Because the more I worked on this story, the more I realized that it isn't actually that bad. Also because I love Kane and he's a total dad.
Disclaimer: I don't own The 100.
In peace, may you leave the shore. In love, may you find the next. Safe passage on your travels until our final journey to the ground.
Wilma Kane is no longer just a name. It is a bellow during the march into battle, hair standing on end. It is a reminder, salty tears hitting upturned soil. It is a whisper, a long sip of moonshine. It is a driving force, heavy boots leaving behind prints.
Hers was not the sole legend that arose during the dawn of the new century. That time was known for being one of destruction and creation alike - fate's two hand-holding weapons that dictate a lifetime.
The Trigedakru know her as the sobwe rona.
The Sky People simply call her Billie.
She carried with her a wardrobe of masks, so easily suiting her identities, painting the many sides to her story. Daughter of the renowned Marcus Kane. Gunner standing tall before her enemies. Follower, advisor, friend. Runner.
Wood, sand, snow – her feet tore across earth. To here, and back, distance be damned. She was undoubtedly their messenger, the scout. The girl who was willing to take off onto uncharted terrain, nothing but the sword on her back and the gun at her side in the face of an uphill battle.
And maybe she was too good at it. She ran herself to an early grave.
In life, she was a warrior. In death, she is a being, a timeless myth of a guardian of the forest, of the dunes, of the ground.
They say that sometimes, when you catch glimpses of unwarranted footsteps amongst the leaves, they are hers. When suspicious shadows fleetingly pass you by in the night, she is there to help you with whatever comes next. When light in the tunnels fail and all you can see is darkness, it is her story that urges you to draw your weapon and advance.
And most importantly, never stop.
May we meet again, Billie Kane.
