Chapter Text
The battle had been lost hours ago, when the trap of fierce warriors closed on them and undid their plans and strategies with a precise sort of ease, sending the remaining dregs of a defeated army scattering across the burning wasteland. There were no trees nearby to hide into, no cities or mazes of high weeds to lose oneself in: only miles of smoking, ashy dirt and the tall rocky sides far away in the horizon, from behind which the hidden armies had appeared and fallen on them like birds of prey to tear them apart.
Despite the obvious defeat, they had done their best to stand their ground for as long as possible, knowing the alternative was to accept their own death, and refusing to. His people had not been an imposing or a powerful one for years, and as they refused the right treaties and alliances when they were offered to them, this dying out on the battlefield had been bound to be their destiny for a long time. But they were a stubborn people whose only priority was to survive for as long as death allowed them to escape it and so, they fought on. Noticing how the soldiers around them knew the battle won and were now focusing more on diminishing their own losses even if it meant dragging out this sad excuse for a fight. Noticing how there were less and less of their comrades surrounding them and more and more familiar corpses in the dirt.
They retreated from the main enemy line as much as possible but, in their effort to run from the mass of iron and steel, broke the small groups they’d managed to keep gathered; soon enough, when Ramos looked up after beheading an adversary, panting and exhausted, he was met with nothing but wasteland and smoke, every shape of a soldier he could see behind the screen of ash all wearing enemy colors. His heart sank when he realized he couldn’t see a single one of his countrymen standing. The only splashes of his colors were bloodsoaked in the dirt or worn by corpses.
He stood there, holding his weighty sword and breathing heavily, trying to spot someone, anyone, whom he might try and protect, try and make his purpose, but there was nobody. Only him—exhausted and dead on his feet, his sword feeling too heavy to even bear in his bruised hand. It was over. There was nothing to fight for anymore.
For a second, hidden from enemy eyes by the thick smoke which the wind brought around him, Ramos simply breathed in the ashen air, heavy with the metallic smell of blood, his spirit worn and tired, and took in the feeling of real, hopeless defeat.
Then, somewhere to his left, the smoke must have cleared a little because a dark shape of a man became visible, contrasted by the light of the setting sun behind it. He turned to face it and saw that the shadow was walking towards him now, lit from behind by the sunrays like a halo, carrying death in its hand under the long, sharp form of a sword.
Even without a face, he recognized the shadow from countless stories and paintings and, more recently, from having seen him tearing his fellow soldiers to shreds earlier today. Short, bearded and wearing the golden sun on his chest, this was the army’s deadly Commander, the one people said was blessed by the gods of victory and war.
Ramos’ eyes widened and suddenly his entire world narrowed down. His mind, which so far had been so entirely focused on the battle, on the group surrounding him and the single-mindedness of war, suddenly focused only on the only thing there was left: his own self, weakened and alone. In front of him, the deadliest warrior known to man. A fight he could never win. He forgot his pride and his disdain for the enemy and all he’d been fighting for; he forgot his rage and courage from only seconds ago. Suddenly the entire world was nothing but one simple fact: he was about to die.
He couldn’t run. The smoke was a screen like a veil around them, but it didn’t spread far, and wouldn’t offer cover until the rocky mountainsides; even if by some miracle he could reach those, they were full of enemy footmen who had been hacking at every enemy soldier who’d tried to escape the closing trap. There was nowhere to go, the horizon nothing but dirt and death, a sea of bodies littered with spears and arrows like some odd forest of bone and steel. If he stood there and tried to fight the best warrior this Earth carried, tired as he was, he wouldn’t last a second.
A mix of exhaustion and sheer desperation to live took over him and as the Commander stepped close enough that he would soon be within reach of his sword, he did the only thing that he could think of; swiftly, he dropped his sword and fell to his knees. Bowing his head, he set his eyes on the dirt and waited, breathing heavily, his hands balled into fists on his lap, rustling his bloodsoaked pants. He hoped, silently, that his position would indicate more than his defeated exhaustion; he did his best to show willful deferential submission as well, to convey his surrender.
Heart beating furiously in his ears, he heard the steps getting closer, and closer, and closer, until finally the Commander’s boots came into view, and stopped right in front of him. They were worn and dirty but still shiny underneath the red spots, splattered with dark crimson blood that contrasted nicely with the silver shine under the dim sunlight. Ramos breathed heavily, almost coughing at the smoke which was heavier with ash closer to the ground, but managing to swallow down his discomfort. He’d stood ready for battle waiting for the enemy for hours in the freezing cold, he’d fought many duels he was convinced would be his last, and never before had he seen himself shiver in fear: yet now, on his knees, his hands were shaking.
The sword, its sharp tip digging a rivulet into the bloodsoaked dirt, moved and Ramos flinched, feeling terror like he’d never felt before grip him at the sudden certainty that it’d slice into his body within the next second, but all it did was move from one side of the boots to the other as the warrior seemingly shifted his grip on it.
A heavy hand came to rest on his head, and although Ramos flinched at first, he didn’t move away. His heart thundered in his chest. He’d never felt real fear for his life like this before. As the hand settled heavy on his head, he heard an intrigued, interested hum from above him.
“What’s your name, soldier?” came a voice, quiet and rough.
He thought about lying; about making up some name; about spitting insults at him; about being snarky, biting his fingers off—he thought about it all, and what came out of his mouth, voice broken and low, was the truth. “Captain Sergio Ramos, sir.”
“Ah,” the Commander said. “I’ve heard of you. Mmh.” Ramos didn’t say anything, but somehow knowing that this man had heard of him—of tales of his exploits on the battlefield and ferocity with a sword, no doubt—made his current position worse, his bowed head and his hands which held no weapon more humiliating. He felt the weight of that heavy hand on his head even more starkly suddenly, the continuous realization that it was still there and he was still doing nothing to fight it becoming more damning by the second.
“Toss your sword away from yourself and tell me what you hope your surrender will grant you,” the man commanded, with a voice full of that easy authority which meant he was used to being obeyed, a voice Ramos himself had used only hours ago when he addressed his garrison’s soldiers. He hesitated for a second, looking at his sword still laying at his side, slowly reaching for it. But in the state he was in, the man above him would kill him before he even had time to attempt any kind of offensive move. The Commander held his life in his hands; he was entirely dependent on his will. Never before had he felt so entirely in the hands of one single person. And if he wasn’t dead yet, despite having been at his mercy for several minutes, then perhaps cooperation meant hope.
He grabbed his faithful sword and tossed it away, watched it disappear in the smoke and lift a trail of dirt as it hit the ground a little further. The hand, still on his head, rewarded the compliance with a rough caress of his hair and he shivered under the touch, terribly aware of the calm tension coiling this man’s entire body, the way it was ready to strike at any second, knowing to his core that the Commander had been ready to tighten his grip and hold his head still as he cut his neck if he’d tried to use the sword.
Eyes still set on the place where his sword had disappeared, somewhere behind the man, he answered his earlier question. “I hope to keep my head, sir.” The Commander hummed again, sounding more amused this time. Ramos’ eyes fell close in a mix of fear and embarrassment.
“Obedient,” the Commander mused. “Polite, too. That’s good.”
The hand disappeared from his hair and, instead, something much less pleasant and cold came to rest under his chin. Ramos opened his eyes, unsurprised to see the sword resting at his neck, but still feeling his breath quicken.
Gently, the sword pushed his chin up, and Ramoslet it lead his head back until he was looking up at the Commander, taking his appearance in for the first time. The man he knew his people called the Messiah had dark eyes and a thick beard, blood and ash in his hair which fell in brown strands upon his forehead. He wore a golden sun on the ivory-colored chestplate characteristic of his armies and bore the blue sky of his people in the cloth underneath the iron of his armor. His sword shone the sharp glint of silvery death under the rare sunrays and the stains of blood.
The Commander looked at him with surprising interest, head slightly tilted and eyes considering, attentive as they took in the prey he’d caught. Ramos knew what he must’ve looked like, panting from both the fight and the fright of the sharp cold metal against his skin, armor dirty, his own blood running down his temple in red rivulets, hair a mess from the helmet he’d taken off earlier to leave himself exposed and open. He met the man’s dark eyes, tried not to show the defiance he’d usually have been flaunting about and instead look unthreatening and pleading. The Commander’s lips curved under his beard in a semblance of amused interest.
“You look quite good on your knees, Sergio Ramos,” he commented, voice calm and low.
He wasn’t going to die today. He wasn’t. He refused to. Polite, that’s good , the Commander had said, and as the only reason he was still alive was because this man was allowing him to be, he breathed out a quiet “Thank you, sir,” and immediately knew it was the right thing to say; the man’s face brightened from condescending amusement to an actual smile.
The Commander’s free hand came up and once more firmly took a handful of his hair, pulling his head back; Ramos didn’t fight the grip, moving his body where the man wanted it to go. He was completely at his mercy, exposed, hair gripped and a sword under his chin, looking up at the most powerful man in the world and knowing his fate was entirely dependent on his every whim.
“Are you going to kill me?” he asked, voice still raspy. The Commander tilted his head a little, still looking at him attentively.
“You were calling me sir, just now,” he commented casually, “I quite liked that.”
Ramos understood immediately, and rushed to correct himself. “Are you going to kill me, sir?”
“That was the initial idea, yes,” he said, tilting Ramos’ head a little to the left by the hair so he could look at him from whatever angle pleased him. “But I wasn’t expecting this, I must admit.” Ramos swallowed and felt the steel caress his neck at the movement. The Commander’s eyes lowered to see the touch, and he pressed the sword a little closer to again run its edge tentatively down the column of his throat. Ramos closed his eyes in fearful anticipation, but didn’t fight the grip on his hair or tried to move away. Again a quiet hum made itself heard from the man who was holding his life.
“I’ve never been one for war prizes, but I might make an exception today.” Quiet relief settled deep into Ramos’ bones despite the non-committal nature of the Commander’s statement. He couldn’t have hoped for better. Even when he’d first dropped to his knees he’d only dared to hope for, at best, forced labor for the rest of his life, a fate of whippings and painful work in the darkness of the silver mines. But if the Commander’s clear appreciation of him and his deference was anything to go by—well. He could certainly imagine far worse fates than being the war prize of the best warrior the world had seen, a highly respected man who he’d quietly admired for decades and which was known for both ruthless fighting and yet benevolent ruling.
“Please,” he breathed, and the sword parted slightly from his neck, still threateningly close but no longer kissing the skin of his throat. The Commander lowered himself on one knee so he could look at him from closer still, tilting his head to his liking so he could inspect him better.
“Men who were once soldiers, no matter how highly they rank, never forget obedience,” he murmured. “You fall back into it with such ease. And you truly do look good on your knees.” To a man who had been brought up to command armies, raised with nothing but authority and power in mind, this idea seemed to be intriguing and foreign. Ramos allowed his eyes to fall almost closed with exhausted relief, for the first time for days since this siege had been established feeling the distant possibility of surviving past this battle and finding it surprisingly easy to abandon all power over his own life, relinquish ownership of himself and instead entrusting his fate into the hands of this man.
“Gods, you sure are a pretty thing. I quite like looking at you.”
“Then keep me,” he dared to breathe out, then remembered the earlier exchange and added; “please, sir.”
A slow smile spread on the Commander’s face, and he tilted his head slightly to the side. “Yes,” he said slowly, and Sergio felt the relief crashing down on him like a tidal wave. “Yes, I think I will.”