Notes: Okay, so I'm aware that this entire story is probably going to be nothing like the new season when it premiers, but it's an idea I've been playing around with for a while now, so I'm going to write it anyway. Both the story and chapter title are from "I will never die" by Delta Rae.

A week into her self imposed exile, Clarke stops at a river.

She doesn't know which river; she left Camp Jaha with no destination in mind. All her energy has been spent putting as much distance between herself and her home as she can. After a day, she began to worry that she might not find her way back. Two days later, she stopped caring if she ever did. Now when she looks around, nothing is familiar. She can almost forget what she's running away from if she doesn't think too hard.

The river is wide but calm. Some part of her recognizes the opportunity to refill the canteen, but it is the sound of running water that really makes her stop. It drifts into her ears and trickles down her neck to where tension has pooled in her chest until the pressure seems to ease for the first time in weeks.

She takes off her boots and leaves her backpack on the bank as she skips across the shallows. Cold water swirls through her toes and splashes up to her knees. Tiny droplets cling to her skin as they trail down her legs. A few feet in - where the water is just above her ankles - she stops, then opens her mouth to suck in a breath that turns ragged half way to her lungs.

Clarke turns, clenching her jaw against the knot in her throat, and stumbles over to a large rock that sticks out from the riverbank. The surface is smooth beneath her palms, but solid and painful where she knocks her knees against it. She sits with her head in her hands and takes heavy, uneven breaths, her lungs trembling with the effort not to fall apart. She reaches up to swipe her palms across her eyes, but the effort is useless: her face is already slicked with tears that aren't going to stop anytime soon.

All she can think of is the massacre she wrought over Mount Weather, and the guilt tears through her body with every sob. She cries for every soul that she has left for dead in her wake, and she cries until she has no energy left to cry any more. After that she just watches the water ripple in silence. It is close to an hour before she does anything else. The tears have dried and left her skin salty and drawn, so she leans down and splashes water on her face.

At the edge of her senses, Clarke hears the scuff of boots against stone, and her hand goes to the grip of her pistol as she turns toward the sound. Blinking the haze out of her eyes, she scans the opposite riverbank, but there is nothing to see.

"Who's there?" she calls out. There is no response. Clarke decides she would rather not wait around to find out, so she jumps to her feet and holsters the weapon. She keeps her eyes on the trees as she pulls on her boots and slings the backpack over her shoulders. Then, gun in hand, she returns to the cover of the forest.

She doesn't stop until the sun begins to tuck itself behind the horizon two hours later. She is exhausted and dehydrated, almost enough to stop worrying about who might have followed her. She hasn't seen or heard any signs of pursuit. Anyone stealthy enough to follow her undetected would have found a way to kill or capture her by now, she figures. Nonetheless, she keeps the gun handy.

Clarke fills her canteen and then finds a recess along the southern face of a rocky hillside. It is not deep, but it will at least break the cold wind that has been rolling in from the north. She huddles against the wall under a thin space blanket that doesn't quite keep the cold at bay.

Most of the night is not spent sleeping. She's exhausted, because she always is, but she can't turn her mind off. At first it's just all the thoughts in her head - guilt bleeding into anger sinking into despair - but as the dissonance of her emotions fade, night sounds drift in to replace them. A thread of paranoia floats to the surface, and she spends long stretches of time straining her eyes against the darkness. Fear creeps up her spine with every hoot and howl, every whistle and crack.

Clarke only manages to catch a couple hours of sleep between all the tension and anxiety, so it's a welcome sight when the sun begins to rise and cast light into the shadows. As soon as it is bright enough to see, she snaps a low hanging branch from a tree and carves it into a spear. Then she wastes the rest of the morning trying to kill things with it. She considers wasting a bullet instead, but she has yet to see anything that seems worth it. She is not out of food yet. It can wait.

On the way back to her camp, she finds a tree that still has berries on it. She plucks one and bites into it experimentally. It tastes a little bitter, but otherwise edible, so she collects the rest of them for later. She spends the next days surviving on these and other things that don't run away.

This is the longest she has stayed in one place since she left, and so far she has no inclination to leave. Whatever force was driving her away from her home seems to have faded with distance. In any case, she feels far too drained to make any effort to move at this point. At night she is still too agitated to sleep, and during the day, the lack of sleep makes it increasingly hard to function. She gets distracted, and half of the things she starts are only finished hours later, if at all. She dozes off in the middle of things, and wakes disoriented and panicked.

A couple of days later, near dusk, Clarke finds herself drifting off again. She doesn't know for how long, but she wakes to the smell of burning wood and cooking meat. A fire crackles in the night, tended by the silhouette of a man kneeling next to it. His back is turned, and Clarke reaches for her pistol, only to find it missing.

Adrenaline kicks in and lends her all the stealth she has been missing for the past few days. She pulls out the knife she has taken to keeping tucked into her boot - she counts herself very lucky that it's still there. Before the man even seems to notice that she's awake, she is right behind him, with her knee pressed into his back and the knife at his throat.

"Drop the gun," she demands, because she knows he must have taken it. Her voice sounds almost as ragged as she feels, but her hand is firm and steady with the knife. He raises his hands up to where she can see them, and turns his head as far as he dares.

"I mean you no ha-"

"Now," she hisses, cutting him off.

"It is there," he says, nodding his head at a large messenger bag next to a tree, well out of their reach. The flap is open, and she can see the fletchings of a bundle of arrows peeking out of one side. Clarke can't spot the gun from where she is, so she reaches down to check his clothes, searching for weapons.

It's only a moment of distraction, but the man takes advantage of it. His hand flies up and his fingers catch on her wrist, creating enough space for him to duck under her arm. Both of them tip off balance for a moment, but he manages to escape without stumbling into the fire. Clarke still has the knife, which she brandishes in front of her in a white knuckled fist. He steps between her and the bag, then holds his hands up in surrender again.

"Oyei, I've not come here to fight you, Clarke of the Sky People." She falters for a moment. His voice is soft, and Clarke can't help noticing the way it flows, accented in a subtle way unlike most of the grounders she has met. It takes her a moment to shake the distraction and catch up with the words. When she does, it makes her heart feel heavy. She doesn't like it. The title. It conjures up too many painful memories too soon. She doesn't feel like a Sky Person anymore. Not after what she did.

"What do you want?" she asks finally. He just watches her for a moment, considering his words.

"You are not doing well," he says, and she knows he's right. At the rate she's going, she won't survive once winter really sets in. She hasn't collected enough food, and she's already freezing her ass off at night. She wonders if he's been watching her this whole time. "Let me help you. There is a city half a day's walk from here."

Clarke says nothing, but she is weighing her options. Lexa may have broken the alliance, but that may not mean that their people are enemies again. If she had stayed with hers, she might know for sure, and she wonders, not for the first time, if her decision to leave was too reckless. She shakes the thought before it can take root. Now is not the time for introspection. She lowers the knife slowly, but does not put it away.

"Please, I know you must be hungry," the man says. He gestures to the fire, where what looks like a small rabbit is roasting. Now that the adrenaline has started to wear off, the smell is starting to affect her. Her stomach picks that moment to growl at her, and the man takes an experimental step closer. Clarke watches him carefully, but doesn't move.

"I want my gun back."

He stops, drops his hands to his sides, and frowns at her. "I do not mean to distrust you, Clarke of the Sky People, but I do not wish to be shot in the back," he says cautiously.

"Don't call me that."

There is a pause and he blinks. "Sorry?"

"Just Clarke," she clarifies, then after a second, "Please." It's an afterthought and it sounds exactly like one, awkward and not quite sincere.

He chuckles. "Very well." There's a pause and he adds, "Clarke," in almost exactly the same tone of afterthought. There's a smirk on his face, and she wonders for a moment if she's being mocked.

"My name is Luis." His tone is kind again. She doesn't respond to the introduction, but she does finally lean down to tuck the knife back into her boot. "Nice to meet you too," he says, and this time she's sure she's being mocked, but it doesn't feel mean-spirited, so she lets it go.

"I'm willing to unload it," she tries again, gesturing to the bag. Luis watches her silently for a few seconds. Finally, he nods, then steps aside.

She walks over to find the gun without taking her eyes off him, and he watches her pointedly as she slides the bullets out of the magazine. Once it's empty, he turns back to the fire while she scoops the bullets into a pouch on her backpack. She pulls the slide back but pauses before it releases the last bullet. She glances up at Luis again to make sure that he's well distracted before she lets go, leaving the bullet in the chamber.

The rabbit is hot and tender, and it may be the best thing Clarke has tasted in months - far better than the bitter berries or the tough strips of smoked venison she has been eating for the past couple of weeks - but she doesn't let it show. She isn't going to let him think that he's starting to gain her favor, because he's not. It will probably be a long time before she is willing to just trust a grounder, even one who shares his food with her. Whenever the other shoe may fall, she won't be blindsided by it. Not this time.

"You should sleep," Luis says after they've eaten their fill, and the fire lies dying in coals. "I will keep watch."

"I don't think so."

Luis lifts his head. He doesn't look surprised by the hostility in her voice, but he does look a little exasperated. He closes his eyes for a moment, then glances away from her with a sigh.

"Suit yourself," he says, then gets up to retrieve a roll of furs from his bag. He lays it out on the ground, next to the fire pit, then lies down and pulls one of them over his shoulder. Clarke can't keep the glint of envy from her eyes. The furs look so soft; and much warmer than the space blanket wrapped around her shoulders.

The glow of the coals begins to fade, and before long, there is nothing but the light of a crescent moon to see by. And yet, for the first time in several nights, Clarke feels at ease. Even with a stranger in her camp. There is no grip of anxiety restricting the air in her chest. She relaxes into the nocturnal sounds of the forest.

The night stretches on, and Clarke must have fallen asleep, because she opens her eyes and the sky is bright behind the trees. One of Luis's furs is draped over her and warmth seems to have finally found its way back into her fingers and toes. She is not well rested, because it will take more than a few hours on a forest floor to rid her of exhaustion, but she feels better than she has in a while.

Luis is not there. She doesn't like not knowing where he is, but her gun still rests at her side, and she spots his bow on the other side of the fire pit. She doesn't feel particularly inclined to worry about his absence at the moment.

Clarke's knees ache from being bent so long, and her bones creak as she stumbles to her feet. She lets the blankets fall, and it's cold, but the few seconds she takes to stretch her limbs are worth it. She slings the fur over her shoulders again, then kneels to fold up the space blanket. The rest of Luis's furs have already been put away, so Clarke packs up the few things she's left scattered around the camp: a flashlight, her canteen, and the space blanket, of course. The pistol, as always, stays by her side.

When Luis returns, he finds Clarke sitting cross legged, huddled into the warmth of the fur. "We should leave soon," he says. "I let you sleep for too long, and there is much ground to cover." She frowns at him, and makes no move to get up. She has only just managed to seal out all the cold air, and now she's reluctant to move and invite it back in.

Clarke takes a moment to study him, now that she has the opportunity to see him in the daylight. His skin is dark like copper, and relatively unmarked by life or battle, but he has ink: a patch of vines that wind around the side of his neck and disappear under his collar. His hair is dark, short and thick, and he has maybe a week's worth of scruff on his face, but he looks about her age, maybe a few years older. His frame is lean, and he looks strong and agile. Clarke thinks of the archers hiding in trees the first time she met Anya. It bothers her that she never even thought to look up. He could have been watching her from the trees this whole time.

"You should eat something before we go," Luis says, holding a handful of berries out to her. She meets his eyes, and even though he has raised an impatient eyebrow at her, they are kind. She stands and takes the berries, but waits for him to toss back the ones in his other hand before following suit. They are sweeter than the ones she's been eating, and she makes a note of what they look like for future reference.

As they make their way through the woods, Luis walks in front. Mostly because Clarke needs him to lead the way, but also because she still isn't willing to turn her back on him. She is starting to come around though. She recognizes that he has been very trusting, leaving his guard down with her, and that is a point in his favor. A few hours into their journey, the ground begins to slope upwards, and after twenty minutes, Clarke is breathing hard. The hike goes up and down over rocky terrain, but they only stop twice to rest and finish off the rabbit meat from the night before.

The sun rests low in the sky when Clarke spots a fence through the trees: a patchwork of metal, wood and stone. Beyond it, there are buildings, and as they approach, Clarke realizes that there are a lot of them. They spend another ten minutes walking through the forest, and then it just… ends. A thirty foot gap between the wall and the edge of the trees stretches miles in either direction, and all Clarke can see in front of her is city.

And then something clicks. The echo of Lexa's words drift into her mind: You should come with me to the Capitol. Clarke stops and swallows, twice, but her throat still feels tight. Luis turns and gives her a look of concern, but she just shakes her head. "I-it's nothing," she says, unable to keep the waver out of her voice. She takes a moment to breathe. "Let's go."

There are guards posted at the gate, and though they offer no resistance, Clarke can feel their eyes linger on her. She wonders if they recognize her like Luis did. Do they know what happened at the mountain after their commander left her and her people there to die? Do they know what she did to survive?

Clarke breathes out harshly and then hurries through the gate. She steps ahead of Luis for a moment to get away from those curious eyes.

Just inside the gate lies a cluster of tents along the edge of a wide open space. As Luis leads her toward the far side of the lot, Clarke examines a darkened patch of dirt, and with a start, she realizes what the space must be: an arena. It's empty at the moment, but the blood on the ground looks fresh, no more than a few hours old. She follows Luis into the largest tent at the end, which turns out to be an armory. Rows of swords and knifes line the walls. Luis places a dagger on one of the tables and hangs his bow and quiver on a rack with many others.

"You must leave your weapons here," he says, turning to her. There is an uncomfortable silence that lasts a few seconds.

"What?" Clarke asks, because she can't think of anything else to say.

"No weapons are allowed past this point," Luis replies. Clarke just stares at him for a few seconds, hoping he might change his mind, but his expression remains impassive.

Finally, she gives in with a sigh, and places her gun on the table in front of her. She pulls the fist full of bullets out of her backpack, and Luis hands her a little pouch to store them in. Finally she reaches for the gun, and pulls back the slide. The last bullet pops out and rolls onto the table. She meets his eyes with a contrite look as she drops it into the pouch with the rest of them. Again, he looks disappointed, but not particularly surprised.

"Sorry," she says and fidgets with the drawstring on the bag. She doesn't think there's anything else she can say.

He lets a breath out and says gruffly, "Apology accepted." He doesn't forgive her, which is okay, because she doesn't suppose that this is something you offer forgiveness for. She probably wouldn't if their positions were reversed. Luis locks the gun and ammunition in a chest in the corner of the room, and Clarke slings her bag back over her shoulders. She turns to leave, but Luis holds an arm out to bar her path.

"The knife too." Clarke doesn't say anything, just kneels to retrieve the blade from her boot and hands it to him. On a gesture of good faith, she pulls her backpack around to dig a multitool pocket knife out of one of the pouches. He studies it for a moment, flips out a few of the tools, and then the blade. He tests its edge - which Clarke knows isn't particularly sharp anymore - with the pad of his thumb and then hands it back to her.

"This one is small enough. You may keep it," he tells her.

They leave the tent, and approach another gate and another set of guards. There is a quick exchange of words in Trigedasleng between Luis and one of them. The only thing she catches is Klark kom Skaikru. The words sound foreign to her ears, but the knowledge of their meaning still makes her frown. It seems to take a bit of convincing, but the guards back down and let them pass. Clarke assumes that Luis just talked them out of searching her, so as the guards open the gates for them, she moves to his side and whispers a quiet thanks. He gives her a soft smile and just nods in return.

On the other side, Clarke gets her first proper glimpse of the city. It looks nothing like the village of Ton DC - or at least what she saw of it before the missile destroyed it, Clarke acknowledges grimly. Many of the structures here look like they are from the time before the Nuclear War. They are weathered and patched up where nature has taken a toll, but they look clean and well cared for. They give the city a very different feel than what she expected.

Clarke only realizes that she stopped walking when Luis steps up to her side with a wide smile on his face. His words tell her something she already knows. "Welcome to Polis."

Translations:
oyei - listen
Klark kom Skaikru - Clarke of the Sky People

Thanks for reading. =)