Chapter Text
Of mercenaries, Machiavelli writes: “they are disunited, ambitious, and without discipline, unfaithful, valiant before friends, cowardly before enemies; they have neither the fear of God nor fidelity to men”.
The Kryptonian captain is the worst of their kind, ruthless, ferocious, and unscrupulous, one who could never be charged with cowardice. There is not a fight the Red Daughter has not won, not a city she has not attacked and brought to its knees. There is no man, woman, or child in Italy who would not tremble at her name.
It is exactly why Lex Luthor hires her to head his army that he sets out to wipe his bastard sister’s city off the face of the earth.
She’s standing in front of Lena now, in all her fearsome glory: tall and lean, clad in ornate black armor, a blood-red cape falling from her shoulders, hand cockily resting on the hilt of her sword. She’s an imposing sight for a warrior, but nothing like Lena would not have seen before. What strikes her more is her face: even with her cruel smile, the hard shine of her blue eyes and the strangely pulsing red veins under her skin, she’s exceedingly handsome, almost cherubic with her flowing golden locks. It seems like an evil jest for such a person to have an angel’s face, more fit for a fresco in a cathedral than the visage of a soulless mercenary.
It does, conversely, serve to inspire some blind hope in Lena’s heart at this dark hour.
The mercenary has accepted the invitation to her halls, after all. True, she rode into the city alone, haughty and jeering, tossing her white flag into the face of Lena’s castellan with the arrogance of a conqueror. She strode through her palace as if she already was its master, stepped before Lena’s throne without bending her head or knee.
And now she stands, head tilted with a smirk, waiting for Lena to beg for her life, for her freedom, for her people; and so Lena must begin.
“You do not have to do this, Captain.”
Her voice trembles, muffled by the black veil that hides her face. The mercenary must hear it, though: her lips are drawn into a snarl-like smile.
“But I will,” she assures Lena, in a tone so cheerful it makes a cold shiver run down her spine.
“My people are innocent,” Lena presses on. “They should not suffer for my brother’s grievances with me.”
The mercenary shrugs.
“Then be glad and assured that their souls will be granted a swift entry to Heaven.”
Lena can only be grateful the mercenary does not see how her cheeks burn with anger for being so helpless against so despicable a threat. She must change her tune.
“How much is my brother paying you?”
“You’d like to buy me?” She gives Lena a brazen look, her gaze scorching as she looks Lena up and down. “I can be amenable. But what could you possibly have to offer? I know your coffers are as good as empty.”
“What do I have to offer?” Lena rises from her throne, no longer trying to hide the fury of her tone. “Less innocent blood on your hands and good souls on your wicked conscience. One merciful deed to speak for you on the Day of Judgement.”
It’s as if she tried preaching to a rock: the mercenary only laughs and crosses her arms over her chest.
“Don’t ruin it now, Countess,” she tuts. “You were striking the right tune before.”
“You are a beast,” Lena spits out, only to be met with a derisive smile.
“You have no terms left?”
“Only one.” Lena ascends the steps of her throne, slow and regal as she can be to make her last stand: if this is all that’s left for her, she will stay defiant to the very end. The mercenary watches her, blue eyes following every movement stoically until Lena stands before her. “Strike me down now, so I don’t have to see your horde razing my city.”
She rips off her veil and throws it into the mercenary’s face – let no-one boast to Lex that she went to her death trembling. She waits for anything: another scornful laugh, the merciful strike of a sword that she asked for. It never comes. The Kryptonian stares at her, dumbstruck, eyes wide as she takes in Lena’s face.
Then she drops to her knees.
“Lex warned me you were wicked and deceitful,” she whispers. Her face is reverent now, the red veins in it flaring up, then dying down with a dim glow. “He should have warned me that I, poor mortal, was raising my weapon against a goddess.”
“Do not mock me,” Lena breathes. She feels as if she has fallen under a spell: she must be dreaming to see the most beastly condottiere tamed at her feet.
“I would never dare, my lady.” One gloved hand reaches out to clutch at the edge of Lena’s dress and the mercenary looks up at her, pleading. “Forgive your humble servant for her rude transgressions.”
Lena feels herself trembling at the mercenary’s touch, but she does not free herself from it: she leans forward, her hands clutching the mercenary’s shoulder for support.
“Have you lost your senses?”
“I have only just regained them.” The Kryptonian lets go of Lena’s dress, only to reach out and gently draw Lena’s right hand into the armored clutch of her own, the cold kiss of the steel reminding Lena that she isn’t dreaming. “I am yours to command.”
She almost looks anxious as she stares up into Lena’s face, waiting for an answer, her eyes shining with devout fervor.
Slowly, gingerly, Lena moves her hand to touch the mercenary’s face. The skin under her fingertips is hot, almost feverish, and under Lena’s touch, the red veins seem to dissipate. The hard, cruel lines of the Kryptonian’s visage melt away with them: she sighs, pressing her cheek into Lena’s touch.
Lena doesn’t know what commands her for what comes next, but it only feels right: she leans down and presses a kiss to the Kryptonian’s forehead. She hears the shaky breath she draws, feels her tremble as Lena’s lips press against her skin. When Lena draws back, the Kryptonian’s face is all light, and the smile she gives to Lena is the fairest she’s ever seen. Lena returns it, triumphant, and tugs on her hand.
“Rise then.”