Lexa's eyes looked like stones Clarke had seen as a child, resting under the shimmering green water in rock pools near the bay.
Clarke had always wanted to be free. She realized that curled against Lexa, feeling the warmth deep within her cold skin, the way that here, together, they smelt of the salt and the earth. The things that humans were made of.
Clarke wished that her story could have started here, with Lexa. But it did not; her story began with Darkmoor and a thin, black scar.
The Griffins house on workday mornings was silent and grey. An old clock ticked on the mantelpiece and the remains of last night's fire smoldered in the grate beneath it. A few seashells where lain on the table around a framed picture of Clarke's father. It was the only one they had.
Clarke had woken to the sound of moaning. Beneath the table downstairs, a young sailor whimpered in his sleep.
Grimacing, Clarke sat up in bed and drew her blanket round herself, then treaded softly to the kitchen.
The sailor lay on the floor and was wrapped in a green blanket from head to foot, his left leg left exposed to show four or three scars trailing along his calf.
The cuts were deep and vicious. Spider-thread veins leading away from each were stained grey and each blackened gash wept pale blood. There was no mistaking what they were.
Taking the kettle from the stove Clarke filled it with water and set it over the hob, reaching into a draw for matches. Cold, watery light entered through the windows set into the door and across the wall and cast gentle shadows over their scattered furniture. Death lived in their home like a memory. Clarke could feel in beginning to settle over the sailor, whose breathing had begun to slow.
The men that had carried the poor boy to their door yesterday evening said that he had been brave. They had lost three others, and six had been pulled under the waves.
That was the risk of being a Darkmoor Fisherman. They hadn't had a fishing trip as bad since the night they'd lost Clarke's father, and as they'd pulled the weeping boy onto the floor Clarkes stomach turned. She cringed to remember it now.
Abby had looked grim, but had told the men what to do, barked at Clarke to fetch towels and water. She was a good medic, one of the best the Island had ever seen. She did everything she could for him and Clarke was proud. Proud and afraid.
Their island home was surrounded by mermaids; creatures that were half human, half something else. Each time the boats went out for fish, half their numbers came back, most among them drowned, eaten or poisoned beyond help. Abby always did everything she could and Clarke tried, usually assigned to hold down, fasten, bathe or consol. Always, with every sailor that arrived at their door, Clarke felt the awful sense that she didn't know what she was doing.
Clarke, however, wasn't a medic. She was supposed to have been one. But Clarke's father had gone and someone had to go out with the boats in his stead.
Clarke had packed her work bag with dried cod, sewing kit, spare rounds and an empty rifle and slung it over her shoulder. Abby was asleep in the next room, mumbling to herself as a she always did. Clarke knew not to wake her these days; the attacks were getting more frequent and it was rare now for either of them to get a full night's rest.
Once the kettle had whistled she poured out a bowlful and placed it with a clean cloth next to the sleeping sailor with a plate of dried fruit and some mackerel, lest he should wake before Abby. Then she made herself a bowl of meal and ate quickly as the sun rose higher.
Really, Abby needed her here. They'd fought about it, but there was nothing either of them could do. Clarkes father was gone and someone had to go to hunt. "I don't just owe it to you." Clarke had said. That had shut her mother up.
Darkmoor was a stretch of slate-rich soil in the North Pacific. The people here were as old as the grey hills on which they lived, and Clarke had lived there her whole life. They were stranded in the ocean, caved in by a treacherous sea and a deep fear. Clarke would be lying if she said she hadn't ever wished to leave, even just once. But, where would she go? Where could she go.
The rock salt that had been thrown along the icy trail crunched beneath her feet. It had been a hard winter that was slowly giving way into a gentle spring. Clarke felt something in her give as the sunlight reached from over the grey hill to touch her skin. 'Maybe the snowdrops will be here soon' she thought to herself.
Soon the harbour was within sight, the long narrow docks busy with crowds of sailors. She could see Bellamy on the Winged Hamartia, by far the most animated of any of them, shouting brief orders over the rabble to lay out the nets, tighten lifelines.
Bellridge Harbour spanned half a mile of coastline and was overseen in part by the dockmasters, Bellamy being the youngest of them and the most stubborn.
Clarke breathed a little easier once she'd got onto the decking; these were the people she loved, who she risked her life for. She nodded to a few of fishermen that called out a greeting to her in Fen, an old Island form of the Elnar language seldom used by the younger inhabitants. The older ones however still spoke it; their strange clicking tongues and rounded words running over their conversations like surf upon the rocks.
"Enough of that." Clarke flinched as Bellamy interrupted her thoughts, striding towards her through the crowds. A girl trailed behind him, her walk as confident as his but her gait not as wide. Bellamy glared at the elders who quickly scurried away.
Fen speakers were mistrusted on Darkmoor by the younger generations and regarded as backwards. It was something about the way Fen sounded so close to its sister language; the forked-tongue of merfolk. It seemed better to pretend that we held no relation to the flesh-devourers at all.
Still, Clarke couldn't help but like the elders. They held to what was important to them, even though everyone else seemed to have walked away. She even let Elder Thompson teach her a little of Fen, though never very much. This was something Bellamy didn't know about, and something Clarke was happy to keep to herself.
Still, she smiled respectfully as the silenced Elder shuffled away from her. Bellamy approached. "Clarke" he murmured and put a hand behind the girl next to him. Clarke looked her over and saw the same soft, dark hair and sallow skin.
"Octavia, I'm guessing?" she raised an eyebrow at her, and was met with almost sardonic apathy. Bellamy's little sister had glassy eyes like his, but where his were still and hard hers were alive and willful.
When Octavia failed to answer, Bellamy cleared his throat. "Yes. It's her first day. I want you…"
"No." Octavia interrupted. She swung her hair over her shoulder and glowered at her brother "You don't want her to do anything. I don't want to be babysat Bellamy, I'm not a child."
Turning on Clarke she folded her arms "Where's your boat."
Taken aback, Clarke opened and closed her mouth before managing to stammer "It… It's the monarch's wing. Why?"
Octavia grabbed a shoulder bag that Bellamy had been carrying and swung it over her shoulder roughly. Clarke looked back and forth between her and her brother, waiting for some sort of explanation. Incredulously, Bellamy looked embarrassed.
"Urm… Clarke" he lowered his voice as Octavia marched away from them towards Clarke's boat and Clarke began to piece together an unwelcome reality.
"Bell don't do this to me." She said quickly. She watched as Octavia swung her bag up on deck and lifted herself up after it, closely watched by fishermen that were busy preparing to leave.
"You know it's not up to me." Bellamy replied stiffly, he'd straighten up and his face had become like stone. His eyes followed Octavia as she preceded to get in nearly everyone's way whilst exploring and Clarke knew there was no use in arguing with him. "Just keep her safe."
"She can't possibly be ready for this." Clarke muttered as Bellamy turned to leave.
He paused. "None of us ever are." Gulls cried out over the coast. There came a change in the air as the docks began to unload sailors into their boats. "Just keep her safe."
Clarke nodded and Bellamy walked on. Clarke did not dislike him, exactly, but neither could she say that she felt anything like reverence.
Bellamy had taken her father's place when he'd died. It was that simple, but also just as complicated. The first assumption was that Clarke would have her father's job, but she'd said then she didn't want it. Then it turned out she had to go to sea anyway to make a living. Bellamy knew this and although neither of them held it against the other, the truth slid between them like a knife.
A hand waved down as she stepped up to the boat and she took it, swinging herself up onto the deck of The monarch's wing.
"Thanks…" she started, turning to see Ravens sardonic grin. "Oh my God."
"You didn't think I was going to let you on the The monarch by yourself did you?" Raven ducked out of Clarke's one-armed hug and onto the rail.
Clarke rolled her eyes, barely keeping back laughter. "Doesn't Finn need you today?"
"Well yeah, I'm sure he does but he'd not getting me.." Ravens smirk earned her a shove in the arm, but not a particularly hard one. "Thought I'd tag along today, show you up."
"In your dreams Reyes" Clarke countered. She was truly glad, relieved even, that raven was here. Raven never came down to docks as she nearly always kept busy with Finn at the warehouse.
The women's laughed died down for a moment as they reached the bow. Clarke stared out at the glassy water. Here in the shallows, the waves that reached the shore line fell silently, rocking the boat forward as if it begged to to be taken out to sea.
"I'm sorry Clarke" Raven said softly "I'd have been here sooner if I could."
Out beyond the cove the water turned a darker grey, split by the white crests of waves. The roaring sea matched the gulls piercing cries and a higher, desperate sound. It was almost too thin to be heard, but too close to be ignored. A hundred sailors stared out into the horizon and listened.
The mermaids were voices rising. They must reach the shoals before they did if they were to get anything that day. "It's fine." Clarke whispered back.
Each day since her father's death she had gone out to work and come back alone. Raven appeared ghost-like whenever she could, but there were so many hours in between for work. Clarke hands shook as she tied knots and pulled nets, loaded guns and cleaned wounds. She waited for the end of each day like every breath was a mile. It wasn't just the fear. Some of it was remembering.
One dark day in February, Clarke's father had gone out on a fishing trip and not come back. It had been brutal, few survivors limping back to the shore. That day had been Good Friday. That Monday, Clarke went out to work in his stead. She was supposed to have been an island medic, her mother's replacement.
Clarke turned her face skywards as a few raindrops fell onto her hair and shoulders. It was funny how things didn't work out.
There came a shout to whey anchor and Raven squeezed her hand before disappearing into the crowds of sailors. Clarke turned to check on Octavia, who was leaning out over the rail expectantly with one hand on the rigging. Shaking her head she dropped her gun and made herself busy by loading it.
She was one of five watchers on the boat, a weapon trained on the water at all times and one eye kept on the others. The men looked to her for safety. It was a job for fools and the desperate, but Clarke thought she could at least claim a part of the later group.
There was no glory in killing Merfolk, no matter what Octavia or any of the island boys might think. There was only duty to the people at her back, and simple choice against starvation. Her hands shook as the boat as she slid each bullet into place, the boat pulling out to sea with the tide.
She hated the merfolk as much as any of them and yet… as they broke the mounting waves her grip around her gun tightened and she wished again for the 100th time it was not hers to wield.