Avatrice Ficlet - Tumblr Posts

But how do they meet? And how quickly do they find out about the other’s nature?

When you spend your childhood learning how to hunt monsters, being told your role in life is to protect the uninitiated civilians surrounding you until your likely brutal death, some habits are hard to let go of. Even when you become the very thing you were destined to fight. You’ve learned over the past few years that not all who are monstrous are monsters and not all are monsters are monstrous. The OCS has helped with that. 

You’d known of the OCS, growing up. Hunter groups were rare and ones that lasted as long as the OCS even rarer. You’re parents hadn’t approved of them. The singular hunter group that accepted human and beings that were distinctly non-human into their rank. Joined by the common cause of protecting those innocents. You’re parents had often scoffed a dismissal at the OCS for their hubris. Warning that the OCS would be betrayed by the evil it invites, one day. Despite a thousand years worth of days in which that had never happened. 

You hadn’t set out to be an independant hunter. No one in their right mind would take on such a suicidal tasks. That’s rather the point, wasn’t it. After the *incident* you weren’t in your right mind. Your future was taken from you. Not with sharp teeth and spilled blood. With sharper tongues and bruised hearts. A single mistake to be met with a life time of penance. Insufficient. Just like you were. They took your destiny, took your weapons, took your safety net. But they could not take your training. 

When you saw all the signs pointing out a fresh risen zombie was hunting in Woltshire you didn’t even hesitate. You’d learned about hesitating. How much it could take from you. Luckily for you salt is common. Luckier (debatable) for you, you could walk off the broken leg. And arm. And rib. And countless bloody scratches. Your clothes were not so lucky but you were old enough that your trust fund was truly yours so they were easily replaced. It was after the coven of want to be witches who were going to sacrifice a group of school children, and entire too long spent regrowing your skin, that you decided if you were going to do this (you were) that you needed specialized equipment to do so. (You didn’t, not really, but for all you were significantly harder to kill now it still hurt. Mostly, it was so much less effective and you didn’t want anyone else injured. Not because *you* were too slow.)

That’s when you meet Mary. Some two bit gun runner in Spain offhandedly mentions your not the only ‘hunter’ seeking special gear. You make a mental note to avoid any of his other clients, just in case. Far too likely they’ll decide your their next target than that they’ll let you go. Not that you’d blame them. You’ve yet to hurt an innocent. So far. You can recall hours of learning that shows you it’s only a matter of time. You’re success at avoiding this other hunter. You know how they think. It’s how you think.

Then you stumble across a wraith demon. Not a demonic. Not a fell visitor. A full on demon. You only know because your senses are more attuned then they were as a human. You’re half certain if you were still human you would have missed it, would have dismissed this as a bad human. Not a possessed human. He smells off. He smells off and you don’t know how because you’ve been avoiding your changed nature so hard you failed to train your new senses. Another failure lays at your feet. And penance, the only penance for it, must be stopping this wraith demon the only way you can. 

You don’t have to equipment to fight a demonic creature. Divinium would be best but that’s rarer than phoenix eggs. (You’re family has exactly one knife of pure divinium and one sword with a divinium edge. The knife is the weapon they are proudest of in their collection.) Failing that certain religious iconography can affect demonics. Hopefully one can even affect a wraith demon. If only you had a contact within the Church. Or, well, anywhere really. You need back up. It’s not even a matter of this is a suicide mission alone. It’s a matter of you could die and have absolutely no impact of the wraith demon. It is with great reluctance that you ask your gun runner to arrange a meeting with his other hunter client. 

She’s not stupid. She comes with back up. Which is a great first sign. Her body language is all confident contained violence and her eyes are open, assessing. You like her immediately. (Would you have if not for that other set of instincts weighing upon your mind?) Your in public so she’s not in her full hunting kit. Again, another good sign that she still pays attention to blending in. What she is wearing is good quality and well looked after. Worn just a bit, just enough that human you may not have noticed (you would have, your mind was the only area you could reasonably out preform those you hunted). 

“You Beatrice?” Her voice is brisk but not without care. Her back up, lurking far enough away in the dark human eyes would have only seen a blend of shadows, keeps the scope of their gun trained diligently on you. You wonder if they looked for your back up. If they thought less of you for not having any.

“I am,” you agree. You gesture at the other empty chair at your table. “Please, have a seat.”

She sits, body half turned to the entrance. Ready to fight or run as needed. “You can call me Shotgun Mary.” She must see the pinched look in your eyes at her moniker because she laughs. “Or Mary if you must.”

You nod. “If that’s comfortable for you, it would be my preference.”

She chuckles again good naturally. “You wanted a meeting?”

No more time being wasted with meaningless pleasantries. Good. “I did. I’ve come across something I cannot handle on my own. I don’t know that you’ll have resources for it either,” you caution, “but I find myself bereft of other resources.” You’re aware you sound uncomfortably formal. You can’t help it. You need her help. (You kind of want her to like you.)

“You gonna tell me what it is or you wanna dance around it some more?” Mary questions gently. You can tell she’s been in this long enough to have learned some things are harder to address than others. 

Asking her to take a leap of faith that your right and this isn’t a trap is something you are particularly loath to do. Even before the incident. “I have found a,” you wet your lips in unbearable display of nervousness and unconsciously drop your voice, “wraith demon.” You scan her eyes, wondering if she heard you. If she believes you. 

A vampire flashes into the cafe and your halfway up, knife in hand, when you notice that Mary didn’t flinch at all due to the vampiric display. You flick your eyes into the dark street and see Mary’s backup in gone. No, not gone. Pulling out a chair from the table beside yours with a squeal that makes you flinch. You sit back down, sliding your knife back but keeping your hand close. Mary’s eyes watch you patiently, her own hands dropped under the table and likely gripping her own weapons. A gun, likely, based on her moniker. Probably not silver shot. More things respond poorly to much cheaper shot like cold iron. Unless they knew what you were and came prepared. “You saw her,” Mary says knowingly. 

She gives away more than you think she intended. They didn’t expect you to see the vampire in the dark shadows of the street. They thought you were human. They know you’re not now, even if they don’t know how. They work with vampires. Which means either Mary and her back up are independents, like you, or they’re part of either the Coalition or OCS. If they’re Coalition then Mary is human, because she’s not vampire and the Coalition works with only humans or vampires. The vampire smells mostly like you’d notice as a human. Just, stronger. The deep, rich smell of dirt mixed with the metallic undertone of blood. It’s not unpleasant, despite the stories she’d heard growing up. There’s a mid tone smell you’re unfamiliar with. You mind insists of describing it as the comfort of shadows, the safety of darkness. You don’t know if it’s a smell unique to this vampire or if your nose is just capable of scenting it now where it couldn’t before. 

“Yes,” you admit. There is no harm in admitting that which they already know. Something you intended to admit anyway to prove you could be trusted to have found a wraith demon. “My senses are,” you search for a neutral word, “heightened.”

Mary hums. “This is my partner, Shannon. Shan, this is Beatrice.”

“A pleasure,” Beatrice says while holding out her off hand to shake. Something that would but them both in a fairly vulnerable position but something Beatrice’s upbringing insists she do when they sit so close together. Shannon takes her hand and Beatrice feels a flash of comfort from the cool of Shannon’s skin against her often too warm (now) hand.

“Sorry for the scare,” Shannon smiles congenially. “I heard what you said.” She shares a knowing look with Mary and they both catch your confusion. 

“I have no proof,” you offer apologetically. “Nothing beyond what my own senses have experienced.” You know it’s a paltry amount of proof. Painfully insufficient. Perhaps you’ll use that as a title of your memoir should you ever write one. 

“Why’d you come to me about it?” Mary asks, voice even. You can hear something beyond it and again curse your avoidance of your non-human traits. With training you might be able to figure out what’s going on beyond what you can see. 

You look down at the table for a moment before meeting Mary’s eyes as unflinchingly as possible. “I don’t know anyone else.” Unsaid but you suspect not unheard is that there’s no one else *you* could go to. No one just stumbles into this life, this world beneath. Not if they plan to survive. “I couldn’t just, just let it hurt people.” And now your begging. Great.

Mary and Shannon share another significant look, micro expressions flashing quickly in silent communication. Shannon turns to you with a grin so wide her fangs peak out. “Well, guess it’s your lucky day. We’re with the OCS and we’re here to help.”

Turns out the OCS was the perfect place to ask for help against demons. It was something of a speciality for them. You wonder why you never knew that. If they were just so good at keeping that quiet or if your family intentionally downplayed their strengths. After that first wraith demon you were officially offered a chance to join the OCS. You take it. You expect to find a cause worth fighting for. Your surprised to find a family too. 

You spend years with your new family. Fighting for innocents against those that would harm them. You still have moments with the OCS where the hatred you were ingrained with comes bubbling to the surface. Most of those are no more than small pauses while you incorporate a new understanding of an old subject. Shannon and Mother Superion, the OCS’s base leader, are both vampires. Mary is actually part dwarf. Lilith has a Snoligoster ancestry she’s still figuring out (which is all sorts of terrifying after meeting Lilith). Camila, who joins after you but is no less loyal or driven, has jinn somewhere not to far away in her family tree. Humans are vastly outnumbered by non-humans in the OCS. You are able to overcome those internalizes hatred’s for your new family. You just haven’t quite figured out how to extend the same compassion towards yourself. 

Perhaps it’s due to some, deeper, fundamental part of your nature. You are wilder. Less controllable. Shannon and Mother Superion come the closest to empathizing. They were driven by impulses they could hardly control for years when they were first turned. Of course, that was many years before they met you. You can logically acknowledge they must have felt similarly but you can’t emotionally convince yourself it’s true. There are other vampires in the OCS, at other chapters. None younger than Shannon. 

All vampires at the OCS were turned by Adriel. An ancient vampire whose death was the sole purpose of the OCS. An incredibly powerful being with control over demons. He passes along some unique traits to all his descendants. Traits that make OCS’s vampires among the most powerful and deadly in the world. You’re a little confused at how he can still be turning vampires when he’s, supposedly, been locked away since the OCS was first founded. You become significantly less confused when a hunt goes bad. Very bad. Bad enough that Shannon’s perforated by divinium shrapnel and half feral trying to heal it. You’re too busy fighting off armed gunmen to hear the whole conversation but you manage to hear Shannon whispering at Mary to “take it out, please, you won’t survive if I-”. It’s impossibly private and you volunteer to buy them time before you hear more. 

You return to Shannon dead, smelling of so much blood and earth and Shannon. To the heavy uncertainty if she’s truly dead or the coma dead of a healing vampire. To a grief stricken Mary wondering if she’s just lost the love of her life. To an apologetic Camila and an angry Lilith. To secrets you didn’t realize existed until your not invited to understand why your family is breaking in front of you. Mother Superion enforces a week long break while the healers look into Shannon’s state. Mary stays, because she’d never leave Shannon. Lilith stay too, to look for something no one wants to tell you about. Camila stays to help Lilith in apology for loosing it. 

So basically it’s only you that leaves. Fine.

Fine. 

You hadn’t realized how much time training and fighting had taken up in your day until suddenly it doesn’t. What are you supposed to do with sixteen unscheduled hours? You decide to do the tourist thing in the city you’ve been living in for nearly three years now. Somehow, you’d never had the time before now. The museums are gorgeous and inspiring and oddly repetitive after three. The bars are not gorgeous or inspiring and repetitive after two. You probably should have just gone home after the museum tours instead of trying to be ‘normal’ by going to a bar. It wasn’t even like you drank there. You’d never risk your self control like that. 

The sun has dipped over the horizon, only the yellow orange glow of street lights make it bright enough to see. You wander for a bit, wondering if it’s you or the creature inside you that feels restless. You smell her before you see her. See her before you see them. You’ve been training you sense of smell. Embarrassing as it is to be able to tell when your comrades have been canoodling with nothing but a sniff. Half way down an alleyway you catch the soothing scent of dirt, the sharper scent of blood, the soothing smell of darkness. Vampire. Judging by the lingering scent of death, a new one. You follow the trail, waiting to sniff out this vampire’s sire. Wanting to reassure yourself that a new vampire hasn’t been left utterly unattended in a heavily populated urban area. Movement in front of you draws you eye. 

She’s magnetic. The smile on her face, the curiosity in her eyes. The way she approaches everything like it’s a new present just for her, just waiting for her to unwrap it. She trails her hand along everything she can reach, rough stone, cool metal, smooth glass, the warm arms of people who walk too close. She embodies herself and it takes you an embarrassingly long time to realize this girl who is so alive and in love with life is the vampire you were following. 

The newly raised vampire with no sire anywhere around her. The newly raised vampire with a pack of human men fanning out behind her with lethal intentionality. Idiotic human men with no understanding that in this confrontation they won’t be the predator, they’re about to be the prey. Part of you (a mean part that you worry comes from your human half) is tempted to let them spring their trap and reap their unplanned rewards. The other part (the part that’s spent a lifetime saving people) couldn’t bear to wonder how she’d feel if her first introduction to her new state is a collection of bodies around her. You can imagine it all too well (even if you knew your bodies were as guilty as hers). 

The men call out to her, asking if she’s ok. She turns to them with wide eyed wonder. “I think I might be dead,” she says. They hesitate and you, fool that you are, decide that you can’t stand to see her smile destroyed. You step forward. 

i just binged warrior nun season 1 and its mostly ur fault (i did want to watch it originally but life and procrastination and what year is it?) and i'm grateful and i need to sleep now, but also i didnt need more characters to rotate in my brain but they are There now and since most of my current thinking space is monster romance i now have on one hand: werewolf beatrice and on the other: mermaid ava so my hands are full and its because of u so u get to hear about it ;)

beatrice from a monster hunter family, the family disgrace after letting herself get bitten by a werewolf.. being removed from the family business, living a mundane life as best she can, removing herself from the city for the full moon. ava as a newly turned vampire - done by someone careless? - who is stoked to be alive but lowkey devastated that she can’t go into the sun. doesn’t know all that much about vampires. hates that she can’t take the lords name in vain anymore bc it was one of her favourite swears. seemingly unconcerned by her own monstrosity. seemingly delighted by beatrice’s monstrosity (just delighted by bea in general but bea is determined to misunderstand ofc)

Beatrice & the horror of losing control over herself. beatrice & the acknowledgement of monstrosity, of being pushed out pushed away despised reviled by the people who she had worked so hard to be worthy of. Beatrice, who prides herself on control & measured reactions, measured wants, who meters out her life like she has to ration it, make it last

ava, hungry for life, for blood, for everything & anything delicious she can get her hands on. spoiled, selfish, greedy maybe. but why not? the heightened reflexes the heightened awareness. the decadence of being alive. the heat of blood the lure of it. the kindness the joy the laughter the exuberance the drive of her.. she wants to sink her fangs into the world & drink her fill

Worse! It ends up accidentally gaining meaning. Because Ava’s low key a prophet. 

Mother S: Alright. Walk me through this once more. *rubs at her eyes tiredly*

Recruit 1: The mission was simple enough. The cult we were tracking had taken the relic to the construction site for their ritual. The Warrior Nun and her- uh, former Sister Beatrice told us the plan. Then the Warrior Nun, um, reassured us? She said everything would be okay and to just remember Luke 24:42. *blushing* I didn’t remember Luke 24:42.

Recruit 2: After the Warrior Nun and her, um, former Sister Beatrice left to enter from the other side of the site I reminded the other noviciates that Luke 24:42 was “they gave him a piece of broiled fish”. I admit that I was uncertain, uh, why exactly that quote was used. 

Recruit 1: Our job was to create a distraction. On the way to our position I saw the cab of some of the machinery was unlocked. I confess, I do not know what machine it was. There was a button in the shape and colour of a broiled fish. Thinking it was an odd coincidence, I pointed it out to my team. 

Recruit 3: *still in shock* *whispers* I pushed the button.

Recruit 2: We thought it best to do as the Warrior Nun had commanded. We remembered and obeyed. I am uncertain what exactly this caused. It was hard to see with all the lights and hear with all the explosions. 

Recruit 1: Our Warrior Nun is most fantastic! I was unaware the Halo had given her such clear instructions. Only two of the cult members survived!

Recruit 2: We shall be sure to follow what the Warrior Nun commands diligently in the future. 

Mother S: *glancing at Beatrice and Lilith with a ‘is this shit for real’ expression*

Lilith: *grimace* *nod*

Beatrice: *nod*

Mother S: *widening her eyes with a ‘on purpose’ expression*

Lilith: *grimacing harder and shaking head* 

Beatrice: *shaking her head in a emphatic ‘she has no fucking idea what she’s doing’ expression*

Mother S: *making a ‘well, shit’ face* Dismissed Ladies. We’ll do a through after action tomorrow. I’m glad your all ok.

Lilith, after the others have shuffled out: I came this close to dying in an explosion. *holds up touching thumb and forefinger* Again! Someone has to stop her.

Beatrice: *grimacing* This was the sixth time something like this has happened. I’m not sure we can stop it. Fate is clearly on her side and at least this way we are forewarned. 

Lilith: *deadpan* Oh yeah, cause I totally expected the building to explode around us before collapsing when she said Luke 24:42. It was my immediate thought. 

Beatrice: *grinning* Well, it will be now we almost got broiled.

Lilth: *grumbling* I’m the fish.

whenever things get rough, ava does her best to give everyone hope by quoting the bible, because she’s the warrior nun and that’s what she’s supposed to do in a church full of catholics, right?. the only problem is that she doesn’t know shit about the bible, so she’ll just be walking around saying things like “everything will be okay, just remember: Luke 24:42” and everyone else is like “tf does ‘they gave him a piece of broiled fish’ mean ava”

It would have been fine, if not for the prophecy. Ava hates very few things but the prophecy is definitely one of them. Before the prophecy Shannon was Aunt Suzanne’s heir. All the responsibility for leading the kingdom fell on her. Ava spent her days roaming around doing whatever pleased her in the moment. Painting at the coast one week and learning a Gallien flourish to disarm an armed opponent the next. The world was hers and she relished it. Then the Oracle interpreted the prophecy. 

Ava is to be the next Queen and she will lead the kingdom to prosperity unseen in a dozen generations. No pressure. Aunt Suzanne looks as disbelieving as Ava’s sure she, herself, does. This wasn’t good. “Together with the steadfast love of her King by her side, Queen Ava will be an unstoppable force for good.” The Oracle says and Ava’s stomach drops straight through the floor and the cellar beneath it. 

“Fuck, the Hell, no.” Ava whispers. It was bad enough that she was being collared into a crown but this was the last nail in the coffin of her freedom. She could see Aunt Suzanne knew it too, judging by her guilty expression. Whatever freedom Ava had to choose her own spouse has just died ignobly in front of them. 

It’s Shannon who tells Ava what the Council’s decision is. Her sad eyes convey how much Shannon wishes she didn’t have to. “They’ve decided on a Grand Melee. The winner will earn your hand in marriage.” 

Ava grinds her teeth together, thinking furiously. “How many contestants?” She knows the Lords would try to stack the contest to maximize the chance of their child being the one that wins. The debate around the cut off must have been deadly.

Shannon grimaces. “They tried to narrow it to ten.” Ava grimaces back. She’s well acquainted with the most likely ten and none hold any appeal for her. “Aunt Suzanne insisted that anything but an open contest would be an attempt to control fate and doomed to backfire horribly.”

An idea sparks in Ava’s mind. A stupid enough it might just work idea. “There’s no limit?”

Shannon nods. She bites her lip then offers, “if you want Mary could-”

“No,” Ava cuts off her cousin. She knows where Shannon’s heart had lain for years. Knows also that Mary was too low of station, too foreign, to ever be allowed to marry the Crown Princess. Shannon’s not the Crown Princess anymore and has a chance now at the freedom that always brought Ava happiness. “But I am going to need her help. And yours?”

Shannon nods immediately, shoulders untensing. “You have it, Ava. Whatever you need.”

***

“This is a stupid idea and you should be ashamed for agreeing to help.” Mary says as she scowls at the woman she loves. 

Shannon shrugs, shamelessly uncaring. “It’s actually kind of brilliant,” she says. “There was nothing in the prophecy that counteracts the idea.”

“Except the whole King thing,” Mary deadpans. 

“I mean,” Ava protests from where she’s trying to get out of one set of armour. “It’s more implied than stated that Queen Ava isn’t also, y’know, King Ava.” Distracted from her tasks of squirming out of armour, Ava unbalances and lands on the ground with a thud. “Fuck! Little help?”

Mary sighs and starts helping Ava out of the armour. “This is going to backfire on us so bad, I just know it.” She grumbles. 

Shannon smiles and nudges at Mary’s shoulder. “Does that mean you won’t help us?”

Mary scowls at Shannon in offence. “Babe, I’d help you fight the moon. I just want to be able to say I told you so when it does, inevitably, blow up in our faces.”

Shannon giggles and places the most gentle kiss she can against her lover’s lips. Thrilling as she always does at this new ability. “Thank you.” The two blush at each other like school girls with their first crush.

“Why’s it so dark?” Comes Ava’s muffled voice. “Am I upside down? Guys, help!”

***

The armour they’d finally selected covered Ava completely. They’d forgone full plate (”Aww, but I’d be invincible,” Ava had protested. “Yeah,” Mary snorted agreement, “to everyone but yourself.”) in favour of more flexible chain mail. If Shannon hadn’t help Ava put on the armour herself she’d never imagine that the Crown Princess was the one standing in it. This was the first day of competitions and all over the kingdom groups as large as this one were gathering to fight for the right to be Ava’s King. Shannon watched impassively from the screened throne Ava was supposed to be sitting in. She was thankful Aunt Suzanne was still feeling too guilty to actually talk to Ava or their ruse would be discovered far too quickly. 

Shannon was trained diligently in fighting as it was unbecoming of a heir to not be able to do so. She is, objectively, one of the greatest knights their kingdom has. Mary could match her only with her weird machines. She’d never sparred with her little cousin. Always too busy with other responsibilities. Shannon chews at her lip and prays to the Goddess Reya that Ava at least knows how to fight. 

Ava does know how to fight. Kind of. Shannon can’t pick a single concrete style out of the eclectic mix of moves Ava uses. There’s a certain brutal minimalism to the foundation of it that Shannon doesn’t expect. It takes two days and four fights before she realizes it’s because Ava never learned formally. What she’s seeing is every move that looked cool enough to learn combined with Ava’s general mouthiness picking way more street fights than a princess should be in. It’s very… Ava.

The preliminary rounds last a week. Ava dominates the smaller competition that occurs in the small town close to the Royal Summer Palace. The heavier competition has likely all gathered at the Capital where the finals will be held. The smarter competitors will have spread to other cities as the top winner of every town and city as well as the top five at the Capital will advance to the finals. Shannon and Mary will three weeks, minus two days of travel, to cram as much structure into Ava’s fighting style as they can before the finals start. 

***

Ava sees Micheal only after she came into the competitor’s mess hall. She’d felt confident without her obscuring helmet and armour because “it’s not like anyone knows me here, Shan. I’ll be fine.” Except there was Micheal Fucking Salvius, her best fucking friend who should not be in a competition to marry her.  She ducks behind the nearest set of broad shoulders she sees. There are an awful lot of broad shoulders here and in any other circumstances Ava would be eyeing the room up like an all she could eat smorgasbord. It’s a lot less appealing when she no longer has the option to not partake. 

Ava pops her head up, half behind her hand and half curled in to the straight backed form beside her. She glances away from watching for Micheal to look up into amused brown eyes and freckles and oh goddess, she’s pretty. 

“Can I help you?” The woman asks with soft openness. 

Ava grins, unconsciously leaning closer even though she’s already in the woman’s personal space bubble. “Sorry, just trying to avoid a, uh, ex.”

The woman nods solemnly in understanding. “I imagine it would be difficult deal with someone who doesn’t know how to let go.”

Ava draws her eyebrows together. “Why do you think he doesn’t know how to let go?”

Laughter twinkles in those alluring brown eyes. “Who could ever let you go?”

Ava gasps with delight feeling the fine hairs on her body stand up at attention. She’s flirted before, of course she has. And she’s been flirted with. Far to many times for her position, power, or wealth over her body. Since she started this ruse almost two weeks ago people had viewed her as the poor mercenary attempting to reach beyond her station. She’s been dismissed and demeaned and threatened. She’s been scorned and propositioned for sex in the same conversation (if it could be called that). What she hasn’t been is seen as worthy. Not until this woman with her serious expression and gentle eyes. Ava wiggles closer, intrigued by why a competitor for the princesses (Her) hand would flirt so genuinely with her (a poorer competitor). “Are you flirting with me?” Ava asks with clearly faked dismay.

The woman’s freckles stand out more when she blushes. “Yes, well,” she stumbles verbally before she swallows heavily. She fiddles a little with her fork and glances down shyly. “You’re very beautiful,” she confesses.

Ava had poetry written about looks her by some of the best poets in the world. None of it holds a candle to the warmth that blooms in her chest from this honest confession. “Careful,” Ava teases, “or I might fall a little bit in love with you.”

A tiny smile licks at the woman’s lips. “That doesn’t sound so bad.” 

Ava laughs and nudges at a well muscled arm. “Maybe not, but if I do I might convince you to run away from all this to marry me instead.” Ava doesn’t know where this is coming from. She doesn’t even know this woman’s name and she’s already threatening to steal her away from what everyone in this room wants bad enough to risk death and marry her instead. 

The woman looks at her with a serious expression. “Like I said,” she repeats, “that doesn’t sound so bad.”

Ava grins and rest her hand against the woman’s forearm, feeling the heat and strength with her fingertips. “That’s a pretty bold statement considering where we are.”

The woman nods, looking around the room as though to remind herself of her purpose. “My parents might kill me if I ran away,” she comments. 

It could be an offhand comment but Ava already has a firm impression that the woman doesn’t do off hand comments. “Besides which, I don’t even know your name.” Ava says to get the conversation back to something lighter, to free the woman from whatever burden Ava can see weighing down her shoulders. “I think I should at least know what name to call out on my marriage bed.”

That startles a bark of laughter from the woman, leaving her looking as adorably confused as a pup whose never barked before making a noise it doesn’t understand. “Beatrice.”

“Ava,” Ava says with a smile. Beatrice is a beautiful and elegant name for a beautiful and elegant woman. 

Beatrice’s eyebrows furrow. “Like the Princess?”

Oh shit, Ava realizes. She was supposed to use a fake name. Should have, even  if it meant missing out on hearing Beatrice say her name. “Uh, mmhmm, yep. That’s, it’s a really odd coincidence but, well, I didn’t pick my name.” Ava shrugs and catching the quick flicker of Beatrice’s eyes dropping from her face to her chest then back up to her lips. Ava’s licks her lips and leans forwards slightly, allowing a better sight down her chest. Just to distract Beatrice from her totally not suspicious fumble. 

***

Hanging out with Beatrice is easy. They banter and talk like they’ve known each other for years. Beatrice has spent the majority of her life away from the Kingdom, travelling with her diplomat parents. Ava’s spent the majority of her life in the Kingdom, seeing all the life it has to offer. They share stories and secrets as easily as they trade blows while sparring. There’s a certain rhythm between them that makes it feel more like a dance than a fight. Ava grows more tempted to steal Beatrice away and disappear into the obscurity of being a roaming mercenary by the day. Beatrice would probably let her. Even if Beatrice’s parents wouldn’t. 

The final fights start a week and a half after she first meets Beatrice. Her first match is against some Lord’s son, J.C. Fortunately he’s too interested in the ladies and their displayed bosoms to offer much of a fight. Ava doesn’t want to admit it but he might have been able to beat her if he’d actually focused on it. She’s pretty sure he’s just here to get laid and get his dad off his back. Ava can respect those goals so she holds her hand out to help him up after she wins. He nods amicably back at her and disappears with the first girl who compliments him with a hand on his chest. 

Ava watches Beatrice’s fight afterwards, wishing it could be as easy as that with her woman. Only, just for her. Not for any girl who tried. Beatrice is a force of nature. Ava wonders how she missed it before now. She trades a glance with Shannon through the screen that protects her identity. Beatrice doesn’t win her fight, she dominates it. Ava’s thighs clench at how easily Beatrice floors a bloodied knight with ten years experience on her. It had been like he was standing still, a training dummy before her.

Shannon sends Mary with a message that night and Mary raises a judgemental eyebrow at how she finds Ava nearly sitting in Beatrice’s lap they’re eating so close together. Ava shrugs shamelessly. Mary just sighs and motions for Ava to meet up with her. Ava leaves Beatrice with a visible reluctance. 

“This mean you have a favoured winner?” Mary asks ruthlessly the moment they’re alone. 

Ava scowls at her pseudo big sister. “Yeah, me.” She replies. “Just because I want to lick her sweat from her forearms doesn’t mean I want to give up my freedom.”

Mary grimaces at the, to her unnecessary, visual. “Ew, I regret asking already.” Ava raises a challenging eyebrow. “Shan sent me with a list to watch for. She’s pretty sure your, hmm, unorthodox fight style would let you win against most fighters. There’s only three she’s concerned about. Micheal knows how you fight.”

Ava scoffs. “I got Micheal,” she reassures. “I don’t know what that brat thinks he’s doing but I know how he fights too. Leave him to me.”

Mary nods easily. “The other two, well, they’re just better than you. Don’t pout baby girl. You know we’re not trying to be mean.” Ava pouts harder. “Shan’s going to try to get them to fight each other before they fight you. That way you only have to fight one of them.”

Ava’s pretty sure she already knows but she has to ask. “Who?”

“Lilith Villaumbrosia,” Mary says and they share a knowing grimace. The Villaumbrosia’s pride themselves on being the best warriors. Ever. Ava’s not even sure they care about winning her hand as much as they do proving their heir kicks ass. “And the Leonidas heir.”

“The who?” Ava frowns with the question. She doesn’t think she’s heard of him. Mary’s jaw drops. “What?” Ava asks.

“You’re so into her it’s made you stupid.” Mary responds, half to herself. At Ava’s continued confusion Mary clarifies. “Beatrice, you idiot. Beatrice Leonidas. Or as she’s publicly known, the Lion’s Pride.”

Ava pales and the world side steps beneath her feet. The Lion’s Pride. She knows that moniker. Everyone does. They youngest general in their neighbouring, thankfully much smaller, Steral Kingdom. The warrior who single handedly fought an ogre chieftain in ritual combat. Who took only a company and razed the thousand bandits of Wild Deer Grove in an absolutely impossible coup. “Who?”

Mary laughs. “You heard me,” she says mercilessly. She shakes her head at Ava’s pleading expression. “Face it baby girl, you’ve got a crush on the pretty girl your whole country would give it’s left nut to have win this competition.”

“Fate is such a bitch,” Ava groans.

***

As Ava promised, it’s easy to win against Micheal. Her longest friend puts up a good fight but her familiar voice shouting “dick” is enough a distraction for her to disarm her at a pivotal moment. “Ava?” He asks soft enough the crowd can’t hear him. His tone is full of disbelief and wonder. 

“Duh,” her response is unsympathetic. “Now surrender and tell me what the hell you think you’re doing.”

Micheal raises his voice loudly. “I am defeated. I surrender the fight.” The referee nods acknowledgement and Ava helps her friend up. “What are you doing here? Have you been, well, you this entire time?” He asks impatiently.

“Of course I have,” Ava dismisses. “And where else would I be? Letting some idiot control my choices?” She slaps her friend gently upside his head in pointed emphasis. 

Micheal pouts at her. “It’s not like I wanted to,” he protests. At Ava’s fierce scowl he hastily backtracks. “I mean, I just, I wasn’t going to let someone force you into something you don’t want. You’re my best friend.” He shrugs and Ava gets it. They were both sick often as kids, both stuck until his mother’s loving but slightly tyrannical thumb until she could heal them. He says ‘best friend’ but Ava really knows he means ‘sibling’. 

“Well, good. I wouldn’t marry you anyway.” She teases. He makes a sour expression at the idea of them marrying. “Now let’s go watch Bea kick Lilith’s ass.” 

His eyes crinkle together in confusion. “I thought Lilith was fighting Leonidas?”

Ava blushes. Ava never blushes but she can feel how hot her cheeks get right now. Can feel his stare and jaw dropped shock. “Right. Yeah. Her.”

“A-Ava,” Micheal stutters. “Ava what was that?”

“Nothing!” Ava denies. They both know she’s lying. If not then he certainly knows it by her wide eyed heavy panting awe as she watches the legendary fight between Beatrice and Lilith. Beatrice wins flawlessly, her hair dark with sweat and escaping her cowl as she makes her way to where Ava’s watching her breathless. “That’s my girl,” Ava cheers. Beatrice stumbles and almost trips. “Oh shit! Are you ok? Do you need a healer?” Ava asks with concern. 

“Or laid?” Lilith snarks from behind Beatrice. 

Beatrice flushes red and Ava bites at her bottom lip at the sight. “I’m fine,” Beatrice says to Lilith, then softer to Ava, “I’m fine.”

“Yeah you are,” Ava growls her agreement and thrills at how Beatrice smiles shyly in response. 

She ignores Micheal’s mumbled, “this isn’t nothing” like the professional she is.

***

It comes down to Ava and Beatrice. Like it was fated. Written in prophecy and spoken by an Oracle. All Ava’s freedom locked on the other side of the woman Ava desperately wants to gift it to. On the other side of a woman she can’t defeat, and not for lack of trying. Ava hates it. Hates that she’s fallen in love and probably going to marry this woman only to resent Beatrice for being forced into this. 

Beatrice stands polished and proud. Looking every bit the amazing King she’s going to be. Her grip on her spear is easy and firm, practiced and perfected over countless hours. Ava looks pathetic in comparison. It’s intentional, the mismatched colours and contours intended to make people overlook her. No self-respecting Princess would wear this. Ava’s full face cover is down, protecting her face from the scrutiny of the Queen and her Council. Beatrice is holding her helmet under her arm, her serious eyes locked on Ava’s fidgeting form. The referee called start two minutes ago and neither of them have moved. 

Ava’s sword is still sheathed. Beatrice’s spear is butted against the ground. The most they’ve done is nod at each other. Ava’s seen Beatrice fight before. Knows that she advances like a storm the moment the referee calls a start. Like the hand of the goddess touching down against vulnerable earth, moving everywhere at once. No hesitation and no regret. Beatrice is chewing a bit at her bottom lip and Ava’s a tiny bit distracted by her jealousy that she’s not allowed to chew at Beatrice’s bottom lip. The referee called start five minutes and the crowd is murmuring loudly in the silence between them. 

“Fight.” A voice calls out and the crowd takes up the chant. “Fight! Fight! Fight!” Beatrice’s eyes don’t waver from the lock they have on Ava. Ava feels naked before her, despite being more covered than ever before. Ava wants and wants and curses herself for not finding the words to explain herself. Ava wants to beg Beatrice to walk away, to surrender this competition she’s going to win. Wants to explain that Bea’s Ava is that Ava, the one who should be sitting like a princess behind a protective screen. Present and not seen, like she’s felt her entire life until Beatrice saw her. Would Beatrice? Could she bare it if Beatrice didn’t? If she chose what her family wants her over what Ava asked of her? Ava’s never felt so weak, so alone. The referee called start ten minutes ago and the stadium rocks with the shouts of ‘fight!’

Beatrice breaks eye contact and Ava breathes through the tears spilling down her face. She turns to look at the stern couple who carry her same colours and standard. They nod at her, imperious and commanding. She tilts her head and smiles. Beatrice’s spear stays standing for a moment after she releases it, perfectly balanced until the wind knocks it down. The crowd goes silent enough between her open hand and the wind that Ava can hear the spear hit the ground. Beatrice drops her helmet next, without care for how the shiny metal hits the ground. She steps forward, away from her weapon. Her gauntlets fall right first, then left. Her cloak is ripped off her shoulders the step after. Beatrice slows, pulling at the buckles of her cuirass and it hits the ground with a solid thunk when she’s five steps away from Ava. Ava can’t breathe. The referee called start fifteen minutes ago and Beatrice is unarmed and half defenceless in front of her. 

“My whole life, people have tried to make me into something I’m not. To make me normal. Or at least… acceptable,” Beatrice explains as she continues stripping off her armour. “I became skilled at so many things just so I would still have value, despite my flaws. Or what I’d been taught was a flaw.” Beatrice scoffs. “Of course, I tried to fit in. But when you’re punished just for being different, you begin to hate what you are.” She pauses in kicking off her greaves to look at Ava. Ava’s too stunned to lift her helmet so she hopes Beatrice can see how much she’s listening in her eyes. “And what you love, what should make you happy. Only brings you pain. Pain is what made me a warrior.”

Ava blinks tears from her eyes. “Don’t hate what you are. What you are is beautiful.”

Beatrice, stripped down to the soft clothes worn beneath her heavy armour, laughs. “When I’m with you,” she says softly, “I can actually believe that.”

Ava thinks they must have been overheard because her aunt chooses this moment to interrupt. “Contestant Leonidas,” Queen Suzanne’s sharp tone cuts through the understanding between them. “What are you doing?”

“I’m falling in love,” Beatrice shouts back and Ava swoons. 

“What about the competition?” Suzanne demands. 

Beatrice blushes, as though she’d forgotten they were surrounded by a crowd and why. “Sorry,” she whispers to Ava first. Beatrice turns to Shannon’s hidden form. “I’m sorry Princess. I’m sure you’re lovely and I do wish you luck in finding you’re King to sit beside you. It just won’t be me.”

Suzanne sighs and rubs at her temples. “Contestant Leonidas, your assuming Contestant Silva will agree with you.”

Beatrice shakes her head ‘no’. “She makes her own decisions,” the vulnerable woman says. She turns to make eye contact with Ava again, as serious as she’s ever been. “Whatever you chose, I support. I’m yours. If you want to marry me, well, nothing would make me happier. If you want to strike me down and win a kingdom,” Beatrice holds out her empty hands leaving her utterly vulnerable. “I won’t stop you.”

Ava laughs. She can’t help it, even as Beatrice blinks at her with surprise. She laughs so hard her shoulders shake. 

“Contestant Silva,” Suzanne calls over Ava’s laughter and points at Beatrice’s patiently waiting form. “Perhaps you’d like to end this charade.” Ava’s eyes widen. Her aunt knows? And let it happen? Did Suzanne know this  would happen? Her shock must be obvious in her body language because Suzanne smiles. “After all,” she calls looking at her Council with an imperious expression, “Fate cannot be denied.”

Ava fumbles with the latch of her helmet and silently curses Mary’s diligence at making sure it wouldn’t accidentally come off. “You promise you’re mine?” She asks, hesitating with the weight of her helmet in her hands. “No matter what?”

Beatrice nods. “In this life and the next.” 

Ava tosses her own helmet off and throws herself at Beatrice. Her lips feels exactly as soft and perfect against her own as she dreamed. Beatrice pulls her closer and Ava can feel Beatrice’s smile with her tongue. Her hands wander a little more than is socially acceptable but Beatrice doesn’t protest so Ava doesn’t care either. Ava pulls back from the kiss to meet Beatrice’s heavily lidded eyes. Beatrice cups her face gently with both calloused hands. “I’m going to hold you to that,” she threatens. Beatrice presses their foreheads together and Ava can’t stop grinning. 

“Thank fuck!” A voice shouts behind the protective screen hiding the Crown Princess and Shannon stumbles out from behind it. 

“Princess Shannon?!” The Council gasps in shock, a few looking behind her for their Crown Princess to magically appear. “Where is the Crown Princess?”

Ava laughs and pulls back from Beatrice enough to turn and face her aunt and the Council of Lords. “It seems the final contestants have tied,” she shouts. “So we’ll be splitting the rewards accordingly. Bea will have the Princess and I’ll get married.” Beatrice pouts and Ava doesn’t have to prevent herself from poking at that tempting lower lip so she does’t. “Don’t be jealous honey,” Ava teases.

“I don’t want some Princess,” Beatrice protests, “I want you.” 

The gathered crowd of onlookers murmur to themselves, wondering if such a thing is allowed. Queen Suzanne slams her cane against the ground, bringing all attention to her. “You’ve heard my niece,” she says with a growing smile. “Now, come over here and let me give my congratulations on your upcoming marriage Ava. And welcome your King into our family.”

Ava grabs Beatrice’s hand and skips forward only to pull to an awkward halt when Beatrice does’t come with her. She looks over her shoulder to find Beatrice looking stunned. “Niece?” Beatrice croaks out.

Ava grins and rushes back to press a quick kiss to Beatrice’s lips once more. “So, turns out the reason I share a name with the Princess is because I am the Princess.”

Beatrice’s jaw drops and her eyes look between Ava and her aunt, The Queen. “What?” It comes out half strangled. 

“Surprise!” Ava flourishes her hands. “I choose to marry you and win a kingdom. You promised so no take-backies.” She steals another quick kiss and returns to pulling her fiancé over to her family. This time Beatrice goes willingly, if a little stiffly.

“I wouldn’t take it back,” Beatrice protests.

Ava grins. “I know. You’re much too steadfast for that love.”

given how she hates being powerless, ava would be the exact type of person who would enter in as a knight in a contest for her own hand so she can maintain her independence

so, knight!ava-who’s-secretly-the-princess in a contest for the princess’ hand with one of her main rivals being one Sir Beatrice Young, and as the contest drags on Ava quickly discovers that while she would rather die than loose regardless, if she has to loose to anyone she’d rather it be Beatrice

meanwhile Sir Beatrice, who was never all that interested in winning the princess’ hand to begin with, and only entered the contest at the behest of her father, finds that the urge to say to hell with it all and run away with the mysterious, constantly punning, rival knight who fights almost like their life depends on it grows stronger by the day