Pain seared up Clarke's leg, each step she took made her scream out in anger, in frustration, agony and fear. The roar of the beast echoed out behind her, its fury, its anger and hunger filled the air and filled her senses, and Clarke wept, she pled, she begged to whatever god, whatever spirit, deity or soul that could save her from the suffering.
But no answer came.
And so Clarke tripped, she stumbled, fell and tumbled to the ground. She felt stone and stick, rock and branch stab into her, scrape against her flesh, bury into her with each twisting tumble of her body. But, as quickly as she had tripped, she came to a stop.
Clarke found herself gasping for breath, her lungs begged for air, for oxygen, her body longed for relief. But she remembered the beast, she remembered its claws, its hunger, and she remembered it giving chase.
Fear spiked once more, she felt the adrenaline beginning to flow through her veins again, and yet something in her mind, something in the recesses of her thoughts told her to be quiet, to make little sound and little movement.
Clarke let herself still, she let herself press into the wet, the soft and the dirt of the forest floor, into the moss, green and moist. She thought she heard the sniffing of the beast somewhere in the distance, and she knew it searched for her, for her scent, for her presence. It took her a moment longer to realise that the moss she lay in, the dirt that now covered her body, the twigs that stuck into her hair, that tore at her flesh must have masked her scent, must have masked what little had given away her presence when the beast had first attacked.
And so she couldn't help but to cry, to weep, to feel the pain, if only in silence.
And maybe, for just the briefest of moments, Clarke let herself imagine what it must be like to be consumed alive.
Clarke dreamt of forests, of green swathes that shifted and wended across the lands. She dreamt of oceans, blue and vast, their depths as brilliant and as terrifying as the emptiness of space. But her dreams never seemed to linger too long on the pleasant, if only because those forests, once green and vibrant, shifted to the black of burnt tree, to the red of burning flame, and to the charcoal of dying embers. And those oceans, once blue and deep, turned to dried riverbeds, to dirt that was cracked and broken, that revealed nothing but the dead that had been left behind in her wake.
Clarke's eyes cracked open ever so slowly. Pain seemed to ebb and flow over her body, and she tried to think of where she was, of how she had found herself pressed into the dirt. The sky overhead, or at least what little of it she could spy through the canopy, seemed dark, seemed black, seemed absent of the sun's light. Stars just barely sparkled, and the moon, slivers of it that shone crystal white in the night, gave light to the forest floor that Clarke found herself lying upon.
She shivered as the wind took hold of her body, she shivered as she remembered the beast that had chased, had hunted and stalked. But she pushed herself into a sitting position with her palms, both now bloodied and covered in dirt and mud. Her leg seemed not to hurt as much as it had earlier, or perhaps it was simply not the only thing that hurt now after her tumble across the forest floor.
And it took her only a moment, only a second to appreciate having not died before the guilt took hold, before the fury, the burning heat of acid and flame took hold of her thoughts. Clarke's lip trembled, her vision clouded as tears began to form, and she hated the things she had done. She hated the lives she had taken in the Mountain.
She had even lost count of how many days she had wandered through the lands, she had lost count of how many steps she had taken after stumbling one too many times. She had lost count of the times she had thought of throwing herself down a ravine, of scaling the highest tree she could only to leap to her fate. And perhaps she was broken, perhaps her life, her actions, were ruinous. But perhaps the only thing she really knew, the only thing she would ever accept, was that she deserved whatever pains she was to face. If only because she thought it the least she could offer to the souls of the dead.
And so Clarke grimaced as she came to her feet, her body broken and bloodied, her clothes dirtied and battered. Tears through her jacket and fibres from her shirt clung to the cuts that littered her exposed flesh, but she ignored the pain as they pulled free.
Clarke took only a moment to look around herself, to try to discern a direction to travel, to try to find a place to call home for just one night. But all she saw were the trees that rose into the night, were the bushes whose thorns would prickle and sting, and the dark and the cold of a night that would do little but offer a heatless warmth.
But maybe she cared not which way she walked. Only that it was away from her past.
And so Clarke took in a deep breath, she let the crack in her bottom lip open once more, she let herself taste the pain and the blood. And then she began to step forward.
Her feet seemed heavy, her legs leaden, but she pushed onwards with little care for the noise she made, she pushed forward with little care for the pain she caused herself, and she did so for she thought it the only thing that let her feel alive.
She stumbled once, twice, three times before catching herself on a low hanging branch, and she couldn't help but to cry out in pain, in frustration as a thorn stuck into her palm, as it tore at her skin.
Clarke let her feet still as her hand remained impaled on the small thorn, its point embedded in the fleshy part of her hand, and she found that her eyes were drawn to the blood that oozed from the wound, that barely just escaped past the thorn's body. She watched as she pulled her hand away ever so slowly, and she watched with sickened fascination as she saw her skin stretch, pull, grip to the thorn as it slowly slid free. Through it all, Clarke couldn't help but to wonder what it must feel like to have a blade slipped into her heart.
Clarke walked a riverbed in the dead of night. Water lapped and trickled against the pebbles and stone that surrounded her, its sound the only thing she could hear over the crunch of each step she took.
Occasionally a bird would call out in search of friend, its song echoing ever so lowly through the air. Clouds would drift by overhead, but Clarke found herself unable to appreciate the beauty of the night and the majesty of the lands, for the only thing she let herself focus on, the only thing she let herself accept was each pain that littered her body.
Maybe she was pathetic, maybe she was fragile, broken, undeserving of the life she had stolen, of the life she still lived. Or maybe she deserved the air she breathed in some sickened, ironic way, if only because she thought herself unable to ever forget, to ever let g—
Clarke stumbled once, she stumbled twice, she stumbled a third time. But this time there was no branch to catch, there was no thorn to snare her body.
And so she fell to the river's edge, where pebble, smooth and small, and stone, jagged and sharp came to greet her with the kindness of a burning flame.
And Clarke embraced it.
Clarke drifted in and out of consciousness, sometimes her thoughts seemed to return to her childhood, to her father, her mother, to Wells. Sometimes her thoughts drifted to her past, to the year she had spent in prison, to the cold and the emptiness of a cell whose walls were bare except for the imagination of a desperate mind. Sometimes her thoughts turned to the ground, to the war cries, to the battles, to the blood, the fear and adrenaline.
Sometimes her thoughts drifted to the Mountain, to the room with the lever, to the pain of murdering, of killing, of ensuring no others but her friends would survive. And she found her thoughts happy to recall the stench, she found that her thoughts were content to remember the way burnt and bubbled, blistered and bleeding body had filled her nose. And oh how she hated that it reminded her of meat too long cooked, too fresh, too rotten, too rancid to eat, to sink her teeth into.
But sometimes, somehow, for some reason, her thoughts turned to softer times, kinder times, times so uncertain, so unsure that she never quite believed, never quite accepted. And she remembered the feel of a hand pressed to the side of her face, she remembered the pressure of lips pressed against hers, of chaste eagerness, wanton desire and desperation. She remembered eyes too fierce to forget, she remembered breath too quick, too sudden to taste. She remembered dreams, she remembered the beat of a heart.
She remembered it all.
She didn't know how many days she had stumbled forward, she didn't know how many nights she had shivered, and she didn't know whether it had been weeks or months since she had left Camp Jaha behind. All Clarke knew was that the sun beat down upon her shoulders. Her clothes hung from her body, tattered, torn, open to the wind. Her flesh felt caked with days of dirt, of blood and sweat. Her hair was frayed, mud lumped it together in ragged clumps, and she was sure sticks, grass, dirt and leaves must have littered it. But she didn't quite care. And she didn't care for she stepped forward without quite thinking, without even really knowing what she did.
Delirium had taken hold of her mind so long ago that Clarke didn't even really understand much more than the pain in her feet and the ache in her chest. She thought she had walked so very deep into Trikru lands by now that any sign of life, any sign of another person was more than days away.
Animals had seemingly become the only other living companion she had, and she thought it fitting, she thought it suitable that she had been reduced to nothing but instinct. And instinct was seemingly the only thing that told her to drink what little water she could find, from tiny trickling stream to raging flowing river. Instinct was the only thing that told her to sleep when she did, whether it be the pitch black of midnight, or the burning heat of midday. And instinct was the only thing that told her to walk, to take step after step until she would one day be unable to do so.
But instinct also told Clarke to stop, to not take one step further.
And so she stopped, she half stumbled and she came to sink to her knees and double over onto all fours as she gasped for breath, for relief and reprieve.
Her lungs burnt, her throat screamed for something cold, something liquid, something to quench the thirst. But a wind, something a little more strong seemed to catch her attention, seemed to catch her unawares. And so Clarke looked up, she looked up and she saw.
The forest had ceased to exist just a step behind her, the ground, once mud and dirt and forest floor was now flowing grass, glimmering and dancing to the wind. The ground beneath spread forward for just a moment before it dipped down and down into a valley deep below. The valley cut a river of grass between two high peaks that rose up into the sky. The sides of the valley, steep and flowing, were covered in groups of small trees, whose bodies huddled together as if for comfort and warmth. At its bottom a lone river sparkled and snaked its way into the distance, whose destination was so far removed from Clarke's sight that she thought it infinite, never ending.
The river seemed to call to her though, it seemed to sing her forward, seemed to urge her to take another step, and so Clarke struggled to her feet, she struggled to stand. And Clarke thought it would be nice to taste water, to let it quench the thirst that clawed at her throat.
If only water could also quench the guilt raged somewhere deep within her mind.
The sun began to set by the time Clarke made it to the river's edge seen at the height of the valley walls. Her journey down its sprawling sides had been dangerous at times, careless and full of tumbles and falls. But now, as she knelt down on her knees and dipped her hands into the cold stream, she found that it had been worth it.
Clarke let her hands settle fully under the water, and she watched as the days of dirt, of blood, seemed to come clean a little too easily. Dirt, oiled and black, seeped from her flesh, it seemed to poison the water around it, and she watched as the river's gentle current began to take it away.
The cold seemed to steal away the aches in her fingers, seemed to ease the stinging in her hands from the cuts and scrapes that adorned her fingers, her palms and her knuckles. Clarke's gaze settled on her reflection though, and what stared back scared her, caused her heart to still, to deaden.
Eyes, lifeless, broken, and red from pain met her gaze with a desperation. Tear streaks seemed permanently etched down her cheeks, their journey having furrowed a path through the days of dirt that blackened her skin. The hair that crowned the face that looked back was torn, twisted, woven into locks, lumpy and pathetic.
And Clarke couldn't help but to imagine what it must have felt to have her flesh burn and bubble, melt and roast to the air. She couldn't help but to wonder what it would be like to smell her own flesh, her own muscle cook, and she couldn't help but to feel her stomach churn, to feel her insides scream out in disgust as she imagined what it would be like to hear all those things, to hear her own screams of agony that would fade into her last dying breath.
A cry echoed out through the air then, something shrill, something sharp, youthful, full of joy and happiness.
Clarke's head snapped up to the sound, her eyes squinted past the ray of light that flashed in her vision. It took her a moment before her gaze found the source of the noise. Across the river and to her left, where the river began to bend away from her vision, stood a woman on the riverbed, hands on her hips, a bow and arrow strapped across her back. But the source of the noise, of the cry of joy, was a girl who leaped through the shallows, whose awkward steps came from gangly limbs still with years left to grow, but whose smile, whose eagerness was directed to the arrow that bobbed in the water, to where a pool of dimmed blood seemed to be spreading out across the water's surface.
And Clarke couldn't help but to see the lifeless body of the fish, whose twitching muscles spasmed one last desperate time as its glistening body shimmered in the sun.
And perhaps Clarke couldn't be blamed for feeling sick, for not seeing the joy in the moment, and perhaps she could be forgiven for feeling the burn in the back of her throat, for feeling the churning of her stomach.
And so Clarke retched, her stomach emptied what little she had managed to forage, and she watched as a mess of rotten, putrid slush escaped past her lips and sullied her reflection in the water's surface.
But she sensed the change in the air, and as she looked up she saw the woman's eyes flashing in her direction, surprise, shock and hostility quick to take hold as the woman unslung her bow and drew an arrow, its point glinting in the sunlight as it came to be levelled at Clarke's chest.
Clarke wasn't entirely sure what happened next, she wasn't sure if, in the woman's surprise, she had fired, had struck her in the chest with that arrow. But what Clarke did know was that her vision began to blur, her limbs began to feel weak, leaden, unsure.
And the last thing she remembered before she lost consciousness was a young girl whose faced seemed oddly recognisable, and a woman with the slightest signs of wrinkles upon an older face, the glint of green eyes from across the distance, fearsome hair, brown, streaked with the barest hints of grey, braided and flowing, and the strangest sense of familiarity.
And then Clarke's face was enveloped by water as she slumped forward.