Colliding worlds (Hannibal x OC)

Fencing

His assessing gaze seemed to shine with newfound respect. Their brush in at the fencing club had been fruitless, Frances fumbling with the needle-like sword she'd broken too many times. Here, in her element with a weapon that suited her fighting style, her body moved on its own. Training with an elf and a man raised by elves – Estel – had been demanding; her speed and reflexes almost came from muscle memory. And so, the dance began as their bokken clashed. At first, hesitantly, both assessing their partner's strength and weaknesses so as to avoid injury. Needless to say that despite the absence of an edge, the wooden weapon could break bones, create a concussion or even kill someone if used in the right way.

Once both felt confident enough in their opponent's skills, swords met with more force, more speed. And while Frances called forth her past training, recalling moves taught by her illustrious friends, Hannibal started to deviate from traditional kendo. Unbeknownst to him, Tristan's old moves permeated in his fighting style, his feet dancing upon the mat like a skilled artist. He became less predictable, more focused in his blows, the ruthlessness of the knight of old channelled through his rigid mind. A bead of sweat ran through Frances' spine as she deviated the tip of his bokken at the last moment. Damn! She'd left her right side open once more. Aragorn would have had her head for that! Luckily, she would never meet him again.

Her counterattack was nonetheless swift and relentless but Hannibal wasn't caught off guard. His sword brushed her away with graceful strokes, long limbs coiled and graceful, feet dancing with quiet woosh upon the mats. His face kept intense focus, but a few droplets of sweat started running at the back of his skull. Frances took a step back, panting heavily as he lifted his bokken with a smirk. If he was influenced by Tristan's fighting style, he could only outmatch her technique. His aim reached further, his height giving him a fair advantage. Unless...

Unless she fought dirty.

The first blow to his ribs surprised him. Her sword was still locked with his, but her left shoulder had greeted his side rather forcefully. Taking a step back, Hannibal stood tall, watching her like a hawk.

— "Is that how it is little fairy?" he asked, strangely curious.

The nickname only confirmed her suspicions; when fighting, Hannibal used his old soul. There was no anger nor betrayal in his gaze, his head cocked aside, high cheekbones on display as a strand of hair stuck to his temple. The perfect image of Tristan when he faced a worthy opponent in battle. Frances nodded, slightly out of breath. Until now, they had clashed swords only; he probably wouldn't dare laying his hand upon her unless she gave him permission. But this rehearsal still didn't feel true enough. If Frances wanted to work her frustrations out, she needed to see him as the enemy. Which meant winning, at all costs.

This wasn't sparring anymore. This was blind rage, with only a tiny trail of sanity. The anger against herself to have accepted a cold-hearted husband, a killer, the frustration of lying to everyone and remain isolated. The grief of Tristan's loss, the irony of finding him again only to be the Chesapeake Ripper, Il mostro di Firenze.

— "Helmets on, then," he ordered.

How did he do it? To pinpoint the exact moment her control slipped? Without a word, the young woman reached for the kendo helmet to strap it upon her head. How ironic, she thought, when Tristan was the one to fetch a helmet for her before Badon Hill. Another pang in her heart, another reason for it to crumble. How much could it take before it exploded altogether?

The fight resumed, turning instantly into something much more vicious. It took only a few blows for Hannibal to retaliate and Frances was not sorry for the padding. His fists were strong, his strikes as commanding as his presence. Her ribs, hip and back were bruised now, sending waves of pain through her frame; it only fuelled her ire and she grunted, rolling back to reassess her position. Now, it was a fight to the death. A fight with orcs or men alike, a fight with Saxons. The enemy was stronger, and reached further. But her training taught her how to use her little weight to her advantage.