Chapter Text
Yelena drops her knives into the shallow grave in front of her and hopes she can lay the remainder of her past to rest alongside them. She didn’t even bother to wash the blood off them – how could she, when they’ve spilled so much? It wouldn’t do any good anyway. They will never come clean (and neither will her hands, no matter how much she washes and washes and washes them so that they stop reeking and dripping red, far more red than she ever imagined).
Better to hide them away. At least that way, she won’t have to look at them.
She pulls her batons from where she keeps them on her back. Her fingers tighten around them by instinct, arms dropping to a defensive position just in case someone dares to sneak up on her as she grapples with all the women she used to be. They’re heavier than she remembers them, like they’re about to break as easily as the bones they once shattered.
Yelena wonders if the same fate will befall her if she’s not careful. If the weight of her past will finally crush her, and one day, she will fall to her knees in a lonely clearing, never to be mourned or even remembered.
Before she can pursue that thought for much longer, she casts the batons into the trench as well. No point in marinating on it all. It’s not going to make things easier – nor is it going to rewrite her history.
Now, it only matters where she goes from here.
If only she can figure out where that is. Most of Greece trembles at the very mention of her name. To hear even a whisper of Yelena Belova’s presence was a death sentence. Nobody saw her face and lived to tell the tale. She was a myth, a legend, something far greater and more terrifying than anyone from the stories of old because she was living. There are no great epics about Yelena’s mercy. Only her cruelty.
It’s her hope to change that, if she can figure out how.
Yelena brushes a handful of dirt over the pile of weapons. A sick feeling crashes over her the moment her hands touch the cool, damp soil, and she jerks her hand away. Something twists and roils inside her, reminding her just how many people she’s resigned to this fate. Was the ground this cold for them, or did it welcome them into its warm embrace the way a fireplace welcomes people home at the end of the day? Does the very earth itself hate her for what she’s done?
Screams pull Yelena back from within herself. She scrambles to her feet, her boots struggling to find purchase against the loose ground, as she searches for the source of the sound. Her head swivels, assessing every potential threat. Leaves flutter on their branches. Yelena studies them for a moment, her eyes narrow. The wind blows in from the east, carrying another cry with it.
A war cry.
Peasants swarm over the hill behind her. Warriors emerge hot on their heels, the thud of their horses’ hoofbeats shaking the ground beneath her. A bullwhip cuts through the air, cracking like lightning. It licks at the tops of the people’s heads, daring to graze the hairs that stick up on the tops of their heads, wrap around them, and pull them away. The man wielding it lets out a harsh laugh that comes from the depths of his stomach, deriving unspeakable pleasure just from these people’s pain.
His mirth lights a fire in Yelena. She drops to the ground, watching as the warriors corral all the peasants in front of her, treating them no better than if they were livestock. The men situate themselves so that they form a wall in front of a group of young women, all of them clinging to one another like survivors cling to driftwood in a shipwreck, their grips so tight that they leave red claw marks in one another’s skin.
The man with the bullwhip circles his captives one more time before leaping off his horse. Yelena narrows her eyes. She’s seen this man before (though that isn’t saying much. Yelena can’t go anywhere without seeing a familiar face – or worse: someone realizing that they’ve seen her, even if she doesn’t recall crossing their path).
Recognition crashes over Yelena. She’s crossed paths with the Red Guardian before. Years ago, she was allied with the man he commands troops for – not that she thinks Alexei remembers much of it. He spent every moment in a drunken stupor. Just seeing him is enough to bring up the sickly-sweet stench of too much wine, and she stifles a gag at the thought.
Alexei stands in front of the group of peasants, who shrink further into themselves the closer they get to him. “Two options,” he begins, holding up the number with his fingers. Yelena’s almost shocked he can count that high. “Give us the girls as tribute, and you get to go home at the end of the day. A fair trade, eh? More food for you…no listening to their crying or complaining…an easy choice. Or,” he adds, taking his shield from his back, “we tear you to pieces and the girls come with us regardless.”
"Wait!” a voice calls from within the throng of people. Everyone else goes silent.
Yelena sits as far up as she dares, scanning the crowd for the one person who had the courage (or perhaps just the foolishness) to speak. A ripple starts in the center of the group, growing larger with every passing moment until the sea parts to reveal a young girl – at least a few years younger than Yelena and considerably lither despite the height she has on Yelena – with a fire in her eyes that not even the fiercest flood could extinguish. There’s something magnetic about her, something that makes Yelena want to keep her eyes on her rather than the soldiers even though it’s clear this woman doesn’t pose much of a threat to even the smallest creatures.
She positions herself between Alexei and the rest of the group, a mouse threatening a lion. “Take me. Let the rest of them go. You can have me – just let them stay.” Her voice doesn’t even waver, though Yelena spots the tiniest tremor in her legs.
Alexei lets out a bellowing laugh. “Who are you?”
The girl’s eyes go wide. Clearing her throat, she musters all her courage and responds, “Kate.” Someone within the crowd cries out – a mother, perhaps, or a little sister. Yelena tries not to think about it too hard; she’s heard that sound one too many times and known that it’s her actions that have wounded that deeply. It wouldn’t be helpful for anyone if she were to lose herself into her memories right now.
He takes a step closer to her, tilting her face so that she’s forced to look into his beady eyes. “Kate…” he says, running his hand down her cheek. She tenses the moment his fingers graze her skin, but to her credit, she doesn’t flinch away. Instead, she gives him a flinty glare. “Well, Kate, you do not get a say in what we do. Seems to me like we are the ones in control here, eh? You are just one of those who will be coming with me…”
He breaks eye contact with her for a split second to search the crowd; and in that moment, Kate wrenches his hand away from her. Still gripping his wrist, she moves as if to pin his arm behind his back (a move that Yelena has to admit she didn’t expect this girl to know).
Before she can, he reverses her movement and pulls her so that her back is to him. “I would not try that if I were you,” he snarls, hushed and lethal, before shoving her forward. Kate stumbles, but manages to regain her footing, shooting Alexei a dangerous glance as she dusts herself off. “But that was a good effort. It is a shame we will have to break that spirit of yours,” he adds, pulling his whip from its place at his waist. He sends a warning crack toward Kate—
And Yelena leaps into action. She throws her own arm into the line of fire, screwing her eyes shut as the leather winds around her wrist, leaving angry red lines in its wake. Once most of the whip’s wrapped around her, she jerks her arm backward, pulling the whip free from Alexei’s hands. It tumbles to the ground next to her, useless.
Alexei lets out a low chuckle and glances to the rest of his companions. “Tougher than they seemed, eh?” he says, giving them all sideways glances.
Yelena cocks her head. “You could say something like that. Though I wouldn’t say I’m one of them.”
“No matter. They will break just like the rest.” He gives a nod of assent to the other warriors. They rush toward the villagers – and Alexei sets his own sights on Yelena. He lurches forward, clumsy and calculated all at once, with his hands balled into fists –
Only for Yelena to send him staggering with a deft kick to his windpipe before he can even get within an arm’s length of her. He gasps for breath, clutching his throat with both hands. Yelena watches with a sick satisfaction until the sound of footsteps behind her pulls her out.
She glances over her shoulder to see the warriors assembling in a line. A smile creeps across her face. Fine. Much easier for her to tear them to pieces that way. If they want to stand single-file and wait their turn to be ruined, that’s their prerogative. Who is she to complain?
A fist flies toward her. She blocks it with her forearm, then knees the man in the chest before he even knows that his first attempt didn’t connect.
Another warrior brings his foot up to kick her. Yelena grabs his ankle and pulls him off-balance, sending him crashing to the ground.
One by one, she decimates Alexei’s forces until each and every one of them writhe on the ground in front of her. A jab here. A hook there. All of them end with the thud of a body against the dirt. As she takes in her work, Alexei himself gets to his feet. He stares at Yelena, fear and awe and a thousand other things mingling behind his eyes all at once. “Who are you?” he asks, his voice far away like a dream.
Yelena thinks on this for a moment. “You’d like to know, wouldn’t you?”
Before Alexei can respond again, she delivers another kick to his throat to silence him. She watches with a sort of twisted satisfaction as he falls, his skin already covered in rings of red and purple from her blows. Once upon a time, she’d have called them rewards or trophies. She’s not sure what they are anymore, but as long as the adrenaline courses through her, the pride does as well. She’ll have to re-evaluate that once she makes it out alive.
“Behind you!” Kate cries. Yelena whirls around, a dangerous look in her wide eyes like anyone who dares to meet them will be destroyed. Sure enough, one of Alexei’s men charges toward her, his sword drawn. Yelena throws herself at him with equal force. She knocks his sword from his hands like it weighs nothing at all, and he flashes her a terrified look before she delivers a crushing blow that knocks him to the ground, proving once again what happens to those who dare to stand in her way.
It sets off another wave of attacks, men staggering to their feet for the chance at another round against Yelena. Something she thought was long dead washes over her, an anger that she swore she would leave in her history. Perhaps it could have a use. Perhaps it can save those around her rather than destroys him, if she lets it.
If she figures out how to use it.
She can’t help but emphasize the if. She can’t be certain of her own goodness when all she’s ever known how to do is hurt.
But maybe this is her first chance to try. To pretend at it and hope that at some point, it becomes real.
Kate rushes out of the mass of peasants – and right toward one of the fiercest looking warriors there. Yelena rolls her eyes. Doesn’t this girl have any self-preservation instincts, or is her own stupidity destined to kill her? The man lets out a fearsome cry and swings a sword toward Kate. Yelena can’t tear her eyes away, glued to the scene like it’s a gruesome accident she can’t help but stare at as she passes by, nausea roiling in her stomach as she faces the reality that she will have to witness a death that for once she did not cause but yet could not prevent—
And watches as Kate lunges, snatches a sword from one of the incapacitated men, and parries the blow with unexpected skill. Metal meets metal as Kate holds his blade against hers, her muscles trembling with the effort, for far longer than Yelena believed possible. A smile dances across Kate’s face, her eyes bright with surprise as she breaks the parry. She advances on her opponent, wielding the weapon with a sort of clumsy enthusiasm that suggests that, if taught, she has the potential to become a true warrior.
But ultimately, brute force wins out. Kate’s muscles strain against her skin and turn to gelatin right before Yelena’s eyes. She doubles over, panting, the sword discarded at her side. “I gotta admit, you’re pretty good at this,” she manages between gasps. “You want to call that a draw, or are we going again? ‘Cause I could do that, but I’d love the chance to catch my breath first, if that’s alright with you.”
The warrior seizes his moment. He raises his blade over Kate, ready to deliver the killing blow –
Yelena leaps between the two of them before she knows she’s even had the thought. A stinging feeling erupts from her ribcage as the blade takes the top layer of skin along her side clean off, and she bites her lip to keep from howling. She screws her eyes shut to keep any traitorous tears from escaping. Better to keep them inside. Better not to show weakness, if she can help it.
Better to turn pain into a strength. Let it drive her, motivate her. Redirect it and see where it leads.
She funnels all her pain into a single kick right to the man’s ribcage. With a wheeze, he falls backwards, landing flat on his back. Yelena pins him in place with his own knife speared through his palm. She can’t tell whose blood soaks the grass, hers or his, and she wonders if it might be better to leave that a mystery (or at least to believe that it’s his). She’ll patch herself up later. She’s survived worse, and odds are, she’ll have to do it again.
A foot lands on Yelena’s back as she calculates a thousand different ways the rest of this confrontation could go, sending her spiraling into an outcome she neglected entirely to consider. Skin meets dirt as she lands face-down, sending a bolt of pain shooting through her nose. A brush of her finger against the space beneath it lets her know that it’s gushing blood (though she’s not sure what she can do about that right now). She spits soil, though its acrid tang lingers in her mouth long after tries to swipe her tongue clean. Her hands scrabble for purchase –
And clasp around leather and metal instead.
A grin snakes over her face.
They have no idea what they’ve done.
Feigning defeat and keeping her head down, Yelena slips her favorite knife into its place at her side. She wraps her hands around her batons. They’re already lighter in her hands.
A breeze flutters over her back, tousling her hair and letting her know that someone’s finally found the courage to check to see if she’s been defeated. In one smooth motion, Yelena vaults to her feet. She readies her batons as she stares at the man who dared to come up to her – and the legion behind him.
“You sure you want to do this?” she asks, her voice low. The man doesn’t even dignify her with a response. All it takes is one sound collision between the back of his head and her baton for him to be unable to tell her anything ever again. She scours the rest of the group for her next competitor. Nobody dares approach. “Who’s next?” she snarls.
It’s all the encouragement they need. There’s a flurry of blows, of rage and howling yells, that Yelena finds herself unable to remember as soon as the moment passes. The next thing she knows, a score of incapacitated bodies writhe around her, their pained whines a devastating symphony.
She stalks over to Alexei. His limbs lay at unnatural angles, and yet, he still tries to push himself upright. Yelena looms over him, one hand perched on her hip and her head cocked to the side. She lets him struggle for a moment longer before bending down and, in a single swift motion, yanking the shoulder piece from his armor.
Red dye rubs off on her fingers the moment she touches the epaulet. Squinting, Yelena brushes at the center of it, finding raised lines beneath the surface. She closes her eyes and traces them. A star.
An insignia she knows all too well.
“So Dreykov sent you.” She doesn’t bother to frame it as a question. Frankly, she’s not sure how she didn’t come up with it sooner – who else would want to capture a legion of young women but her former ally? He always took great pride in having female soldiers in his army; never mind that he never gave them the chance to advance beyond expendable foot soldiers, even when they proved to be far more capable than the men he put in command.
Yelena flashes a wolfish grin. “Tell him Yelena says hello.”
She pulls one of her knives from her belt. Not her favorite – she’d never part with that one – but one of her older ones. She’d be okay with never seeing it again.
As she turns to leave, she drops it into Alexei’s throat, leaving him there to bleed.