Chapter Text
Camilla set to removing the grime and blood from the battle as the rain pounded on the thick cloth tent above her head. Until Garon handed over the rightful title of General, Camilla would have to lay on grass like the ignoble dissidents her garrison has just quashed. Her tent, whilst somewhat nicer and certainly cleaner than those of her army, was still a tent in a field, and Camilla did so loath feeling rough ground beneath her back. Her battle amour sat heavy on her breastbone after the adrenaline of the battle had worn off, the jagged wyvern scales held the chill of the evening, unconsciously keeping her from drawing full breath. She twisted up her long lilac hair, snagging on the scales, into a messy knot at deal with later.
The small whitewashed plank she was forced to call a vanity table held a number of oils and creams Camilla liked to use - a condensed collection, naturally. She uncapped her favourite heady blend of lavender and bergamot to let the oils fill the tent with a cloying sweetness, masking the sweat and metallic tang from her armour. Her neck and shoulders began to ease as she ran her soft white flannel over her face - the water was cold – bad for the skin but soothing on her sunburnt forehead.
Camilla leant to pick up a herbal cream when she felt the cold air prickle the back of her neck. She paused, years of paranoia in that damned castle had whittled her reflexes sharp. Her hand softly retrieved the gilt dagger she kept below the painted shelf and turned, eyes darting.
Her tent was empty, save from her, the bag of cookies Elise had pressed into her hands a few days ago, and the fresh scent of cold, damp grass that cut through the lavender and into her throat –
A chilled blade was held up against the back of her neck. Camilla felt a few strands of her own hair flutter to the floor in the split second before she swung her elbow into the solid figure on her right side, using her right leg to slam them down into the ground, the momentum bringing around her left hand to slash the dagger at her assailant.
The dark figure on the canvas tent floor had dropped the dagger to push Camilla’s leg off their sternum and topple her balance on her left leg, which Camilla quickly rolled into, putting distance between herself and the assailant. Her beautiful axe, she knew, was stowed safely under her bedroll.
If this assassin was in here, the guards outside must be either too useless to help her now, or already taken out. Her army was already down for the night, and she wasn’t about to disgrace herself by tearing screaming through the camp like Leo with ice down his collar. This, Camilla surmised, was planned.
Assassination seemed far too blunt a title for the grace with which the dark clothed figure made a stab at the Nohrian royal, a second silver knife in their grasp was twin to the one dropped by the vanity. The blade sliced through the empty air as Camilla turned her head parallel to the flat of the blade, watching it pass by, then following the movement through, dropping low and swinging her heel at the figure’s ankles in time to duck the high kick aimed at where her face would have been.
The surprise of matched skills almost gave Camilla pause as she recovered her centre of gravity back into a low posture, ready to counter the next strike.
Camilla blinked as she felt a dull force strike at her back, then lost her breath as the second precise blow struck the low of her lung. She turned, too slowly, to see dull black leather fitted over a small arm swing up in her left peripheral to land a solid strike at her windpipe, trying to wind her twice.
Camilla twisted clockwise out of the assassin’s range, giving a cursory slash with the dagger as she put the tent floor between them again. This couldn’t be the work of Garon’s surviving concubines, she could presume; no killer sent by a court member would risk ruining her face. A rule not made out of vain assumption, Camilla knew that any court member who wanted her gone would need her pretty face clean to prove it. It would take a verbal spar to discover which of her enemies wanted her dead tonight.
She straightened her back, sitting her weight in her hip. “It’s nice to finally have an even match, darling.” She purred.
Her aspiring assassin held their combative posture, and stood like a little slip of shadow.
Camilla had always enjoyed when her warfare and courtly training collided.
“I have to thank you, my dear,” She toyed with her gilt dagger, catching the low lamplight on the polished blade, “I was afraid my dagger and I would soon get rusty without practice. Ah, my little jokes don’t amuse you? My, you are a tough one.” The assassin’s stoic stature was interesting, Camilla thought, as she twisted her words to an aggressive end. She shifted her weight, starting a slow prowl around her little guest.
“Well? I thought you were here to fight. Has no one ever told you that I fight with my mouth too?” Camilla made her way around the vanity towards the tent flap. If her condescension didn’t garner a reaction, her movements towards the exit and the sliver dagger certainly would.
Her assassin took the bait. They lunged low, their blade flashing white as they brought it up above their head as they made to take out Camilla’s knees. She countered with a sharp booted kick to the head; giving a satisfied smirk at the crunch of dislocated cartilage. Using the blow, she pinned the shadow to the tent floor with her left foot leaning heavily on the throat.
The princess crouched down next to her assailant’s face, finally getting a good look at the small blank features next to her boot. The face was drawn, Camilla could have sworn it lifeless if not for the blinking, and the slightly furrowed brows. Her kick was successful, the small nose bleeding thickly down the pointed little chin and cheekbone under the left eye already overcast in purple bruise. Camilla slowly drew her finger over the plains of the face, pressuring the bruise and trailing around to card through the deep teal hair, soft and thick in a blunt cut bob. The eyes, a same pale pearl-green to Elise’s satin tea dress, blankly stared back.
If the woman wasn’t trying to kill her, she’d be positively adorable.
“Oh, you’re an adorable little thing!” Camilla drew her eyes up and down the woman’s body, leaning her face in closer to the body on the ground. “I could just eat you alive. It’s a shame the world won’t get to see your pretty face any more.” She pressed her weight into her foot on the throat and righted her grip on the dagger, a second away to strike.
The assassin tilted her neck back as Camilla pressed in harder, using the inch in movement throw her lower body up and grabbed the princess’ neck in her muddy boot, dragging her down to the floor and slamming her into the hard ground; pinned under muscled grip and her own armour.
Camilla’s chest moved in desperate jerks, winded again from the blow, struggling to breathe deep under the plated wyvern scales. The woman above her similarly short of full breath; mouth open and blood-crusted nostrils rapidly flaring. Her eyes widened against her own will, panic leaking into her actions as her wrist bent back against the assassin’s steeled, steady pressure that brought a silver blade ever nearer towards her throat.
Camilla cut her losses, lurched up and captured her killer’s lips in an open kiss.
The woman freezes. She blinks rapidly, with the slightest hint of utter bewilderment on her face.
Camilla slips her tongue in the assassin’s mouth to see if that cleared up the confusion a little.
Somewhere beside her head, she heard the clatter of a metal blade hitting the floor, shortly followed by a feather light touch of a calloused finger on her cheekbone and soft lashes fluttering closed against her skin.
“I’ll make you a deal,” Camilla breathed against sinewy neck, “keep me alive, and I’ll let you live. I’ve been needing a new retainer.”
The woman’s breath seemed to catch in her throat, as she finally spoke in a small voice; “My Company would kill me.”
The princess simply raised an eyebrow and hooked her leg around the woman’s waist, rolling them over in a mimicry of their earlier fight.
“I assume, my darling, that your Company sent out their best to cut my pretty royal throat.” Camilla dropped her forearms flat to the floor either side of the woman’s head, lowing her head to let her lips brush her partner’s “since I’ve won here, I can’t say I worry. Especially with your blade at my side.
Camilla’s lips came to rest against the corner of the woman’s mouth. “So, what do you say?”