Disclaimer: I do not own the characters and concepts pertaining to the television show. I am, however, the queen of the comma splice and bane of canonical purists, so I apologize in advance for any irreverance.
Summary: The disruptive return of the 100 to the ground sparks the re-emergence of an ancient order rooted in balance & favouring a lasting peace at any cost. Their return, along with the appearance of Skaikru ignites further tensions in the Coalition, as the Commander struggles to keep the clans' ambitions in check for the greater good of her people. Canon warping. Shamanistic tendencies.
A/N: First attempt at fanfic of any sort. Got hooked into the Grounder storyline despite my best efforts to loathe the show. Comments are very truly appreciated.
Chapter 1: Return
The sun set red over the ridges of the mountains, casting an eerie, unnatural glow across the canopies of Trikru territory. A dot - tiny, black, and whirling - silhouetted briefly against the scarlet disc, before plunging to skim the top of the trees, heading at breakneck speed for a small out-cropping of rock along the western boundary of the valley. With a final beat of its wings, the raven squawked in greeting and came to rest on the outstretched arm of the one who had called it home.
"I saw as you did." A female voice, soft and melodic, broke the quiet of the early evening as the bird hopped further up the arm to settle on the shoulder of the hooded figure. The raven shook her head and preened the ruffled feathers of her chest. "We are not far."
The bird clicked her beak in agreement before returning to her cleaning, keeping one beady eye bent towards its host. The past year had been tumultuous, even in a land that had not known rest since before the bombs had fallen. Dreams, vivid and charged with urgency, had hinted of the things to come but the images and timelines had been muddled. It made no sense. None of it. It was entirely illogical and yet the pull was undeniable. Unbearable. Something had changed. She could feel it as sure as she could the earth beneath her feet. Things were shifting, warping and heaving, and it scattered her carefully organized routine of secrecy and survival like fallen leaves in the chill winds of autumn.
Three Weeks Prior
It had been several years since any had dared to cross into the lands of the twelve clans. Aside from traders, who sought the necessities when supplies grew scarce, the world beyond the waters of the Great Lake marked only danger and persecution. Her decision to return had not been an easy one. Katja had been safe there, in the permafrost of The Wastes, protected by the harsh climate and short span of human memory. Her people eked out a meagre existence, foregoing the trappings of truly living for the sure sight of another morning. In time the fear that shadowed their every move had receded to nothing more than a dull ache at the base of their skulls. They were no longer pursued, no longer tracked; the nightmares faded, the dead were mourned, and a generation passed forgotten. They became a legend. They became myth.
Her leaving, now in this time of upheaval, had not been a popular decision. Not everyone had an interest in the Old Ways and many viewed the clans with suspicion and hatred. They cared not for rumor and even less for prophecy. Despite what she had told them, despite what she had seen, the elders of the tribe still found exile in The Wastes preferable to chasing the blurred visions of a girl who known no other kind of life. There were still those alive who remembered the hunts and had been present, twenty years ago, to see the last of their leaders slaughtered by the power hungry clans to the south. They no desire to watch the hills run once more with the blood of their kin, all for the vain hope of a peace that they believed would never come.
In the end, however, it had been her decision to make. Her brother Toran felt as she did - saw
as she did - though his reaction to his own inner turmoil was not to extend, but to withdraw. He sided with the elders, urging caution, fearing change, but knowing that even he would not oppose her should she choose to take that leap of faith. The south was their birthright. Their fates had been tied to a lasting peace since the stars were young. The dreams spoke of opportunity, of flexibility, and of hope but also of conflict, and war. If they were true, hiding in the North would no longer save them. They could either reach out to help guide that bold new future, or retreat within themselves and fade from history.
And so she left.
A horse, her swords, and a glowering advisor; those had been her companions as she set out from the only home she had ever known. She remembered how her brother's breath wove lazy patterns in the cold of the morning as he stood rigidly, looking every inch an Amin, with a hand raised in farewell. As much as she would miss him, and as much as he was her blood, she guiltily found herself glad that the warrior priest Lewan had been selected to accompany her. Silent and serious, he had always treated her with respect and a loose leash. He had been her teacher through her Trials and the sight of his shaved head and commandingly bushy beard always managed to bring her a measure of calm. She couldn't tell, however, if he was indeed honoured, as he claimed, to be traveling with her or if he thought her rash. Even if she asked, she knew he would only speak of honor and duty, following her right into the jaws of whatever enemy her poor decisions set before them.
Returning had meant travelling through Azgeda, where Nia's malignant presence had seeped into every tree, stream and stone. It gleamed slick like oil, treacherous and consuming. In the pines and rock cuts of the northern lands there was a cool beauty, an intricate sort of savagery, but in them she saw only death. The Ice Queen had built her kingdom on the bones of Katja's people and though she was not the only clan leader to do so, she was by far the most cruel. Stories of her barbarism made up the tales that parents told to terrify toddlers into good behaviour. In children's games their heroes were fearless and invincible, standing alone against the great clan armies and shielding their people from harm. Their battles with wooden swords invariably consisted of Amin versus Azplana, and ended with the malevolent queen impaled in some fashion or another, on the settlement gates.
Reality could not have been more different. Katja's skin crawled the second she set foot over the boundary. Lewan too had felt it. It was as if their bodies were trying to reject some sort of imbedded emotional memory of the land and its ruler. Never had she wanted so badly to turn away from something and run. But the only way to Polis cut through Azgeda no matter which direction you turned and Polis was where information ran in the streets like blood on a battlefield. There she could watch and listen and learn, safely hidden amongst the diverse populace of the capital. Another face in a crowd of many. There, hopefully, she would find answers to some of the images that came unbidden in her sleep. Death, moss, redemption, fire, sky, blood, gold...recurring patterns appearing in different settings with shifting perspectives. They were impossible to sift through without context. Polis could provide that, but before she could get answers, she had to cross areas of clan land belonging to Ice Nation and its no doubt equally as formidable neighbours.
They stuck to the roads less travelled, angling south east as best they could. There would be a time and place for mixing with others, but now, in Azgeda, was neither. She and Lewan both knew that Nia would have Katja's head if she were discovered. With caution, they managed five days travel in solitude, bare of even the hint of another living person. The low scrub and barren rock offered little in the way of distraction, though slowly the appearance of the occasional straggly evergreen or late summer flower broke through the monotony. The changing flora was the only indication that they were actually moving, otherwise the straight, flat path stretched onwards forever, disappearing into the horizon every night only to appear again, endless and unchanging, out in front of them at dawn.
On the sixth day, with the sun high in the sky overhead, the landscape began to show signs of diversity. They rounded the corner of a sheer rock face to see that they were, in fact, at the high point of a small rise. The road sloped gently away from them into an open plain several kilometres wide and sprinkled with half dead vegetation. There were several stands of conifers dotted randomly through the area, and from behind one particularly dense group of trees, a rising column of smoked signalled that they were no longer alone.
Katja slid gracefully from the back of her horse, landing soundlessly with practiced ease. Lewan followed suit, dismounting from his roan and adjusting the sword sheathed at his hip. She ran her hand along her mount's black flank and up to his muzzle before leaning in to press her forehead against the velveteen skin of his nose.
"Charon, ste kamp raun Lewan." The words were softly spoken, but firm. The horse tossed his head in disagreement and shoved his face further against her own. She smiled against him, soothing his neck with a hand, but shook her own head in response. "No, ste daun weron yu ste kamp."
"I will have a look, remain here with the horses." She stepped back, handing the reins of her strong-willed mount to the priest.
"Amin." Her companion bowed and pulled both horses together alongside him, urging them back around the edge of the rock cut.
With that, she darted forward towards the trees, weaving through the patchy growths of coarse grass and jutting stone. There was no sound to be heard from the direction of the smoke, only the sight its gentle curl above the stunted boughs and scent of cooking meat. As she reached the edge of the stand she slowed, crouching low for cover behind the yew that rimmed the perimeter.
A house, constructed of wood and thatch, stood at the centre of a clearing, its chimney the source of the sooty cloud. A well-travelled path crossed in front of the large planked double doors that were framed with the enormous tusks of a long-extinct mammal. Above the entrance were three placards nailed to a board. To the left, two crossed swords; in the middle, the white spiral palmed hand representing Azgeda; and to the right, two parallel lines, each an arrow pointing in an opposite direction. Two carts stood empty to the left of the doors, thought there was no sign of any horse to hitch them to. Katja pushed closer, stepping carefully through the underbrush until she had a clearer view of the building. It was larger than she had first thought, long and squat with few windows. As she circled nearer to the back, the sun glinted blindingly off neatly stacked piles of different kinds of metals. Raising a hand to help block the glare she saw copper, steel, aluminum and iron separated into holding bays, awaiting their next use. A trader? A blacksmith?
The warning creak of tired hinges gave her very little time to duck behind a nearby bush, its needles providing adequate, if somewhat scratchy, cover. The girl's eyes narrowed as a woman exited the building from a small door along the side, stretching her arms above her head with a loud sigh. The woman was filthy, covered head to toe in a coating of soot and sweat and wrapped in a leather apron several times too large for her petite figure. She watched as the stranger pulled a flask from one of the pockets, opened it and drank deeply, wiping the back of her hand across her mouth and smearing the dirt into a ghoulish line across her lips.
Katja settled lower to the ground, peering out between the thin branches. The woman appeared to be alone, and not overly threatening, but revealing herself at this point seemed unwise. She waited as the stranger dug through what looked to be a lightweight, malleable metal. It took several minutes to locate the disc shaped piece she had been looking for, a small cry of satisfaction escaping her throat as she pulled it from the collection. Her hunt successful, she returned to the door and no sooner had she latched it behind her than Katja backed out of her hiding place and streaked retreated towards Lewan and the horses.
They waited until dusk, watching for signs of more inhabitants, road traffic, or other less obvious risks. None presented themselves. It seemed that they had stumbled across an outpost of some kind, manned by a single woman in the middle of nowhere. The unlikelihood of that escaped neither of them and yet they mounted up and headed for the group of trees at a trot. It was an opportunity for information, regardless of the willingness of the woman to provide it.
Pulling Charon to a stop by the empty carts, Katja signalled for Lewan to dismount and he complied. They reached to hitch their horses, tying off to a small fence that bounded the road. At the familiar sound of an arrow being nocked and a bow drawn, both turned to see the woman from earlier standing just outside the main doors, a short bow trained steadily at Katja's chest.
"Chil yu," Katja raised her hands slowly from the reigns in what she hoped was a reassuring fashion, "osir nou lufa sich au…"
"Chit yu gaf?" The stranger eyed her suspiciously before shifted her aim to Lewan, who mirrored his Amin's appeasing motion.
"Sheidgeda ste komba raun. We seek trade, and shelter if you see fit to offer it. We can pay."
"You are not Azgedakru." It was a statement, not a question. The woman's eyes scanned both of their faces quickly, never lowering the tip of the arrow. These strangers lacked markings. No scars adorned their cheeks and brows, and their dress, too, was foreign. The fur that covered them was wolf, but thicker, denser and sewn into overlapping layers. They wore no paint and no masks, and yet she could barely make out the girl's features hidden within the shadows of a pale grey hood.
"Nor, if I'm not mistaken, are you." Lewan spoke up, nodding lightly in her direction.
The woman blinked in surprise but said nothing. The arrow remained steady.
"Osir nou lufa sich au."
"As your companion has already stated. Who are you?" Her gaze shifted from the warrior to the slighter girl that accompanied him. "And what is your purpose here?"
"We are not of the twelve clans." Katja chose her words carefully. "I am Katja, and he is Lewan. We cross Azgeda only en route to Polis, to find our fortune in the capital. We have been many months in the wilds and seek only news, goods, and warmth. We have no quarrel with you."
The woman frowned, unable to place the girl's accent. Her speech was silky, slow, and oddly seductive. In her profession she came across many different dialects and peoples and yet this one was difficult to pinpoint. It was reminiscent of Ingranrona, the Plains Riders, which would explain the visitors comfort on horseback, but that wasn't quite it. There was a roll to certain syllables and a pacing to the words that was very unique. Nomads? No…she thought not. Despite their claim of clanlessness they also were not Wastelanders. They carried themselves with the confidence of the high born, not the aggression of the outcast. Where then?
"Please, we can pay. And we will leave at first light. But, if you are unable or unwilling then allow us to beg pardon and leave you now."
It was foolish, she knew this. Inviting random passersby off the road to satisfy her curiosity wasn't something she, or anyone else with half a brain, was in the habit of doing. Still, she felt no animosity from the pair, and they clearly had the means to pay their way. Trade had been lean recently, and the income would be very helpful. The trader hesitated a moment and lowered her weapon, pausing for one last second of self-deliberation before finally motioning the two travellers inside.
