts she’ll ever even see her father again. She’ll try—oh, she’ll try—but even she’s capable of being realistic. She asks because Beatrice believes without a doubt that she’s going to die and maybe, just maybe, she’ll feel up to one last human connection. 

A shot in the dark, yes, but the shot seems to hit its mark; an understanding, maybe. “I wasn’t able to be the person I was supposed to be,” Beatrice says finally. “So I became better. More. Whatever worked for them. Whatever they needed.”

“Whatever who wanted?” Ava queries, endlessly curious. 

Beatrice’s response is somehow both tragically sad and irritatingly familiar: “Surely you’d guessed. My family,” she says. “I couldn’t be who they wanted for me.”

Ava asks, “Did it work?” 

When Beatrice smiles—for the first time tonight—Ava has the sudden realization that it’s quite possibly the most beautiful smile in the world. She feels a pang, suddenly; for what she’s not sure, but something in her chest wants so fiercely in that moment that she has to dig her fingernails into the palm of her hand to alleviate the ache. It dulls, but never really goes away, and she tries her best to ignore it. 

Beatrice says, “Of course not,” and this time it sounds like she’s saying See me. See me more than anyone else does. Dismiss me if you must, but understand before you do. Almost in reply, Ava thinks, I see you. I wish I didn’t, maybe, but I do. 

So Ava… hesitates. After Beatrice’s story she feels stilted, somehow; awkward and unable to stop twitching from her place on the floor. There’s always the chance that Beatrice has pulled all this out of her ass and there could be not a lick of truth to anything she’s said, but Ava doesn’t think that’s the case. Either way, she’s clearly holding back. “There’s more to it than you’re telling,” Ava says finally; an easy observation. 

And Beatrice replies, “There’s always more.” 

“So tell me.” 

A beat. Completely comfortable, Ava uses the moment of silence to look at her, really look at her, and wonders if maybe they could’ve been friends in another world. Probably not. Beatrice strikes her as someone who is quiet and methodical, nothing like the way Ava surveys the world, nothing like boundless confidence (though there is confidence) and cheerful hate. Probably they’d always clash. Probably they’d never get a chance to meet not on the battlefield, separated by a war. Which is a shame, Ava thinks, and perhaps misses the point entirely. 

The ropes strain when Beatrice’s shoulders come together in a shrug. “What’s the use? We’ll probably both be dead by morning.”

Which is true, but still. “Arrogant much?”

“It’s not arrogance,” Beatrice says, slowly, “to believe in the victory of one’s army. You must know you’re defeated,” she goes on; tilts her head to study Ava’s expression. “You can’t possibly stay here much longer, you’ll starve. Your numbers are impressive, considering, but there are more of us. There will always be more.”

“It’s not as if we can surrender anymore,” Ava says, only a little grudgingly. 

To her surprise, Beatrice actually acquiesces that point, leaning her head back against the pole. “No,” she says. “I suppose not.” 

They stay in this back-and-forth for a while, though the time passes like it’s not passing at all. Ava asks a question, Beatrice gives a short answer (though they lengthen as their conversation goes on). Ava hints that she wants to answer a question, Beatrice will ask, and Ava will answer as if it’d been completely of her own volition. Ava can almost pretend they aren’t who they are, that Beatrice isn’t her captive, that Ava’s not going to almost certainly be dead this time tomorrow, that Beatrice isn’t going to be the same. 

It’s quiet until it’s not. 

The beginning of the end starts like how Ava imagines a waterfall would; bubbling up past the cliff, slowly growing in noise until it finally bursts free from its restraints with a mighty howl. Outside, people have begun to scream. 

No, they’re not screaming, they’re roaring, they’re charging, they’re attacking. Ava’s on her feet in an instant. This means it’s time. This means their reinforcements have arrived, that the moment for their last stand has come. The floorboards shake from the movement of thousands of people running; running away from the safety of Alesia’s walls, running towards their own probable deaths just for the smallest chance of victory. It’s time for, well. The end of whatever this is. 

“Oh,” Beatrice breathes. Her eyes dart to Ava’s, trying to figure something out. Ava doesn’t even try to hide anything; she begins to come forward. She’s made a decision. “It’s happening now,” Beatrice says, tilting her head to listen to the war cries beneath them. And then, as Ava takes another step closer, “Are you going to kill me?” 

“Yes,” Ava says. She leans down to scoop the dagger up off the floor; the same one Beatrice had come in with. “I wish I didn’t have to, but you’re—well.” She laughs, once. It doesn’t sound at all like her real one, and she hopes Beatrice hasn’t heard hers enough tonight to know that. “You’re the most dangerous person I’ve ever met,” she says, which is true, for more than one reason. “If there’s any hope for us, then I can’t let you out of this room.” 

Beatrice, oddly (or maybe not), doesn’t seem offended by this decision. She says, still irritatingly calm, “And if I promised not to get involved in the fight?”

“I wouldn’t believe you,” Ava replies, and Beatrice, nodding, says, “I thought not.” 

Ava warns her too late: “You shouldn't have only brought one weapon” And, steeling herself, takes the final step forward. She takes to her knee, shifting the dagger between her hands. She meets Beatrice’s eyes one last time and doesn't find a single lick of fear in their depths. All she has is one second to realize that, and in that one second, Ava wonders if she hasn’t just fucked up immensely. 

“Right,” says Beatrice shortly. “I didn’t.”

The next thing Ava knows, she’s on her back and Beatrice is pinning her down with one knee on her chest, brandishing another dagger between her fingers. She presses it to the tip of Ava’s chin, and neither of them breathe. Where she’s pulled it from, Ava will never know—was it in her hair? Stashed in the bottom of her boot?—but that doesn’t matter anymore, not now as it’s digging into the soft flesh of Ava’s throat. 

“Oh fuck,” Ava says. Her own weapon’s been knocked out of her hand, clattering back to the floor like that’s where it belongs. She looks up into the eyes of the woman who will end her life; Beatrice’s gaze is dark and heady with not a trace of victory to be found. “So you did,” Ava observes duly, and then she can hardly talk again at all.

At first the killing blow is so professional that Ava hardly feels any pain at all. Or perhaps not; she’s not dead instantly, though she can’t be sure if that was on purpose or not. That’s when the pain comes in; a deep, stinging ache that spans the space of her collarbone. Instinctively, Ava’s hands come up to cover the wound, and it’s when Beatrice doesn’t go to stop her that she realizes there’s no point in trying to stop the blood flow. She gurgles something, throat seizing. This is just rude. 

“I’m sorry,” Beatrice says, and despite herself, Ava believes her. “I wish I didn’t have to kill you. I wish life were fairer.” She says, “I’m dead, too, if that helps. I failed to kill your father.” She says, “The proconsul will have me executed, and that’s only if I make it out of this battle. Your reinforcements will undoubtedly make that tricky.” Then, lastly, she says again, “I’m sorry.” 

“No,” Ava sputters. Her fingers scrabble for purchase on the floor, slick with her own blood. 

“No?” says Beatrice, raising an eyebrow. 

“Your proconsul,” Ava gasps. Talking hurts; blood fills her mouth with every breath, threatening to choke her, but she refuses to let Beatrice get the last word in. In the interim, her hand lands on what she’d been searching for, and she grips it with a shaking wrist. “That’s not why you’re dead.”

Then her arm swings up and the dagger from before hits Beatrice, right in the soft spot where the back of her neck meets her spine. It sinks in, easy, and Beatrice chokes on a gasp. The blow isn’t nearly as clean as Beatrice’s attack had been, but it’ll do its job. Ava had struck at the right spot; when she pulls it away a moment later, her blade comes away red. Blood runs down her arm, and this time it’s not her own. 

“Ah,” Beatrice says in a whisper, barely audible over the chaos outside. She looks down at Ava, shaking with the effort of keeping herself upright. “I see.” 

Then she collapses. 

She’s kind enough not to land directly on top of Ava (or it’s a complete accident, but Ava’s not sure she could ever do anything on accident), instead hitting the ground right next to her. Ava’s breath is going shallow; the pain actually seems to be slowly fading away, but she’s fairly certain that’s not a good thing. Her limbs feel heavy, the sounds of fighting outside are growing fainter, too. She hopes that’s just her, and the battle’s not ending just as it started. 

Beatrice is laying next to her, and Ava’s head lolls back enough to look. When she meets her gaze, Beatrice is already looking back at her, and Ava’s still in her right mind enough to give her one last half-smile. Beatrice doesn’t respond, but she doesn’t seem to be puzzled by Ava’s friendliness either. Perhaps they were always meant to die here, and perhaps she realizes that, too. 

Well, Ava thinks, sluggishly, this is about what I expected. She can almost see Beatrice thinking the same, if a little more exasperated about it. What? There’s no shame in resignation. 

And then she thinks nothing at all. 

♱ ♱ 

Following an attempted siege on the Romans that goes wrong in nearly every way it possibly can, King Vercingetorix surrenders to Julius Caesar within the next forty-eight hours. The Romans take over (don’t they always) and while Gaul isn’t yet defeated entirely, Ava had been right to think that Alesia would be their final stand. They hadn’t had enough numbers. It was always about the numbers, about the amount of men fighting, and Gaul comes up short. Ava’s body is never recovered, the building reduced to splinters by a wayward firebrand. No one even looks for Beatrice. 

Vercingetorix is executed very soon after. 

.

.

.

(The last few constants: 

They always cross paths, and they always fall—even when they don’t have time enough for it. Beatrice catches across the street a glimpse of stunning pitch eyes that are such a dark brown they’re nearly black, a bright face to go with them, and she thinks of those eyes for the rest of her life. Ava spends entire years remembering the shape of some stranger’s smile, something she’d only seen in passing for one half-second. She thinks of her, and she thinks of her: Oh, let me be your undoing, and they don’t always get a chance to try. 

 But then it’s perhaps especially that there’s no time; perhaps there’s some sick passion in the idea of never enough. Perhaps that’s why they’re always brought together eventually. Doomed to see, to touch, to care; destined never to stay. Destined never to just exist. 

Very rarely do they get the lives they deserve.)

Chapter Text

‘cause i could live by the light in your eyes

Constantinople [538—550 AD]

In the eighteenth, they’re childhood friends. 

Beatrice is eight years old when she meets Ava; eight years old with the world in the palm of her hand—that is, until Ava plucks it out into her own. Beatrice is eight years old and her father is a Senator and her mother is a teacher and Ava is seven years old with no parents who’s living off of her own wit and the kindness of strangers.

When they meet, Beatrice is eight years old and curious, too curious to understand that they never should have become friends at all. When they meet on the streets of Constantinople, Beatrice waiting for her parents to reappear back out of the government building and Ava just waiting, standing nearby on the road, the first thing Beatrice says is, in a voice that’s already far too mature for her age, “Are you the Emperor’s daughter?”

The girl tilts her head when she looks at her, an easy laugh rising to her face. “No, I’m Ava. I’m no one’s daughter. Why’d you think I was his?” And there’s something in the tilt of her head, in the wiry strength she carries in her shoulders, in the way her eyes, shadowed, still somehow seem far kinder than anyone else in the world. 

And Beatrice is mature for her age and her vocabulary matches it but she still doesn't know how to explain, doesn't know how to say You just seem like royalty or I feel like I should be dipping my head to you or Why isn’t there anyone with you, protecting you? She could say all of those things in exactly that way, but she doesn’t understand the meaning behind them (and she never will), so in the end, she doesn’t say anything like that at all. Instead, Beatrice introduces herself (and she still dips her head a little, because she can’t not) and says, “My name’s Beatrice Silvus.”  

Ava says, “My name’s Ava,” and Beatrice replies, charmed, “You said that already,” and Ava laughs—actually laughs this time, which has the effect of the sun itself shining out of her face—and says, “Oh, so I did.” 

Beatrice’s parents come out of the building, then, and Beatrice’s mom says, “Girl, come along,” which always means she’s in a bad mood; Beatrice’s father says nothing at all, hardly spares either of them a single glance. 

“Oh, are you leaving?” Ava asks. She’s still leaning against a wall, one eyebrow creeping up her face. “Just passing through?”

Beatrice’s mom says warningly, “Girl,” but Beatrice finds her feet rooted to the ground. She stares back at Ava, whose eyes are darting between her and her mother. 

“No,” Beatrice says, quiet and steady. “We’re here to stay.” 

She turns, then, to join her parents, and Ava’s eyes burn a scalding curiosity into her back as she walks away. Her mother doesn’t say another word, but the disapproving look she sends down at her tells Beatrice everything she needs to know. She’ll probably be punished for her disobedience in some way; she’ll have to clean or will go to bed without dinner. She finds that she doesn’t care. 

Beatrice hadn’t wanted to come and live in Constantinople. She hadn’t wanted to move, hadn’t wanted to start over in a big city, one full of new dangers and experiences. She pictures a flash of wide, brown eyes, and she wonders now if it’ll be as bad as she’d thought.

♱ ♱

After that, well. They’re inseparable. 

Much to the chagrin of Beatrice’s parents, she sees Ava again. She sees her at the marketplace when she goes, sees her on the streets just outside her parents’ house, sees her running around in the grassy fields that border their land. 

Ava smiles at her always, says Beatrice! Hi! and Beatrice can’t stay away. 

She doesn’t get a lot of time to herself. She has her lessons—and more lessons, and more lessons—and she has her chores to do and Ava always seems to be busy, too; apparently she hadn’t been kidding about being no one’s daughter, and she seems to be the only one looking after herself. They’re both busy, but they still cross paths more often than not, and at that point it’s only fitting that they become friends. 

It goes like this:

Every once in a while Beatrice will finish with her lessons early and she’ll be allowed to go outside, where Ava—if she’s not out causing mischief or bugging someone for a day job—will be waiting for her. Around the corner or already in the field out the back or just somewhere on the street, Beatrice will find her. 

Today they’re in the field. It’s Beatrice’s favorite place, even though it’s cold out and the grass is no longer green, rather a dead-dull gold color. Beatrice is twisting a flower through her fingers, watching as Ava skips through the grass ahead of her. She’s laughing, and so Beatrice can’t help but laugh, too. Ava’s just that kind of person; you’re helpless against her. 

If Beatrice looks just past Ava and never turns around again, she can almost pretend that they’re the only ones left in civilization. 

Heart in her throat, Beatrice comes forward to place the flower on Ava’s head—she’s going for playful but lands on something reverent and warm—and is momentarily struck to silence by the image of it. She imagines, suddenly, an entire crown of them—if there were enough flowers scattered around to make it, which there aren’t—one that’s pink and green and and weaves through the strands of Ava’s hair like the way Beatrice’s mother wears expensive rings. 

“Hello,” she says, rather stupidly.  

Ava giggles, reaches up to adjust the flower just so. “Hi.” She raises an eyebrow, a crooked grin tugging at the corner of mouth. “What’s this for?” 

Beatrice says hoarsely, “Nothing. I just thought it’d look nice on you.” 

“Does it?” Ava reaches up again, fingers flitting over the flower in an attempt to steady it further. “Wait, let me get you one, too—” Moving carefully, careful not to dislodge her precious cargo, Ava begins to scour the ground below for another flower. She finds one fairly quickly and holds it up—it’s blue, contrasting nicely against Ava’s own pink one—Beatrice ducks her head and allows her to place it in her hair. 

Surprising her, Ava doesn’t just drop the flower on top of Beatrice’s head like she’d done to her, instead taking great care to tuck the stem behind her right ear, curling it down against her neck. Her fingers graze Beatrice’s cheek when she pulls back, and Beatrice can’t stop her answering smile. 

“They’re not crowns,” Ava says, almost voicing Beatrice’s own thought from before, “But let’s pretend they are. Imagine us being important.” 

“Maybe we could be the Queens of Constantinople,” Beatrice suggests brazenly. The implications turn to ash on her tongue—the we setting the inside of her mouth ablaze, leaving her skin almost uncomfortably warm. “Or—well. You could be the Queen and I could be—what, your maid? Something along those lines?” She’s beginning to panic, her mouth running away from her. “Or neither of those things,” she says then; the heat is creeping up her neck, burning even hotter now. “I don’t know. I’m not very creative.” 

Ava, of course, seems entirely unbothered by her stupidity. “You’re plenty creative! I liked your first idea best,” she says, as if there’s absolutely nothing strange about that sentence. Maybe there isn’t. “I think I could be in charge of the Empire. With your help, of course” 

Beatrice doesn’t respond quickly enough and Ava notices, raising one eyebrow challengingly. “What? Don’t think I could do it?” 

No, Beatrice thinks. It’s the opposite. I think you could be a god if you tried. She says, “As terrified I am at the prospect of you leading an entire Empire, no. I can absolutely believe you’re capable of it. You’d win everyone over in a week.” 

Ava psshes . “Please,” she says smugly. “Four days at most. Plus, you’d be leading it with me, right? As my joint ruler?”

“Right.” Refusing to once again stumble, this time she’s quick with a response, and Ava smiles at her, clearly pleased by her answer. 

A beat. 

“Hey,” Ava says then. “Hey, Bea—”

Now there’s a wild smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth, one that Beatrice knows is going to be the death of her, and the flower still carefully balanced on top of Ava’s head only makes the gleam in her eyes that much more devastating. Beatrice says, a little exasperated and more than a little charmed, “What?”

“I love you a lily more every day,” Ava says, and it’s a joke— and a silly one at that—but it still steals the air right from Beatrice’s chest. 

Beatrice has never been good at making friends before. But she thinks—she hopes, if nothing else—that she’ll be able to keep this one. Ava smiles even wider, and she wonders if she isn’t the only one thinking along those lines. 

“Thanks,” Beatrice says, and if her voice comes out in a croak then Ava’s kind enough not to point it out. “I lilac you, too.” 

♱ ♱

The thing is: Beatrice has a nice life. 

She has tutors (and she excels at all her subjects), her parents have a large residence next to a beautiful hill and they will all be able to live comfortably for the rest of their lives. Beatrice knows she’s rather well-spoken, knows she’s intelligent, and she has a certain fervor when it comes to reading. She loves to learn, loves to take in and understand something. 

The problem is: all of this wealth, of course, grows pale and withers in the presence of Ava. 

Beatrice can hardly fathom her on her best days; Ava, who has to work and labor for every scrap of dinner and who still smiles at Beatrice every time she sees her. Ava, who snorts when she laughs too hard and who trips over her own two feet at least three times a day and who still brims with natural grace when she moves. Ava, who goes from a cute little kid to someone who may very well be the most beautiful person in the entire world (and still, somehow, no less cute). 

Ava lives in a tiny little house that can hardly even be called that; it’s a room, really, and it’s ten minutes away from Beatrice’s home and all she has to her name is a tiny little bed in that tiny little room and a few other items she’s collected over the years, and Beatrice loves it there. 

They spend their days sticking mostly to themselves. They explore the field behind Beatrice’s house, scour the streets for shiny stones. Beatrice teaches Ava to write and she’s a natural with it; in less than two weeks she’s capable of writing completely on her own and she loves it, loves it far more than Beatrice herself (who has always associated it with lessons, herself). 

Another problem: Ava seems to grow prettier with every single day. 

And Beatrice is certainly not the only one who notices. 

♱ ♱

Beatrice is thirteen years old when Ava receives her first proposal.

In all honesty, she should’ve seen it coming. Ava’s a beautiful young woman, and even though she doesn’t technically have much to offer any potential suitors, she has an energy about her that’s nearly addicting, and Beatrice is not the only person to have been caught up by her. She does seem to be Ava’s favorite, for whatever reason, and she’s more grateful for that than anything else in her life. 

Today they’re walking back from Ava’s home. Beatrice had a rare day off, and so, not wanting to waste any time, she’d sought Ava out at the first crack of dawn. They’ve been together ever since, having wasted the day away outside, and Beatrice’s cheeks hurt from how hard she’s been smiling. 

Now it’s nearly sundown, nearly time for Beatrice to go home, and they’re walking slow; Beatrice doesn’t drag her feet because she’s been raised better than that, but she still takes every step with an unnecessary caution, unwilling to let the day end. They’re still walking like that when they come across a boy standing in the street, rare for the later time of day. 

Beatrice spots him first and pulls up short, causing Ava to skid to a stop in the middle of a skip, awkwardly landing on one of her feet. Ava looks up and Beatrice sees recognition dawn on her face. She opens her mouth to speak, but he’s faster. 

“Ava!” the boy greets her, ignoring Beatrice entirely. “It’s you!” 

Ava’s eyebrows raise as Beatrice stiffens beside her. “Sure is,” she says slowly. “What’s up?” 

Something is wrong, off about his stance. Beatrice isn’t sure of his name, though she’s seen him around the city before. His family lives a few houses down to her own, and they’re even wealthier than the Silvus’. He has longer hair than most boys, ginger and shaggy and (if she had to guess) attractive, somewhat. He comes closer, and Beatrice only realizes he’s sweating about half a second before he dives right into what is clearly a practiced speech. 

“Ava,” the boy says again, “I know you have nothing to give me—”

“Ouch,” Ava says. 

“—You have no dowry to offer,” he goes on (Ava says, What?; Beatrice stops breathing altogether) “I know you know the struggles and hardships of working to survive, of—of being your own person, but I care for you. I want to give you that life. A better life. Ava,” he says, again, “Will you do me the honor of becoming your husband?” 

“What? Of course she doesn’t,” Beatrice says. 

Then she freezes. She hadn’t meant to speak, hadn’t even thought she’d be capable of it, but the words had burst from her chest like a flock of birds all scattering in different directions at the crack of a loud noise. She clears her throat, face burning; looks at the ground to regain some semblance of dignity. 

“Bea,” Ava gasps, acting scandalized. Her grin is bright—too much so—when Beatrice looks back up. “Let him finish!” Then she turns that same smile back on the boy, who reddens considerably. “Go on,” she encourages. 

He gapes at her for a moment, mouth hanging open rather unflatteringly (Beatrice thinks). “I—was done,” he says after a moment, sending Beatrice a bewildered glance. “Is that a yes?” 

Ava’s practically giddy when she bounces up to the boy—really, what is his name, should Beatrice have known it?—and she pats him on the shoulder, humming. “No,” she says simply. And then, “But thank you! You’re very kind to ask.” 

The boy sputters, but Ava’s already turning away. She takes Beatrice’s hand in hers and continues to walk as if nothing had ever happened; Beatrice allows herself to be dragged away, helpless as always against Ava’s confounding spirit. They both leave the boy behind, and Beatrice appreciates that he doesn’t follow them. Perhaps he’s too stunned. She can certainly relate. 

Beatrice is once again struck by Ava’s freedom. To be able to just say no. She can’t even fathom it. 

Ava says, once they’re out of earshot, “That was weird.” And Beatrice can’t read her tone. She sneaks a glance and finds that Ava’s already looking back at her, eyes wide and brimming with something bright. “I didn’t realize he was into me like that.” 

“You could do far better,” Beatrice says stiffly. 

“Well, of course I could,” Ava agrees instantly, seeming pleased. “That’s why I told him no, silly. I’ll only marry someone who makes me hap-Bea.” 

Beatrice has the strangest sense that she’s being made fun of. “I apologize for butting in,” she says, because that had not been her finest moment. “I didn’t mean to interrupt—it was extremely disrespectful.” 

“No, no, it was funny!” Ava insists. “Did you see his face when you answered for me? He had no idea how to respond!” She dissolves into a fit of giggles at the thought, and Beatrice has to focus her stare on the ground and think very carefully about physically moving her legs lest she trip over her own feet and die a slow and painful death from mortification. Her chest feels almost hollow, like she’s been stabbed with something that sucked everything except Ava out of her body. 

She hopes that Ava never talks about her the same way she’s talking about this boy. Beatrice isn’t sure she’d be able to survive it. 

Despite her quick rejection, Ava is practically bouncing off walls for the entire next week, and her joy is so infectious that Beatrice cannot even find it within herself to be upset (at least not outwardly), unwilling to ruin her cheer. Apparently her other friends—other working kids; Beatrice has met them once or twice but Ava doesn’t often hang out with her at the same time—seem to find it hilarious as well, so it’s only Beatrice who’s being a downer about the whole thing. What else is new. 

It’s not the only proposal Ava receives, it’s not even close. It happens again scarcely a month later, a third boy asking for her hand just a week after that. Beatrice always seems to be around when it does, and she’s not sure if she’s glad for that or not. On one hand, it’s nice to witness the rejections Ava gives out—because she always rejects them—but on the other, all it does is remind Beatrice of her own limitations. She can only ever watch, and she never again answers in Ava’s stead. 

Ava clearly preens under the attention; she loves to be asked, loves to bask in the attention of a stuttering, embarrassed boy, but she never, not ever, says yes. She seems to find it more funny than anything else. 

For her part, though she tries to hide it, Beatrice never finds it very humorous. 

♱ ♱

One day, when she’s thirteen years old and Beatrice is fourteen, Ava falls ill. 

She burns with fever, and boils swell up on her skin, painful and hot to the touch. She coughs up mouthfuls of her own blood, vomits it when she’s particularly bad. Complains of headache, of pain in her arms, of her swollen skin (and that’s only when she’s capable of complaining). 

She has no one else, and so it’s Beatrice who nurses her back to health. Her parents have forbidden her from bringing the sickness back to their house, so she stays at Ava’s little cabin for nearly four days straight, only returning to her own home in sparse runs; for food, water, to tell her tutors that she’ll continue to be gone. Ava is her only priority. 

Her tenacity pays off: Ava gets better and Beatrice is able to breathe again. Ava goes back to normal and Beatrice tries to do the same. 

Ava thanks her like she hadn’t expected Beatrice to care as much as she did, and Beatrice says Always and means it. 

Horrifyingly, her promise is put to the test, and Ava’s sickness comes back. It gets to be normal, almost, for Ava to be bedridden once again every few years or so. Sometimes she’s only sick for a few hours; once it’s nearly an entire week. No matter what, it never leaves her for good. 

They don’t talk about it. Beatrice tries, sometimes, but Ava always shuts her down before she gets very far. It’s the only topic Ava ever really seems to avoid; she dances around the conversation every time, changing the subject like it’ll kill her. She seems to want to ignore it, and Beatrice can only grant her that much. She’s determined to always be around, to always be able to help out, and Ava seems to understand that, too. 

For her part, Beatrice never catches the sickness herself. She’s not sure why, and she’s also not sure if she’s grateful for that or not. 

(Ava always dies.)

♱ ♱

A lot of things happen when they’re sixteen and fifteen, but the biggest one undoubtedly is this: Beatrice is betrothed to a man. 

She’d known it’d be coming soon, had seen the signs of her parents’ search for someone they’d approve of, but she’d put it off for as long as she could and she can’t for any longer. He’s introduced to her over dinner, and in his eyes Beatrice sees the end of the life she’s grown to love. 

The man Beatrice will eventually marry is altogether a far kinder man than she would have expected, given that her parents picked him out specifically. His name is Alexius Raoul, and he’s on the Senate alongside her father. He says It’s a pleasure when they’re introduced and hardly even spares her a glance, too caught up with being polite to her mother. Beatrice is glad, because her responding Very nice to meet you too, sir, is a little too flat, even by her own standards. She’s old to be married, extremely so, but so is he; apparently a man who is inherently career-focused.

Ava and Alexius meet a week or so into his and Beatrice’s courtship and it’s quite possibly the most mortifying experience Beatrice has ever been through. 

Ava comes knocking on the Silvus’ doorway at the same moment that Alexius is visiting for the second time, and the ensuing conversation is not one Beatrice would particularly like to remember. Beatrice had answered the door with Alexius over her shoulder, and just like that, Ava had known. She hadn’t once taken her eyes off Alexius since.

What followed was a disaster of planetary proportions as Beatrice tried to juggle her parents, Alexius and Ava all at once, and though Ava hadn’t ever personally addressed Alexius, the odd looks she’d been shooting at him the entire time had made it awkward enough. 

Half an hour later, Beatrice had almost been grateful when her mother interjected; she’d said, Perhaps it’s time for the girl to go home, yes?   

And, ever the gentleman, Alexius offered to walk her back. It’s getting dark, he’d said, and there could be the wrong kind of people about. Ava had been too polite—too curious, more like—to tell him that she probably knows more about avoiding the wrong kind of people than he does. 

That’s not the end of it, of course. 

“So, Alexius,” Ava says, three minutes into the walk, “what do you think of Beatrice?” 

She asks because she’s a menace, because there’s a strange gleam in her eye, one that’s not at all playful and something more dangerous; she asks because Alexius doesn’t seem to know where to walk—in between them, off to the side; he wavers back and forth—and something Ava excels at is finding someone’s tender spot and pressing on it, hard, with all her strength. Beatrice wants to strangle her. 

“Well—” Alexius flounders for a response; he sends Beatrice a look as if to say help me. But there is no assistance to be found in her, not against Ava. “She’s a beautiful woman,” he says eventually; Beatrice looks away, stomach clenching. “And intelligent. I am lucky to be marrying her.” 

“But what do you think of her?” Ava presses on. “I’m not her parents—” ( No, you’re far more, Beatrice thinks.) “—and I’d rather not hear the shallow, work version.” She pulls up short, causing both Alexius and Beatrice to stop in their tracks as well. Barely five-foot two to Alexius’ near six feet, and he still seems to shrink under her stare. “Will you treat her well?” Ava asks like she has no idea Beatrice is standing right there. 

Beatrice has… never seen Ava like this before. She’s seen her upset, yes, but this is different—this is purposeful. Ava stands in front of Alexius like she’s the bigger person, like he’s got something to be frightened of. Maybe he does. 

“I think we’ll work well together,” Alexius says, after a moment of hesitation. He very pointedly does not look at Beatrice—although maybe that’s just her paranoia talking—when he goes on: “It’s a good pairing. Two good families becoming one. It’s smart.” 

It’s everything Beatrice has been trying to think. It’s smart, she’s told herself. Two good families becoming one. It’s smart. She repeats it whenever she needs to remember, whenever she’s particularly feeling the urge to run. This is her life, her duty. She’s known that since she could know anything. 

Ava doesn’t respond immediately. She stares at Alexius for a long time, brow furrowing, lips pursing in thought. Then she says, “Okay.” 

It’s short, but she nods when she says it, like she respects his answer. Not once does she meet Beatrice’s gaze. 

…Beatrice isn’t sure how she feels about that at all. 

The rest of the journey is made in silence. When they get within sight of Ava’s home, Alexius pulls up short; he doesn’t say a word, but Beatrice finds herself appreciating it. Leaving him behind, she accompanies Ava alone to her door, and it’s only when Ava opens it and takes a step inside do the words she’s been suppressing all night finally bubble out of her. 

Well. Kind of. “Ava,” Beatrice says. “That was—you—” 

“Sorry,” Ava interrupts her, not looking very sorry at all. “I just wanted to see what kind of guy he was! Don’t be mad at me,” she says, and she makes her eyes go big, on purpose, Beatrice is sure of it (she finds, irritably, that she’s not mad at all). “I want what’s best for you. You know that.” 

Beatrice does know that. She ducks her head, releases a sigh that she doesn’t altogether feel. “What’s the verdict, then? Do you like him?” 

Something strange happens on Ava’s face. Beatrice doesn’t even know what she wants her to say; she’s not sure which would hurt worse, Ava’s approval or Ava disliking him, and she’s struck again by the realization that it doesn’t matter. It should, Ava should be the first and the last person to pass judgement on the person that Beatrice will marry, but ultimately she has no authority at all. It feels wrong. 

“He seems—decent,” Ava sighs finally, seeming reluctant to say even just that. 

“Yeah.” Beatrice nods, her chest aching. “That’s what I thought as well.” Even from the little she’s seen about her future husband, she knows she could do a lot worse, all things considered. She shouldn’t complain. 

“Bea,” Ava says, getting her attention. There’s a waver in her voice now, one that hadn’t been there before. “That’s all well and good, sure. But you deserve better.” 

She takes a tiny step forward, and it’s only then that Beatrice realizes how close they are to each other. Ava’s face is so near her own that she can feel her breath on her cheek, the warmth of her body radiating out and enveloping her senses. Ava’s eyes are sharp and dangerous and her mouth is so close, it would be so easy—

Beatrice doesn’t move. She doesn’t think she’s capable. In the back of her mind she remembers Alexius’ presence, knows he’s somewhere nearby, knows that whatever this is cannot happen, not now, not ever—

Then Ava softens.

It happens like how she always moves; quickly, and it starts with her eyes. The tension breaks so easily that Beatrice is left wondering if it ever existed in the first place, and Ava shifts on her right foot, easing a casual distance between them. An ache of want finds its home at the very bottom of Beatrice’s stomach, and she desperately tries to ignore it. 

“I’ll see you later,” she says quietly, and Ava smiles again. 

“Yeah,” she says. “I’ll see you later, Bea.”

And then, quick as a flash, Ava’s stepping back into Beatrice’s space and planting a soft kiss on Beatrice’s cheek. Just as quickly she leans back; closes the door with a playful wink. Stunned and flushed, Beatrice stands and stares at the closed door, holding her breath.

“Beatrice?” It’s Alexius. When she finally tears herself away, she finds him waiting at the end of the road, looking back at her. “Ready to head back? It really is getting late.” 

His face is unreadable. Beatrice follows him and tries to breathe as she silently begs the gods to be lenient; to keep her future husband’s mouth sewn shut, to keep him from asking anything she could never hope to answer. Maybe he hadn’t seen. Maybe he doesn’t care, maybe he doesn’t know he should care. 

The gods grant her mercy for the night. 

♱ ♱

The wedding creeps up on her like a hawk stretching out its talons to catch a skittish rabbit. It’s never a surprise—she dreads it far too much to ever forget—but rather something she almost feels that she shouldn’t still have to deal with; I know to fear, so why can’t I avoid you? 

She never gets an answer, of course. The wedding is not a sentient being, even if it moves like one.

So soon enough (too soon) it’s only a few days away. Beatrice takes advantage of the fact that her mother has taken over the ceremony entirely and steals away from the house for hours at a time, finding Ava when she’s not working and wandering the fields on her own when she is. It’s calming, and Beatrice so desperately needs to be calm. 

Today they sit together in the grass, Ava lying on her back and Beatrice sitting next to her, staring off into the distance. The sun is out with a vengeance, and Beatrice can feel sweat tickling at the back of her neck. She knows Ava would look absolutely stunning if she turned her head to partake in her, and that’s why she doesn’t. They sit in silence and even that’s too much; every second that ticks by is another second where she’s closer to getting married, and Beatrice wishes she could just freeze time, sit here forever for the rest of all eternity. She thinks she could be happy like that. 

“It’s a shame,” Beatrice says (and isn’t that the understatement of the century). 

Though she’d spoken rather suddenly, Ava doesn’t seem to be caught off guard; her response is quick as she sits up. “What is?” 

“That the Silvus name will die out. In just a week’s time my name will be Beatrice Raoul, and unless my parents produce a brother within the next few years, then they’ll be the last people to bear the Silvus name. The last people here, I mean,” Beatrice goes on, now a little embarrassed, “well. I’m sure there are other Silvus’ somewhere else. My grandparents, for one.” 

“Where do they live?” Ava asks. 

“...I’m not sure,” she admits. “My parents don’t talk about them very often. They had some falling-out when I was very young, and I hardly even remember them at all. I’m fairly certain they’re still alive, though.” 

“Huh.” Ava leans back against her hands, humming thoughtfully. Then, “I hadn’t thought about you losing your name like that.” 

Beatrice has. Beatrice has thought about it for every night since she first met Alexius, maybe even every night since she understood that she would have to marry at all in the first place. She’s always hated the idea of changing her name— Beatrice Silvus, she’d whisper to her own reflection, My name is Beatrice Silvus— but she’s also always known that it would change one day. She doesn’t like to think about it, but she does. She can’t stop. 

“I don’t wish I were a man, but…” Beatrice trails off, unsure. 

“Yeah,” Ava agrees with a wistful sigh. “Some things would certainly be easier, wouldn’t they?”

And just like that she’s validated all of Beatrice’s worst thoughts, like they’re not shameful in the slightest. That’s just Ava’s way—that’s what makes her the most dangerous—how she makes Beatrice feel like she’s the most important person in the world. There’s something to be said about the consequences of Ava’s attention, the fear of an ego, but Beatrice can’t even find it in herself to be bothered. She risks a glance, finally, and nearly topples right from the tower of obligations and responsibilities she’s set for herself. 

Ava is glowing. Her hair is down today, long and curly and brushing over her shoulders with reckless abandon. She meets Beatrice’s eyes for one heart-stopping moment, but moves on quickly, drumming her fingertips against her knees. She’s the most beautiful thing Beatrice has ever seen. 

( I don’t wish I were a man, Beatrice thinks, because she doesn’t, but I wish I had the freedom as a man to court you.)

“Maybe I should take your name,” Ava muses cheerfully. She’d been lost in thought for a moment, but clearly hadn’t moved past the conversation. “At least that way it’d live on. Ava Silvus has a nice ring to it, don’t you think? It’s not like I’ve got my own anyways.”

Beside her, Beatrice thinks: Yes. Take my name, take my hands, take my lungs, take all of me and let me have anything of you that you’ll give me and though she doesn’t say any of those things aloud (how could she?) inwardly she burns alive. She thinks: I would give all of myself to you if I could, if the world would allow it, if you would allow it. She thinks: Ava Silvus fits you like a feather fits a dove, like tragedy and loss fits the heroes of old. 

Outwardly she says, with some difficulty, “You—can have it if you’d like.” 

Ava hums again, lightly, like she’s said something right. “Maybe I will,” she says. There’s something rough hiding under the casual tease of her voice, and Beatrice has to look away lest she fall victim to that constant bubble under her skin. 

♱ ♱

The wedding is grand and eventful, and Beatrice hates almost every minute of it. Her father invites half of his acquaintances from work, her mother invites half the women who live within a mile of their house, Alexius invites the same people Beatrice’s father does, plus his own parents, and Beatrice invites Ava. 

It’s Ava who saves her, truly; Ava’s quiet support and Ava’s clear effort to be on her best behavior. Although she hadn’t been allowed to see Beatrice the entire day beforehand, she hardly speaks the whole night, too busy being polite to all the uptight numpties Beatrice’s family affiliates with. Ava’s clearly the odd one out, but she doesn’t give it away; she’s quiet, sure, but still visibly comfortable, sending Beatrice small, reassuring smiles every moment she can. 

It’s Beatrice’s mother who lights the torch— For fertility, she says as she does, as if Beatrice could ever forget—and Alexius gives her a smile that Beatrice cannot quite mirror. Their guests toast to the wedding and Beatrice’s stomach churns. 

Then Ava finds her in the aftermath because of course she does, because Ava knows her better than Beatrice finds herself and because Ava would know she’d need to collect herself for a moment after. 

Beatrice has retreated back inside the house for a breather; she has a drink of water, tries to calm her breathing so that she’s not so clearly panicking. When she turns to face the open doorway, she’s not at all surprised to see Ava standing there. 

“Bea?” 

Ava’s eyes are soft, softer than they are usually; darker, too, here in the deep black of the unlit room. She’s always had the most expressive eyes, but tonight they’re shadowed in something else, swimming with sympathy and concern. Beatrice thinks she sees guilt, too, but that would be ridiculous. None of this is Ava’s fault. 

Ava says, “I’ll run with you if you want.” 

There’s no preamble. She’s telling the truth, and Beatrice knows it. Ava has it so easy, she thinks sometimes; she has nothing to tie her down. She has friends, sure, but there’s no mother to tear her apart, no father to disappoint, no husband to be perfect for. 

It’s a cruel thing to think, and so Beatrice will never voice it. Ava would hate her if she knew. 

Ava would be able to run, but Beatrice cannot. She couldn’t before she was married and so she definitely can’t now, not now that she has Alexius and everything he represents. 

“I could never run,” Beatrice says. “This is my duty. My own—challenge to overcome. It’ll just be an adjustment,” she goes on, voice wobbly. Her hands are shaking, and she folds them together to hide it. “I have to learn how to be a wife.” 

Mercifully, Ava doesn’t try to argue with her. Instead she just steps forward and pulls her into a hug; Beatrice shudders at the touch and hugs her back. Tucking her nose into Beatrice’s neck, Ava cradles the back of Beatrice’s head like she’s something that should be treated with the utmost gentleness and runs her hands through her hair and Beatrice breathes. Breathes in the scent of her. Breathes so that she can stop shaking, breathes so that Ava can breathe with her. 

She’ll have to go back soon, face the night, face her husband. She’ll have to leave Ava again, have to be brave and submit herself to the night. But for now she presses her face into Ava’s neck and tries to forget. 

Here, Beatrice can almost pretend.

♱ ♱

Nothing with Alexius happens the way Beatrice expects, and she’s not quite sure exactly how she’s managed this one. She moves into Alexius’ home the night of their wedding—it’s not a hard move; Beatrice has never been one to own many trinkets and her husband’s house is only a few minutes’ walk down the road from her parents’—and she dreads it, dreads it more than she’s ever dreaded anything before, but then she wakes up the next morning alone in her new bed and she’s still herself. 

She knows two things: this is not how it’s supposed to happen, and no one can ever know if she wants to keep it this way. 

“Alexius is a bit weird, isn’t he?” Ava asks, only a few days later. They’re walking together, Ava heading to her current job as a blacksmith’s assistant and Beatrice just basking in her constant glow. After she asks Ava speeds up ever so slightly, and Beatrice does as well, used to her inconsistent walking speed. 

Tampering down her instinctive response— No, he’s a perfectly capable husband —Beatrice has to take a breath before she actually replies. “Is he? I hadn’t noticed.” 

Which, in the grand scheme of things, isn’t all that much better of an answer, certainly not something a perfectly capable wife would say. She should be aware of Alexius, she is aware of Alexius, and she’s mostly aware that he leaves her alone more often than not. She is not about to tempt fate and probe for the reason why, not when that could tip the comfortable (if somewhat terrifying) balance altogether. 

But Ava’s smiling when she responds; she says, “Oh, in a good way, though,” and this time when she quickens her pace, Beatrice isn’t quite ready for it. 

She stumbles after her, nearly tripping over her robes. “How so?” 

“Well—you’re okay with him,” Ava says. “Right?” She sends Beatrice a probing look, now slowing down considerably. 

What does it mean to be okay with someone? Beatrice wonders. She’s eternally grateful for her strange circumstances, knows that it could have—should have—been far worse, but there’s always that selfish part of her that craves more for herself. More freedom to be the person she wishes she could be, more courage to fight for that person. 

That’s all semantics, though, and in the end the easy answer is— “Yes,” Beatrice says. She ducks her head and squints at the ground in a fruitless attempt to hide from the person who knows her most. 

There’s no need for the protection: for better or worse, Ava seems to take her at her word. “Then I'm happy. That’s what I’ve wanted for you,” Ava says, and goes about her day. 

♱ ♱

(The truth is that Alexius is weird. The truth is that Alexius is weird and Beatrice has known since they were married and Beatrice doesn’t dare ask him about it in fear he’ll start to change his ways. The truth is that Alexius must have another woman stashed somewhere, a woman he cares about, and the truth is that Alexius must value Beatrice’s father’s opinion—his vote on the council—very much. The truth is that Alexius must have married her for social power. 

The truth is that Beatrice hardly ever sees her husband, that his house has two separate rooms with two separate beds and he’d shown her to one of them that first night—the night she’d been dreading—and said This is yours and then, as far as Beatrice knows, had never again set foot in there. 

In the end, the truth is dangerous. The truth would anger her parents, definitely, they’d want her to do something, something that she would very much rather not do. They’d want her to insist on children. 

Beatrice does not want to insist on children. 

The truth is that she and Alexius have only ever been married in name, and Beatrice still isn’t sure if she’s just dreaming that bit.)

♱ ♱

Ava gets sick again, and this time it’s worse. 

(Beatrice is nineteen and Ava is eighteen and they’re still so young, Ava’s too young to have endured all this pain already, if Beatrice could do anything to help her she would.)

When it happens, Beatrice finds Ava in her house after not seeing her for more than a few days. When she finds her, Ava’s lying flat on her back and can hardly speak from how swollen her throat is, but she doesn’t look surprised to see Beatrice there. She’s burning with fever, and Beatrice—makes an executive decision. She fills Ava’s water up, makes sure it’s within reach of her, and then, heads back out. 

(She no longer has the freedom to disappear for days at a time.)

The first place she goes is her parents’ house. She moves quickly, covering the distance in half the time it usually takes her, and her mother is the one who answers the door. 

“Ava’s sick again,” Beatrice says tersely; there’s no time for niceties. “Do you have any smelling salts here?”  

Her mother takes a very long time to respond. When she does, it’s with a short nod. She disappears to bring them to her, and it only takes a few minutes but it’s like the world is moving in slow motion. Ava is sick and she needs her and Beatrice has to go. Now’s not the time for disapproval, now’s not the time for Beatrice to worry about anything but Ava. “Thank you,” Beatrice says when her mother returns with the requested items, because never not going to feel the urge to be polite. “I appreciate it.”

Beatrice’s mother says, accusingly, “What will your husband think?” and Beatrice doesn’t even give her a response before she’s out the door. 

(Beatrice is always a disappointment.)

For his part, Beatrice’s husband is incredibly kind about the whole ordeal, as he is with nearly everything, as he is with the rest of Beatrice’s failings. He allows Beatrice to usher Ava inside of their house, stands off to the side as she manhandles her friend into her own bed. Alexius does nothing except but go and fetch her some water, which Beatrice takes with a thankful nod. He nods back, once, and then subsequently disappears for the rest of the day. Beatrice has never once deserved him.

Ava is fever-stricken and delirious, coming in and out of a deep unconsciousness that Beatrice would dislike more if Ava wasn’t so clearly in pain whenever she was conscious. She drifts through her lucid moments like she hardly even knows it’s happening, and even that first day Beatrice knows that this spell will be one of her worse ones. 

Beatrice turns her onto her side whenever she coughs up blood, props her up with pillows when her breathing goes faint. She rinses the boils with water and tries desperately to keep Ava’s fever down. Everything in the world fades out of existence. Nothing matters except Ava, except Ava getting better, except Ava eventually being capable of smiling at her again. 

Five days into her illness, Ava stops breathing. 

She comes back with a sputter, abruptly, after Beatrice pounds on her chest for what feels like hours (but must have only been a matter of seconds), but Ava doesn’t even regain consciousness for another day and a half. When she does wake up enough to be told, all Ava can do is mumble a weak apology. An apology. Ava hadn’t even realized she died. Beatrice stops sleeping. 

Alexius comes and goes, but doesn’t usually stay for long; he brings them water, food, convinces Beatrice to sleep a fitful four hours as long as he’s watching Ava in her stead. It’s clear that he’s never cared for someone like this and his actions are awkward and slow, but he still tries, and Beatrice appreciates him more than she ever has before.

Days pass. Time moves slowly, like the entire world refuses to rush when Ava can’t be on her feet and rushing with it. The sun comes up and goes down in long increments, and Beatrice hardly notices. 

She’s determined—she always is—and she’s always nursed Ava back to health before and it’s inside that confidence with which the end creeps up on them both. 

Beatrice feels it coming, feels it limping closer like a ghastly fifth season, though she tries desperately to ignore it; Ava hasn’t eaten in too long, Ava’s hardly capable of keeping water down, Ava’s thrown up enough of her own blood that Beatrice is half-surprised she still has some left. Then there’s the fact that Ava’s never once before been sick for longer than a week, but this time she’s already been in and out of it for nearly two. 

They’re only delaying the inevitable, and that inevitable is knocking on the door. Beatrice ignores it anyway. 

Until, twelve days after she falls sick, Ava speaks. 

“Hey, Bea,” Ava croaks; the first coherent words she’s spoken in days. 

It’s sometime in the night, maybe even creeping into the early morning, and Beatrice’s entire body seizes as she startles awake. She hadn’t been sleeping, not really, but she’d been close to it, trapped in that eternal daze where all she could hear was the sound of Ava’s short breaths and weak coughs. Outside doesn’t exist. Nothing but this little room exists, nothing but Beatrice and Ava and Ava living. 

She goes to kneel on the floor beside the bed, slipping off her chair with a thud. The movement lacks most of her usual grace, but she’s too exhausted to care. “Ava. What do you need?”

It takes Ava a moment to answer, her throat scratched raw. Beatrice busies herself by dipping the rag into the bucket of water Alexius had brought her, wiping the dampness of it across Ava’s forehead. She tries so hard to be gentle, but Ava still winces at the touch; another headache, then. Beatrice knows the headaches are Ava’s least favorite part; she can stomach the fevers, the chills, the painful lumps that grow along the insides of her arms, but she always complains later about the headaches, though in not so many words. Beatrice wishes she could take it from her, take it into her own head, her own body; she’d take it all if she could. 

This is Beatrice’s problem: Ava speaks for the first time in days, and Beatrice thinks, foolishly, that this is a good sign. 

“Um,” Ava coughs, once. Her eyelids are fluttering; they crack open and she winces again, even though there’s hardly any light. “Water,” she says, her voice a strained whisper, and Beatrice scrambles for the bowl nearby. 

She tilts it to Ava’s lips and surprisingly, the water goes down without any fanfare. Ava swallows like it hurts but she still swallows, Beatrice supporting the back of her head. 

“What else?” Beatrice asks, half-frantic with relief. “Anything.” 

“Help me sit up?”

“I don’t think—” Beatrice falters when Ava sets her jaw, still defiant even half-dead, and relents. “Fine, fine. Just—hold on. Let me get you a pillow,” she says. Her eyes don’t leave Ava’s form for a single second as she roots around for one, and she tries her hardest to be gentle when she slides it behind Ava’s back. For her part, Ava makes a very good effort not to wince. 

Now sitting up properly, Ava leans her head back against the pillow and makes a weak gesture with her hand, beckoning Beatrice closer. Beatrice obeys, lifting herself onto the bed with the utmost of caution, and Ava smiles weakly when she does. 

“Hi, Bea,” she rasps. Beatrice wants to respond, wants to say Hello back, or something else, anything else, but then Ava’s opening her mouth again and Beatrice stays silent. 

Then, horribly, appallingly, the next thing Ava says is: “I love you.” 

And it’s not as if that’s something Beatrice has never heard before. Ava’s said it dozens of times over the years; she’s flirted, teased, joked, she’s used it in every way under the sun. She’s said I love you when she meant See you later. She’s said I love you when she meant I want you to give in and do this thing with me. She’s said I love you in hundreds of ways, with hundreds of meanings. She’s said I love you and only meant I love you. 

Now Ava says I love you and it sounds like Goodbye. 

Beatrice cannot allow that to happen. 

She says, “Ava, shh. Don’t talk. You’re not well enough to be talking right now.” 

“Yeah,” Ava agrees with a cough. “I know. That’s why I’ve got to say it now.” Her gaze, woozy, lands on Beatrice’s own and sticks there; Beatrice draws closer as not to strain her. “I need to—to talk to you now. Before I can’t anymore.” 

A spike of cold fear. “Ava—”

“Bea, come on,” Ava says, interrupting her. “You know I’ve never been worse. It’s never hurt this bad before. I’m so tired,” she croaks, “And I love you, Bea, but I don’t—” Ava dissolves into a coughing fit, and when she pulls back, her hand is stained red. Something deep in Beatrice’s chest clenches. “—I don’t think I can do this much longer,” Ava admits weakly. “Not even for you.” 

No. No, no, no. Not after all this time. Not after how much Ava has done for her. She’s cracking at the seams, Beatrice is, and Ava’s not much better off. Her eyes burn, aching and wet already. She pushes the tears back down. No. 

“Darling,” Beatrice says brokenly, “I don’t know how to be without you.” 

Ava smiles at her and even that just looks pained. A cold stone drops into Beatrice’s stomach, consuming her from the inside out until her entire body is numb and shaking. “You will,” Ava whispers; a promise that they both know Beatrice can never keep. “You’re too smart to let me stop you from living.” 

Beatrice shakes her head. Her fingers scrabble for purchase on Ava’s cold, swollen hands. “Live?” She can hardly breathe. “Ava, you are my life. I can’t even—even fathom existing without you, you’ve been with me since I was eight years old. What am I supposed to do?” 

Take my air, she wants to beg. Take my body, take my lungs, take my blood so that you may live. What do I have if not you? What will be the point of my existence? 

She presses herself closer without a single conscious thought of it, hand wrapping around Ava’s neck to better support her. “Ava,” she says, and her voice breaks, unable to continue on. Beatrice looks at Ava and even like this she’s the most beautiful person Beatrice has ever seen and she’s so close—

Then Ava kisses her. 

Ava kisses her like she’s always wanted, like Beatrice is what she’s always wanted, and Beatrice kisses her back because Ava has always held her heart, even when she didn’t know it. Ava tastes largely of blood and the stale of sickness but Beatrice doesn’t care, pressing closer into her and refusing to pull away even when she needs to breathe. Her lips slide against Ava’s once, twice, three times and Beatrice knows that no one else will ever compare. 

But Ava pulls away, and that’s when Beatrice knows that kiss will be the only one they ever share. Her hands are shaking when they come up to cup Ava’s cheeks. 

The softest of kisses is laid against her forehead. The sound of Ava’s unsteady breathing fills her ears, blocking everything else out. Beatrice drinks in the sound and smell of her as if she’s going to disappear right from under her fingertips. Her chin trembles, entire body seizing with a grief that’s already damn-near overpowering. 

“Ava,” she says again, an unsteady plea. 

“Thank you for being in my life,” Ava says, voice a weak whisper. “You made me so happy.” Then she smiles. “Heh. Hap-Bea,” she says, and Beatrice wants to scream at her, shake her, tell her that now’s not the time for puns of all things, not when Ava is dying in front of her. But she can’t. She can’t get the words out, can’t open her mouth at all. Ava settles back against the pillow, spent. Then her eyelids flutter shut. 

She goes to sleep like that, curled up in Beatrice’s arms, her breaths coming fainter and fainter as Beatrice breathes with her until she can’t. She doesn’t wake up again. 

Beatrice doesn’t cry. 

♱ ♱

Alexius is the one who finds her after Ava’s body is taken away for good. He finds her sitting in her room on the bed—sitting where Ava had slipped away from her forever—and he sits down next to her. He doesn’t touch her (he never touches her). 

It had been a horrid day. Like Beatrice’s wedding before it, the ceremony for celebrating Ava’s life had been large and horrifically ugly. Beatrice’s parents had come; Ava’s friends, too. Beatrice had then commissioned an artist to paint a picture of Ava and she already knows that he’s going to get her wrong, that he’s going to portray her as something she’s not. She also knows for a fact that Ava would hate it. But Beatrice has all this money—she needed to use it for something, so she had. For Ava, always. 

“You know,” says her husband, “I only met Ava a handful of times, but I always liked her. She had this way of—of lighting up a room, yeah? Like the human embodiment of a sun. I thought she was one of the kindest people.”

Not the sun, Beatrice wants to say. A god. Someone who’d seen the worst in people and still managed to smile every day. Someone who made me smile every day. Wouldn’t that be the most powerful person of all?

Realistically, Ava hadn’t been very powerful. She’d barely been a person, existing only in Beatrice’s presence and a select few others. Hardly anyone even knew her name. She’d lived her life as freely as she could, but had always been hindered by the unfairness of her own circumstances. Despite that, she had never once regarded Beatrice’s own (substantially better) life with bitterness or disdain. 

She’d still been the most real thing Beatrice had ever had. 

“I—loved her,” Beatrice says, and her voice cracks on the word. It’s not the first time she’s said it—not even close—but it is the first time she’s saying it to someone other than herself. Other than Ava. She doesn’t know if Alexius understands, but she also doesn’t care. Nothing matters anymore. “I loved her so much,” she says, and it’s the truest thing she’s ever put to words. 

I loved her like how flowers turn towards the sun but can never touch it, like the gods watch us from far above. I loved her when I couldn’t feel anything else. She deserved the world and everything in it, and the world gave her nothing at all. 

She loved Ava fruitlessly, and Ava loved her in return. Beatrice knows that. She’s always known, maybe, but ignored it. She had to. 

(That’s the worst part of all.)

For his part, Alexius does nothing but nod. “Yeah,” he says. “I know.” 

Perhaps it’s that, then; his quiet understanding (acceptance?), or perhaps it’s that Beatrice has only just been able to put it to words in front of someone potentially dangerous, someone with the ability to ruin her if he were struck by the urge. It’s that and it’s the fact that Ava is gone (which hits her anew every other moment) and it’s everything all brimming up at once in such a way that the ache in her chest finally reaches its boiling point. Tears begin to blur her vision, and this time she doesn’t even try to stop them. 

Beatrice finally lets herself cry and tries not to break at the seams. 

Alexius wraps one arm around her shoulders (the first time they’ve touched since the wedding; it’s significant, maybe) and he holds her. He holds her and he doesn’t say another word and Beatrice lets him. 

Somehow, disrespectfully, the world keeps turning. Beatrice doesn’t get sick, and neither does Alexius. Beatrice ends up cutting ties with her parents for the most part, and they seem content to let her. Alexius is always kind, and Beatrice turns a blind eye to his own endeavors as well. He still never once asks for more than what they share (which remains very little), and he still never touches her without making sure she’s aware beforehand.

Eventually he tells her why, though not in as many words: months after Ava’s death, Alexius ends up introducing her to a friend of his; a man—Tero—and he doesn’t say it, but it’s only then when Beatrice finally understands why their marriage is so strange. 

Tero is to Alexius as Ava was to Beatrice, if maybe a touch more self-aware about it. It’s in the way Tero orbits around her, the way he looks at her, cautious, like she’s something to be feared, or worse; pitied . It’s the way he looks at Alexius: fearful, still, but in a horribly familiar way, like he’d die for him, like he knows Alexius would die for him. 

Beatrice understands, finally, and that month Beatrice grieves even worse (because she could have. She could have taken the step and she didn’t even know). 

And with that freedom, eventually there are other women. It takes a long time to get to that point, but there are. Beatrice loves again, though fleetingly, like there’s only a finite time she can care about another person. None of them last very long. 

None of them are Ava. 

Chapter Text

close to despair

Lisbon [1147 AD]

(The first day)

In the twenty-fourth, Ava is twenty-three and a Knight of the Holy Order.

Well. Technically she’s a Dame. But saying she’s a Knight is a lot more cool and people who aren’t other Knights tend to get confused when she calls herself a Dame, so she doesn’t tend to refer to herself in that way. 

Ava is twenty-three, a Knight of the Holy Order, and she has a fucking mission to undertake. 

Now she stands on the beach alongside the rest of her company, staring up at the high walls and heavy doors of Lisbon, and she thinks, Soon. 

Ava’s always measured her life in moments of time. She’d spent six years in the before, then seventeen in the interim. Now she’s close to the after, to the moment that she’s spent those seventeen years working towards, and she’s honestly not quite sure how to handle it. There’s a nervous energy under her skin, one that’s hard to hide. It helps that her fellow Knights are nervous, too, if for a different reason. She can pass it off as normal pre-battle jitters, or residual seasickness from their long trip across the ocean. She’s made the journey before—most of her comrades haven’t—but she doesn’t remember it enough to know if the intense nausea she’d experienced this time was new or not. 

They’re still not actually in Lisbon yet, but they will be soon. The great King Alfonso has provided them more men and supplies, promised them the goods of the city if taken. The plan is to attack in two days time, some thirteen-thousand men plus whoever Alfonso is bringing, under the cover of nightfall. Officially, they’re here to rid the world of things that the King—and the Pope, especially the Pope, always the goddamned Pope—says are wrong: the wrong religions, the wrong ways of celebrating God and His One True Word. 

The wrong people. 

Perhaps they’ll never even make it through those stone walls, perhaps they’ll fail. They certainly have been doing that recently. Ava’s not even sure she knows what a victory looks like, not from the company’s view. This Crusade has been no bloodier than the one that happened before she was born, but it surely has been less successful. 

Until now, Ava thinks. Probably. 

She has a bad feeling about this particular attack; a good feeling, if you look at it another way. She has a feeling that despite their track record, this siege will be a success, and if the siege is a success then she has to move. 

The first problem: Ava has to sneak out of camp without anyone noticing. 

She’s fairly confident about that bit. No one really pays attention to her in the company; she sticks to herself to avoid the kind men and handles herself well enough to avoid the men who would be less so. Ava can’t do friends, even if she’d very much like to. Not here. 

The camp they’ve haphazardly set up only holds her own company but there’s dozens of camps popping up all over the beach; some are spilling perilously close to the city, but Ava would be surprised if the armies of Lisbon—staggeringly low-numbered against this war party—are planning on anything other than barring their doors and hoping the crusaders go away. They’ve set up standard spikes and dragged some underbrush in some sort of rounded square, and Ava already hates it here. 

Firstly, because it’s hot, even at night (and they don’t have any cover) and secondly because it’s loud. Ava should be used to this by now, having just recently been stuck on a boat with many of the same people, but for some reason there’s a new timbre to their voices now that they’re back on dry land. The only saving grace is that she’s not going to be here for very long. 

There are men all crowded around the perimeter of her camp, some laughing and some drinking and some sleeping, so it stands to reason that it’s easiest to sneak out through the front of it, which is only guarded by one Knight. And then there’s the second problem. 

The second problem: the Knight who’s guarding the perimeter of their camp tonight is Dame Beatrice Xin. 

Dame Beatrice Xin, who may very well be the most talented warrior that the Church has ever seen (not that she’s gotten credit for it). Sometimes Ava forgets to breathe when she looks at her. You know, normal things. 

Most of all she knows about Beatrice Xin is that she’s a formidable warrior. Ava’s met her a few times, but always sparsely; it’s odd to have even one woman in any company, so having two here made Ava less of a target to the assholes, which is appreciated. She’s not specifically sought Beatrice out for much of the same reasons: it’d put an even bigger target on both of their backs. 

Besides, it’s not like Ava has any friends in this company, but Beatrice does. Ava sees her talking with them often, sees them joking around; though she’s never once seen Beatrice smile, she has a feeling that they have. It kind of stings, if she’s being completely honest, although she has no reason to be hurt like that. She’s known of Beatrice for years; knows she’s one of the most talented fighters the Church has ever seen, knows her chivalry and devotion is second to none. 

A formidable warrior and a good leader; Beatrice is not the leading superiority in this company, but she very much should be (everyone knows she’s leagues better than their commander, Sir Alaric, but she’s a she and so officially she’s not even second-in-command). Instead, she works as one of the main strategists, though she also draws her own sword when the time comes to fight. She’s absolutely terrifying, and for more than one reason.

(The night before their last siege—which had been a failure, but had come closer to victory than any others before—Beatrice had been crouched by the same firepit that Ava had taken her own seat for; Beatrice and her friends. They did not speak to each other—Ava did not speak to anyone—but at one point Ava had made a noise—she doesn’t even remember what, she was laughing at something, maybe—and Beatrice had looked at her for a solid ten seconds. 

When Beatrice met her gaze over the pit, her eyes were heady and dark and gleaming exquisitely in the firelight; Ava had eventually been the one to look away, shuffling closer to the flickering flames so she could pass off the shiver that ran down her spine as if she was just feeling cold.

She didn’t know if Beatrice was fooled.)

Tonight, Ava sidles up to her with all the friendliness she can generate, stepping harshly to alert Beatrice of her presence. She knows she doesn’t have a chance in Hell in catching her off guard like this, so she’ll have to play the long game. Ava takes a deep breath and steps up so that she’s leaning with her arms draped over the wooden beam they’re using as a makeshift fence. Beatrice is standing with her back to the beam, and Ava positions herself so that they’ve still got a foot or so of distance. 

Shooting her a glance, Beatrice dips her head to her respectfully, turning slightly from her position to better face her. “Silvas.” 

“Xin.” Ava releases a small sigh, staring off into the night. “Spotted any movement out there?” 

“None yet,” Beatrice reports. Ava can feel her eyes tracing studiously over the side of her face, trying to figure her out. Already this is the longest they’ve ever talked. Ava’s heart is threatening to pound itself right out of her chest, and she hopes Beatrice can’t tell. “Can I help you, Silvas?” 

Ava shrugs in response, trying to make the movement casual. “I can’t sleep, so I thought I’d make myself useful. We’ve got a big day tomorrow, you know? Lots of nerves. There’s a lot riding on this one,” she says, as if Beatrice doesn’t know, and stretches out her forearms as if they’d gotten stiff when she was (definitely) sleeping. “It’s not like we’ve been doing great up ‘til now.” 

It takes Beatrice a moment to reply. “Tyranny is a harsh battle,” she says eventually. “No matter how many battles we lose, we’ll win the war eventually. I have no doubt.” 

A very typical answer, if a little on the nose, and Ava has no doubt that Beatrice had been dead serious. Ava capitalizes on that; casual confidence is a good sign for her. She’s never seen Beatrice relaxed, but surely it’s got to happen at some point, right? No one can live their entire life and never let their guard down at all (right?). 

Before Ava can say something else and continue the conversation, something happens out in the distance and there’s a crack of a twig breaking; it’s an animal, most likely, but the sound still has Beatrice’s head snapping forward, squinting as she surveys the surrounding area with new interest. It’s the best chance she’s ever going to get, and Ava knows it. 

Without missing a beat, she reaches over the fence, slides Beatrice’s sword out of her belt, and flings it somewhere behind her head in what is quite possibly the most coordinated movement she’s ever committed in her life. Before Beatrice can react, Ava’s other hand is finding its way to the back of Beatrice’s head, shoving it down as she vaults the fence. 

Beatrice’s forehead collides harshly with her own knee, drawn up in a flinch, and she crumples to the ground before she can even fight back. Ava’s quick to land on her, fishing for the dagger that she knows is on Beatrice’s person somewhere. She finds it tucked inside Beatrice’s sleeve, and throws that away, too. 

“You’re—” Beatrice gapes at her from where her chin is pressed into the ground, woozy from the hit to her head. She had not been expecting another Knight to attack her; Ava’d guessed that correctly, and she uses that assumption to her advantage. 

She gasps for air, scrambling to her feet and hoisting the weight of her sword into the air. Beatrice lays prone beneath her, too caught off guard to even flinch away. Her muscle memory kicks in before her brain can catch up, but Ava steps on Beatrice’s raising arm before it can connect to anything solid. Gotta finish this fast before she alerts the others, Ava thinks; and then, sorry, as she begins to swing down. 

“Don’t follow me,” she says, right before she drives the hilt of her sword into Beatrice’s temple.

♱ ♱

(The second day)

Beatrice is following her. 

Ava knows that much by the time the sun rises, having been walking ever since. The trek from their camp to Lisbon would have only been an hour at most, but she doesn’t particularly feel like dealing with the might of the company when they attack, which is soon. She’d instead elected to circle the city and sneak in somewhere near the back, away from where the fighting will be. 

The only problem with this idea is that it takes a lot longer, she has to walk off the trail in order to avoid any other travelers (or citizens fleeing the city because of her company; whoops), and also Beatrice is following her. 

The good thing about Beatrice following her is that she’s the only one. She likely hadn’t had time to alert anyone else of Ava’s desertion before she’d begun to track her, and as such she alone won’t be as big of a problem if she’d gone and gotten others. 

On the other hand, the bad thing about Beatrice following her is that she’s clearly making no attempt to hide it. She’s not ever in sight, of course, but Ava still catches glimpses when she takes some corners. A flash of black robes here, a glint of a blade hitting the sun just right there. Beatrice isn’t even trying, and that means Beatrice is confident.

And Ava has fought enough battles under Beatrice’s command to know that that confidence is anything but misplaced (granted: they’d lost every battle thus far, but as far she knows, none of those has ever been Beatrice’s fault. They’d probably lost in spite of Beatrice). She has to lose her. 

She gets her chance when the dusty trail tapers into thick forest, half a mile after she first spots her stalker. As soon as she’s under the cover of the trees (which feels really nice, because it’s hot as balls in the sun), Ava suddenly picks up speed, darting down the trail as fast as she can. Her sword swings out as she runs but she doesn’t bother to stop and fasten it better; there’s no time. She sprints through the trees for a moment, then picks a random point on the horizon and abruptly changes direction. 

Ava stays within eyesight of the trail because she’s not here to get lost forever, but she gets as far away as she can. She crouches down and flattens herself against a particularly thorny bush—ow—and tries to slow her breathing, tries not to make a single sound. 

Surely Beatrice will just assume she continued on. Surely Beatrice will go past her, and then Ava will have options for what she wants to do. 

She’s right. Sure enough, quick, jogging footsteps begin to reach her ears, and she hunkers down deeper into the bush as the person—Beatrice, it’s Beatrice, it has to be Beatrice—runs right past her. She’d seen Ava speed up, but she hadn’t seen her deviate from the trail. Ava’s so cool. She’d tricked Beatrice. 

Ava grins only when it’s been quiet for a few minutes after. She still resists the urge to pump her first in the air because it’d totally give away her position, but she does allow herself a single, whispered, “Fuck yeah!” 

Then she freezes when there’s a crackle of a snapping twig, as if responding to her victory cry. Ava stops breathing; the fuck yeah still fading away from her voice. The worst part is that it’d come from behind her. In front of her is the trail, but behind her is just more forest. Just forest, for miles and miles and miles. There’s no reason for anyone to be there. The only reason there’d be someone there is if Beatrice had circled back around. 

Oh, Ava thinks, a horrible feeling dawning in her stomach, I haven’t lost her at all. 

Then she’s running once more. 

Backwards, as to confuse Beatrice. Quickly, as to (hopefully) put some space in between them. Moving panickedly, which isn’t a tactic but because she’s fucking terrified. She bolts right back out of the forest—and the sun hits her right in the eyes because the universe is just having a laugh at her today, isn’t it—and keeps running. 

There had been a little house off on the side of the road, a few minutes of walking back. It’s the only place to hide—save for the forest, dammit—within three miles. Ava runs towards the house. 

It’s an obvious spot, but maybe she can set up an ambush, or something. Anything’s better than being the one snuck up on. The interior of the house—once she jams the front door open—is tiny; a little cooking area to the right, a bed crammed in the corner to the left. Ava leans her head back against the wall, taking a few deep breaths to try and calm her racing heart. She hopes the owner of this shack isn’t home. That’d be awkward. 

It doesn’t even take a minute before she hears Beatrice start to come up to the house. She’s moving slowly and methodically, like she’s got all the time in the world, and Ava tries not to be offended by that. 

Beatrice says, voice muffled by the closed door, “You’re going to make me come in there and find you?” and oh, she sounds angry. Getting hit twice in the head will probably do that to someone, Ava figures. 

“Give it up, Xin!” Ava shouts back. “You know you can’t stop me on your own.”

It’s a weak bluff, and they both know it. Ava’s no delicate fighter by any means, but Beatrice has a higher command than her for a reason, and she has no desire to challenge why. Still, she’d beaten her once before and she’s confident that if push comes to shove, she can do it again. She can also ignore the fact that the last time she’d had the element of surprise on Beatrice and very much does not have that now. It’s fine. 

“I don’t want to kill you,” Beatrice says sternly, and completely ignores Ava’s challenge in its entirety. Rude. 

“Forgive me if I don’t quite believe that,” Ava shoots back. “You can’t just, like, let me run away?” 

“I dislike cowards.”

Beatrice’s voice is moving now, staying steady as she creeps closer, but Ava can’t hear her well enough to work out where exactly she is. She flattens her back against the wood of the door and holds her sword so tightly her fingers feel numb. “I’m not a coward,” she says, if only to keep Beatrice talking.

“Aren’t you?” 

Suddenly Beatrice there, melting out of the shadows in front of her like she’d become part of them in the short amount of time Ava had lost track of her. She rears out of the darkness—Ava hadn’t even realized she was inside, how the Hell— and Ava only just has enough time to draw her weapon. Their swords come together with a terrifying clang, and the fight is on. 

Beatrice is a storm of movement, power radiating from her every move and attack, and it’s all Ava can do to keep up with her. The speed she sets is punishing; she’s fairly cavalier about her own limbs, and at some point Ava has to duck in order to not get elbowed in the face. 

She throws herself into the fight, defending Beatrice’s attacks with the same ferocity she’s being shown and trying her best to create openings for her to strike, too. Ava does well, too, and maybe now is not the time but Ava’s so proud of herself because she’s not actually losing—

Because Beatrice is good but so is Ava and even having been surprised she’s able to hold her own in a scrap and the wall is still at her back which is kind of irritating for movement but good because it helps her stand her ground and the only real problem is—

Ava had forgotten about the dagger. 

During a close lunge that Ava only barely parries, Beatrice’s other hand extends in a flash. The second blade digs into her wrist with perfect accuracy; pain lances through her fingers, and Ava drops her sword with a clatter, swearing loudly. She realizes her mistake as soon as she makes it, but by then it’s far too late and Beatrice is on her before she can even cover the wound with her other hand. Her blade comes up close (way, way, way too close) and Ava’s back hits the wall. Fuck. 

“Wait— wait!” Ava flinches away as best she can while still pinned, heart in her throat. “Hear me out!” 

Clearly confident but still maddeningly cautious, Beatrice presses closer with a slow and methodical watchfulness; the tip of her sword connects lightly with Ava’s chin, and she lifts it back (fruitlessly, because Beatrice only comes even closer after that). “Why should I? You’re a traitor,” she says roughly, which, fair. “You won’t receive mercy back at camp, if that’s what you’re thinking.” 

“Because, uh—” Admittedly, Ava can’t think of a reason. Apparently being inches from death will do that to a person. “Because I’m one of yours! You don’t want to kill me,” she says, which may be the biggest stretch she’s ever made in her life. “You’re mad—I get it! I’d be mad, too! But don’t kill me.” 

“What,” Beatrice says, “do you want me to do?”

Incredibly, there’s a hint of a laugh in her voice when she asks, like Ava is confounding her by the mere request to live. Ava pounces on that, ready to exploit any potential weakness. 

“Let me go?” she suggests weakly. If Beatrice finds her funny, she can be funny. She can be goddamn hilarious. 

“I can’t do that.”

“Then—come with me,” she blurts out. “I’m going to the city. Come with me and you can make sure I don’t run.” Beatrice’s brow furrows, though her arm doesn’t waver. Ava tries not to breathe too deeply considering the blade that’s still threatening to draw blood, pressed up against the side of her jaw. She says, all too aware of that fact, “Do we have a deal?” 

Beatrice still doesn’t move; unfortunately, all humor has faded from her face. “Where are you going? The city I know. Where specifically?” 

She cannot be allowed to see where Ava’s going. She can’t even know. But Ava has no choice but to go along with her now. Maybe she can slip away from her later—she’ll have to slip away from her later—but she cannot afford to end this before she’s even made it to the city. 

“Just—let me show you,” Ava says, practically pleading. “Please just go along with this. I don’t want to die.”

She really doesn’t want to die. Not now. Not ever, but especially not now, not when she’s so close. Ava’s worked too damn hard to get to this point and it’d just be rude for the universe to screw her when she’s finally on the cusp of victory (and not to mention embarrassing). She’ll lose Beatrice sometime in the city, before she reaches the house. So long as she reaches the house and Beatrice doesn’t. 

For her part, Beatrice ponders the offer for a moment before making a decision. Little flashes of emotion trickle across her face—too quick for Ava to catch anything concrete—until her expression falls back into its typical stony appearance. 

…If she’s honest, Ava really doesn’t expect to get a good answer here. That’s why she doesn’t relax, not even when the tip of Beatrice’s sword comes down from Ava’s chin. That could very well just mean that Beatrice is backtracking so that she’ll be able to go in for a deathblow with more momentum, and Ava’s not one to count her chickens before they’ve hatched. She holds her breath. 

Then Beatrice steps back and says, “Lead the way.” 

And hey, Ava will fucking take that. 

Beatrice says Lead the way so that’s exactly what she does: Ava finds the trail again and walks. She checks behind her a few times as she goes, and while Beatrice doesn’t have her sword out, Ava feels it all the same; the cold steel pressing in between her shoulder blades, cutting just enough to cause a sting but not draw blood. It’s a physical-enough feeling that Ava has to shiver, and she tries her best to hide it. Can’t show weakness. That’s, like, rule number one of the chivalry handbook. 

(She has to give up her own sword, though. Beatrice refuses to let her have it for the journey, which sucks, but whatever. Beatrice slings Ava’s weapon over her own shoulder and doesn’t even look like the weight of it affects her at all. Maybe it doesn’t. Ava wraps her bloodied hand in a cloth and tries not to be impressed.)

♱ ♱

The remaining walk to the city takes them less than an hour, though it feels a lot longer. Beatrice is silent the whole way, which doesn’t help with the tension that’s going on, but whatever. Ava bites her tongue so that she doesn’t say something stupid. 

When they reach the city walls, they spend a little bit of time scouting around to find a crack big enough to grant them access. Beatrice says, “We’ll have to change,” because they’ll be killed on sight if they go inside with their armor on, and Ava, forgetting that she needs to watch her mouth, replies with, “You can leave your weapons here, too!”

Beatrice does not leave her weapons.

Ava watches Beatrice take the dagger that’d been her undoing out of her cloak and drop it down into her boot; she wonders if it’s normal for someone to dislike a piece of steel. 

This is when she starts to give the game away: Ava slips up and forgets to act as if she doesn’t know exactly where she’s going. The route to her destination is still going to take another day of walking, but she loses track of her situation almost the moment they’re inside the city. 

To her surprise, she knows exactly which direction to pick, confidence growing as she breathes in the bustle of the streets. Ava doesn’t remember this area exactly (it’s a long trek from her goal anyways) but it’s so familiar that it almost feels like she does. 

That’s her mistake, because she forgets she’s not supposed to know. 

And eventually Beatrice says, during a time where they’ve ducked under some bridge, “Wait.” 

Ava stops dead in her tracks (hopefully: not literally) and turns to face her as Beatrice looks all around. She looks at Ava, at the winding, nonsensical streets that Ava had flawlessly (she hopes) been maneuvering them through. Beatrice knows the city, and Ava shouldn’t. Ava doesn’t, full stop, but she has a strange sort of muscle memory. That combined with the few maps she could get her hands on have made her far more confident than she should be about navigating this place. 

She knows Beatrice is finally understanding; Ava watches as the answer slowly dawns on her. She wonders, vaguely, if Beatrice won’t just cut her down here once and for all. She hopes not. That would suck. 

Then Beatrice says, “You were born here in Lisbon,” and it’s not a question. 

And Ava says: “Yeah.” 

Because there’s no point in lying any longer. If Beatrice continues with her—and Ava’s half-certain that’s what she’s going to do—then it’s only a matter of time before she gets her proof anyways, and Ava doesn’t think telling the truth now can hurt her more than if she lies and gets found out later. She meets Beatrice’s eyes for a long moment; wonders if she’d have enough time to run if Beatrice decided to rid the world of her. She waits and contemplates her own mortality and her fingers are twitching nervously on her belt when Beatrice finally gives her a sign: she orders, “Elaborate.” 

So Ava says, “My parents sent me away when it got too dangerous—there was a lot of infighting going on. It was bad. They tricked me,” she admits, the familiar burn of anger igniting in her chest, “I didn’t realize what they were doing until it was too late—I was already out of the country by then. Ever since then I’ve been trying to make my way back here.” 

“And the Church?” Beatrice probes. “Was it all a lie?”

This is when it gets dangerous. Lie, Ava’s brain suggests. Lie and tell her no. Stay alive and do whatever you need to do. 

But she’s tired of lying, and Beatrice hasn’t killed her yet. So she just shrugs. “Yeah, kind of. I’m definitely not here to kill the Church’s enemies. This career is just very convenient for someone who needed to travel.” 

“Yes,” Beatrice says quietly. “I suppose it would be. I’m assuming, then, that you still have family here? Are they the reason you snuck away?”

“I’m not going to let them be slaughtered by the Church,” Ava replies firmly. “I’m going to take them and run, and you’ll never have to see me again.” 

“If I let you go.”

She takes a deep breath, holds it between her teeth like it’ll be her last. “If you let me go.” 

“I thought you were trying to convince me not to kill you,” Beatrice says flatly. A joke, which is a good sign? Ava hopes. 

“Well,” Ava says, floundering for a response, “yeah. Is it working?”

It takes her a moment to respond, which for Ava feels like a half-hour at its shortest. She tries not to fidget, tries to fight the instinctive response to take a step back from the danger, to surge forward and catch it off guard, to draw her own sword and defend herself. She very pointedly does not do any of those things, because she’s fairly certain any one of them would result in her own death. But she thinks about them. 

Then Beatrice says, “I can’t just let you go like this,” and Ava tenses, because she can’t go back, not now, not when she’s so close, but Beatrice is still going. “But I can understand your commitment to your family. I’ll let you get them out of the city,” she goes on, and Ava knows what she’s about to end with a half-second before she says it. “But then you’ll come back with me for a proper trial.” 

So Ava… weighs her options. 

Option one: Fight. She wouldn’t win. 

Option two: Run. She’s faster than Beatrice maybe, but she doesn’t remember the city well enough to be confident about losing her—all she does remember, vaguely, is the way to her parents’ house, which would not help in leading Beatrice away—and she’s well aware that Beatrice had studied the map they’d had of Lisbon religiously (ha) before embarking on this mission. Beatrice knows how to get around this place, and Ava doesn’t. Not yet. 

Option three: Accept the terms and figure out a way to get free later. Her best option, probably. Surely there’s going to be a point where she can get away, either before or after she’s finally met back up with her family. Surely. 

And option four: Accept the terms, get her parents out of the city, and go back with Beatrice for a proper trial. This would be the last-case scenario for obvious reasons, so Ava pushes it to the back of her mind and makes a decision. 

“Fine. But we have to hurry,” Ava tells her. “We’re running late, and I don’t feel like dying right now.” She pauses, then, an awful thought striking her. “Beatrice,” she says (and it doesn’t occur to her until later that this is the first time she uses her first name), “the company wouldn’t speed up their timetable if they realize I’ve run, would they?”

Beatrice ponders it for a moment. “It’s not likely. Their plans rest too heavily on the cover of nightfall to change things on such short notice. And there’s only the two of us,” she adds, looking a tad disgruntled. “I suspect Alaric won’t be too unsettled by our disappearance.” 

“Not even yours?” Ava’s surprised. “And here I thought he couldn’t do anything without you being there to hold his hand.”

She gets a surprisingly weary sigh in return. “I’d be surprised if he can use the bathroom without me there,” Beatrice says, and then clamps her mouth shut. Then, even more bitterly, “Don’t forget that they’re going to think I ran, too.” 

She sounds rather angry for someone who’d very much agreed to do exactly what she’s doing. Ava frowns and resists the urge to tell her she can always go back. “But your friends—they’ll know you better than that, right? They’ll defend you until you get back.” 

“My—” Beatrice raises her head to meet her gaze, something like confusion striking deep in her eyes. “Who are you talking about? I have no one to defend me, let alone my honor.”

Now it’s Ava’s turn to be confused. “But—the like, five other Knights you’re always hanging around with. I see them joking with you all the time.” 

“Those five other Knights are the ones I work with to plan our sieges,” Beatrice says. “They don’t care about me. They hardly even talk to me. They just stick around me because they have to.” Then, “Do you often watch me?” 

Ava freezes, unable to read her tone. “I—pay attention to everyone in my company,” she says in response, as if she could definitely tell her the names and talents of the other men she’d been spending all her time with. Which she absolutely could, if given enough time. Maybe. “I notice things,” she says then, which only makes her sound like she’s grasping at straws. “I—whatever, look, we’ve got to go. We’re losing sunlight.” 

“Right,” says Beatrice hollowly, and no more. 

When Ava turns back around to start leading them back into the busy streets—that only seem to grow more crowded the longer they stay walking, no matter the time of day—her face burns, and she pretends that’s because of the sun. 

Eventually they find their way into some back alleyway; they’ve been trying to stick to roads like this to stay out of sight and while it’s not always possible it is now, and in a stroke of genius, Ava pokes her head out to listen around before automatically leaving the relative safety of it. 

Ava stiffens when she hears them. 

There are soldiers coming. Three of them, if she’s hearing it right, and they’re going to pass the alleyway in less than five seconds. They’re certainly not Knights—as if that would be any better—and they’re all big; that much she can tell by the way their boots sink into the ground. Ava reacts defensively and on instinct, shoving Beatrice against the wall to hide her from any leering eyes. She presses in close herself, trying to make them as small as possible. 

“Ava—"

“Shush!” Ava fastens her hand over Beatrice’s mouth and holds it there, straining her ears. The three pairs of footsteps continue on as if taking a leisurely stroll, passing them without so much as a stutter. Still, Ava relaxes only when she can’t hear them anymore. “Okay,” she says quietly, after waiting another few seconds to be sure, “I think we’re good.” 

When Beatrice speaks again, her voice comes out as if she’s been recently strangled. “Ava.” 

And Ava truly hadn’t meant anything by it, had only been thinking of getting out of sight of the soldiers, but now that they’re gone and Beatrice’s voice is the only thing she can hear, she realizes, abruptly, the position she’s unthinkingly put them in. 

They’re standing so close that their chests are pressed together, Ava’s legs in between Beatrice’s and Ava’s hand still covering Beatrice’s mouth. She’s warm everywhere they’re touching, hot points popping up all over—her hand, her torso; her knee, leaning against Beatrice’s hip—and making Ava want to wiggle away (she really, really hopes she isn’t sweating). Ava’s own head sits at a rather awkward angle, unconsciously tilted towards the side of Beatrice’s face, and she finds that the freckles dusted across Beatrice’s cheekbones seem to continue all the way back to her ears. 

Suddenly frozen, Ava also finds that she can’t move. Thank God Beatrice can, because otherwise they’d be there all day. 

“We—should carry on,” Beatrice says roughly, pushing Ava away like she’s burnt her. Her ears are dusted with pink, Ava notes, and she finds that she can’t tear her eyes away, following the flush down the side of Beatrice’s neck until it disappears under the dark fabric of her collar. “Before they come back.”

“Right,” Ava says blankly. Her brain has vacated the premises and crash-landed on another planet, maybe; it’s certainly nowhere within the city walls accompanying her. “Of course.”

Beatrice moves without another word, striding off with such a speed that Ava has to scramble to follow her (something that is also kind of impressive, considering that Beatrice has no idea where they’re going). She pauses at the end of the alley and takes longer than Ava would think is the norm to survey the oncoming road. Then she steps out, and without looking at Ava, gestures to her to lead the way. 

If the situation were any less perilous, if Beatrice wasn’t still jumpy (Ava’s fault, maybe. She refuses to think as to why) and if Ava herself weren’t still half-afraid she’d kill her if she stepped even the slightest out of line, she’d maybe make a joke. Certainly tease. She wouldn’t have expected the great Dame Beatrice to be so easily flustered. 

…Huh, Ava thinks as she goes to follow, a heat of her own tingling up her spine. Well, shit. 

♱ ♱

The awkward air doesn't stick around, thank God. There’s no time to be awkward, not when everyone around them is an enemy, not when they’re neck deep in a city that would tear them apart the moment it realizes who they are. There’s no time for awkwardness when Ava is trusting Beatrice to weave them through these alleyways, out of sight of civilians; no time for it when Beatrice is (assumedly) trusting Ava not to turn tail and abandon her in the middle of the city (not that Ava could, but she hopes Beatrice doesn’t know that part).

(There’s no time for awkwardness, but Ava thinks of how Beatrice had looked so close up almost every other second. She can’t stop it. It replays in her head on a constant loop, igniting a new warmth every time. It’s annoying.) 

They walk through the day. Ava tries to keep to the shade, because it’s hot, but sometimes that’s not an option and she can already feel the burns beginning to form on her shoulders. They don’t stop to eat—Ava steals a melon halfway through the day, then rethinks the decision and swipes another one right out from under the vendor’s nose; hands it to Beatrice without a word—and they don’t stop. They walk and they dodge soldiers and merchants alike and they do not speak to each other. Ava says This way a few times, and Beatrice always responds with a hmm or a grunt in return. Nothing else. 

Eventually, they do have to stop, if only to rest. Ava manages to find a way up onto someone’s rooftop, after making sure there’s no way for the people inside the building to get up to the top. It’s a cramped, flat space, where Ava can hardly move if she doesn’t want to brush up against Beatrice, but it’ll do for a night. Neither of them eat again; they have some food, but it’s best to wait until morning. They settle without a word, Ava balling up the one robe she’d kept to place it under head. She doesn’t look to see how Beatrice gets ready to sleep, keeps her back to her (which probably isn’t the best idea, but whatever) and takes deep breaths.

But the sun hasn’t even yet fallen, and Ava can’t sleep. 

That’s because she can’t stop thinking about what’s happening back at the beach. They must have started to move by now, preparing for the siege and building up the defenses. Soldiers are sharpening their swords, putting on their armor. Waiting to receive the order. Waiting to die, waiting to kill others. 

“It’s tonight,” Ava says. “The attack.”

Beatrice says, “Yes.” Despite the fact that they haven’t spoken, she doesn’t seem surprised by the topic. She also doesn’t sound like she’s lying down, her voice coming from higher up, somewhere above Ava’s shoulder. 

“Are you upset about missing it?”

She ponders that for a moment. “I’m not sure,” she says finally, which is a far more honest-sounding answer than Ava had expected. “I’ve been working on the plan for this siege for months. I wish I was there to see it carried out. Strategy can be beautiful, and there is nothing more beautiful than a dozen different squadrons all moving in tandem with each other.” 

Voice sharp, Ava asks, “And what about the people inside the city?”

Beatrice falls silent for a long moment. “I do not—I don’t enjoy killing people. I hardly even have,” she admits eventually, tense. “But they’re—we have our orders, and we have our duties to carry out. Everything else is white noise.”

“Do you ever think of the ones you have killed?” Ava asks suddenly, unplanned.

She does. She’s done her fair share of carnage. If she ever decides she believes in God—which is a big if —she’s fairly certain she’ll be sent to Hell just for the atrocities she’s committed in His name. It’s backwards and inside-out, but she has a feeling that’s just religion. Nothing is ever really right. Ava remembers every single person she’s ever personally killed, and she’ll never be able to forget them. 

Beatrice speaks next, her voice is cold. “Yes.” 

And leaves it at that. Ava lets the subject drop. 

They lay there in silence. Ava doesn’t try to start another conversation and Beatrice isn’t going to do it, but it’s still not awkward, even if it maybe should be. Ava still doesn’t sleep, but she tries to relax her muscles, tense from the dramatics of the day. 

“I’ll keep watch,” Beatrice offers eventually, once the sun has completely disappeared from sight. It’s getting steadily cooler, but the dropping temperature shouldn’t be a problem tonight, not in the middle of July. “You get some sleep. We’ll continue on at dawn.”

Ava frowns, irritated by the implication that she can’t take a little sleep deprivation. “You had guard duty last night,” she says in response. “Neither of us have slept. Let me take a shift at some point.”

Something in Beatrice’s face tightens at the suggestion, and that’s when Ava realizes why. “Oh,” she says. “You don’t trust me not to just run.” 

“Or not to stab me in my sleep,” Beatrice snaps back, though the sting in her tone is lessened by the fact that she sighs directly afterward. “Just… sleep, Silvas. I’ve gone longer without it than this. I’ll be fine.” 

But now Ava’s riled up, stubbornness setting in the creak of her jaw. She says, trying to be firm, “And here I thought you’d wake up if I even tried to sneak to my sword. Getting soft, Xin?” 

“You are—” Beatrice sighs pointedly. “ — inherently annoying.” 

“And I’m not going to sleep until you at least agree to trade off shifts tonight,” Ava says stubbornly, unable to give the battle up. It’s only fair, and I promise I won’t stab you in your sleep.” 

“Yes,” says Beatrice, now sharp in a new way, “because your vows are clearly something you are reliable in fulfilling.” 

Ava falls silent. It shouldn’t sting. She’s not wrong, is the thing; Ava had taken very serious vows to get to the career she’d taken, and not once had she considered them to be serious at all. She doesn’t regret it, not at all, but something still stirs in her stomach when Beatrice points it out, and it feels very similar to shame. It’s the way she says it, Ava thinks: there’s no reason for Beatrice to be personally affected by Ava’s own decision, and yet here she is. Ava swallows; even considers apologizing (for a half-second of insanity) if only to get the ridiculous sting of hurt out of Beatrice’s voice. 

But Beatrice puts her foot down before she has to say anything at all. “Fine. Fine,” she says and it sounds like Drop dead. “We can each take a shift to keep watch. But I’m taking the first one.” 

“Fine. Wake me in three hours,” Ava snaps. She turns around, done with the conversation, and that’s when the exhaustion of the day finally catches up with her, weighing on her head and eyelids. She falls asleep quickly, lulled to unconsciousness by Beatrice’s slow, steady breaths beside her. 

♱ ♱

(The third day)

Beatrice wakes her at dawn, nearly six hours later. 

Ava scolds her as soon as she realizes because she’s getting a little sick of Beatrice just ignoring everything she has to say, but there’s really no time to stand around and yell at each other, especially not when Beatrice refuses to yell back. Any argument with her is more boring than anything else, and Ava has a sneaking suspicion that she’s aware of exactly that. 

(“I’m keeping watch tonight,” Ava declares angrily, packing up her things, and only later remembers that this is supposed to be the last morning they travel together. She doesn’t go back on it, though, for the principle of the thing.)

They take a moment to eat something before they get back into the street (another stolen melon, this one shared) but then they’re walking again, still in silence. It’s getting annoying, Ava figures; the fact that she’s not annoyed by it at all. 

(“You may as well tell me,” Beatrice says pointedly, an hour or so into the day, “especially if we’re to be arriving at their doorstep today.”

Ava hasn’t told her that they’ll be arriving on her parents’ doorstep today, but she’s not surprised Beatrice has figured that much out already. She says, “We’re close,” because they are, and then falls silent once more. 

Beatrice seems to accept that.)

Ava snaps four hours into the walk. Maybe it’s the sun—even hotter than yesterday, somehow—or maybe it’s just that she’s never been great at keeping her mouth shut (which she’s learned depends almost entirely on her present company). Her time is running short. She’ll have to do something soon (what exactly, she’s not sure) or Beatrice will take her back to the company, maybe even the Church itself, and if Ava goes back there she knows she will never see her family again. 

“So Beatrice,” she says, starting out easy, “what do you have waiting for you back home? Parents? A dog, maybe? A husband?” 

Beatrice’s gait had gone stiff when Ava started talking, but she seems to grow even more rigid by the time she’s done. “Does it matter?”

“Well, not really.” Ava concedes that point with a loud sigh. At this point she’s almost positive that Beatrice won’t just up and stab her (well, at least 70% sure) and she’s curious. Beatrice has always seemed to be some big, untouchable warrior, and she wants to know what kind of person is capable of being like that. What home life she has, if any. “So no husband, then?” 

An exhaled breath, expelled from Beatrice’s lungs as if her very body is saying I would like you to shut up. “No husband,” she says eventually, tone weary. “No dog. No parents, either,” she goes on, and Ava’s pretty sure she’s avoiding her gaze. “They’re back in London, and I don’t live there anymore.” 

And Ava, who hasn’t lived with her parents since she was six years old (a decision that had also been entirely against her will), cannot physically stop herself from prying further. “Why not? I thought most Knights head back to their families after the fight. Aren’t your parents worried about you?” 

“They don’t tend to worry about me at all, actually,” Beatrice says coldly, “as they’re much too focused on my flaws.” 

Perhaps a kinder person would have let it go. Perhaps a kinder person would have recognized the roughness in Beatrice’s voice, the irritation in her shoulders. Ava, who has never once in her life been able to resist nosing into someone’s sensitive spots, wraps both hands around the big red button and presses it down as far as it can go. 

“What could the mighty Dame Beatrice Xin struggle with?” she asks with a laugh. “Knowing you, your mother probably didn’t even feel any pain while giving birth. Perfect all the way from conception, I’d bet.” 

Something in Beatrice’s face twitches as she comes to a halt, and it’s not a good kind of twitch. Ava’s seen the good twitches—when she says something funny and Beatrice thinks she hides her reaction to it, how Beatrice’s face will soften ever so slightly when she stares up at the stars—this is not that. This is sad, something that bothers her so deeply that she can’t even stop her body from recoiling away. 

“Right,” Beatrice says, voice falling flat. “Perfect.” 

And it’s not as if Ava can let that go. She considers teasing more, maybe to break the tension, but ultimately decides against it. Better to be genuine, she thinks. “What is it?”

Immediately Beatrice shakes her head. “It’s just—that word,” she says. “It’s not one I particularly enjoy. No one is perfect. It’s impossible to be, no matter what anyone says. Only the Son was perfect, and the Son was Holy.” 

“Right,” Ava says slowly, “so why does it bother you, then? If you know that no one can be perfect.” 

Worst part is, she already has a feeling she knows where this is going. Even before she knew her, Beatrice has always struck her as a perfectionist— that was clear with every movement, every calculated action that makes even the smallest of decisions feel polished—and now that Ava does know her, knows how much of that calculation is clung to for dear life, Ava’s completely unsurprised that someone wound so tight would have… performance issues. 

So she’s not at all surprised when Beatrice answers her with a sigh. “Perhaps I put too much pressure on myself.”

“And perhaps the Pope is a creepy old man with a thing for control,” Ava says instantly, forgetting herself. Beatrice shoots her a glance. “What? You know I’m right. The man’s weird. No one should care that much about the things he cares about.” 

“That’s—not the point,” Beatrice argues, and fuck, she actually looks angry (whoops). “And practically blasphemous to say. The Pope is our leader, and you shouldn’t be speaking of him like that.” 

Never one to quit when she’s ahead (or behind), Ava huffs a disbelieving laugh. “Do you see him in the room with us now? I’m sorry for talking bad about a man. He’s certainly not perfect. Wasn’t that just what you were having your whole—” she waves vaguely with her hand. “—thing about?” 

Something in Beatrice’s face stiffens even further. “You’ve completely missed the point,” she says, like Ava’s the biggest idiot to ever grace the planet (which is rude). 

“Then explain it to me.” 

“We all have expectations set on us,” Beatrice says it like she’s reading a Bible lesson, like she’s recited this all her life. “Yours, for example, are set by yourself: you want to reunite with your family, save their lives. It’s an admirable goal,” she adds, “and it’s possible.”

Ava says, “And yours weren’t?”

“Anything’s possible,” Beatrice snaps back, which is the least subtle way of avoiding the question Ava’s ever seen. At least she doesn’t add the Through God at the end. Ava wouldn’t have put it past her. “Your goal shouldn’t have been possible, but you made it so. It’s that drive I respect.”

There’s a familiar heat creeping up Ava’s cheeks at the acknowledgement, blistering like fire in her belly. She says, somewhat strangled, “So what’s impossible for you?”

“To live up to what I was supposed to be,” Beatrice says instantly. “They wished I were born a boy, so I did boyish things. They wanted me to do them proud, so I became talented at everything I could. But I’m not good enough. None of it was enough, so now I’m here.”

Ava frowns. Now she feels like she doesn’t understand, and that’s purely because she can’t fathom this woman ever thinking of herself in such a way. “Bea,” she says, “what the Hell are you talking about?”

“My inadequacies,” Beatrice says, in a way that Ava thinks she’s trying to make a joke, but it just falls flat. “Did you forget?” 

“Your—” Ava splutters. “Bea,” she says again, “you do realize that you’re one of the most incredible Knights that England has ever seen? What more could they want from you?” Beatrice starts walking again like she’s trying to run away, and Ava scrambles to follow her, unwilling to let this go. “Wait,” she says, panting, “no, seriously, those are some fucked expectations if they still think you’re unworthy like that.”

“Language, Ava,” Beatrice snaps, and Ava says, sheepishly, “Sorry.”

“But actually though—”

Beatrice takes a deep breath, continues walking with a concerning wave of her hand. “Ava,” she says firmly, “I’m done with this conversation now.” 

It’s the fact that she doesn't sound angry that actually gets Ava to stop; rather she sounds—if Ava were to believe that she’s capable of feeling this emotion—almost afraid. Afraid of Ava’s prying or afraid of her own thoughts, Ava’s not sure, but it’s another human quality to her that Ava hadn’t expected. 

So she shuts up. 

♱ ♱

“We’re close,” Ava tells her again, some hours after that. “Really close. I remember this.” 

The streets and vendors have tapered off into smaller houses; there’s less people around, too. These houses aren’t as well-made, full of cracks and growing vines, and Ava loves them, loves them with her entire soul. 

“It’s going to be dark soon,” Beatrice observes calmly, looking up at the sky (which fits, because that had been entirely out of the blue). “It won’t be safe to start heading back tonight. The company might not recognize us as English and kill us on the spot.” 

Ava stares at her. “Then we’ll leave in the morning,” she suggests, unsure if that had been where Beatrice was heading. “I’ll get my family out, we’ll all leave through the same way we got in, and then—” she takes a breath. “Then I’ll go with you.” 

Beatrice, who’d turned to watch her, doesn’t look away. “That sounds fair,” she says with a brisk nod. Then, with another nod to the neighborhood, “Which way to your house?”

The way to Ava’s house is, like everywhere else here in Lisbon, startlingly easy to walk. She finds that her feet know exactly which way to go, like she hasn’t been gone for the past seventeen years at all. She breathes in and can’t resist the smile that grows on her face. She leads the way silently, eyes wide, head on a swivel as she drinks in the familiar sights. Familiar, she thinks, it’s still familiar. 

Eventually they come to a stop in front of it. It’s a small house, all things considered; one story with less than four rooms. The stone it’s made out of is cracked and old, and 

“This was your childhood home?” Beatrice asks. 

“Yeah,” Ava says, and her voice cracks in the middle of the word. She remembers things from here, remembers playing with rocks outside the very front door that stands just ahead of her. She remembers her mother’s laugh, her father’s bad singing. She remembers thinking he was good at it. 

Then Beatrice suggests, very reasonably, “What if your family’s moved somewhere else?”

Ava laughs bitterly. “God, I hope not,” she says. “That’d be a lame way to finish my quest, wouldn’t it?”

And then she knocks on the door (and for once, the steady presence of Beatrice standing behind her doesn’t feel like a threat: rather, something supportive, as if she’s a friend Ava can fall back on if this all implodes in her face). 

Her father opens the door.

It takes him over forty-five seconds to do so, and the entire time Ava is fidgeting. Forty-five seconds of thinking up cool things to say when she finally sees her parents again: she could be cool, like, Hey, I’m back, or she could be desperate and upset; Why did you throw me away or she could do neither of those things and just wing it. 

It’s the third that she ends up with, and that’s only because when her father opens the door, Ava finds that she doesn’t have a single fucking thing to say. 

He looks like her, is the thing. He has a bushy brown beard and a more square jaw than she does, but his dark eyes are all Ava’s and his hair, almost auburn and cut close to his head, is the exact same color of her own locks. Ava can’t breathe. 

And then he says, with the tone of a man who’s just had the biggest shock in the world, “Ava?” 

He recognizes her. 

That’s what breaks her, maybe; the fact that he knows exactly who she is without Ava having to tell him, the fact that he looks at her and sees himself, her mother, too; the fact that he’s looking at her like he’d missed her. 

Ava says, “Hi,” like she’s not fucking dying on the spot, and nearly falls on her face trying to get to him. “Hi,” she says again, when she’s actually made her way up the single step to the door. “Do you—do I—”

“Ava,” he says again, and then he’s pulling her into the tightest hug Ava’s ever experienced in her life. And then, “Ava,” as he’s crying into her neck. Ava’s crying too, but figures that’s allowed. She hugs him back, digging her fingers so tight into the back of his shirt that she’s sure she’ll leave permanent wrinkles. 

“I—I’m here,” she chokes out, embarrassingly unprepared. “I came back for you.” 

“My little girl,” her father sobs in response, “my little girl, my baby, my Ava.” 

“Pai?” There comes another voice from inside the house. Ava finally lets go of her father to take in this new person, and she can physically feel her brain break when she lays eyes on him. 

The person who’d spoken was a little boy, standing in the doorway with wide eyes. He looks scarcely ten years old, although the top of his head nearly comes up to her father’s chin already. He’s got big, dark eyes and a tiny slip of auburn hair cut short in the front, and Ava knows who he is almost immediately. “Pai?” says the boy again, looking between Ava and her father with concern. 

Ava says, her voice going embarrassingly high-pitched, “I have a little brother?”

“You—have a little brother,” croaks her father. He hasn’t looked away from her yet, hasn’t looked back at his son or even at Beatrice, who’s still assumedly standing behind her somewhere. His eyes are still glistening with unshed tears, wet tracks dripping from his beard. “His name is António.” 

“António,” Ava repeats. She’s trembling, but she doesn’t even notice until Beatrice’s hand comes to rest on her shoulder. She looks at her brother again. “Hi, António,” she says weakly, “I’m Ava.” 

“Hi, Ava,” he says, after a moment. “I’ve heard about you.”

Her parents told her little brother about her. Ava almost falls over again, and Beatrice’s hand finds its way back to her shoulder. She appreciates it.

“Please,” her father says, after a moment, “please, Ava, come inside. Come in,” he says again, and this time he finally moves, ushering little António back into the house as he steps in after him. “Bring your friend,” he says then, and Ava remembers that he has no idea who Beatrice is. “Please. You’re both welcome.”

“Thank you, sir,” Beatrice says, which is nice of her because Ava’s tongue has vacated her body entirely; she thinks it’s probably flopping around in the middle of the ocean by now, abandoning her in her moment of need.

They step inside the house, and it’s the same. It’s different; things are moved around, there’s a new couch that she doesn’t remember that sits in the middle of the room, off to the left, but it still feels the same and she loves it instantly. 

“Oh,” she says, finally regaining her speech as she catches her father sending Beatrice another strange glance, “this is Beatrice Xin.” Beatrice nods at him; António’s eyes are wide as he looks at her, and Ava almost laughs. 

“I—work with your daughter,” Beatrice says with barely a stumble, and it’s so nice of her, thinking that Ava may not want her father to know how exactly she’s gotten back here, that Ava almost cries. She’s a bit of a mess tonight, but she thinks she’s allowed to be. 

She has a father. She has a brother—a little brother who has her eyes and her father’s smile and her mother’s nose—and her mother’s slope in his shoulders. Her brother and her father take up so much space in this tiny little room—Beatrice hangs back, somewhere behind Ava, trying to stay out of the way—which makes the lack of the last person all the more prominent. 

“Pai,” Ava says, and if her voice breaks then he’s kind enough not to call her on it. She hadn’t even realized she still remembered what she calls him; she isn’t sure she remembers the language she’d grown up with at all. “Where’s Mãe?”

And his face tells her all she needs to know. 

Beatrice’s hand comes up to rest on Ava’s forearm, like she’s ready to hold Ava up if her knees give out. Her knees don’t give out, but it’s a very close thing. 

She’d just… not considered this, is all. She should’ve. She’d known there was always the possibility that her family wouldn’t be here when she finally found her way back home, but it’d never even crossed her mind that only some of them would still be here. She remembers her mother in brief snippets—a warm hand on hers, the smell of wildberries for a snack—and the fact that she’s not going to be able to make any new memories, that she’s going to be stuck with just those few for the rest of her life—

Her father opens his arms again, and there is no force in the world capable of stopping Ava from hugging him for the second time. 

She hugs him and sinks into his warm embrace—that hasn’t changed, it’s the same as she remembers it—and feels António, kind beyond his years, join in as well. She hugs them and doesn’t cry again, but it’s a very close thing. She hugs them and wishes she could stay there forever, that the world would stop spinning and Ava would be safe. She so rarely gets to feel safe. 

She hugs them and mourns for the mother she hardly remembers. 

♱ ♱

(The fourth day)

It’s safe to say that the resulting night is quite possibly the strangest one Ava’s ever experienced, even more strange than the night before (which had been very strange). Her father’s house isn’t big enough to feasibly fit four people and António has taken over Ava’s old childhood room, but there’s a couch in the entryway that’s big enough for one and all Beatrice really needs to sleep is something under her head, so they make do.

Ava considers offering to let Beatrice have the couch, but before she even opens her mouth Beatrice is silencing her with a stare, so she keeps her mouth shut. Ava hardly sleeps anyways—the couch isn’t that comfortable, and a lot has happened—but she appreciates having the option to bury her face into the cushions and just block out the world for a little bit. 

Tomorrow I have to leave again, she thinks, and the thought doesn’t hurt as much as it used to, not now that she’s actually seen her family. Tomorrow I get them out and then… we’ll see, she decides. Tomorrow, we’ll see. 

They don’t leave in the morning. They don’t even talk about it. Ava expects Beatrice to bring it up, to call her out on her initial promise, but she doesn’t. All she does is say, once Ava’s woken up, “Your father went out to get breakfast. He told me to let you know.”

Ava tries not to think about her father and Beatrice having a conversation, and says, “Okay. When did he leave?”

“Quarter hour, so he should be back any minute. Your brother’s been… around,” Beatrice tells her, and Ava wonders if her groggy brain is making something up or if Beatrice really is squinting. “He wanted to wake you up, but I told him not to.”

“You did?” 

Beatrice turns away, going to fiddle with something in the kitchen. “Of course,” she says. “You’ll need your strength.”

To make the journey back to the company, she doesn’t say, and Ava doesn’t dare press her. Her father chooses that time to return anyway, so Ava gets up and hugs him before he can even get through the door. 

“Ava,” he says, and Ava will not cry again, she refuses, “I’ve brought breakfast!”

“I heard! What’d you get?” Ava asks. He could have gotten anything, anything at all, and she would’ve sat there and eaten it. No matter what. 

In response, her father holds a barrel that sloshes when he sets it down on the table. He slides open the top of it, and Ava’s nose twitches; that’s a familiar smell. “Well, this was your favorite when you were a kid,” he says, somewhat hesitantly, and Ava’s jaw drops. 

“Beef stew?” She remembers eating that, remembers her mother stirring it on cold days. Ava’s only been awake for a few minutes, but her heart’s already liable to give out. “You got this for me?”

“Of course I did,” her father says, scratching the back of his neck. “It was your favorite.”

She hugs him again.

They set up for breakfast in pleasant silence, though Ava has a million questions and she’s sure she’s not the only one. Beatrice helps out whenever she’s asked, but for the most part just melts into the background like she’s trying not to be a bother. 

Ava’s father calls for António, who sits in the chair next to Beatrice and looks incredibly normal about it, and it’s nice. Everything is nice. Ava’s happy, and she has absolutely nothing to worry about at all. 

“So… Beatrice Xin was it?” Ava’s father asks, just as Ava takes a spoonful of stew (it’s incredible; Ava nearly makes a very embarrassing noise when she tastes it). “How did you come to know Ava?”

Neither of them move. Ava nearly chokes on her mouthful; Beatrice shoots her a glance and Ava can’t tell if she’s saying You disgust me or What’s the story you want to tell so she makes an executive decision and runs with the second. 

“Um,” Ava says, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, “I mean—”

“They have swords, Pai!” António pipes up, because he’s a little snitch, “real ones, not like the one I have. They put them underneath the couch!” 

Beatrice must have hidden them at some point during the night. Ava hadn’t even realized her own weapon was missing, which is probably fine. It’s normal to lose track of things like that, right? Especially given that Beatrice is still—technically, maybe—her enemy. Shit. 

“Well,” Ava says; she can’t think of an impressive-enough lie, so she concedes with a short breath. “Yeah. We have swords. I guess Beatrice tried to put them away.”

“I was not aware you were watching,” Beatrice says, eyeing António with a look that should probably be concerning (but Ava finds it more endearing than anything else). 

Ava’s father frowns. “I had hoped that you lived an easy life in England,” he says weakly, “but it seems as if I was naive to hope so.” 

Ava says, “My career was my own choice,” because it was. Kinda. 

“But you shouldn’t have had to make that choice,” he argues, shaking his head. He looks down at his bowl, hands fisting together on the table. “Not without us.” 

That strikes a chord. “Well,” Ava says sharply, “then maybe you shouldn’t have sent me away in the first place.”

She realizes, then, how much she’s burning underneath her skin, how much unwanted disdain has just dripped into her voice. How much she means every bit of it. It’s impossible to avoid it now, the anger; she didn’t want to be angry, but her breath is coming faster now and so Ava shakes her head once, sharp, and then removes herself from the situation. 

No one else speaks when she leaves the room. 

No one speaks, but Beatrice does find her on the roof of the house; very quickly, in fact. Ava hardly has any time to stew before she’s there, sitting down beside her and letting her legs dangle off the edge. It’s a strangely carefree thing for Beatrice to do, and maybe that’s why it gets Ava’s attention so thoroughly.  

“Your father wants me to apologize for him,” Beatrice says without preamble. “I told him that if he feels he owes you one to tell you himself.” 

“If he feels it?” Ava stiffens at the wording. “Do you not think he owes me an apology at all?”

“I think—” Beatrice sighs. “I think things become very complicated when you love someone. That things like right and wrong become twisted, matter less. I think that your parents were scared of you being hurt and that they made a decision. Right or wrong, I respect them for making it.” 

“But then why regret it?” Ava asks hollowly. “At least stick to your decision and don’t make me wish for another life.” 

Beatrice says, “Your father really loves you. There’s that.” 

“Yeah, well then maybe he shouldn’t have sent me away,” Ava snarks back. She resists the urge to pout, but probably still ends up doing it anyway. “He didn’t send António away,” she says, and that’s the kicker, isn’t it. “I guess every parent really does have favorites.” 

“If you really think that,” Beatrice replies, a touch of anger in her voice, “then you don’t understand love at all.” 

That’s it. Ava’s sick and tired of Beatrice patronizing her; the boiling irritation under her skin finally spills over, and she turns to face her with snarl. “I understand that I was weak enough for my parents to send me away and stupid enough not to realize it until too late. I understand that he loves me, fine, whatever, but it still fucking hurts.” 

“Language,” Beatrice snaps, as if it’s an instinctive response. 

Ava throws up her hands. “Look,” she says, inhaling deep through her nose, “I get that you have, like, issues about affection, or whatever—”

“Ava—”

“—But that doesn’t mean you can just tell me how I should feel,” Ava snarls, cutting her off. “They didn’t abandon me, they forced me to abandon them. You couldn’t possibly know how it feels.” She sighs, turns to get up because this conversation is only making her even angrier. “Listen—” 

But before she can stand up, Beatrice is there, turning to meet her halfway; Ava almost flinches herself right off the rooftop, suddenly sure that Beatrice is attacking her, but then—

Instead, Beatrice hugs her. Ava freezes.

“I’m sorry,” Beatrice murmurs, voice muffled by Ava’s shoulder. “I’m sorry for trying to tell you how to feel, I’m sorry for arguing with you, and I’m sorry your mother’s gone. I don’t know how that feels,” she says before Ava can respond, “and even if I did, it’d be different. I don’t like to think about it, but I—well. I wouldn’t be that upset. Maybe that makes me a bad person, but it’s true.”

“Bea—”

“I’m sorry,” Beatrice says again, “that you’ll never get to find her.”

Ava realizes with a start that she’s dangerously close to tears again. Her hands had been hanging down by her sides, unmoving, but now she winds them around Beatrice’s waist, hugging her back. “I—I miss her so much,” she confesses quietly, releasing a shuddering breath into the crook of Beatrice’s neck, “and I don’t want to be angry with her, but—”

“But you are,” Beatrice says reassuringly. “And that’s okay.” 

She can’t help it anymore. Ava lets the first tear fall down her face and then she doesn’t stand a chance after that; she breaks and allows herself to break entirely. She sobs into Beatrice’s neck, undoubtedly soaking her shirt, but Beatrice doesn’t seem to care. Her hands come up to rub gentle circles on Ava’s back as she hiccups, and Ava can hardly stand it, can hardly even process it. 

Beatrice doesn’t say another word throughout the whole thing, just holds her as she cries, and the whole time Ava thinks, Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. 

Eventually, she calms. Eventually, she catches her breath. Eventually, eventually, eventually. She doesn’t say a word, but she thinks Beatrice understands her gratitude anyway. She’s always understood everything else. 

“Ava,” Beatrice says, a few minutes later. She’s no longer touching Ava, but still sitting close enough that Ava can still feel the warmth of skin. She looks up, across the horizon. 

“Yeah?”

“I’m not going to take you back to the camp.”

Ava looks at her, unsure if she’s ready for another potentially emotional conversation. Beatrice doesn’t meet her eyes, keeps her eyes on the sun that’s high in the sky. She squints up at it, the warm rays wafting over her face, and Ava can’t turn her head away from the sight: Beatrice, face relaxed and content, sighing under the hot sun. She’s fucking gorgeous, Ava thinks, and for the first time she doesn’t shove the thought back down. 

Her tongue feels too big for her mouth, words escaping her. Why? she wants to ask. What changed your mind? Instead, she says, “What do you want to do instead?”

Beatrice closes her eyes. “I’ll help you get your father and brother out of here. I’ll provide you with cover if necessary, so long as we get them out of the city. Then we can part ways there.” 

There’s something strange in her voice, something dull and dead-sounding, and Ava jumps on it. “So—what, you just want to help now? What happened to making up for your eternal inadequacies?” It works: Beatrice huffs a laugh, and Ava considers that a win. “What made you change your mind?” she asks, softer now.

“My eternal inadequacies are my own problems,” Beatrice says, a sad smile curling at the corner of her mouth. “You don’t deserve to be punished for just wanting to go home, but the company won’t see it the same way. I’ll keep them away from you—take it as my apology.”

Her apology. Like she has anything she needs to apologize for, like she’s done literally anything that has caused Ava problems in the long run. 

“But what about you?” Ava asks then; the million-sterling question. “After we get out of the city. What will you do then?”

Come with me, she wants to say, wants to order, to demand, to beg. Come with me so that we can discover what we’re meant to be to each other. Not enemies, she thinks, not anymore, not ever, maybe. Maybe something else. 

And it’s that, the Maybe something else that has her opening her mouth again before Beatrice can even reply. “Bea,” she says, her voice a mangled, desperate thing. 

Beatrice meets her gaze and Ava nearly melts into her boots. There’s something to be said about Beatrice watching, something that’s incredibly powerful and makes Ava want to do things that she’s never wanted to do before. Anything to keep her eyes on her. 

“What?” Beatrice asks, and she already knows. 

She already knows, and Ava knows she knows, and Beatrice knows Ava knows she knows, but she says it anyway because she already likes the sound of it. She says, “If you don’t want to go back to England, you can always join me and my family.” 

And Beatrice lights the fuck up. She’d known that was what Ava would ask, but it still catches her off-guard; adorably, the slightest tinge of pink makes its way up to her ears, and Ava wants so much that she can hardly stand it—

Beatrice says, “Well, if you’ll have me.”

♱ ♱

After she has a talk with him (in which she definitely does not cry again; how is this her life), Ava’s father takes the news that he’s going to be essentially forced from his home fairly well, all things considered. England’s siege on Lisbon is easily public knowledge by now (Ava swears she can hear it if she listens carefully, which puts her on edge), and he seems more relieved than anything when Ava tells him that she and Beatrice are going to get them out of here. 

António seems to be the most upset about it; he says, “But what about school?” and Ava’s father tells him, “We’ll find you another school,” and he whines for a few minutes but Beatrice just looks at him and he stops (which is the funniest thing Ava’s ever seen) and that’s about that. 

(“We’ll leave at first light,” Beatrice says while they’re all gathered around to plan, slipping into what Ava would like to refer to as her In-Charge Voice; which, unfortunately, seems to make Ava feel things. “So pack tonight and I’ll wake you all in the morning.”

“I’ll wake us in the morning,” Ava cuts in, snapping out of it to send Beatrice a stern stare. “Because I know you didn’t sleep last night at all.” 

Beatrice says, “Let’s talk about this later.”

“How you’ll be the one sleeping?” Ava says. “Sure.” 

“We’ll talk about it later,” Beatrice repeats herself, this time more firmly. “Unless you want to completely derail this tactics meeting.” 

Then her father—who’s apparently still in the room; she hadn’t realized—starts to laugh right as Ava opens her mouth to come back with This isn’t a tactics meeting, you absolute whiffle-whaffle, and he says, “Beatrice, Ava’s mother would have adored you.”

And that makes Beatrice blush up to her ears, which effectively ends the argument altogether.)

Point is, things go well. They pack their essentials—Ava still has no idea how Beatrice manages to shovel all the food in the house into one tiny pack, but she manages it—and they try very hard not to square Ava’s father, but she’s not entirely sure they manage that one. 

It’s fine. It should be fine, and it is fine for the entire day. The entire day—after Ava’s breakdown, but that doesn’t count—is nice; is spent packing and joking and António has the biggest crush on Beatrice and Ava learns she likes to tease him about it and he lets her, and Ava’s father sometimes looks at her like she’s going to disappear right on the spot and she catches Beatrice worrying at the skin of her hands every once in a while but she always smiles when Ava meets her gaze, and if they weren’t actively preparing to run for their lives, Ava would say she’s having fun. 

At least, until nightfall (it’s always fucking nightfall). 

At nightfall, Ava goes out for the last time; they need water, and she’d volunteered to go and grab some, taking an extra waterskin for the coming journey. The well isn’t too far from the house—maybe a five-minute walk at most—and she’d spotted it on their way in. 

She doesn’t make it to the well. 

Ava makes it three minutes of the way before she spots them in the street up ahead of her: Knights, and a lot of them. They don’t look like they’re looking for anyone in particular, moving slow and steady, but they’re still very much coming in the direction of Ava’s house. 

And she doesn't have a weapon. She thinks longingly of her sword, leaning languidly against the couch, and she curses the false sense of security this whole day had brought to her. She should have brought her sword. Beatrice would have brought her sword. 

She’s unarmed, but she can’t not do anything. So Ava retreats from the danger of the street, instead sticking to the deep shadows of the houses that surround it. There’s hardly any moon tonight and she uses that, creeping closer as they walk up and down every alleyway, chatting amongst themselves. 

One of them is the clear leader, and when she’s finally close enough, Ava’s stomach drops when she sees the emblem sewn onto his armor: it’s Alaric. She’d recognize that stupid fucking lion’s face any day; it’s like he thinks it makes him look scarier. 

So they are looking for her. And Beatrice too, most likely. 

Ava cannot allow them to find her. 

The Knights are splitting up as they walk down the street; two go to the right, two to the left, and Ava gets an idea. She doesn’t have a weapon, but they do. She has to move fast, though, and so Ava backs up so that she can slink down a nearby alley. Surely they’ll check this, and she’s certain she can take two of them. 

She’s half-right. 

Two Knights do quickly come her way; Ava wrinkles her nose at the stench of the wall she’s squeezed herself against, but she doesn’t even breathe, needing to stay completely quiet. She attacks only when they’ve both gone right past her (Beatrice hadn’t trained these two, clearly) and in all honesty, it’s an easy move to just dart in and grab the first Knight’s sword right out of his belt. 

She wields it clumsily as they turn to face her and she imagines the dumb looks on their faces, because they’re wearing their helmets and she can’t see them (which is boring). “Hey boys,” she says, leaning forward, “looking for me?”

“Silvas!” says the second Knight, and then Ava is on him. The sword she’d stolen is quite a bit heavier than the one she typically uses, and so her movements are a tad sloppy as she lunges, but she’s positive she has more talent. He dodges, only just managing to draw his own blade, and then the fight is on. 

The Knight knows how to handle his own blade and he demonstrates that; he’s surprisingly light on his feet, jabbing at Ava through any manner of feinting trickery before she’s able to figure out the way she fights, and she tries to keep an eye on the other guy, too: something that’s hard when the second man is continuously making her back up towards the first. He’s smart. 

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees that the first man has drawn his dagger—fuck, maybe Beatrice did train him—and Ava has to duck under it before he takes out her eye. She refocuses on him for a moment and hardly needs to; he’s immeasurably clumsy with the thing, and it only takes one feint to knock it out of his hand (the conclusion she’s come to is that Beatrice did not train him). 

It’d be a victory, and her only problem is that she forgets to watch for the second man’s weapon.

The end of his sword hits her square in the stomach just as she goes to jump out of reach, and Ava bites her tongue so that she doesn’t scream. It tears through her shirt and skin within a millisecond; the pain comes instantaneously, the blood too. He pulls back with a blade stained red, and promptly throws all that away as Ava plunges her own directly into his chest. 

He goes down, and Ava tries not to pass out. Spots dance at the corners of her vision as she clutches one hand to her side; inhaling deeply and trying to keep all her organs inside her as she does it, Ava spins around to dispatch the other man—

But the first Knight is already gone, albeit without his sword. Gone sprinting off to inform his commander—Alaric—of her existence. And she’s bleeding from a gut wound, low enough to be very concerning. 

Well, Ava thinks woozily, fuck. 

She stumbles home with all the grace of someone who’d just been stabbed in the gut—which is to say with none at all— and the journey seems to take a lot longer than she’d remembered; she nearly impales herself on a loose brick jutting out from the house, and she also nearly falls right through the doorway when she finally manages to get the door open. 

Then she does fall. Thankfully, the table is nearby enough to catch her. 

Beatrice was already standing near—probably waiting for her, anxious moron—and Ava catches a glimpse of her father coming out of his room at the clatter (landing on a table makes a lot of noise; who knew?)

Ava opens and closes her mouth, but can’t get anything out. We’re fucked, she wants to say, but can’t.

“Ava!” Then Beatrice is at her side, curling her hands around Ava’s shoulders and ushering her over to the couch. Her eyes immediately catch on the bloodstain that’s soaked through Ava’s shirt, and she doesn’t hesitate to get right to work on the wound; Ava hisses when she cleans it—with water only, thank God—and nearly flinches out of her skin when Beatrice presses down with both hands. Fucking ow. 

“Hi,” Ava croaks. “How’s your night been?” 

Beatrice doesn’t laugh. She asks, “Who did this to you?” and her voice could cut steel.

“Alaric,” Ava tells her, and Beatrice’s face goes white. “He’s here. He’s nearby, with—I don’t know, ten others or so. I got the guy who stabbed me, but there was another—he’s got to have told the rest of them by now. We have to go, Beatrice,” she says, the full weight of it finally dawning on her, “we can’t wait ‘til morning, not now.”

“Did you leave a blood trail?” Beatrice asks. Ava laughs. 

“Even if I didn’t, there’s not that many places to check. They’ll find us. We have to go now,” she says, and, as her expression settles, Beatrice nods down at her. 

She turns to face Ava’s father, who’s standing at the end of the room looking down at Ava with a pale face. António is standing with him, eyes going back and forth between Ava’s face and Beatrice’s hands, how they’re pressing down on her stomach. 

“Is there a back door?” Beatrice demands. 

“Yeah,” Ava answers for him. “Out of my pai’s room. Near the bed.” 

“We can run, then,” Beatrice says hurriedly. “Now, before they find us. It’s earlier than expected, but that’s okay. We can go—”

“Silvas!” Alaric’s voice echoes throughout the house, and everyone freezes. Ava shoots Beatrice a terrified look, one that’s mirrored right back at her. He’s close. “I know you’re in there!”

“Yeah,” Ava mumbles, “no shit.” All the shit, actually. So much shit. Fuck. 

“Ava,” Beatrice says quietly. “There were really ten of them?” 

“Maybe less, but way more than four,” Ava tells her. She winces as she tries to sit up, and then freezes again when Alaric’s voice once more filters its way in through the walls. 

“You have five minutes!” he cries. “Before I send my men in after you. I know you’re wounded, Silvas, so don’t delay the inevitable!” 

Beatrice cannot fight ten men at once. Maybe with Ava’s help, but not now that she’s been so wounded. They could run, leave out the back door, but they’d be tracked and found almost immediately. António’s young, but he’s quick; Ava’s father is still spry. It’s Ava who would hold them back. It’s Ava who would slow them down. 

So, really, there’s only one option. 

“Pai,” she says, and her father comes to her side. 

“Ava.”

“I want you to run,” says Ava, and he closes his eyes; he’d already known, of course he’d already known. “Please. Take António and run. I can fight, but I can’t—you can’t get hurt,” she leans forward to press her forehead against his. “Please, Pai. For my brother.” 

She knows the second her father gives in, the way his shoulders slump, the way his forehead creases with something close to agony. She feels it too, dripping from the blood in her side, pouring from her eyes, her skin. It hurts more than anything. 

“Ava,” he says again, tears dripping down into his beard, “you are the bravest person I have ever met. Your—mother would be so proud of you.” 

And then he presses a kiss to her forehead, and then he takes António by the arm, and then he backs out of the room, heading to his own; the room with the door, with the supplies, the room where they can escape. 

Beatrice hasn’t moved. Her face has gone eerily still, though she hadn’t tried to stop anything from happening. Not yet. 

“Bea,” Ava says hoarsely, and there’s a little thrill that runs down her spine about how quickly she gets her attention, about how Beatrice’s eyes snap to hers no matter what. She tries to smile, but can’t quite muster it. “Please take them.” 

“No,” Beatrice says instantly, and yeah, she probably should’ve expected that response. 

“Bea,” she tries again. 

“Ava,” says Beatrice, and her tone is even icier than it’d been two seconds ago. “Whatever you’re thinking, stop it. Nothing is going to happen without you.” Her hand presses harder and Ava winces; Beatrice’s face softens in response. “Sorry,” she murmurs, lifting up the cloth to take a fresh look at the wound. “I’m just trying to stop the blood flow.” 

Ava tries to summon a laugh, but it doesn’t come out very laugh-like at all. “Bea,” she says for the third time, “there’s really nothing you can do right now.” 

Beatrice stiffens, and Ava can't see her face anymore because she’s leaning above her, but she doesn’t need to see her face to know that it’s gone stone-still. “I’m not listening to you right now,” she replies eventually, “because you’re being particularly stupid. Must be the blood loss.” 

“Why do you care?” Ava scoffs, ignoring the way it makes her heart (and her gut; ow) twinge. “We’ve only been traveling together for two days, barely, and before that we were nothing to each other. We can be nothing to each other again. Don’t tell me you’ve, like, gone and fallen in love with me in the last two days or something.”

She says the last part without thinking, and it is admittedly one of the dumber things she’s said in her time on the earth.

Because Ava knows there’s something between them, something warm and exciting and way way way way too weird to put to name. She knows it, Beatrice knows it, and isn’t that the worst part, the knowing? Being fully aware that Maybe something else can live to be Definitely except it can’t, not anymore, not now that Alaric is here and Beatrice is here and her father and brother are still here, holed up in the tiny little room that her father calls his own, and Ava can’t not do something about it. 

With a shaking arm, Ava pushes Beatrice backwards a bit, just so that she can meet her eyes. 

The moment Ava looks at her, Beatrice says, “I will not leave you,” and her face doesn’t soften so much as it does crumble; slowly, Ava’s heart breaks with it. “Ava,” she says, and her voice cracks in the middle of her name. “You cannot do this to me. You cannot ask me to do this to you.” 

Not for me, Ava wants to say. For you. So that you can live. So that you can find yourself in imperfection one day and maybe even think of me when you do. Wants to say You’re so scared of messing up but I think you’re the most beautiful when you’re learning, wants to say My father loves you and he’s only known you for a day, which is how I know I’m related to him. 

She wants to say so many things, wants to say things that make Beatrice blush, wants to see if Beatrice will ever throw it right back at her (she thinks so. She thinks there’s a fire in Beatrice that no one has ever seen before, and god does she wish that could be directed towards Ava). 

But if she says any of that, then Beatrice will never go. So instead: 

“Thank you. Thank you for helping me get here. I—I really think we started to work together near the end there,” she says, tries to play it as if every word isn’t tearing a new hole in her chest. “I want you to go and live your life, okay?” 

“I won’t.” Beatrice is unmoving. Then another flicker, this one more desperate than the last. “I can’t.” 

Ava smiles, if only because she’d have never thought—not in a million years—that it would hurt so much to ask Beatrice to leave. It’s funny, in a really fucked way, and if she doesn’t smile then she’s going to cry, and she really, really doesn’t want to cry. There’s something simmering under her skin, hot and wretched, and she wants to give into it, wants to consume herself in it. Consume Beatrice. 

“For my father. For my brother,” Ava says, practically begging. “Please, Bea. They won’t make it without you.”

“Then come with,” Beatrice snaps. She steps closer and her mouth is trembling and her eyes are open wide, brows furrowed so hard that there’s a line Ava’s never seen before in the middle of her forehead; her handsome face collapsing in on itself. Ava reaches up and smooths her palm across Beatrice’s cheek, just to feel the warmth of it. “Ava,” Beatrice says, closing her eyes, “I—”

Ava cuts her off in the only way she knows how. 

She kisses her, short and light and tries to convey everything she doesn’t know how to word in just that kiss instead. Beatrice sobs, once, against her lips, and then her fingers knot into the tangled, bloody mess that is Ava’s hair and she pulls her in for a second. 

Ava has no idea how long they stay like that, only that it’s not nearly as long as she would have liked. But eventually she has to pull back, because Beatrice shows no signs of it and Ava knows Alaric has to be coming. She pulls back and keeps her hands on Beatrice’s cheeks. 

Beatrice isn’t crying, but there are tears shimmering in her eyes, her movements shaky. “Ava,” she says again; she says it like it’s the only word she could ever say for the rest of her life, and Ava basks in the sound. 

She pulls her in again, this time burying her face inside of Beatrice’s neck. She hugs her tightly for as long as she’ll allow herself, and then she says, right into Beatrice’s ear, “Please. Take them and run. Protect them,” she begs, “and I’ll try my best to hold everyone off for as long as I can.”  

A choked breath. Then, decades later, the tiniest of nods. Beatrice’s hair has fallen out of her strict bun, and it tickles Ava’s face as she leans back for a final time. This time, when Ava looks at her, she doesn’t say anything. She can’t. 

Beatrice helps her stand without a word. She rips off one of her own sleeves and ties it around Ava’s wound; it won’t do much good in the long run, but it’ll keep her organs from falling out while she’s fighting. Then, when they’re done with that, Beatrice reaches into her own belt and presents Ava with her sword. 

“I can’t—” the words burst from Ava’s chest before she can stop them. A Knight’s sword is their life. 

Beatrice silences her with a shake of her head. She offers the sword again, this time a little more insistently. “My weapon,” she declares quietly, and there’s a tremble in her voice that makes Ava want to beg for forgiveness. “My spirit beside you. My soul. My weapon,” she says again. “Take it.” 

And God, how could Ava not? 

She takes the sword from her and marvels at how light it is. “Did you make this yourself?”

“Of course I did,” Beatrice replies. 

“Of course you did,” Ava says. She tries not to swoon while actively dying, but it’s a close thing. She does take a deep breath (that nearly makes her pass out), and then reaches over to unhook her own blade from where it’d been laying, forgotten, on the couch. She hands it out. “Take mine then, too. And all of that with it.” 

Silently, Beatrice does. The way her fingers slot around the hilt makes Ava’s throat clench, and she looks away in favor of Beatrice’s eyes, still seeking her own. 

Ava says, again, “Thank you.”

When Beatrice smiles, there’s not a trace of joy in it, but there’s an overwhelming fondness, and that’s more than anything else she could have given her. “Ava,” she says, “Thank you. Nothing will happen to them, Ava,” Beatrice vows, “nothing will happen to them, so long as I live. I promise you that—I give you my word, I’ll watch over them always.” 

“They’ll love you,” Ava croaks, taking small steps backward. “Just like—well. You know.”

Beatrice hasn’t moved, doesn’t seem to be capable. She stares at Ava with a tired look, like she’d always somehow suspected this would happen but never wanted to be proven right. Her chin trembles when she says, “Ava,” once more. Ava drinks in the sound of her name on Beatrice’s tongue for the last time. 

“And—please love yourself,” Ava tells her, right before she opens the door. “That’s what I want for you. Just feel for yourself a fraction of how I feel for you, and I’ll be happy.” Then, mustering up a smile (because she doesn’t want Beatrice’s last memory of her to be all sad), she says, “I’ve loved traveling with you, Bea. Don’t worry. I’ve got this.” 

Then she steps out and closes the door behind her, slipping the sword into her belt, and it’s all she can do to not collapse in a puddle of desperation. She stands strong; oh, she stands strong, but she has to clench her fists tight so that her hands don’t visibly shake. 

When she looks up, Alaric is waiting for her not twenty feet away. He’s flanked by four Knights on either side of him, all standing tall with her swords tucked neatly into their belts. Their helmets are all on, barring Alaric’s, and she can’t see any of their expressions. Her hand tightens on the hilt of Beatrice’s sword. 

Show me that soul, Bea, she thinks, setting her sights on the man who she’d once called leader. 

“Silvas,” Alaric greets her as she steps forward. His bushy eyebrows rise nearly to his hairline as he scans the house behind her, the lack of an open door. “Where’s Xin?”

“I killed her,” Ava says casually; two of the Knights behind Alaric exchange uncomfortable glances with each other, and she has to suppress a smirk. “She was slowing me down, being all I’m going to bring you back to the company so you can face justice or whatever, so I got rid of her.” 

Alaric tilts his head, sizing her up. “Impressive,” he says, “if you’re telling the truth. Xin was a capable warrior. Easily capable, I thought, of taking you down with her.” 

Ava shrugs. “Hard to fight back when you’re already nursing a blow to the head.” 

“I suppose it is,” Alaric says. He looks her up and down, no doubt taking in the bloodstained cloth tied around her waist. Ava hopes he can’t see how wounded she really is. “So how do you want to do this, Silvas? We’ve already gotten you once before tonight.”

So he does have some inkling. Shit. 

“How about we make a deal,” Ava offers, as if she’s only just come up with the idea. “We fight each other in single combat. If I lose, you can kill me or bring me back to rot in jail or whatever. If I win, you have to take your men and leave.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “Leave the city? I can’t do that.”

“Just leave here,” Ava snaps. “The city’s beyond gone, but my people aren’t, not yet. If I win, you have to leave this area at least for the night. After that, you can pillage to your heart’s content.” 

“I have nothing to gain out of accepting this challenge,” Alaric points out, very reasonably. “Either I kill you without accepting or I stand the miniscule chance of losing to you after accepting. Why would I ever agree to terms like that?” 

“What,” Ava says with a laugh, “don’t you think you can beat me?”

Something shifts in his expression, something angry and irritated and tired, like he’s beyond sick of dealing with her. Got him, Ava thinks. She’s always capable of annoying someone to death. Hopefully soon to be literal, in this case. 

“Well,” he replies, casually stretching his shoulders, “I have been meaning to demonstrate a few moves for my men recently. I suppose this can be the training exercise I would have had to organize anyway.”

“So you accept my terms?” 

“Single combat,” Alaric says, “one weapon, no armor; first to be killed is the loser.” 

She goes still, having not expected that. “To be killed? I thought you wanted me as your prisoner.”

“I have no time for prisoners,” he says it like she’s very stupid, starting to remove his armor with a nonchalant motion. “The Church would only kill you anyways, so I figure I might as well hasten their inevitable decision.” He meets her gaze calmly, those dead-dull eyes void of anything but determination and something sly that makes her stomach roll. “Do you not accept those terms?” 

Ava has no choice. She’s been stalling for time, but sooner or later she’s going to have to fight, and she’s losing more blood the longer she stands around and debates with him. So she draws her sword in response; men will be men, and soldiers will be soldiers. There’s a language there; one she’d learned, too. Words aren’t always enough. 

His eyes zero on the weapon, recognition sparking in his gaze. “Maybe you really did kill Xin,” he observes quietly. 

“Your turn,” Ava snarks back.

“Fair enough,” he says, and draws his own sword. His is a heavy broadsword, massive against Beatrice’s spatha, but she’s not scared. What she lacks in strength she can make up for in speed, and she’s always been quick on her feet.

(She hopes the fact that she’s still bleeding out of her stomach won’t end up mattering too much. It shouldn’t, right?)

She stays where she is as Alaric readies himself. Then she says, “Your lackeys aren’t going to come into play later, are they?”

“I’m no cheater,” Alaric grunts. He rolls his shoulders at her, narrowing his eyes. It’s dark, but she thinks she can see the glint of true irritation still lingering around his brow. Good. “Ready?” he asks snidely, and Ava takes a deep breath. 

“Whenever you are.”

And then Alaric charges.

Fighting Alaric is nothing like fighting Beatrice, and she means that entirely as a compliment to Beatrice. Ava’s always thought that Beatrice should have been their troop commander, always thought it even when she didn’t speak to her, but the way Alaric fights only makes her more sure that Beatrice was robbed of the position.

He’s strong, and he clearly knows how to use his broadsword, but Ava is better; she’s able to slip underneath his attacks and make some of her own, weaving through his defenses as best she can.

He lunges to the right, she dodges left and strikes up. He parries left, she ducks under and jabs at his stomach. She doesn’t make contact, but it’s very close. 

The only problem, then, is—

Alaric’s broadsword flashes high and Ava has to bite back a groan as she parries; raising her arms at all causes the wound in her side to flare up, pain spiking along already tired nerve endings, and Alaric seems to realize it. He goes for the same thing over and over again, and it’s not like Ava can just not block his blows, so it works. Over and over again.

By the time Ava manages to stumble out of his immediate distance to catch her breath, her stomach is a continuous circuit of pain, rolling and churning and making her gasp for air; making breathing hurt. It’s a wonder she doesn’t hurl. 

Ava has to think about this, has to be smart. She thinks she’d be capable of beating him if she were fully healed, but she’s not; worse, he knows it. So she fades back, just narrowly ducking under a punch that was heading towards her temple, and focuses entirely on trying to trip him. If he falls, if he falls, then she can get the upper hand. 

It works. Ava sticks out her leg just as she makes a wild swing for his head (ignoring the way it makes her side throb), and one of those things connects: he trips and falls; he lands flat on his stomach, and his breath rushes from his body in an audible wheeze. Ava steps hard on the flat of his back, adjusting her grip. She has a half-second before he starts to struggle, and she uses that time to grin. 

Yes, Ava wants to crow, I’ve got you, bitch! She raises her blade, ready to deliver the final blow—

“Men!” Alaric screams, “get her off now! Get her off, now!” 

Two Knights leap forward the instant he calls for them, but it’s too late. The (impeccable, of course) blade of Beatrice’s sword slices through the back of his neck like tissue paper, drawing blood and killing him in a half of an instant. 

Ava’s always measured her life in moments of time. She’d spent six years in the before, thinking nothing could go wrong, and then seventeen in the interim; seventeen years of working her way back here, seventeen years of sidestepping everything else for this one goal. She made it, and then, for just a day, she’d been in the finally. Now she’s in the after. At least there’s that. At least she got a day. 

So Ava grins, face spattered with blood, and steps off Alaric to turn and face the oncoming storm. “Alright,” she challenges, spitting a wad of red onto the ground in front of her, “who’s next?” 

(She doesn’t win the fight, of course. She’s already wounded—the initial blow had been fatal on its own, most likely—and even Ava’s not so good to think she can beat more than three Knights at best all by her lonesome. But she can scare them into thinking she thinks that, and if fighting them ‘til she takes her last breath buys Beatrice more time in getting away with her family, then Ava will fight her former comrades ‘til her last breath. 

When she dies, she dies knowing it was going to happen. When she dies, she thinks of her brother, her father, her mother. She thinks of her mother’s laugh. She thinks of her father’s hands holding hers when she was five, when she’s twenty-three. She thinks of her brother’s wide-eyed look when he first saw her, as if she were something to be revered, to be admired. She thinks of the years she could have spent with them, and she forgets to be angry. 

And she thinks of Beatrice. She thinks of Beatrice’s strong shoulders, Beatrice’s warm mouth, Beatrice’s focused eyes, always trained on her. She thinks of Beatrice’s final hug, safe and desperate. Thinks of her protecting her family. 

When she dies, she thinks of Beatrice.) 

Chapter Text

lovers, or partners in crime?

Connecticut [August 30th, 1647]

In the twenty-ninth, they’re lovers. 

The when and how isn’t important, the why still the same—they’d met, they’d connected, they’d begun once more to care—what’s important is the after, the bliss of it all. Ava tells her about traveling the world since she was young, no strings attached until there are, and Beatrice gets to revel in being that anchor for her, in having already gone through half of it herself. 

(And Beatrice gets to think that girl is cute without hardly the slightest trace of shame.)

They live in a tiny little house at the end of Hartford, just scraping the cusp of being out of town while still living in it. It’s got exactly two rooms, but Beatrice loves it and Ava loves it and so that’s enough, really; all she needs. 

For work, Beatrice pulls her hair up and goes out to the fields with the men of the town; she receives new glances every single day, but the work is hard and demanding and thankfully most of the men keep their mouths shut. She thinks they’re so polite because they’re scared of her, but whatever works. 

They’ve known each other a year now (ever since Ava came trotting into town) and have been together for nearly half that (Ava insists they would’ve had a lot longer of a simmering will-they, won’t they if she hadn’t made the first move; Beatrice respectfully disagrees, she’d been working on it) and things are nice, which, really, should be Beatrice’s first warning. 

Things that are nice always inevitably take a turn for the worse. Beatrice learned that when she was five, asking her mother if girls could marry girls. She hadn’t realized then what she was asking, but her mother had; she’d been punished thoroughly for that particularly sinful thought. She’d learned that when she was thirteen, standing up to her father about who she would marry. She’d been kicked out of the house entirely, and had spent more than one year without a consistent place to sleep. 

But she hasn’t seen her parents since, and she’d bought the tiny house in Hartford with her own, hard-earned coin, and then Ava had come along, not two years later, barrelling into her life with all the grace of the clumsiest angel in the entire world. 

Ava had accosted her when Beatrice was out by the fields, siting on a stone to catch her breath before heading back towards her house. Ava had sat next to her and said, with a crooked smile that would mean Beatrice’s ultimate demise, “Hi! My name’s Ava Dinis. I’m new to town, but you seem to know your way around.” 

“I—do,” Beatrice had said after a beat, uncharacteristically inarticulate. 

“What’s your name?” Ava had asked, leaning closer. Her eyes had not left Beatrice’s; hers were a brown so dark they were nearly black, and Beatrice could see her own figure reflected in them if she looked too closely (and she looked too closely). 

And Beatrice still swears to this day: she loved her instantly. She said, “Beatrice. Beatrice Silver,” and that was that. 

They’ve had a year of getting to know each other, six months of getting to know each other, and sometimes Beatrice still thinks of her parents, thinks of the man that they wanted her to marry at thirteen, and she wonders what they’d think of her now. No matter what it is, she doesn’t think she'd particularly care. 

Her father had once told her that she’d never amount to anything on her own, and look where she is now. Respectfully, her father can go and stick his head in the river. 

But nice things never stay forever, and Hartford is not nearly as quiet as it used to be. It’s crept up on them slowly; the more insistent preachers on the steps of the church, the more preachers in general, growing louder with the day; the town growing colder and colder towards people they viewed as outcasts. Ava and Beatrice have adjusted with the times, but sometimes she fears that they won’t be able to adjust enough. 

The problem is that Beatrice knows very well that Christians can be easily frightened, and Hartford is so very Christian. 

(Now Beatrice thinks of Alse Young, thinks of the way she’d been dragged from her home in the dead of night and forced to sit in a cell as a dozen men threw lofted accusations at her, thinks of how Alse Young had never gotten the chance to defend herself, how she’d been publicly hung only a few days later.

Beatrice prays for the best and fears the worst.)

The beginning of the end is spent in their house, sitting by the fireplace at the end of a long day. Ava’s practically sitting on Beatrice, head tucked under her chin and knees curled into her body, her hand stroking idly up and down Beatrice’s shoulder. Beatrice herself has been half in a doze for the past half-hour or so, lulled into it by the crackling of the fire and the warmth of Ava, the slow, steady breaths against her neck. 

She doesn’t go to sleep, though, and that’s because there’s something bothering Ava, and Beatrice knows it. She hasn’t pried, had accepted Ava’s deflections during dinner, but she knows it’ll come out at some point, and she’s right. 

“Another girl was taken by the Hunters today,” Ava tells her, finally coming to terms with whatever’s been going on inside her head. 

Neither of them have spoken for a long time, so it takes Beatrice a moment to regain her bearings. She blinks to rid her eyelids of the residual image of the fire and hums in response, leaning down to press a soft kiss against the crown of her precious girl’s head. “Do you know who?” she prompts, when Ava doesn’t go on. 

“Clarice Brown,” Ava says quietly. “I—I’ve seen her around a lot. She’s Tommy Johnson’s fiancé.” Tommy Johnson. Beatrice knows that name; associates him with Ava saying gentle and kind, remembers being jealous of him for a time. She knows better now, after having a few in-person meetings with the man, and her heart breaks for him even before Ava continues. “I don’t know why they took her, but he’s been in hysterics all day.” 

“They’re getting bolder,” Beatrice replies, unable to keep all the anger out of her voice. “There’s something in the air—it’s making them confident, and that’s because no one dares to do a damn thing about it.”

Swears are still a new thing, but there’s not another word in the English language (nor in Finnish) that can better describe her frustration. Plus, her swearing usually tends to make Ava laugh. It works here in part; Ava smiles against her throat, and then she says, “I’m worried for her.”

“For Clarice Brown?” Beatrice rubs Ava’s back soothingly. “She’ll be alright. They’ll just ask her some questions and then she’ll be back to her farm in the morning.”

“What if they don’t?” Ava asks. Beatrice thinks again of Alse Young and hopes Ava doesn’t remember her as vividly as she does. Neither of them had attended the hanging, of course, but she’d still been there when Beatrice ventured past the square the next day. She hadn’t expected her to be, and she’s beyond thankful that Ava hadn’t been with her that morning. The sight was grotesque. 

She’s unwilling to lie, but there’s no harm in comfort. “Then I suppose they’ll get too big for their own boots and someone will turn up to knock some sense into them. I understand why everyone’s scared—”

“I don’t—”

“—From their points of view,” Beatrice says, smoothly ignoring the interruption. “But they have to know that by this point, the Hunters are only alienating themselves from the rest of the town. They have to. Tommy Johnson is well-respected here, darling,” she adds, if only to comfort her. “He’s a friend of the mayor’s as well. Clarice Brown will be all right.” 

Ava sucks in a sharp breath. “What if the rest of the town thinks they’re right? What if everyone decides we’re off, too? What then?”

And Beatrice frowns. “You don’t sound like you’re speaking in hypotheticals. Ava,” she says, when Ava remains silent, “what have you heard?”

It takes her a moment to reply. “I just—I think some of the townspeople find us odd,” she mumbles eventually, turning to press her face even closer into Beatrice’s shoulder. “I heard a few of the wives talking about us earlier, at the store. I shouldn’t think too much about it—”

“What did they say?” Beatrice asks. Her hands have frozen, and she wills them to keep moving, to keep rubbing up and down; soothing Ava, if she can’t soothe herself. “Do you remember?”

Ava’s shoulder comes up in a pitiful shrug. “Not the details. I think they’re worried about me, which is weird, because I’ve never spoken to either of them in my life. They said strange things about you, like you’re not letting me go and find a place to live on my own.” A soft hum. “I would’ve spoken up—I almost did, they really pissed me off—but I figured you’d want to know first. It was a close thing, though.”

Beatrice takes a deep breath, thankful that Ava hadn’t done exactly that. “You did the right thing,” she says eventually, though even that is a struggle. “Thank you for not going after them.”

“I hate the way people talk about you,” Ava snaps, her tone rising. “It makes me sick sometimes. They don’t know anything about you but they pass judgement so quickly. I haven’t even been here nearly as long as you have, but no one talks to you but me.”

“Well,” Beatrice says, “I don’t tend to talk to anyone else, either.” 

“That’s not the point!” She sounds angry now, properly so, and Beatrice can’t say it’s not a valid thing for her to be feeling. It doesn’t particularly bother Beatrice herself, really; the fact that she’s so ignored in the town that she’s spent years living in, but she doesn’t pretend to herself that they avoid her for any good reasons. “It’s stupid. Even Tommy and the others were scared of you before I convinced them they didn’t have to be. I hate it.” 

“I think we both need to be more careful,” Beatrice decides eventually, trying to push past the sinking feeling in her stomach. “At least until this tension’s gone again.” If the tension ever goes away, she doesn’t say. 

Ava sighs, anger dissipating to let in something so sad that it might be worse. “I don’t know how we can be more careful.” 

Beatrice pulls away. Despite enjoying the time she spends curled up against Ava, she has a feeling that this is a conversation best had looking at each other. Her hands slide down to Ava’s waist to keep her balanced as Ava leans back too, still situated somewhat on Beatrice’s lap. 

“What do you want to do?”

Ava’s smile is weak, faltering every few seconds. “I’m not sure. I don’t really know what it’s like to stay,” she admits, as if that’s a weakness. “I’ve always just… moved on when I felt like it.”

“Is that what you want to do now?” Beatrice asks. 

If it’s what Ava wants, she’ll do it. She’ll uproot her life and leave with her, leave with just the clothes on her back if that’s what Ava asks of her. Maybe that’s a bad thing, the fact that sometimes Beatrice’s thoughts all fade into Make her happy, but she can’t see it that way. She’s never loved someone like this, fully and wholly, and she’d do anything for her. She hopes Ava knows that. 

And Ava, who knows exactly all that and who would do the same for her, says, “No. No, I want to stay here. I just don’t know how.” 

“We can’t pretend we’re related,” Beatrice says, meeting Ava’s gaze. She looks pale and ghastly, like it would only take the smallest of breezes to knock her over. Still beautiful, always beautiful, but dull; tired, just like how Beatrice feels. “We don’t look enough alike for that. I don’t—know what to do, either,” Beatrice confesses. 

“I’ve probably told people I don’t have any siblings before, anyway,” Ava agrees softly, furrowing her brow. “It’s okay, probably,” she says, nodding, as if that’ll help the sentiment come true. “Everyone knows we’re friends. They’ve known us for a year. Surely most of these people can’t still think we’re weird right?” 

Beatrice wonders if she should tell her then, about the looks the men send her every day she goes out to work, about the way they group around each other during the lunch break. She wouldn’t sit with them, probably, but the fact that they don’t offer makes something in her stomach go cold and tight. 

Ava has always been one to look on the bright side of things. Beatrice has no idea how, considering the snatches of her history she’s caught throughout the year, but it’s also not something Beatrice would ever willingly burst. Plus Ava actually has friends here, friends who care about her; laugh with her, invite her to get-togethers. Beatrice could never break that for her. 

She can handle a few cold shoulders from a few irritating men. Ava shouldn’t have to worry about it. 

So she nods, reaches out to fold her fingers through Ava’s. She’s warm as always, blistering compared to Beatrice’s usually-cold hands. The heat of her sinks through her skin, igniting parts of Beatrice that she hadn’t known existed before Ava. “Right,” Beatrice says, trying to believe it. “They know us. Everything will be fine.” 

(That night, laying in bed with her and curled up on Ava’s chest, Beatrice whispers, Why did you come up and talk to me, back when we first met? It’s something she’s always wondered; she’s certainly not the most interesting person in Hartford, and though she’ll never regret it, the fact that Ava had specifically sought her out first has always caused her to wonder. 

She can hear Ava’s grin when she responds. Because you’re the only one who didn’t seem actively hostile.) 

♱ ♱

The next morning starts off just as any other does: Beatrice gets up to go work in the fields, Ava gets up to go her own job—she sweeps floors and chats up customers at the general store for five cents an hour—they say goodbye in the safety of their own house (Ava presses a teasing kiss to Beatrice’s cheek before leaning in for a real one), Ava makes her a lunch (though Beatrice insists she could do it just as well) and they part ways when they get back into town.

Ava goes right, Beatrice goes left, and they won’t see each other until Beatrice gets home again, sometime after nightfall. The days are long and lonely, but worth it. The nights are all their own. 

Most of them. 

In the end, it’s Ava who gets caught first (Ava always dies). Not that Beatrice knows it until afterwards. Really, it was always bound to end this way: Ava’s not someone who’s meant to be constrained; she aches to spread her wings, to stretch herself as far as she can go until she’s finally fit the space she needs for herself. Hiding such an important part of her life was never going to work forever, and they both knew it. 

Beatrice just hadn’t thought it’d be this soon. 

The first sign of danger is this: a Witch Hunter comes to collect Beatrice before her workday is over. It’s hardly past lunch, the sun high in the sky. Thankfully it’s not too hot out, the temperature dropping fast with every day, but it’s hard work and the harvest is already behind schedule and there are men coming down with the flu, so it’s already been a grueling day. 

What she does not need is for a man in too-clean clothing to approach her side of the acre, his hand resting casually on the hilt of his sword. Beatrice straightens up and warily watches him come closer. The spike of fear is immediate. 

“Beatrice Silver?” he asks, and she knows this man; his name is Philip Whittler, and he’s not a man to be trifled with. His reputation in the town is less than stellar, his father far too wealthy, and so Beatrice takes care to level her tone before she responds. 

“Yes sir,” she replies, reaching up to dab at her forehead with the damp cloth she keeps tucked in her belt. “May I help you?” 

Then he asks, “You’re the one who provides a household for Ava Dinis, yes?” and Beatrice’s blood runs cold. 

She says, again, “Yes sir,” and then, “is there something wrong?” Had Ava slipped up, revealed something she shouldn’t have? Or had she been hurt, and Philip’s come to get Beatrice to be with her? She’s not sure which one of those things she’d prefer. Beatrice doesn’t pray, hasn’t prayed since she was thirteen, but she sends a silent wish to the skies anyways. 

Let us get through this. 

Philip is clean shaven, but he has cold blue eyes that have always somewhat unnerved Beatrice, and it's those eyes that look her up and down before he replies. “Us men of the law have a few questions for you, Miss Silver, and we ask that you come down to the station with me. It shouldn’t take long,” he says, and she does not believe him for a single second. “So long as you’re honest with us.” 

And Beatrice can’t run, not without knowing where Ava is, if she’s hurt, if she’s already locked up for something; Beatrice can’t run and Beatrice can’t fight him so all she does is give him a single, stiff nod. “Lead the way, sir.” 

He leads the way. 

He leads the way to exactly where he’d said he’d bring her; the detention center, the place that Witch Hunters shouldn’t technically have jurisdiction over but do now, thanks to how muddied Hartford’s politics have become. It makes Beatrice’s stomach curl, the way Philip walks in like he owns the place.  

Ava is sitting at a tiny little table in a tiny little room. She’s just sitting there, and Beatrice is glad that’s the room she’s also being ushered into by Philip, because if it wasn’t she’d probably lose her mind in its entirety. When they enter, Ava lifts her head from where she’s been studying the floor, and her gaze is worryingly dark when she meets Beatrice’s own. 

Beatrice resists her immediate urge to run to her, to check her over for injuries. She says, forcing herself to speak calmly, “Miss Dinis?” 

Like they’re colleagues. Roommates, but cordial. Ava’s responding smile reflects the story; it’s cool and lacks much of her usual endearing energy to it, tight-lipped and eyes dull. “Miss Silver,” she says, “I’m sorry for all this trouble. It seems there’s been some sort of mistake.” 

“Yes,” says Philip Whittler, who hasn’t left the room. He gestures for Beatrice to take the seat next to Ava and she does, sending her a concerned glance as Philip himself sits down across from them. “I was hoping I could talk to you both about those… mistakes.” 

Beatrice eyes him and specifically does not reach out to hold Ava’s hand, though she can’t stop the twitch of her fingertips. She places both her hands on the table in front of her to curb the temptation. 

“What can we help you with, Mr. Whittler?” Beatrice asks calmly. “If this is a question of my board’s morality, for any reason—”

“It is, in fact,” Philip snaps, interrupting her. Beatrice falls silent and does not look at Ava beside her, does not acknowledge her in any way. For her part, Ava’s breathing comes slow and steady. She’s keeping herself calm for now, and that’s all they can do. “Miss Dinis,” he says then, directing those horrible eyes towards Ava, “I understand that you’ve lived here in Hartford for around a year now. Is that correct?”

“Yes sir,” Ava says demurely, and no more. Astonishingly, Beatrice feels pride warm her chest; Ava has always had such a problem with authority, but she knows when and where not to run her mouth. 

“And have you always lived with Miss Silver?”

Ava ponders the question for a moment. Then she says, “No sir. I paid for a room in the inn at the end of the road for a month or two before Miss Silver was kind enough to offer her couch for me instead.”

That’s the truth. They’d connected early on, and Ava would have never asked but she had been quickly running out of money, so Beatrice had offered her the living room free of pay, so long as she contributed to buying the food and supplies that they’d need to live together. They hadn’t grown intimate for another few months; of course, Ava no longer sleeps on the couch, but that’s not something Philip needs to know. 

“I see. Miss Silver,” he says, abruptly switching his attention back to Beatrice, “would you say that you know Miss Dinis fairly well? You’ve lived together for the past ten months, is that right?” 

Has it really been that long? It feels like a blink of time; never-endingly long while simultaneously gone in the span of a second. Beatrice’s entire world revolves around Ava—perhaps that’s a bad thing, but she doesn’t tend to think so—and to hear the real time of how long it’s been since that came to be is strange. She says, “Yes sir. I know her very well.”

(She can feel the mental effort Ava expunges in order not to make a joke. She stays silent, and Beatrice can continue to breathe.)

Then Philip says, with no small degree of casualty, “So you’d know, then, Miss, if your ward had encountered any demonic forces.”

Beatrice freezes. 

That had always been where this conversation was heading, but she hadn’t expected him to say it so bluntly. Demonic forces, she thinks. As if that means anything but the other, but the different. Demonic forces can be twisted to mean anything anyone wants; Beatrice could call the fact that her front door always squeaks a little bit a demonic force simply because it exists to irk her. This irritates her, but now’s not the time for irritation. Now’s the time for clear, calm answers, in plain English. Now’s the time to get Philip fucking Whittler off their backs. 

Then Ava speaks up. 

“Demonic forces?” she says with a scoff. “You’re going to have to be more specific about that.”

“I didn’t ask you,” Philip snaps again, keeping his eyes firmly on Beatrice (yes, she thinks. Look at me. Focus on me). “I asked Miss Silver that question.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Beatrice sees Ava opens her mouth again, so this time she is quick to speak. “I would know if anything had infected my ward,” she replies quickly; calm and concise, without any room for doubt. “There has been no demon. Whoever gave you this information was wrong, sir.”

Because someone had, someone had gone to the Hunters and complained about Ava; that’s how it always goes, that’s what she’s always seen, and Beatrice hopes for their sake that she never figures out who. 

Philip looks at her for a long time before he answers, and when he does, his voice has not a drop of uncertainty in it. “I’m afraid we’re fairly convinced the information was correct, Miss Silver,” he says, playing for gentle. “We just want your side of things.”

“My side of things is that Miss Dinis is a perfectly respectable young woman,” Beatrice responds, trying not to snap. “Who always pays her rent on time and does her fair share in keeping the house clean.”

The first part is a flat-out lie, the second a slight falsehood. Ava does do her chores, but never on her own. She usually requires… persuasion. 

But Philip is still shaking his head. “Here,” he says snippishly. “We’re getting nowhere. How about I take Miss Dinis out of the situation—”

“Miss Dinis is not causing any additional stress—”

“No,” he says, “no, I insist.” He makes some sort of wave towards the closed door and it opens, revealing two more similarly-dressed men. They both come into the room and round the table; panicking, Beatrice goes to place her hand on Ava’s forearm, still laying on the table, but Ava pulls away just in the nick of time. 

She struggles when the two men seize her shoulders, but she’s not at all able to get free. “I can walk on my own,” she snaps, when one of them begins to push her towards the door. And then, glancing back, “Beatrice?” 

Ava’s lost her surname in her alarm, but Beatrice can hardly blame her; she herself is hardly still in her seat, fingers clutching tight to the waistband on her slacks. At least she hadn’t called her Bea. 

“It’s all right, Miss Dinis,” Beatrice says hurriedly, loud enough to be heard as Ava continues to struggle against the men’s hands. “I’ll just talk to Mr. Whittler here and figure this you. You’ll be okay,” she promises, just as Ava is taken from the room. “I swear.”

The last thing she sees is Ava’s back disappearing left, followed by both of those two men, and Beatrice has to remind herself to breathe. 

She has to remain calm. There’s a fire under her skin, begging to be let out, but she cannot allow it to show itself. Not now, not ever, not in front of this man, who’s scanning her for weaknesses. Especially not now that he’s under the impression she’s the victim. She has to convince him she’s not, but he also still needs to think she’s no threat. 

Beatrice takes a deep breath, as if she’s gathering her thoughts, and raises her eyes to meet Phillip’s. “What was her alleged crime?” 

He tilts his head at her in a way that makes her want to twitch. She doesn’t; she curls her hands into fists on her lap and remains straight in her chair. “Witchcraft,” he says eventually; the simplicity even more aggravating. “She has been accused of communing with the devil.”

“By whom?”

“That’s none of your concern.”

To hell it’s not. She says, very calmly, “Sir, if I were just to be told, I could tell you why they think this. Miss Drinis is a very excitable person, and therefore whoever told you those—” she can’t say it. “—things must have a reason for disliking her. If you let me know who, I could tell you why.” 

“It was a very reputable source,” Philip says, “and that’s all you need to know. Now,” he brings his hands to rest on the table, looking at her with something that almost looks like pity in his eyes. That, if it wasn’t being so obviously covered with disgust. “I need you to tell me if there’s something… odd about that girl. Anything at all. Does she come and go at strange times of night? Bring odd things into your household? Anything could help with our investigation.” 

“Investigation?” Beatrice nearly snarls at him. “There’s nothing wrong with her, other than the bruises your men are surely giving her at this very moment. If anything, you’ve put her off of me entirely, and you’ve lost me a paying roommate.” 

“Miss Silver, I know you’ve been trapped with her for a very long time, but please, see reason—”

“Trapped with her?” Beatrice sees red. “Listen here, you little—”

“Miss Silver,” he says again, more insistently, “I am telling you this because it does not matter anymore. You have been freed. What you do with that information is none of my concern.” 

Beatrice goes very, very still. The anger is gone almost immediately, swallowed up by the ache of terror that shoots through her like a bolt of lightning. She says, “How do you mean?”

“There will be no trial.”

“What do you mean there will be no trial? I—”

“Miss Drinis has been accused of witchcraft,” says the horrible little man, smoothly cutting her off. “Our experts have determined that the accusations were correct. There is nothing that a court of law would be able to do with someone who has been Touched, so there is no need for a trial.” 

Beatrice’s hands are trembling. “Whittler,” she says, trying desperately to keep her voice steady, “where are you taking her?”

When Philip answers, it’s slow and uncaring, and Beatrice could strangle him. Would strangle him, if he wasn’t the only one who could tell her what she needs. He replies, watching her closely, “Well, they’ve gone to put her in the stocks, of course. We cannot arrange a hanging at this time of day, so she’ll stay there until tomorrow morning when we can send out the news.”

They’re going to hang her. Beatrice can’t breathe. 

Because it’s supposed to be Beatrice. It’s supposed to be Beatrice. It’s Beatrice who the townspeople have never liked, who’s cold and unfeeling, who’s never had any other friends but Ava; it’s Beatrice who’s supposed to be the one arrested at the end of things, and Beatrice has long since made peace with that thought. 

Never once has she considered this, considered that it’d be Ava getting taken away from her and not the other way around, considered that the Hunters would zero in on the former newcomer, on the girl who’d shown up and immediately set their resident quiet woman into a spiral. She’s so stupid for never realizing it, never realizing that Ava was their target all along, and for foolishly assuming that since she’d immediately been taken in by Ava, everyone would have been as well. Most had.

Clearly not everyone.

Beatrice stands from her seat, shaking with anger. She has time. It can hardly be sundown outside, and if they’re going to wait until tomorrow then she has plenty of time to get them both out of this horrible little town. All she has to do is get past this one man, grab Ava, make a quick stop back at their house and get some provisions, and then they can disappear. She doesn’t care what they do. Nothing else matters. 

Furrowing his brow at her as if he’s confused, Philip stands too, holding his head high as she surveys him. “Miss Silver, I must ask you to sit down. I’m not done asking you questions.” 

“Get the fuck out of my way,” Beatrice snaps. Philip’s eyebrows shoot up in a way that would be comical at any other time. His body language has changed; gone from faux-sympathy to something tighter, more dangerous. Good. 

He begins to bluster, “Miss S ilver—” 

“She has done nothing wrong, and you know it,” Beatrice barrels past him, heart seizing in her throat. “You’re all just making crimes up for the purposes of—of what, exactly? Are you filling some quota of sorts? Who cares about how many women you prosecute unfairly, so long as your pockets are heavy?”

“Miss Silver,” the man says again, this time even more insistently. “I must ask you to lower your voice. Your concerns are because this woman has bewitched you, most likely, and to think that I once thought you were quiet! For God’s sake, woman,” he says, nose wrinkling with distaste, “show some decorum.” 

For God’s sake. Beatrice has heard that line all her life; heard it in Sunday school and from her mother’s lips. It’s always said with such loathing, such anger, always directed at Beatrice. She’s sick to death of hearing it. 

(She thinks of Ava saying it once, facetiously, For God’s sake, why don’t you let me fucking hug you, when she had come back home in the middle of a rainstorm. There had been no loathing in her voice at all.

It had been that, the use of God’s name followed immediately by a curse, that had stopped Beatrice dead in her tracks. 

Ava had ended it by pouncing on her and driving them both to the floor, soaking them both and everything around them, and Beatrice couldn’t remember why she was avoiding her in the first place.)

Beatrice reels back and punches Philip square in the nose. The punch is sloppy, though fairly impressive, she thinks, considering she’s never thrown one before. It feels oddly familiar, and she wonders idly if she’d missed her calling in life. 

It’s a very Ava-like thought to have. 

Philip stumbles back with a cry, his hands coming away red when she advances on him. He begins to go for his sword, but Beatrice is on him in a flash, grabbing his stupid fucking ponytail and using it bring his head down, slamming it into her raised knee. 

He crumples onto the floor without another sound, blood still leaking from his nose. She doesn’t stop to check and see if he’s been knocked out; she slips his weapon from his belt and leaves the room with it grasped firmly between both of her hands. 

This, too, feels oddly right, like something she’d learned a long time ago and had promptly forgotten about. The sword is irritatingly light but it serves its purpose. Beatrice has never been inside this detention center Philip had been working out of, but she’d found on her way in that it’s not much of a maze; the odd time of day, thankfully, means that it’s essentially abandoned, as most officers are out patrolling the town themselves, and so it does not take Beatrice long to leave the premises. 

She turns left out of the immediate door; down the first hallway, take the second right. Then it’s another hallway (painted an ugly shade of blue, clearly they’ve had far too much time on their hands) and then it’s the last door on the left to make it into the greeting room. Then it’s just out the front door, and that’s when she encounters her first problem. 

There’s a man standing at the door, as if he’s there to keep her inside. His only problem is that he’s facing entirely the wrong way to spot her, and while the sword still feels clumsy in her hands, it’s not even that hard to hit him hard, right in the back of the neck with the weird, oddly bully hilt. He hits the floor with a groan and Beatrice goes to step over him, but then he grabs her ankle; apparently, not unconscious. 

Beatrice can’t stop herself from being pulled down, and she nearly impales herself trying to push herself back up with the arm holding the blade. The man is also scrambling to his feet—his weapon of choice seems to be a gun, which isn’t ideal—and the moment Beatrice is back on her feet she has to duck, lest she catch a blow to the side of her cheek. This man is much bigger when looking right at him, she realizes; he easily has a foot on her, and he certainly knows how to use those extra inches. He swings at her again, and Beatrice nearly trips on her way to dodge it, stumbling over her own feet as she scrambles to stand steady again.

He doesn’t draw his gun. Whether that’s because he’s stupid and forgot he had it or it’s not loaded she’s not sure, but either way it’s a blessing. Instead, he goes right for the weight advantage, lunging at her with both hands scrabbling for a purchase around her throat. 

And Beatrice may be the idiot here, because it’s only as she avoids him for a third time does she remember that she’s still carrying a weapon. Next time when he swings at her she compensates less for her own movement, taking a solid blow to her forearm as she flashes the sword up, towards his face. 

The man falls away with a cry of pain; he’s not gone for long, but when he looks back up there’s blood dripping into his eyes. She’d gotten him in the forehead. “You bitch!” he yelps, before lunging again. 

But now Beatrice is more confident. She moves smoothly out of his way again, sword darting in to lick another stripe of red across his bicep. It darkens his nice Hunter clothes, staining the shirt most definitely. Beatrice thinks, rather pettily, Good. 

This is how the dance goes: the man comes in for a hit, Beatrice tries to duck away (key word being tries; she doesn’t always succeed, and will have the bruises later to prove it), Beatrice hits him with the sharp end of her blade. He roars, charges again, and the cycle repeats.

But this is a cycle she is always going to win. It only takes Beatrice a few lunges to figure out where his weak point is—back left; an old injury, maybe, the way his knee moves certainly isn’t normal—and Beatrice tries a new tactic just as he rushes towards her: she ducks, flashes her sword up at his chin, and then trips him as he tries to avoid her blade. 

He hits the ground and the entire room rumbles. Beatrice stands over him, triumphant. 

This time she stomps on the back of his head. She hears a crunch when she does, but if he’s dead, then that’s just a favor to the world. He’s definitely something, because when she steps off him to walk to the door, he does not budge. 

Beatrice steps outside and starts running. She doesn’t drop the sword, because there’d been men—two of them, she thinks, unless there’d been an unseen third one—who’d taken Ava away and she’s going to need to fight them, too. The square isn’t far at all from the station; only across the wide street, really, though hidden well by a few inconveniently-placed trees. Beatrice weaves her way through those trees, wincing at every snapped twig and rustled leaf.

It’d help if she could catch them by surprise. Maybe knock the first one out, then stab the second before he can draw his own weapon. If there is a third, then he might be tricky, but Beatrice is confident that if Ava’s not already actively in the stocks, then she’ll help. 

Not that Beatrice particularly wants her to do that. 

All of this preparation is for naught. Beatrice steps past the last tree, shoes finally touching smooth stone rather than dirt, and she sees—

Well. She sees Ava, standing around the crumpled bodies of the two men who’d brought her out of the building. Ava, standing in the middle of the square, next to the stocks, with nothing but a rather large stone in her hand, the size of a man’s fist.

Beatrice finds herself frozen. 

“Bea! Over here!” Ava spots her almost instantly, jumps up and waves her over with a grin, she’s grinning, and Beatrice has never, not ever, been able to resist her smile. She walks like she’s standing in water; it’s hardly twenty yards, but it feels like miles. The sword hangs limply in her hand, almost brushing against the ground. 

She’s so glad Ava’s okay. She hadn’t expected Ava to be okay. She’d been so ready to attack, so ready to be the hero, and Ava hadn’t needed her at all. Beatrice feels rather put out for a moment.

“I was about to mount a noble rescue, you know,” Ava says, once she’s come closer. Her eyes are sparkling, and she drops the rock she’d been holding (Beatrice notes that there was blood speckled across one side of it). “I would’ve been very hot.” 

Beatrice believes her. 

She’s also fairly overwhelmed, seeing her at all. Beatrice searches for something to say but nothing comes to mind, so she settles for pulling Ava into a hug instead. She holds her tight as Ava inhales sharply at the contact, but quickly settles right into her. One of Beatrice’s hands comes up to cradle the back of her head, and Ava’s own settle tightly around her shoulders, and Beatrice just breathes. 

Words return to her; they’re never gone for long. 

“It’s okay,” Beatrice soothes quietly, talking right into Ava’s hair. It’s growing out; Beatrice was planning to ask if she’d want to cut it soon. She has no preference, honestly, but Ava seems to enjoy it more when it’s shorter. “I promise it’s okay—you’re okay, yes? They didn’t hurt you?”

“I’m okay,” Ava says, and Beatrice decides on the spot that she and God, if he exists, may share a favorite person. 

Beatrice tells her, “Ava, we have to leave. I’m so sorry.” I’m sorry because you were finally setting down roots, that you felt this place was home. I’m sorry I couldn’t stop it. 

But Ava just smiles dazedly up at her. Not worryingly so; Beatrice knows this look, has felt it reflected on her own face every single day. “I knew you weren’t going to let me be hung,” she says, as if that’s the most romantic thing Beatrice has ever done: not let her die. “Thanks, Bea.”

“You can thank me later,” Beatrice tells her, scanning the entrance to the police station for any sign of people following. She doesn’t see any yet, but that doesn’t necessarily mean they’re not on their way. “Ava,” she says, getting her attention again, “we need to head back to the house and then we have to go.” 

Ava smiles. “Does this mean you’re taking me on a honeymoon? You’re supposed to propose first, babe.” 

Despite herself, Beatrice feels a flush creep up her face, and she shakes it away with a sigh. “You’re incorrigible,” she says softly, and then, unable to satiate her own curiosity, “wait, what happened to the men who dragged you out of there? What did you do?” 

With that Ava’s grin widens, almost dangerously so. “You should’ve seen it. I was hot,” she informs her, bringing her hands up to demonstrate just exactly how hot she’d been. “I was all, ‘oh, I need water, do you have water, kind sir?’ and he was all, ‘I didn’t know demons need water,’ so I told him that ‘Of course we do, we never get any in hell’—”

“Ava,” Beatrice sighs, helplessly fond. “You didn’t.”

She did. She demonstrates this by not even acknowledging Beatrice’s interruption. “And then they both looked at me really weirdly for a minute, but then the first guy, like, sighed, and then he pulled out his water and I pretended to drop it and I picked up the rock instead and I—” Ava inhales once. “I stoned them.” 

“You stoned them,” Beatrice says, shaking her head. She sneaks another glance back at the door, and it’s still closed. “You sure did. Can we go now?”

“On our honeymoon?” Ava wraps herself around Beatrice’s arm as they begin to walk, Beatrice shooting furtive looks all around them as they do. “We absolutely can.” 

And they should’ve. 

They really should’ve. 

Beatrice should have quickened her pace, should have gotten them back to their house fast, should have gotten them both on the road within fifteen minutes. They should’ve been able to run to another town, to start a new life. Beatrice should’ve asked Ava to marry her; in secret, of course, but they’d still know. She should’ve. 

That’s not what happens.

What happens is this: Ava trips over her own feet, Beatrice takes her eyes off the upcoming road in order to pull her back up, and Ava spots him first. Philip Whittler, standing in front of them with a broken nose, a bump the size of that rock Ava had used on his forehead, and a gun, drawn and aimed at Beatrice. 

“You’re demons,” he hisses, just as Beatrice becomes aware of his presence. She clutches the sword in her hand, but that’s not going to help at all, he’s too far away, and she doesn’t know how to throw the thing, doesn’t know how to make that work for her. “I thought it was only the one of you. I thought there was a victim here. I’m the victim,” he spits, blood and spittle spraying from his mouth as if they’ve become friends. “I’m the one who was trying to help and got attacked for it.”

“Philip,” Ava says from beside her, voice somehow still calm. Beatrice can’t imagine how. “Easy there.” 

“You could drag Hartford into insanity,” he spits, as if he’s not stark raving mad at this very moment. “I have to get rid of both of you before it’s too late, before you spread your disease to the rest of these good folks.” 

Then he raises his gun, aims it more carefully. Beatrice’s arm tightens over Ava’s chest. She says, “Ava,” as he cocks it, and then, “Ava, run.” 

Philip fires. 

Beatrice closes her eyes—

And Ava doesn’t run. Instead, Ava slips under her arm as fast as a fox, ducking underneath and then raising herself to her full height, spreading her arms out as far as they can go. And Ava takes the shot.

Beatrice feels the bullet connect with Ava’s chest like it’s her who takes the shot (like it should’ve been, like it should’ve been); feels the pain blossom across her own collarbone, nearly bringing her to her knees with the sharpness of it. She doesn’t think she screams—Ava certainly doesn’t, not as she’s falling, not as she was hit—but that’s because nothing is coming out of her throat right now; nothing like she’d never learned English in the first place, like her parents had never taught her Finnish at all. 

She manages to catch Ava before she hits the ground, wraps an arm underneath her shoulders before they can jostle something bad, make something even worse, and Ava is gasping and Beatrice is gaping down at her and—

Philip is reloading. 

Her gaze snaps back up, catches him in the midst of it. Beatrice doesn’t feel like herself as she moves; she feels, rather, like one of those false gods her parents had once told her about, one of the ones condemned to tragedy and destined to never quite get what she wants. Her fingers wrap around something light and sharp, and Beatrice hardly even looks before her arm is coming back up; she certainly doesn’t think. 

She throws the sword at him. 

The arc is perfect: the blade buries itself in Philip’s chest and he crumbles to the ground with a scream. His gun falls out of his hand, hitting the grass and tumbling out of reach, and Beatrice really doesn’t spare him another thought. 

“Sorry,” Ava says, before Beatrice can say anything at all. And then, “Ow. I didn’t—think that would hurt as bad—as it does.” 

Her breath is coming in strange increments, and Beatrice’s hands, which have immediately gone to press down on the wound, are soaked red in an instant. Beatrice trembles. She says, “Ava,” and it comes out in a croak. Then, again, “Ava!” when Ava’s eyes flutter shut. 

She opens her eyes again, but they’re still woozy. This time it’s bad; not at all the ego-stroking dazed look Ava sometimes gives her when she’s particularly happy to see her, this is woozy like she’s tired, like she’s hurting, and Beatrice doesn’t know what to do. 

“Darling,” she says weakly, “what do you need? What do I—” she shakes her head. “I’ll go get someone. There’s got to be someone still awake, I’ll just—”

“No.” Ava’s hands wrap around Beatrice’s forearms in an iron grip, catching her just as she starts to pull away. “No, you can’t go and—and get anyone. They’ll just—see Philip and hurt you, too. It’s—okay,” she says, even though it’s not, even though it’s the least okay anything has ever been, “and you—don’t need to beat yourself up—about it, either.” 

Beatrice can’t breathe. Her lungs feel like she’s inhaling salt water, stinging and burning in the back of her throat, behind the veins in her eyes. She can’t breathe, can’t move. All she can do is sit and watch as the person she loves most in the world gets slowly taken away from her. 

Ava says, “I love you.” Then, trying to recapture her usual teasing tone, “Say it back.” 

“I love you,” is torn from her lips before Beatrice can even process the order. She shakes her head, wills herself not to cry. “Ava,” she says again, cradling her head, “I love you so much. I’m so sorry.” I should have known, I should have realized, I should have gotten us out of here three months ago. 

But then Ava’s smiling, reaching up to run one of her hands along Beatrice’s jaw. “I love you,” she repeats. “Thank you for making me want to stay.”

Beatrice doesn’t know how long it takes for her to fade entirely. She’s inclined to say hours, but given that Philip doesn’t make it back to his gun and shoot her too seems to suggest that it’s only been a minute or two. How things can change so quickly, she has no idea. Ava had been otherworldly but still wiped out in just the span of a few seconds. 

Ava’s body is still warm, her lips still quirked in a half-smile. Her chest is completely still. Her hand falls gently to rest on the ground. 

Numbly, Beatrice stands on trembling legs and redirects her attention to Philip. He’s removed the sword from his chest, blood dripping out of his hands, and he’s trying to crawl his way back towards the gun. Being unharmed herself and actually using the limbs that are meant to move her, Beatrice covers the distance much faster. 

“You’re a monster,” he hisses, flinching away from her. “May God have mercy on your soul.”

Beatrice doesn’t say a word to him in response. She leans down and takes a handful of his shirt—his own hands scrabble weakly at her arm, hardly dissuading her—and drives his face right back into her knee for the second time today. It’s satisfying, hearing the crack of his already-broken nose. 

Philip’s eyes roll to the back of his head, slumping into her blood-soaked hands. This time, Beatrice doesn’t leave him there. This time, she slits his throat before he can wake up. 

♱ ♱

Beatrice buries Ava Dinis in a shallow grave, five feet from where she’d been shot. The house is too far away to take her body, and the gunshot had been loud; people may not have come out of their houses due to the time (it’d gone dark somehow, she’s not sure when) but they certainly will at first light, and by then Beatrice has to be long gone. 

She considers, as she’s digging, just staying here and reaping the consequences of it all. She considers it deeply. 

But she thinks of Ava, thinks of Ava saying I never want to leave you, thinks of how that had been the honest truth. She’d been Ava’s anchor, Ava her freedom, and now Ava is gone. Ava wouldn’t want her to suffer for this. Ava wouldn’t want her to stay and be arrested. Ava would want her to live. 

And Beatrice so desperately wants to make Ava happy. 

Even though Beatrice hadn’t been enough, even though Beatrice hadn’t recognized the danger in time. Even though Beatrice had been slow, been stupid, had made Ava jump in front of her, had allowed her to. 

Ava would want her to live, even though Beatrice couldn’t save her. 

(Beatrice is always a disappointment.)

Chapter Text

are these my best years yet?

London [1936—1939]

In the thirty-fifth, Ava Silvar is a legacy Sister Warrior. 

Her mother was a Sister Warrior who left the Order to have Ava, and her father had been a priest with the same story. Ava’s grown up inside the Church, inside the OCS, and frankly she thinks it’s quite bullshit that she’s not next in line for the Halo. 

“You’re not an actual Sister Warrior,” her Mother Superion says whenever she asks, “you’re not a nun, you haven’t taken at all the amount of vows you should, and you’re based in England. The Warrior Nun does not operate out of England. She never has.” 

“Then send me to the branch in Andalusia!” Ava always argues back. “Let me take those vows, let me become a nun—just give me a chance.” 

And Mother Superion, who always seems to look at Ava as if she knows her better than Ava knows herself, always refuses. 

Ava’s one of the best warriors the Order of the Cruciform Sword has ever seen. She knows it, Mother Superion knows it, everyone knows it, and she’s still not allowed to even be put in the running for the title of Halo Bearer. To be Halo Bearer, she thinks sometimes, caught in a midst of desire, is to be the protector. To be Halo Bearer is to keep people safe from the monsters they can’t even see. 

Ava so desperately wants to see a demon. Just once at least. She’s heard countless recounts of them, of course, from Halo Bearers over the years. They’re red in color and foggy in opacity; they have a skull-like face that protrudes out as they go to possess someone. 

They’re endlessly fascinating. Ava’s killed them before, but it’s not the same as seeing one right in front of your eyes. The London branch of the OCS has to be smarter, be stronger; they don’t have a Warrior Nun to spot demons for them, so they have to be careful, have to understand when the demon’s already been exorcized and not to keep beating an innocent person. 

Ava has got the lead in demon kills, and she has eight more than the Sister in second place. Nine, she insists, but no one believes her about the one under the bridge. Ava knows it’d been a demon, but whatever. If only she could have seen it. 

Two days after her twenty-fifth birthday, Ava is summoned to Mother Superion’s office. “There’s a few Sister Warriors transferring to our branch today,” she says as soon as Ava sets her foot inside. “They’re coming from the Vatican, so they’re going to have to relearn parts of their training. I’m setting you as the mentor for one of them,” she orders, and Ava already knows there’s no point in arguing. “Understand?”

No point in arguing, but it’s still more fun than just obeying. “Why me?” she asks, genuinely curious. “Is it because of my kill count? It’s because of my kill count, right? My kill count that’s forty-three.”

“It’s because you’re one of the ones I can take out of patrols for a time,” Mother Superion says snippily. “And because of your kill count, which consists of forty-two kills.” 

Eh. You take some, you lose some. 

Ava shows up only seven minutes late to the meeting she’s supposed to be having with her new trainee, which is honestly kind of impressive, and maybe she trips over her feet a little when she finally catches sight of her for the first time, because—

Because oh. 

She’s hot. 

Jet-black hair that only just shows from underneath the (unfortunate, in this case) habit, tied into a strict bun that sticks out against the left side of her neck. A really nice face, freckles to die for, brown eyes that Ava swears could glow. She’s carrying nothing but a single suitcase, and though her face doesn’t exactly light  up when she sees Ava approaching, it does soften imperceptibly. 

“Ava Silvar,” Ava says, introducing herself with (she hopes) a friendly smile. “You’re Sister Beatrice, yes?”

Beatrice dips her head politely. “That would be me.” 

“How are you feeling about fighting demons without the Warrior Nun?” Ava asks, never one to beat around the bush. 

“It can’t be that much different,” Beatrice says confidently, “But it’ll still be a change. I’m used to someone telling me where I can attack and figuring the rest out for myself, but I haven’t a clue how to begin the fight without knowing for sure what we’re up against.” 

“You’re in luck,” Ava tells her. “I’m the best Sister Warrior in England.”

Beatrice’s eyes look her dubiously up and down, which is rude, but whatever. “I—hadn’t realized you were a Sister Warrior yourself,” she admits. “I don’t mean to be rude, but—”

“Yes, the convent here has a dress code,” Ava says, taking a guess. “I’m a Sister Warrior, but I haven’t, like, taken any vows. Not all of them, at least. It’s complicated,” she lifts her shoulders in a shrug. “But I’m still the best fighter here. Probably the best you’ve ever seen anywhere.”

She’s right in thinking Beatrice will appreciate the challenge; her posture stiffens imperceptibly like she’s already thinking of sending a punch Ava’s way, just to test her reaction time. “Is that so? I suppose you’ll be the one getting me up to date, yes?”

Ava grins. “That’s me! Of course, I can’t really show you what to watch out for until we’re sent out on a proper mission, but I can certainly get you on the right track. Let me show you to the barracks first,” she says, beginning to head inside the building, “your room’s been set up just a few down from mine, just in case.”

“In case of—what?” Beatrice frowns. Ava has no idea, truly, but she’s not sure if that’s because she doesn’t at all or if she’s just so distracted that it slips her mind. Beatrice is cute when her face is scrunched. 

“No clue! But it sure is funny to think about, no?” 

“Sure,” says Beatrice, looking somewhat frazzled already. Ava hopes she starts to snark back at some point, otherwise it’d be boring. Surely someone this pretty can’t be boring, right? That’d be a crime. 

“So where were you born?” Ava asks on their way to Beatrice’s new room, undeniably curious. “I mean, your accent—”

“I could ask you the same thing,” Beatrice says, which is fair. Then she concedes with a dip of her head. “I was born in England, actually, but my parents moved to Spain when I was still very young. I’ve only recently returned.”

“For the OCS,” Ava says. 

She nods again. “For the OCS. I go where they tell me to go.” 

Spain. Ava finally realizes what that may mean. “Wait, so have you actually met the Warrior Nun? What was she like?”

Beatrice looks intrigued by the change in topic, though she doesn’t stumble. “I have seen her, yes. Fought alongside her for years. Two of them, actually,” she adds more quietly, and Ava thinks, Oh. “They were two of the bravest women I’ve ever known.”

They finally reach Beatrice’s room, and Ava lets her inside without another word. She feels a bit bad, actually, having accosted the poor woman before she’d even had a chance to breathe, and makes a mental note not to ask any more hard questions until they’ve at least had an hour to be around each other. Hopefully she hasn’t turned Beatrice entirely off of her. 

“So this is yours then,” she says, lingering in the doorway of the tiny room as Beatrice walks around the inside. “You’ve got the rest of today to unpack and learn the convent, but training starts early tomorrow morning.” Meeting Beatrice’s gaze, she gives her a smug smile. “You think you’ll be up for it?” 

And Beatrice says, confidently, “I’m a fast learner.” 

♱ ♱

Beatrice had been right. She does learn fast; Ava can hardly keep up with her, not the other way around. She trains tirelessly, waking at ungodly hours of the morning to begin and assumedly waiting around for Ava to wake up to continue their own spars. Ava, for her part, takes her duties as mentor very seriously (as seriously as she takes anything), and spends most of her days with Beatrice, going over tactics and strategy, how to apply them. 

“The first important things are your senses,” Ava tells her on the first day. “We can’t see the demons like the Warrior Nun can, but we can see—it’s hard to explain, it’s like the lightest fog you’ll ever see. It’s faint, but it’s there, and if you have sharp enough eyesight you can track the things as they move. Unless,” she says, “if they’re coming right at you.”

“What happens if they’re coming right at you?” Beatrice asks warily. 

“Then you can hardly see them at all,” Ava says, laughing at the way Beatrice’s face flattens out. “That’s the real bitch of it, yeah?”

Beatrice goes a little stiff and surprised at the swear word, but she doesn’t speak up, probably respecting her authority. Ava wonders what else she can get out of if she leans into the fact that she’s teaching. 

They’re sent out on their first mission only a week or so after Beatrice arrives in England, and just the two of them—it’s only the one demon, they’re nearly positive—and Ava spends half the ensuing fight leaning her back against a nearby wall, watching appreciatively as Beatrice uses all of the new skills she’d taught her as if she’s been learning them her entire life and not just for the past two weeks. 

Beatrice dispatches the demon with a screech. It hadn’t even managed to possess anyone this time, which Ava gives them both bonus points for. 

“Well done!” she says, looking her up and down (to make sure she’s uninjured, of course). “You did great for your first time!” 

Beatrice hasn’t broken her fighting stance, is staring up at the wall with such a stern expression that she doesn’t even react to the innuendo. “How can you be so sure that it’s gone?” 

“The scream,” Ava says. “They only ever make that specific sound as they’re being pulled back into Hell, and you’ll learn it’s not that hard to pick it out amongst their other screams. They sound really icky, those bastards,” she jokes, placing a hand on Beatrice’s to lower her knife. “Makes me almost not want to see them.” 

She gets a bemused look for that one, though Beatrice acquiesces with the touch, relaxing her stance with an inaudible sigh. “You want to be the Warrior Nun?”

“Doesn’t everyone?” 

“I suppose.” But Beatrice doesn’t seem convinced. She slots her knife safely back into its holster, looking at Ava with a furrowed brow. “If you want the Halo so badly, why aren’t you in the running for it?”

Ava smiles tightly, beginning to walk. They still need to check out the rest of the perimeter, make sure the bastard didn’t have any friends with it. “I can’t be, not without taking all the vows you already have. I’ve already said I’d take them, but Mother Superion won’t let me do that, either.”

“And why not?”

“I have no idea,” Ava says snippily, which is about half-true. “She says I’d regret it, but…”

Beatrice rounds the corner first, surveying the courtyard with a stern glance before deeming it safe enough to turn her gaze back to Ava. She says, “How did you come to be with the OCS in the first place?”

“Ah, you know. Classic story,” Ava replies. “Mom was a nun, dad was a Priest. They left the Church to have me but didn’t really leave. They both knew about the OCS beforehand and have kinda kept working with them even after leaving, so. That’s me.”

“Where are they based?”

Ava starts moving again, now heading back to the van, confident that it’d just been the one. “Don’t know. I don’t talk to them anymore.” At Beatrice’s concerned look, she adds, “You have to get to level five of friendship with me to learn the rest.”

“I don’t want to pry,” Beatrice says, and then, “but challenge accepted.”

Ava grins all the way back to the convent. 

♱ ♱

After that first mission, they’re inseparable. 

Ava finds that she and Beatrice work well together, so even after Beatrice has realistically learnt everything Ava could’ve taught her they continue taking missions together. Ava’s capability goes up, Beatrice gets to be well-known, and as a result Mother Superion pairs them with each other more often than not. 

She’s not embarrassed about how quickly she falls. 

Beatrice is easily the coolest person she’s ever met, kind and steady and smart in a way that often leaves Ava reeling. She’s impossibly funny and endearing and sometimes she just looks at Ava, just looks at her like she’s trying to figure her out and never can and will maybe dedicate the rest of her life to doing exactly that (and Ava’s already gushed about how attractive she is. Wow.)

And when you’re spending so much time with someone, well. 

Things are bound to happen. 

It’s Beatrice who kisses her first, anyway, and when Ava asks she says: “I’ve made my own peace with God,” and Ava will fucking take that. 

Being with Beatrice is no different than being with Beatrice, other than the fact that Ava gets more kisses per day, other than the fact that she doesn’t usually have to fall asleep anymore. It’s nice; simple. Not many things are, but Beatrice is. Because of that, what follows are the best few years of her life. 

(And yes. Ava tells Beatrice why she doesn’t talk to her parents anymore. She does that before they even start their secret courtship—Beatrice’s words—so never say Ava’s not true to her word.)

Ava’s not bored anymore, that’s for sure. 

And then it’s announced that the Warrior Nun is coming to England. 

Mother Superion briefs them all on the situation after waking them in their beds; it’s nearing 4am, but there’s no rest for the wicked and there’s no rest for the ones who fight it. 

“There is someone buying obscene amounts of Divinium on the black market,” Mother Superion says to three dozen bleary-eyed nuns (and Ava). “The Warrior Nun is coming here to help us fight this threat. There will be one attack. Retrieving the Divinium is our top priority.”

It may be a little more dramatic than others, but besides that it’s just another mission. Ava’s so tired she can hardly even muster the excitement about meeting the Warrior Nun in person. Honestly, Ava’s just glad that Beatrice hadn’t relented in not letting her stay in her bed, that Ava had snuck back into her own room just an hour or so earlier. That would’ve been awkward to explain. 

A few hours later it’s Beatrice who gets to be the one who welcomes the Warrior Nun inside—because she’s the best Sister Warrior here who isn’t Ava—and Ava gets to be the one who watches from the second floor, craning her neck to see them over the wide, metal bannister that lead the stairs down to the first floor. The building has never felt strange to Ava, not here in London where everything’s gray and stuffy and made out of glass, but the Warrior Nun, from what little Ava can see of her face, seems gobsmacked by it. She wonders if Vatican City is much different. It must be. 

(The ache to know for herself is undoubtedly smaller, but still tender.)

Ava finally gets her chance to meet the Warrior Nun that night at dinner. Beatrice has kept her away all day, showing her around and filling her in on the capabilities of the strike team that’ll be working with her, but even Warrior Nuns have to eat, and so Ava heads to the commissary to force her hand. 

She walks in and immediately spots the pair of them: Beatrice with a hand forward, the Warrior Nun standing beside her. Ava makes a beeline for them and doesn’t even try to pretend she’s not. 

Seeing her approach, Beatrice doesn’t smile with her lips, but Ava catches it immediately; the gentle exasperation. She turns the Warrior Nun’s attention just as Ava makes it there, and Ava finally gets her first real look at her. 

“Sister Amma, This is Ava Silvar,” Beatrice introduces her, “she’s the best Warrior in London.”

“The best in the OCS, actually,” Ava corrects happily, giving the Halo Bearer’s hand a firm shake. “What’s up?”

The Warrior Nun—Sister Amma—is just a woman. A nun. Tall, somewhat, with a tired face and sunken green eyes. She’s got dirty blonde hair that just juts out from underneath her wimple and she moves like she hasn’t gotten enough sleep in the past year, like there’s creatures lurking in every shadow, just waiting to tear out her throat if she even forgets about them for a moment. She’s not at all what Ava had expected. 

Sister Amma stares at her for a moment, undoubtedly thrown by her casual attire in a similar way Beatrice had been. Ava delights in the stare and offers no explanation. If she wants to know, she’ll have to ask herself.

But she doesn’t, instead giving Ava a polite nod. “It’s good to finally meet the best. I look forward to fighting alongside you,” she says, and then she’s off to meet the others. Ava watches her go, Beatrice at her side; she catches her gaze just for a moment and Beatrice raises an eyebrow at her. 

Ava doesn’t know what that means, but okay. 

That’s it, though; just that tiny little meeting that leaves Ava… confused at best. She’s not sure what she’d been expecting, but it wasn’t that. Had that been a joke? It’d sounded so deadpan that she wasn’t sure at all. Ava’s left slow and unsure, hardly able to focus on eating at all. She sits with a bunch of the other Sisters and engages them in conversation, but her head isn’t at all with them. 

Despite being halfway across the room for the entire time, Beatrice notices, of course.

“What did you think of Sister Amma?” Beatrice asks her that night, curled up in bed together. Ava can’t see her expression from her position on Beatrice’s chest, but her voice sounds like it’s wading through water, like she’s trying to word it carefully but not wanting Ava to know. 

“I think you’re prettier,” Ava says, if only to make her laugh. It works, but it’s a soft one; something’s still bothering her. “What do you want me to say?” Ava works well with specifics. 

Beatrice sighs gently against her head. “I don’t know. I suppose I was just curious how you’d find her. I worked alongside more than one when I was based in Spain, but this was the first time you’ve met a Warrior Nun. What did she strike you as?”

Ava ponders that for a moment, fiddling idly with her fingers as she does. “I guess I wasn’t expecting her to seem so… human,” she says eventually. “She looked like any other Sister Warrior. Not at all like someone who’s got an Angel’s weapon to wield.” 

“They all look like that,” Beatrice says. “Wait until you see her fight.” 

“Does she seem otherworldly then?” 

Beatrice is quiet for a long moment. “No,” she says eventually, and her voice is sad. “She just seems like a girl with extra endurance, maybe a flashy superpower or two. I knew Sister Amma back when I was in Andalusia, I know how she fights, and honestly, I—”

“What?” Ava says. 

“I don’t know how she’s survived this long,” Beatrice admits. “It’s—it’s horrible to say, but the two who came before…”

“It’s okay if you miss them.”

“It’s not just missing them. I believed in them, fought for them,” Beatrice tells her. “Sister Dorothy was the funniest Nun in the entire convent, Sister Lena the strongest. Neither of them deserved what happened to them. I should’ve—”

Ava says, “There’s nothing you could have done,” because it’s true. She’s heard the stories, heard what Beatrice has been willing to tell her, and the images they bring to mind are horrifying. “And you’re still here, right? So is Sister Amma. Who knows,” she says, trying to lighten her tone, “maybe Amma will outlive the both of us.”

And Beatrice says, “Don’t joke about that.”

“Sorry.” She is. “You know what I mean, though.” Beatrice does. “Besides, if it’s that weird to be seeing her, you won’t have to for very long. It’s just the one mission, right? Then she’ll go back to Spain and we’ll stay here.”

“It’s only the one mission,” Beatrice echoes, a weary sigh rattling her bones. “Right.” 

Ava’s only half-right. The Warrior Nun accompanies them on the one mission, the one they’d been briefed for. That one mission goes horribly, horribly wrong. 

What they’re expecting: a dozen or so goons with guns, Divinium bombs, possessed goons with guns, and maybe one rich guy who’d pissed off the wrong people (the Church). The plan is to sneak into this dude’s mansion, stay low and quiet for as long as they can, maybe grab all the Divinium out from under his guards’ noses, and leave without a single shot being fired. Realistically, this is never going to happen, but a girl can dream. 

What they get is this: like, a billion goons with guns, Divinium bombs that are buried in the ground of the yard, and according to Sister Amma, enough demons to possess the entire squad twice over and then some. 

Respectfully, what the fuck.

It’s strange, fighting with the woman who can see them. Her weapon glows a bright blue as she wields it, her face red with rage as she slices through things only she can witness. She spins on her feet as she fights, shouting out order to the rest of them. She says, “Silvar, left!” and Ava jabs left. She says, “Above!” and that means fucking duck, so Ava ducks and feels the wind from the demon passing right over head brush through her hair. 

They make their slow way into the mansion, taking care not to trip the bombs—those will be the last pieces they go after, thank you very much—and from there they split off: the fifteen Sister Warriors head through the house in groups of seven and eight and Ava makes sure she’s with the team that’s being led by Sister Amma, because maybe she’s still got a bit of hero-worship in her, shut up. 

Moving through this big damn house isn’t fun but it’s doable, and Ava’s side-by-side with Beatrice so it’s almost easy. They’re incredibly efficient as they go, clearing rooms within thirty seconds and moving on towards where their intel says the labs are. 

The house itself is old but well-kept; some rooms look more like a museum than somewhere people actually live, and Ava finds herself wrinkling her nose at some of the gaudy furniture; fur carpets, ridiculous paintings hung up on the wall, a fireplace in every room… it’s kind of ridiculous. 

But gaudy furniture or not, all in all the mission is going well, and it continues to go that way until they enter one of the last rooms. It’s circular in shape, pillars dotting the perimeters to make it seem more like a Roman Temple than what it really is: a library. There are bookshelves everywhere but the middle of the room, crammed against the walls and books spilling from the shelves. 

This is when all hell breaks loose. 

The demons, the ones that they’ve been calmly killing off as they come across them, suddenly appear in full-force: Sister Amma shouts, “Seven!” her arms flailing in every direction, and Ava thinks: shit. 

The demons converge on them before they can properly work out where they are, and Ava quickly loses track of Beatrice in the ensuing scramble. She wields her sword with her usual fierceness, stabbing whenever she can catch a glimpse of that ever-present smoke; one slams into her, once, knocking her against a nearby bookshelf, but Ava dispatches it with a well-placed jab to get it back. 

All around her are sounds of fighting, of Sister Amma barking orders as the nuns around her try to follow them as best they can. Then, when Ava hits another right between the eyes—she thinks—Sister Amma finally barks, “One left! Middle!”

The last one is a coward. Ava sees it as it flees; it goes solid as a nun tries to block its path to the window and sends her hurtling back into yet another bookshelf. The demon disappears through the wall and the bookshelf falls right through the window, shattering it to pieces and continuing to fall out of sight. The nun who’d fallen against it only barely manages to avoid the same fate. 

For a half-second, Ava thinks that’s fine. Thinks that while it sucks one got away at least they’re all alive. She can see Beatrice in the corner of her eye, creeping closer, and for a moment, Ava thinks they’re all good. 

Then she remembers what’s exactly outside and goes pale. The room they’re in is facing north, is facing the yard, is facing the dozen or so buried Divinium bombs, just waiting for someone to step on them. The same yard that a bookshelf is just about to land into. 

She has exactly one second to process that everything is about to—literally—blow up in their faces, and in that second, Ava moves. 

Ava’s duty says she must save the Halo Bearer. She’s always known that, has always been taught that it’s the Halo Bearer whose life has complete precedence. Sister Warriors are a dime a dozen, but the Warrior Nun’s life is more than the Warrior Nun’s life: she’s a symbol, an inspiration to Sister Warriors all across the globe. Ava should cover her with her own body, should take any potential hit for her, just in case. She knows that’s what any good Sister Warrior would do. 

She dives for Beatrice instead. 

Ava tackles her without a single word, arms wrapping protectively over Beatrice’s head just as the explosion rips through the air. 

In the end, her choice probably doesn’t change anything (at least, that’s what she’d like to tell herself). The first bomb sets off a second, which sets off a third, which sets off the entire fucking yard; how many of these things had been made?! By the time the ground has stopped shaking, Ava’s ears are ringing and her vision has gone white. Her right thigh screams at her, having caught some shrapnel, but Ava’s beyond lucky that’s her only injury. Beatrice, still underneath her, seems completely unharmed. 

When she looks up, everything is blue. 

Divinium shrapnel is everywhere; stuck to the walls and ceiling of the room they’d been fighting in. It peppers the floor, unsticking and falling harmlessly onto Ava’s hands, and all around her there are Sister Warriors groaning, checking themselves for injuries. 

Then, even as the Divinium all around them stays a steady, horrific blue, someone begins to scream. And as Ava scrambles to her feet, wincing as she puts pressure on her wound, she already knows what she’s going to see. 

Sister Amma—the Warrior Nun, the Halo Bearer, the untouchable one–is lying on her stomach, a piece of Divinium as big as one of their swords embedded in the back of her neck. She must’ve been killed instantly, Ava thinks, and the thought settles her, even slightly. 

The guilt is immediate. The terror slower, creeping up on her like thorns on a vine. She’s seen Sister Warriors killed before, but never a Warrior Nun. It’s different—maybe it shouldn’t be, but it is—to have the one dead be the one who was supposed to lead them. Who was leading them. Ava’s mouth hangs open in the interim. 

Sister Melanie, a woman Ava knows very well, has known for nearly the entire time she’s spent in the Church, is the one who gets the Halo next. She screams when it's sealed to her back, and Ava doesn’t look away, can’t look away, because that’s all she ever wanted up until very recently. The Halo looks like it burns her, even though she’s immediately healed after it’s sunken in entirely. Ava watches as the wound seals up in front of her eyes, as Sister Melanie’s gasps of pain shorten, grow more quiet.

The nun who’d administered the Halo kneels down to look at Sister Melanie’s face. “Sister Melanie,” she says, weakly, “are you here?” 

“I’m here,” Sister Melanie gasps, and it sounds like she’s saying Why must I be? Like she’s spent her life working towards something that didn’t turn out at all worth it. “I’m here, Sister. I can feel it.” 

“Sister Melanie,” the nun says again, “I’m sorry, but you must look up. Are there any left?”

Even as she speaks the Sister Warriors are getting to their feet, Beatrice among them. Ava meets her gaze for a half-second before she’s sweeping her eyes around the room, searching for any traces of remaining demons. She desperately tries to remember how many they’d already called away—was it eighteen or nineteen?—as she looks, bloodied fingers clutching her sword even tighter. 

“There!” Sister Melanie finally shouts; she points to the corner of the room, face paling even further. “There’s still one in here!” 

Immediately Ava’s back on her guard, sword raised, stance lowered. She squints at the area Sister Melanie had pointed out, looking for the tell-tale signs of wooziness as the demon moves. She thinks she can see it as it creeps to the left, but then loses track of it entirely. Ava heads towards the area slowly, head on a swivel, and she’s about to ask Sister Melanie for another update before suddenly she’s being thrown into the wall. 

Beatrice shouts in alarm; there’s not a single word in her cry, but Ava understands it all the same. The pressure remains on her chest, pinning her arms against the wall and weakening the grip she has on her weapon. Her head is twisted up and to the side, cranking her neck so hard that tears begin to well in her eyes. 

Oh, Ava realizes sluggishly, struggling to free herself, it’s coming for me! 

Then Beatrice’s sword slams into the wall not an inch from her nose. The familiar demonic screech of a weapon having hit its mark echoes throughout the room, so close and so loud that Ava feels one of her ears pop. She flinches away from the sound on instinct, raising her newly-free hands to shield her head. 

Beatrice’s body presses into her own, crowding her back against a nearby pillar not unlike how she’d been pinned just a moment ago (though Ava immediately prefers this version). Beatrice’s hands are wrapped tightly around the hilt of her sword, her back against Ava’s chest. 

“Sister Melanie, is it gone?” Beatrice barks, not sparing the Warrior Nun a single glance. “Is it gone?”

Sister Melanie’s voice is quiet when she replies. “Yes. You got it,” she says, “hit it square in the head.”

With that, Beatrice turns to assess Ava. She looks her over for injuries without a word—“I’m okay,” Ava whispers, trying to meet her gaze, “I’m okay, I’m okay—” and finally takes in a shaky breath when she finds nothing. “I’m okay,” Ava says again, louder, because the terror in Beatrice’s eyes has not yet faded. 

Beatrice doesn’t respond in words, but the way her fingers linger on Ava’s robes, clutching so tight that her knuckles turn white, says everything she can’t say in front of others. Ava straightens the sleeve of Beatrice’s own robe in response, giving her a reassuring smile. 

They take great care with Sister Amma’s body. It’s a horrific sight; the wound to her chest, the hole in her back, and Ava has to swallow down a wave of nausea when she helps the other Sisters carry her back to the truck. They wrap her in extra clothes and strap her down for the ride, and no one says much at all. 

For her part, Beatrice is shaken entirely by the incident. This is the third Warrior Nun she’s seen die—Ava thinks there’s a joke in there somewhere, a horrible one; it twists and burns at her insides—and this one doesn’t hit her any less; she doesn’t utter a word while they’re on their way home, and Ava knows better than to push her. Ava’s not sure if her almost being possessed has made things worse, but she thinks probably.

(There’s shame there, bubbling up her spine. She shouldn’t have been in that position in the first place.)

Beatrice doesn’t speak all throughout the evening; Sister Amma’s funeral will take place early next afternoon, and all the Sister Warriors have to do is report to Mother Superion and then get some much needed rest. 

Ava spies Sister Melanie across the room when they’re debriefing, looking pale and shaky, and wonders if she’ll be getting any rest at all. 

Beatrice comes to Ava’s room that night, earlier than they’d usually risk it. She lets herself in as Ava sits up in the bed, only half-surprised to see her there. “I was going to be on my way in a bit,” Ava says, because it’s usually the other way around. And then, “Everything okay?” 

It’s a stupid question, maybe the dumbest thing she’s ever said, and she gets no response as Beatrice joins her on the bed. Her face is dark in the flickering light through the window, like it had been ever since they left that goddamn mansion, and Ava lets out a small sigh. Reaches over to Beatrice’s hand in hers, stroking gently over her knuckles. 

“What do you want?” Ava asks her. “Tell me and I’ll give it to you. Anything.” I’d conquer the world for you if you asked. I’d burn down the heavens if they insulted you, blow up entire planets if they looked at you the wrong way. You’d never ask me to, but maybe that means I should do it anyway. 

Beatrice silences her with a bruising kiss. “You’re here,” she gasps; the first words she’s spoken since the demon was vanquished. “That’s all I need. You to be here with me. I couldn’t—” she can’t even finish the thought, and Ava kisses her again, softer, to calm her. 

“It’s okay,” she murmurs against her lips. “I’m okay.”

“You almost weren’t,” Beatrice hisses. “The explosion, and then the demon—I don’t know what I’d do, Ava,” she says, and Ava’s heart breaks with her. “I have no idea.” 

Ava wraps her arms around Beatrice’s shoulders, pulling her in for a hug. She holds her tight, allowing Beatrice’s breathing to slowly steady. Ava rubs back, throat working as she tries to keep a handle on her own emotions. Ava’s so sick of making Beatrice worry about her. 

“I’m so glad it wasn’t you who was chosen,” Beatrice murmurs into Ava’s neck. “I don’t want it to be you.” 

Warrior Nuns die. So do Sister Warriors, but at the very least that’s not what they’re known for. Beatrice has seen three Warrior Nuns rise and fall in her short lifetime, and Beatrice is still here. Ava is still here. 

Ava has always wanted to be the Warrior Nun. Has always wanted to be the one protecting, the one who knows, who can see the danger that’s laid out in front of them. She’s always wanted to be the one people look to for guidance, wanted to lead a team of Sister Warriors into battle. Now that she’s seen how it looks on the other side of things, she wonders if that’s not the dumbest dream anyone could ever have.

“I don’t want it to be you, either,” Ava says, voice breaking just at the thought. “I know we’re doing good here, but if it ever falls to you…” She trails off. Beatrice’s nose feels warm, pressed into the crook of her shoulder, and it’s that warmth she chases to find the courage to be selfish. “I want you to run. If they tell you that you’re up next, I don’t want you to take it. Please don’t, Bea,” she says, and she’s a hypocrite for it. “I want you to live.”

Beatrice says, “Only if you do the same,” and Ava can’t deny her anything.

So Ava replies, “I swear to you.” 

And that’s that. 

Beatrice falls asleep with her head resting against Ava’s, arms wrapping around her middle, and Ava holds her just as tightly, presses a kiss against the top of her head.

(Anything for you, she thinks, half-asleep and wanton. Anything you ask.)

But she still has one last question. She’s never going to see the demons with her own eyes—especially not now—but she still has her curiosity. So Ava wakes up a little earlier than she usually does, shakes Beatrice awake, too (because she’d be upset if she spent the entire night in Ava’s bed) and pads her way through the convent in search of the Warrior Nun. 

Sister Melanie has never struck Ava as a particularly quiet woman. They’re not exactly friends, but Ava’s known her for years and she’s never been like this, like how Ava finds her: still and frail-looking. She finds her out on the courtyard watching the rest of the Sister Warriors—those who are already awake—as they spar with each other. It’s cold today, and Ava shivers. Sister Melanie doesn’t look like she feels it at all. 

“Silvar,” she says. 

“Sister Melanie,” Ava greets her. “I heard you’re leaving for the Vatican today.” 

“I am. I wonder if it’ll be much different there.” 

For a time that’s just that: they stand there and watch their Sisters for a little while in companionable silence, until Sister Melanie exhales deeply and says, “Well, I must be going.” Then she says, “Take care Silvar,” and it sounds like Goodbye forever, like she’s being sent off for a death sentence. 

“Wait,” Ava says, stumbling over her words because this is the only chance she’s going to get. “I wanted to ask—I mean—what do they look like?” 

There’s a pause; the Halo in Sister Melanie’s back pulses quietly, as if activating in response to Ava’s question. Like it wants to answer her instead. 

Sister Melanie’s face is pale when she responds. “Horrifying.” 

Ava doesn’t ask her anything else.

Things should go back to normal after that. They do; Beatrice finds herself again and returns to the fight with nothing but a reinvigorated push. She doesn’t like to talk about the day Sister Amma died, so Ava doesn’t press her on it. Sister Melanie goes to Spain and that’s the last they see of her; Ava assumes she’s out there doing good. Ava herself finds peace in the curve of Beatrice’s smile, in the way her eyes crinkle at the corners whenever she’s trying not to laugh.  

Here’s the problem: 

Warrior Nuns always die, but Sister Warriors don’t have the longest lifespans either. Warrior Nuns are destined to die, destined to pass their weapon on to the next in line, but Sister Warriors are just as trapped in that narrative; the only difference, then, is that they don’t get a statue made in their image afterwards.

Most Sister Warriors all die eventually, die or are wounded heavily enough that they leave the convent entirely, and Ava is no different. She is the most talented Warrior in the OCS, but even that’s not enough sometimes. Everyone’s fallible, everyone’s bound to make a mistake eventually. Ava’s not an exception to that rule. 

In the end, Beatrice isn’t even there when she slips up. 

It’s nothing very dramatic. It’s a mission gone wrong, like every other one they’ve lost Sisters on; a demon goes one way, Ava goes another, she makes a mistake, and then she’s the one who gets blasted into oblivion. 

Ava’s death isn’t at all the most important thing about her life, so she doesn’t particularly linger on it. This is how it was always bound to end, bleeding out from a wound in her chest, the nearby ground dripping with red. She watches, unfocused as her fellow Sister crowd around her, desperate to stop the bleeding. They won’t be able to, they all know they won’t, but there’s something human about never giving up, about watching the sun go down at the end of every day and declaring Bet you won’t come back up tomorrow.

It doesn’t work. It never works. 

(Ava’s last thought as a Sister Warrior is, Fuck, I hope Bea’s okay.)

Chapter Text

your face resting on my shoulder

Málaga, Arq-Tech Basement [September 9th, 2020]

(In the fortieth, Ava first meets her as a nineteen-year-old, freshly un-paralyzed and finally—finally?—the Warrior Nun. In the fortieth, Ava is a little unreliable, a little self-centered—she thinks she deserves to be, considering—a little wild. In the fortieth, Ava meets Beatrice and thinks You don’t look like you’d yell at me and goes from there; to You can help, please help to What you are is beautiful and everything in between.

In the fortieth, Ava falls in love with her in the Switzerland Alps and wishes she could whisk them away to a world that didn’t demand things of them. She doesn’t have any regrets about the way she lives her life after she receives the Halo, but she still dreams.)

♱ ♱

In the fortieth, Beatrice is getting beyond tired of this shit. 

Tired of what she’s not sure. That’s just all she can feel after Ava disappears into the Ark, all she thinks of when she sits down on the steps in front of it, waiting. She’s so tired, she thinks. So tired of having something nice only for it to be taken right out of her hands in the next second. 

She should have gone back to Switzerland when Ava asked. She should have stopped her before they reached the point of no return. She should have hammered into her head that sacrificing herself was not an option, not ever. Beatrice should have done more, and she’s so tired of never quite being enough. Beatrice hadn’t been enough for her parents, hadn’t been enough to save Shannon, hadn’t been enough for Mary or Lilith. Hadn’t nearly been enough for Ava. 

Beatrice sits and waits. How long had it been already? Two minutes, give or take a few seconds? How long had it been for Ava? Is she already healed? What’s it going to take for her to come back? 

She’s not sure which of those questions is the worst one. 

For now, Beatrice sits and inhales deep, shaky breaths and she waits. Adriel is dead, and Camila is talented; she’ll be fine with the rest of the demons. Beatrice hardly thinks she’d be able to help in this state anyway. She sits, she waits, and she tries to remember to breathe. 

(And she’s so tired.)

So that’s why when Camila finds her there on those steps an hour and a half later, her own small face already crumpling into a sob, all Beatrice can say in return is: “It’s over.”  

“Ava—?” Camila can’t say it, wide eyes lingering on the bloodstain that was the only remaining reminder of Michael (another of Beatrice’s failures); hand curling around her mouth like she physically has to stop herself from putting the worst thing in the world to words. She’s streaked with blood, arms shaking, but she’s alive and not entirely broken, so Beatrice assumes everyone else is, too. She hasn’t lost anyone else. “Where’s—”

“She’s not dead,” Beatrice says sharply, because she’s not. She can’t meet Camila’s eyes; there’ll be no shame waiting for her there but there should be, there should be disappointment and disapproval and every negative word under the sun. For her. Always for her. What good is she if she’s only ever almost good enough? “Adriel’s gone. A Tarask took him—” And hadn’t that too been holy, in a way? Ava calling forth the creatures that they’d spent their months trying to avoid, calling them to drag Adriel back to where he’d come from. It’d been nothing short of glorious. “Adriel’s dead but she’s not. She’s not dead, Camila.”

It’s like a prayer, like the only vow that can ever exist. Ava’s still alive. That’s all Beatrice can think, the only thing she can believe. She’s never amounted to anything without her faith, and this is no different. She’s not dead. Ava’s still alive. 

“The portal?” Camila already knows, but she asks anyway. She creeps closer, hands outstretched as if to take Beatrice’s cracked form and cradle it. She never makes contact, perhaps thinking better of it, but she does ease herself into a sitting position next to her. “What happened? Yasmine told me a little, but you two separated pretty quick.” Effortlessly gentle, despite her own grief. Beatrice has never deserved Camila. 

Beatrice wonders what exactly Yasmine had told her, what details she’d avoided. Had she talked about the way Ava had cradled Beatrice’s face in her hands? The way she’d kissed her like Beatrice was bound to break? The carnage that had burst from Beatrice’s chest after the fact, boiling over into something desperate and sharp? Had Yasmine told Camila everything? 

One look at Camila’s face says she had not. Beatrice wouldn’t even have been able to blame her if she did, but if Camila knew, if Camila had all the facts already, she wouldn’t be trying to act as if she can’t see Beatrice’s pain right now. 

Maybe Beatrice should keep it that way. Maybe it’d be better for her in the long run—long? How long would she be willing to wait? The answer comes unbidden: forever —to keep Camila in the dark about how Ava had spent some of her final moments in this dimension; it’d only end up hurting the both of them, only end with Camila feeling even sorrier for her, grieving even more than she already is. It’s the least selfish thing to do, Beatrice decides shakily. Don’t tell Camila so that Camila may focus more on herself. 

And yet—she so desperately wants to do the least selfish thing, to not beg for that attention, to be strong and better than that, but in the end the only thing that she can force out of her chest is this: 

“I—she told me she loved me.” 

She’s not looking in Camila’s direction, instead staring half-focused on the metal gangplank, but she hears the sharp intake of breath, the immediate choke in her Sister’s throat. “Beatrice,” she gasps quietly, still not quite touching, “Beatrice, I’m so sorry.” 

“She didn’t hear me say it back,” Beatrice says then, weak and something horrendous. “I was so slow. I meant to tell her, I wanted to tell her—” Now it’s her who seeks out the touch, who grasps for Camila’s hand and intertwines their fingers—she’s weak, she’s so weak, she hates herself for it—and the tears are back, just to disgrace her more. “Why couldn’t I just tell her in time?”

Camila pulls closer, wrapping her other hand around their joined one. “She knew,” she says, and Beatrice closes her eyes, allowing those tears to fall. “Bea, she knew. She’s known ever since Switzerland,” she adds, with a tearful laugh. “I could tell.”

Beatrice couldn’t. Beatrice is so bad at this, so bad at understanding what other people mean. She gets them, gets what’s going behind their eyes and what they’re thinking—where they’ll attack, how they’ll move to get there—but she’s never been able to look at someone and think: This is how you feel about me. 

She hadn’t realized that her parents were disappointed in her until too late. She hadn’t realized that Shannon was crying out for help, hadn’t even thought twice before she began to insult Camila’s own skills during the Crown heist. Beatrice has spent her life trying so hard to understand herself that she’s become completely blind to understanding the others around her. 

Ava was, in some ways, the only exception to that. Ava only had her own face for a very long time, so her expressions have always been clearer to Beatrice than anyone else’s; her body language, too, is open and free, never quite able to hide exactly what she’s thinking. Thanks to their time in Switzerland—beloved time, blessed time—Beatrice had learned her, had learned the way she frowned when she was upset versus the way she frowned when she wanted something, learned her smiles, catalogued them all in the back of her head. She’d learned that Ava likes her hair to be stroked, likes to wiggle underneath her fingertips like a housecat. She’d learned so many things about Ava, and yet she’d still be inscrutable. 

She never would have guessed Ava would feel the same way she did. She couldn’t think that, couldn’t even consider it for a second. Ava is the most beautiful person she’s ever met, inside and out, and to think she sees something in Beatrice, that all this time she’s been looking right back at her—

“How do you know?” Beatrice asks, and her voice is hardly a voice at all: she sounds like someone who’s been run over by a truck, cracked open and bleeding out on the street. Camila, because she is quite possibly the kindest soul Beatrice has ever met, does not mention it. 

She just smiles, still crying, tilting her shoulder to lean into Beatrice. “Because she said it every time she addressed you. I can’t believe you didn’t notice. Well—” she shakes her head, a little laugh bubbling up. “I can believe that, actually. You don’t tend to give yourself enough credit, Bea.”

“I’m such an idiot.”

“No,” Camila says empathetically. “I think that’s just our fatal flaw as human beings: we never see what we have until—” she quiets, then, unable to finish her sentence. “Well. You know.”

But Ava isn’t human, Beatrice wants to say. Ava’s something better, something brighter—Ava’s someone so enchanting that I think the entire world may go to war for her, if only she’d ask. She’s better than the rest of us, and now she’s—

No. 

That thought brings her down a path she cannot follow—she refuses to—and she cuts it off before it’s able to entirely form. Instead, what comes out of her mouth is dark and tired, betraying everything she’s feeling. “I’m so—so sick of this.”

“I know,” Camila murmurs soothingly, reaching across to wrap her arm around Beatrice’s shoulder. “I know. I know.” 

But she doesn’t know—Beatrice doesn’t get it either, doesn’t understand the sheer scope of it—and she doesn’t know how to explain it, has no idea how to convey that this always happens, this part where Ava goes and Beatrice has to pick up the pieces that have spilled out of her own body. It doesn’t make any sense, and so, in the end, all she can say is:

“I just—I would give so much for things to be different.” 

The very instant those words leave her lips, the portal behind them flares to life. 

Beatrice catches it in the corner of her eye and leaps to her feet, pulling Camila with her as she goes. Her heart leaps with the thought that it’s Ava, it must be Ava, who’s about to come out of the portal fully healed and smiling. 

But the Ark stays open, shimmering blue, and Ava doesn’t appear. 

No one appears at all, nor has anything changed in the room around them. Beatrice takes a wary glance all around, but finds nothing. “Camila?”

“I don’t know.” Camila takes a single step forward, as if to examine the portal more closely, but as soon as she does the light inside begins to fade. “Wait—” she goes closer and the light dims even further; she stills, and the thing doesn’t change at all. “What?” 

Beatrice doesn’t trust it. She leans forward to take hold of Camila’s arm and pull her back, but she freezes too when that movement also makes the Ark change. This time, it glows brighter. 

Camila backs up entirely, staring at the portal with a furrowed brow. “Beatrice, come here,” she says, and Beatrice goes to her. 

The thing lights up even further, brighter and brighter with every step she takes. Like it’s reacting to her, even though there’s not a trace of Divinium on her. Ava’s sword, still tossed away near the entrance of the room, is the closest thing, and it stays dull. 

“It wants… you,” Camila observes, wide-eyed. 

Beatrice takes another step closer and the portal glows even brighter; another step and now it’s nearly blinding, more white than blue. “Camila,” she says, and her voice cracks in the middle of it. “I—”

Because the smart thing here is to wait for backup, to understand more about this before she tries to step inside. But this is Ava, it has to be, it has to be her calling out for Beatrice, and she’s never ever been reckless before but she’s beyond willing to be reckless now. Beatrice readies herself to say all this, to plead her case, but—

But then she looks back at Camila and knows she already understands. She’s never deserved Camila.

“I know,” Camila tells her. Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes, but she’s trying. “Bring her back.” 

And it’s with her blessing that Beatrice closes her eyes and steps inside the Ark. Nothing happens. 

At least, that’s how it feels. Beatrice steps into the portal, braced for the burning that she’d seen on Jillian’s arm. Instead, she feels the smallest sensation of her feet not being grounded on anything, as if someone’s swept her legs out from under her, but that feeling is gone almost in an instant. For a moment, Beatrice almost believes she hasn’t gone anywhere. 

But then she opens her eyes, and sees—

Nothing. 

The room she’d just been in is entirely gone; Camila gone entirely and the Ark itself nowhere to be found. Just an endless room—can it really be called a room if it doesn’t seem to have any limits?—of pure white, stretching for as long as she can see. She doesn’t even have a shadow. There’s nothing but Beatrice, walls and floor and ceilings of white. 

And a woman, standing just a few feet in front of her. 

Horribly, the only way to describe this woman is beautiful. She almost looks like Ava in some twisted, horrifying way—Beatrice shoves that thought to the back of her head as quickly as it appears—with that same white armor draped across the top of her face, falling across her shoulders. She looks the same, looks unruffled, as if she hadn’t been fighting for her own life just a few hours ago. 

Ava is not here, not anywhere around. It’s not surprising, but it still makes something in Beatrice’s chest clench, the reminder of it. Ava’s not dead, and more than enough time has passed for her to be healed by now, if the time dilation spent in this place is consistent with Michael’s appearance. She just has to remember that. 

“Hello, Beatrice,” the woman greets her. “My name is Reya.” And then, as if she believes this is a possibility, “No, you don’t have to bow.”

So Beatrice just stands there, tries not to stare too obviously. She checks all around her for further threats, finds none. Finds nothing at all, really, nothing but all-encompassing white surrounding her and then Reya, still standing there four feet in front of her with a smug look on her face. If Gods were capable of being smug, that is. If she’s a God. 

There are a lot of uncertainties about this situation, but Beatrice doesn’t let herself show them. She keeps her face deadpan, steady and strong, posture perfect and stance sure. One small shake reveals that the transportation hadn’t taken away any of her weapons, though she’s not at all about to attack this woman without gathering more information. If Beatrice dies here, Ava may stay lost forever. That cannot be how Ava’s story ends. 

Finally, when it becomes apparent that Reya isn’t going to say another word without being prompted, Beatrice says, “I’m here for Ava.”

Yes,” agrees Reya. “Aren’t you always?”

“You called for me. It must have been you. Why?”

There’s no reason to assume Reya’s a malevolent figure, but just because Adriel had been frightened of her doesn’t necessarily mean she’s good, either. She wishes Ava had told her what she’d seen, if she knew anything about the figure standing in front of her, but she hadn’t. Ava had kept it to herself, hoarding whatever secrets she stumbled across like a cactus stores water, keeping it from everyone else until the thing has been broken open. Beatrice hadn’t opened her up, hadn’t pushed hard enough for the truth. She should have (but she’s always been weaker than she should be for Ava).

“Yes,” Reya repeats herself. There’s a twinge in her brow that very well may be bordering on a full-fledged scowl, and Beatrice stiffens, ever so slightly. “Someone has been asking to see you.”

Ava. Beatrice can’t help the way her entire body reacts with this, cannot help the way she takes one step forward as if Ava will suddenly materialize in front of her. Shakily, “Then let me see her.”

“No, I think not,” Reya says idly. “Not until I’ve met you for all you’re worth, at least.” With that, she begins to move; Beatrice freezes, but she doesn’t come closer, exactly. Instead she takes slow, sure steps in a wide shape, circling Beatrice and observing her from every angle. 

Beatrice doesn’t quite like being studied like a lab rat. When Reya returns back to her original position—she thinks; it’s hard to tell with the limited depth perception that this room gives her—she asks: “Is that your true form?”

Because it’s just odd, really. If she is God, then why choose a form at all? Why not just exist in that unfathomable sense, the way Beatrice has always expected from her own God? Why take the form of this woman, who, besides being somewhat short, seems nothing less than ordinary? 

Reya tilts her face at the question, eyes sparking with sudden interest. “Would you prefer that I look like her?” and it’s in Ava’s voice, and suddenly it’s not Reya in front of her, it’s Ava: it’s Ava’s smug smile, Ava’s cheeky forward lean, Ava’s dark eyes. Beatrice finds herself frozen, finds herself unable to move, to react, her breath caught somewhere in her throat. Her hands come up—foolishly, she knows this isn’t real—as if to cradle Ava’s face, but she pulls away before she makes contact. 

Thou shalt not take Her name in vain dashes through Beatrice’s head, similarly foolish; fury replaces agony and she snarls in a voice that’s more broken than not:

“Turn back.” 

“If that’s what you want.”

Just like that it’s Reya again: despite herself, despite demanding it, Beatrice’s heart still seizes with the change. It hadn’t been Ava, but to see her just vanish only reopens the still-fresh wound. She gasps for breath like it’d been her lungs that had warped, changed entirely from chest to chest, and Reya watches her react with a pleased smile. 

Beatrice would almost guess that Reya’s simply brought her here to further torture her, but she clings deathly onto that one spark of belief: Someone’s been asking to see you. 

She just has to make it through whatever tricks Reya wants her to struggle through. The big boss battle, Ava would say. Only it’s not a battle at all. 

Hopefully. 

“If you’re quite done messing with me,” Beatrice snaps, “then—”

“Oh, but I’m not done,” says Reya, interrupting her. “Yet.” 

“If you think you’ll be able to warp my head—”

“No,” Reya stops her again, this time with an almost bored expression. “I’d never think that of you, dear. Don’t worry—you’re very scary.” 

Beatrice bristles. Maybe it’s the faux-English accent making her sound entirely too much like Beatrice’s mother or the way she’s being patronized—or the fact that she’s had a very long fucking day—but her patience snaps much faster than it usually would. “Listen,” she says firmly. “You brought me here. Why? To taunt me with the image of her?”

For a moment, Reya just looks at her. “She’s talking to me right now, you know,” she tells her. “I’m having an entirely different conversation with her at this very moment. You’re a lot more rude.”

Despite herself, Beatrice feels herself deflate. “That cannot be true at all. Ava’s the rudest person I’ve ever met.” She’s unable to stop the fondness from leaking through, and she can’t find it within herself to care. 

Reya smiles, but it looks wrong, like it’d been stitched to her face. “Yes, perhaps that was me stretching the truth just a tad. She has been giving you quite the glowing review. Says you’d know how to kill someone in seventy different ways, give or take. Is that true?” 

“Is that what you want? For me to do something for you? Is Adriel not really gone? Whatever it is, I’ll do it,” Beatrice says, because she will. “In exchange for her life.” 

“Yes, I know. You have had a tough existence, haven’t you?” Reya says, as if it’s an observation, as if she can just go poking around in Beatrice’s past like any book plucked off the shelves (and maybe she can). Beatrice doesn’t think she’s actually looking for an answer so she doesn’t give her one, and Reya goes on: “You’ve spent your lives working, always looking for something more. You’ve often found it,” she says, studying Beatrice’s expression carefully. 

…What? “I—don’t see what this has to do with Ava.” Beatrice’s head is spinning, unable to wrap itself around whatever Reya is saying. For all she knows, everything that comes out of this woman’s— God’s? —mouth is a lie. 

Reya’s head tilts. “This has everything to do with Ava,” she says, a little more sharply. “Keep up, girl. I thought you were intelligent. You have everything to do with Ava, you’re so intertwined with her that I’ve seen conjoined twins less attached at the hip. It’s a compliment, really,” she says in a tone that conveys the opposite, “you’re not the only ones, but you are supremely stubborn about the whole thing.”

“The whole thing?”

“Yes, come on.” Reya sighs impatiently. “You can’t be being purposefully obtuse. I know you tend to get a little cranky when you turn out to be wrong about things, but for the sake of our conversation, you’re going to want to believe me that this is not your first time living on the Earth.” 

“You’re saying—something like reincarnation?” The word tastes stale on her tongue, the blasphemy of it all nearly enough to choke her. “You’re saying that we’re not only given the one life?”

“God, girl. You think there’s an unlimited amount of souls? Heavens, no.” Reya lifts her hand to her chin, contemplating her with a dark interest. Beatrice has the inkling that she’s using those words—heaven and God—just to screw with her and very pointedly does not react to them. “There is in fact a very limited amount to go around, darling. Why do you think the average lifespan of you all continues to go down as births carry on going up? Why—” she shakes her head a little. “Why do you think you so consistently have those horrible little wars?”

“I—”

“You’ve known the tale of Noah’s Ark since you were old enough to listen to tales at all,” Reya says. “Take with that what you will.” 

Beatrice’s head is spinning. “So those stories are real?” She hasn’t thought—hadn’t dared to think—like that since Adriel, practically, since angels began to work with the demons and priests used their word to kill more than one of her dearest friends. Perhaps that just means she’s weak, perhaps that means she’s soft-minded, but she hasn’t been able to pray well since. How does that work with reincarnation? With the modern idea of Heaven, the eternal paradise? It doesn’t fit in her head, sticks there like glue. 

“Oh, my dear,” Reya says, very unsympathetically. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

And for a moment Beatrice wants to argue with her, wants to plead with her, because who is she without her faith, who is she without Him looking down on her, without doing the things she does to be better—

But that doesn’t matter. Beatrice’s faith doesn’t matter, nothing matters, not when it’s Ava’s life she’s gambling for. Ava’s life for Beatrice’s faith is the easiest equation there is: the idea of you and me, good and bad, better or worse. Beatrice would strip herself of everything in a heartbeat if it meant Ava would live. 

So she doesn’t take the bait, doesn’t go down the road where she debates theology with something that may have very well created that very study, doesn’t allow Reya’s senseless goading bring her to ruin. 

Instead she says, “Tell me more.” Demands it, really, on the off chance that Reya appreciates assertiveness. 

“That’s about it. There aren’t that many gritty little details—it’s a fairly simple concept. You live, you die. You live again, and you die again. Rinse and repeat.” 

“And Ava? She gets reborn, too?”

“Everyone does. You, Ava, even your nun friends. You live your lives and they live their own and you keep dancing your way through existence. It’s kind of beautiful if you really think about it,” says Reya to someone who has never considered it. “Then there’s Ava.”

Beatrice is immediately on guard. “What about her?”

“Well, it’s more like you and her,” Reya tells her unmovingly. “Sometimes there are people who are continuously drawn together. The pull is constant and no matter the circumstances of those specific people, it will always happen. But it’s also not as simple as that.” 

“How do you mean?” Beatrice isn’t even sure if she believes her, but as long as Reya’s talking there’s a chance. She just needs to find out her weakness. 

“That pull certainly exists, which means you get her every time—and I do mean every—but you can’t just have her: that wouldn’t be fair. So you lose her,” Reya says, voice dripping with satisfaction. “Every time.”

“Why don’t I remember?” Because she should. She can’t imagine losing Ava—dozens of times? Hundreds? Surely not — and just forgetting it. Can’t imagine loving her—because she’s sure of it; she’d loved her—and letting that slip through her fingers like sand, like any other trivial memory. 

“You die too, darling. Eventually, that is. That, and the human mind can only take so much,” Reya tells her. “Remembering would break you entirely.” 

She comes closer, Beatrice watching her warily. “I could show you,” she offers, in a strange tone—like salt and honey, sweet with a painful reckoning—and despite her best judgement, Beatrice still doesn’t budge when she takes yet another step. “Give you a taste of what you’re missing out on. I can’t give you everything, but there are moments. Feelings. Otherwise this conversation will grow old very fast. Would you like to know?”

“You’ll show me Ava?”

“I’ll show you yourself,” Reya corrects, leaning ever nearer. “But she will be there, too. You’re scarcely apart. Well,” she says, and this time Beatrice recognizes the look on her face for what it is: something delighted and undeniably cruel. “Until the endings, of course.”

When her hand touches Beatrice’s forehead, several things happen in quick succession. 

The headache is first. Splitting the sides of her head open, like the worst migraine anyone’s ever had. Her vision whites out—not hard, considering the room around them—she gasps with pain, stumbles backwards. Reya’s touch fades from her mind, and she remembers. 

Or—Beatrice doesn’t remember, exactly. It’s like the strangest, strongest form of deja vu she’s ever experienced; she’s here, standing still with Reya in this effortless void of white, but she’s also a soldier in the English army, a Portuguese noblewoman given Sainthood, a scientist in the Middle East. She remembers husbands—never entirely her choice—and wives—better, but never quite enough—and friends and families and fighting, often. An echo of hunger from when she’d nearly starved to death, a shiver from when she lived on one of the Poles. The feeling of a flower crown under her fingers, begging to be placed on someone’s head. 

And every time, every flash: Ava. 

Ava is there with long hair, with short; Ava dressed in a man’s suit, wearing a sailor’s uniform. Ava laughing, Ava smiling, Ava looking at her with something indescribable in her eyes. Ava bleeding out on the ground, the insides of Ava’s throat ripped from her neck. Ava dying, Ava dying, Ava dying.

Sometimes she hadn’t even known who she was. There’s one that sticks in Beatrice’s head: she’s walking down a street and catches the tail end of a bar fight gone miserably wrong. She doesn’t get involved, doesn’t interfere with the emergency responders already on the job, but she does—for a single moment—catch a glimpse of the victim’s—a young girl—face. It’s her eyes that freeze Beatrice in her tracks: effortlessly dark, gleaming with pain and something else. Beatrice holds her gaze for three seconds before the girls’ eyes roll back into her head. 

After multiple attempts to revive her, the girl is eventually pronounced dead on the scene, and Beatrice goes home. Goes to work the next day, lives out the rest of her life. She never forgets that girl’s eyes. 

When Beatrice regains her bearings once more, she’s fallen to one knee onto that desecrated white floor. She pushes herself back up with an audible inhale, glances around to make sure Reya hasn’t gone and changed something when she was out of it. She hasn’t, nor has she moved; everything is the same as it had been before she touched Beatrice in the first place. Still, Beatrice moves back out of reach. 

“The only problem, then, is that the Halo belongs to me. It’s mine,” Reya says, sounding like every spoiled child Beatrice has ever heard (she’d know: she was one of them). “You cannot have it forever. Mankind was never supposed to have it.” 

“Why do you even need the Halo? You can’t have it,” Beatrice snaps, unwilling to negotiate. “She needs it, that’s the only thing keeping her alive—”

“My dear, time can be whatever I will it to be. Do you really think I need the Halo now? I need it, and you can be sure of that, but it could be a trillion years before I come knocking on your door for it. Will Ava Silva still have it then, I wonder?”

The answer, of course, is no. Ava will be long gone by then; Beatrice will be gone, everyone she knows will be, maybe even the OCS in its entirety. She says, “You don’t need it now?”

“Not in the way you’re thinking,” Reya says. 

“Then give her back to me,” Beatrice says, immediately insistent; it’s not weakness she jumps on—she’s not sure Reya has any at all—but it’s something: hope, maybe, if she weren’t too smart to hinge everything on something so fallible. “If you don’t need Ava in my own definition of now, then why won’t you let her come home?” 

And Reya asks, “Darling, do you really think I’m the most powerful creature in the universe?”

So Beatrice hesitates. Because yes, she had been thinking exactly that, maybe, no matter what her faith had been before this conversation, and to hear she’s been wrong freezes her in place, just for a moment. Then there’s anger, sparking hot and fueled by something horrifyingly wretched. 

“So you have a master too, is that it?” Beatrice’s voice is getting rougher, and she desperately tries to steady herself. “Then let me speak to them instead.” 

If she’s spent all this time talking to this woman just to find out she’s only some sort of glorified, universally-powerful butler, Beatrice’s sanity may finally crack at the seams. 

(It’s a very Ava-like thought to have, she knows.)

But Reya shakes her head, something like real amusement—if she’s even capable of it—curling in the set of her jaw. “Not a master, no, but something I have to obey if I’d like to continue existing. How to explain it—I have a set of rules that I’m not supposed to break and therefore never will. Adriel’s escape was one of those rules, and he had to be taken care of. I took my time with that one, but believe me when I say I could’ve done it sooner.” 

“What possible rule could mean Ava’s death? Beatrice almost doesn’t want to know. Whatever it is, she’ll deny it. Why not, she’ll demand. Aren’t you more powerful? Maybe, as a taunt. If tauts would get her anywhere. 

“Well, her destiny,” Reya informs her without prompting. “It’s her destiny to always die, you know, and she’s gotten very good at it over the years. It’s probably the thing she’s done most, if I were to look, and I can’t be getting in the way of something so static as destiny.” She surveys Beatrice, that cruel glint returning to her eyes. “Your destiny is to never be enough, did you know? Your Ava dies, but you have to live with the memory of it. I wonder which is worse?”

Beatrice could not give less of a fuck about her own destiny right now. “So that’s it then?” She feels numb. “You took me here just to tell me that it’s impossible to get her back? To—to comfort me with the thought that my next life will find her again? For how long?” she’s nearly yelling now, desperate to calm her temper but unable to get herself back under control. Something in her chest aches, as if she’s been stabbed. 

“Well,” Reya says delicately, “if you’d let me finish, I was going to tell you about the other option.” 

Just like that—as meek as she’s ever been in her life—Beatrice shuts her mouth. 

“The other option is not a perfect fix, of course. Nothing can be given if you do not give in return. Everything has a price, dear,” she says, and Beatrice nods, because this is good. Rules are good, rules can have loopholes, if necessary, and are easy to fulfill. “Do you understand?”

“What’s the price for Ava’s life?” 

Whatever it is, she’ll do it. If it’s her own life? Easy. Ava deserves to live. She’ll tumble right out of the portal and she’ll see Camila who will tell her what happened and she may mourn Beatrice for a time, maybe, but she’ll be alive. She’ll be alive. 

Reya seems to know exactly where her thoughts have gone, because she says, immediately, “You’re so boring. It’s not just a life for a life, dear. That wouldn’t be any fun at all. What I’m offering is this: she returns to you now, but that pull will be irreversibly broken. Once you both die—and you one day will—you will never be so drawn together again. You may both be miserable for the rest of your existences.” 

Beatrice gets it now. She can have Ava now for however long they live, or she can have Ava the next time and the next time after that and always lose her. She can decide for Ava to die now and see her again without knowing or let her live out the rest of her days and never see her again after. 

It’s not even a decision. 

“Bring her back,” she demands. “Bring her back now.” 

Reya pauses, as if she hadn’t expected that answer. “You do understand,” she says slowly, “that if you agree to this deal, you might not ever meet her again as long as the universe exists. That if you agree to have her for the rest of her life as Ava Silva, you are dooming your future selves to never cross paths with each other again?”

“Not ever?” 

Reya shrugs, unfathomably careless for a God. “You won’t be drawn together like you were before. Perhaps if you have enough time, stranger things have happened, but the odds would be too indescribable for your little brain to handle.” She tilts her head, studying Beatrice’s expression. “Do you really want to do that to your next life? The rest of you? Can you even make that decision for yourself?”

Maybe she can’t. Maybe she shouldn’t be making this decision for the both of them, already emotional and bone-weary, but it’s not even a question. She could never be the one to make the decision for Ava to die, not ever. She wonders, vaguely, if that’s why Reya had come to her in the first place, if she’d known that Beatrice would never even consider it, and she pushes the thought away. It still doesn’t matter. 

Beatrice thinks of Ava pressing her lips against her forehead, thinks of her whispering In the next before she headed off to sacrifice herself for the world. For Beatrice, even though God knows full well she doesn’t deserve it. 

So Beatrice says, “In this life.”

And Reya accepts her decision with a little salute, smugly knocking the knuckles of her fingers across her forehead. “Yes ma’am,” she agrees, the corner of her mouth ticking upwards, “whatever you say.”

The world whites out again for a third time; growing almost used to this, Beatrice shields her eyes with her arm and waits for it to be over. Her head starts to throb again, almost as if it’s remembering Reya’s touch, and she winces, breathes shortly until it ceases. 

When she finally opens her eyes, Reya is gone. Standing in her place, maybe a little farther back, is Ava. 

Ava is here, so nothing else matters. Her torso is no longer glowing blue, which is possibly the most gorgeous thing Beatrice has ever seen, and as Beatrice looks on, speechless, she takes in a deep breath—she’s breathing, she’s breathing freely like she hadn’t been able to the last time Beatrice saw her—and Beatrice’s own chest seems to expand with her. 

Ava just stands there for a moment, streaked with blood and her armor shot full of holes. Her gaze meets Beatrice’s with a jolt; recognition sparks bright and dazzling like a shooting star, and she takes a wobbly step forward. She’s beautiful, beautiful, beautiful. 

Then Beatrice realizes that she’s being slow on the mark and starts moving herself: one step, two steps, three steps—Ava, too, picking up speed, finding her balance—four, and when she gets to five, she forgets to count entirely.

They slam into each other with an impact that knocks Beatrice to the ground, but it doesn’t hurt—maybe nothing can hurt, here, in this endless white void; Beatrice cannot give less of a fuck—and Ava topples with her, landing on her with a delighted wheeze. She immediately scrambles off so as not to crush Beatrice but her hands stay on her, lifting Beatrice to a kneeling position before she can do so much as take a breath. 

She’s so close, so close and so pallid before her, smile wide, eyes that Beatrice could swear are twinkling, and Beatrice is immediately overwhelmed in the best possible way. She thinks she’s crying again, maybe, but Ava is, too, so that’s okay. 

Incredibly, the first words that are out of Beatrice’s mouth are—

“I’m sorry,” Beatrice gasps, reaching for Ava’s face, to touch her, to hold her. Then, immediately realizing her mistake: “I love you. I’m sorry for being selfish. I love you,” she says again, unable to stop herself. Third time’s the charm and all that. “I don’t care about our future selves, I don’t. It’s so incredibly self-centered of me, I would have asked you, but I—”

But Ava stops that line of thought with a wild laugh, one that halts Beatrice entirely in her tracks. Her fingers tremble as she traces them along Beatrice’s forearms, up her biceps, to her shoulders. Her touch is liquid gold, sparking heat and joy everywhere she goes. 

“Bea,” she says, smiling wider than Beatrice has ever seen. “Bea. I don’t—” she grasps around for words, brow furrowing as her own hands come up to mirror Beatrice’s, running her fingers underneath Beatrice’s eyes, across her cheekbones. Then Ava says, victoriously, “Fuck our future selves.” 

And Beatrice can’t agree more. 

She kisses her, finally kisses her, swallowing Ava’s pleased gasp as their lips meet. Then, pulling back in a panic, “Is this okay?”

“God, Bea,” Ava groans, opening her eyes to meet her gaze. Incredibly, remarkably, Beatrice sees nothing but want and something irredeemably soft, sees herself reflected in Ava’s face. “Yes, this is fucking okay. Come on—” never one to dance around something when she wants it, Ava gentle fingers turn stern and she pulls her in again. 

This time it’s longer; like their first, but so much sweeter, no longer dulled by the worst fear Beatrice has ever felt in her life. Ava is soft against her, hands curling down to linger at the cusp of her jaw. 

For you, she thinks, dazed, as something low swoops in her stomach. Always for you. I threatened a God for you and I’d do it a trillion times more, I’d cut myself open, bleed myself dry for you to live. Take me and use me until you’re done, never be done; God, she thinks, and it doesn’t even sting. Please never be done. 

This time, when she opens her eyes, the white has all but faded entirely. 

They’re back in the room with the Ark, sprawled across the gangplank like someone had picked them up by their napes and dropped them there, uncaring if the steel of the portal is digging into Beatrice’s shoulder. As she blinks the spots from her eyes it closes again, blue letting out one last spark before dying entirely. Ava lays half underneath her, head propped up against the Ark. 

“Ava?” An irrational fear: Ava is back where she’d nearly died, and Beatrice checks her for injuries again. She finds none, and joy rises in her throat, threatening to choke her. “Ava,” she says again, unable to find the words. Ava meets her eyes, smiling widely, and then her gaze wanders past her, over Beatrice’s shoulder. 

“Hi, Camila,” Ava croaks happily from her place on the floor. 

Beatrice turns around, spots a wide-eyed Camila standing near the bottom of the ramp. Her hands are shaking. “Ava?”

“Bea found me,” says Ava, which is an oversimplification of events, but whatever. Beatrice gently pulls Ava to a sitting position, wary of any bruises she might have endured upon landing. Her own back creaks as she does, though she doesn’t let it show. 

Camila is creeping closer, but Beatrice can’t pull her eyes away from Ava’s face; Ava’s face, alive and happy, bright in the darkening shadows of the room around them. She stands there as Beatrice helps them both to their feet, Ava wincing as she tries to go too fast. Even as they make their way to a standing position, their hands never leave each other’s. 

Beatrice’s voice is gone entirely; she has so much to say, maybe, or she has nothing at all. She meets Camila’s gaze and finds she won’t have to speak at all. Camila’s face is pale, but her smile stretching from ear to ear. She’s also nearly vibrating, fidgeting on her feet and coming closer with every twitch. 

“Guys, I’m so happy for you, but I’m also about to hug you right now, so if you could just—”

And then she’s there, digging herself a spot directly behind Ava; she squishes Ava’s head into Beatrice’s chest, eliciting a delighted laugh. Beatrice, for her part, despite never being one to lean into the most casual of physical affections, wraps her arms around them as wide as she can and holds them tight. Camila’s hug feels like home, Ava’s nose brushing against Beatrice’s jaw. Her chin trembles with emotion, and she closes her eyes. Breathes with them. 

“Can I teach you to dance now?” Ava asks a few minutes later, glorious teasing set right back where it belongs. Beatrice looks at her and finds her own salvation in the curve of her smile, the way her eyes light up like she sees the same in Beatrice. 

And Beatrice says, only a little shakily, “Ava, you could ask me to walk directly off a cliff right now and I’d do it.”

“Okay. We’re gonna come back to that one later,” Ava concludes brightly, and Beatrice hardly hears a single word other than the last: Later, she says, like they’re going to still be together, like they have a later to see. “That’s a yes, though?”

“That’s a yes.” Beatrice doesn’t want to stop touching her, even as they make their slow way out of the room. Can’t stop looking at her, eyes devouring the blessed form before her. Her fingers twitch, but she regains control before she actively reaches out, unwilling to assume. 

Her need must still be visible, though, because Ava links their fingers together not a moment after, presses a kiss to the back of Beatrice’s hand (behind them Camila stifles a snicker, and Beatrice must be losing her edge because it doesn’t even cross her mind to be ashamed) like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Maybe it is. Maybe it can be. 

Not everything is perfect. The world will need putting back together; they’d lost friends on this mission, and the OCS has never been more vulnerable to attack than they are now. Beatrice still has to figure out what she’s going to do about her vows, who to talk to about them. Ava is still the Halo Bearer, and she may still yet be called to fight, and Beatrice will be by her side. But all that can wait, at least until they’re back with the rest of the world. 

For now, she lets Ava lead her into the sunlight and wonders where they'll travel to first. 

.

.

.

(The constants are gone, shattered like the finest stained glass—they’re ever more beautiful when broken, when you can pick up the pieces and see how they fit together—and new ones seamlessly rise up to take their place.

Like the way Ava always smiles to herself when Beatrice enters the room; how she’s attuned to her even before Beatrice announces her presence. Like how Beatrice slowly grows more comfortable with herself, with Ava; time goes on and she allows herself more and more every day. There are constants everywhere, and they always start and end with them. 

“This life,” Beatrice always promises her, swears it to her every time she leans in until Ava, helplessly endeared, begs her to stop. “This life. I don’t care about the rest.” 

Everything else is just white noise.)