If it wasn't already obvious, this is gonna be a weird(er) one. The idea's been floating around for awhile though, so I finally decided to just write it. I have to give special thanks to Jude81 for brainstorming the concept with me some time ago. We were going to attempt to co-write it one day but I was too impatient. This probably isn't really what she had in mind, but it seemed right to me. Anyway, hope it's not too confusing to follow. I don't think I've ever written in first person present tense before, so it might be. Good luck! I mean, enjoy!

'I'm the same, but different.

I have the same face, the same voice, the same body I've always had. But inside I'm different. I'm not sure how to explain exactly. I'll do my best.

A week ago I awoke like any other, alert and ready for action. Training begins promptly at sunrise and I am never late. The war may be won, but that doesn't mean our people can afford to become lax in their duties. There are always new threats, always new obstacles to surmount. As a knight in training for the queen's personal guard, I know this better than most. She is a great woman, who destroyed the coalition and freed us from the commanders dictatorship.

At least, that is what I used to think.

Now I'm not so sure. Now every time I catch a glimpse of the queen, I feel an irrational surge of hatred the likes of which I never thought myself capable of. It's frightening to have such intense negative emotions towards someone I have devoted my life to, that I have sworn to protect at all costs.

Unfortunately, that is not the extent of my current woes, and hard as it may be to fathom, my next discovery is perhaps even more disturbing.

There is a woman who I often spar with, that I have known since childhood. We have always been great friends, but nothing more than that. I know she harbours romantic feelings towards me, and has for years, but I've simply never been able to reciprocate. I've only ever been attracted to other men.

Now I'm not so sure. Now every time I catch a glimpse of Velest, my heart flutters. Every time we grapple in hand to hand combat, every time we touch, I find myself reluctant to let go. I feel drawn to her in a way I never have before. I think she's starting to notice. It's only a matter of time before others do too.

There's one more thing I should mention in this short list of inexplicable occurrences: I can now read.

One day I was just as illiterate as the rest of the warriors, and the next I could understand the titles of the books in the queen's personal study. To test whether I could now also write, I gained access to pen and paper...I think these results speak for themselves.

I don't know what any of it means. I just wish these changes would stop happening. But it's been days, and I only seem to be getting worse. I'm starting to lose hope that I will ever feel like myself again.'

I put the crudely wrought pen aside and sit back in my chair, hands across my thinly garbed and toned stomach, studying what I have just written by the light of a single candle. A frayed and somewhat smelly blanket is draped around my shoulders. I thought maybe this exercise would make things clearer to me, give me some sort of explanation. If anything, I am even more confused than when I began. I sigh in frustration, hold the edge of the paper to the flame, and scatter the remnants into the dirty, well trampled snow. It would not do for someone to read my thoughts on the queen, not even Velest.

Velest. I sigh for a different reason. I should tell her what's been happening, how I'm feeling, but something keeps holding me back. We've never kept secrets before, not that I'm aware of anyway, and I trust her with my life. And yet still something inside warns me not to and bites my tongue if I make an attempt.

An unaccustomed anxiety, a need to keep in constant motion, has begun to settle in my bones. I pace within the small, sparsely furnished quarters alloted to each of the queen's warriors. If I pass my royal training, I will be knighted and given a house here in Polis instead. A great honour.

But how can I faithfully serve someone I have the impulse to throw my dagger into every time they come into sight?

I rub my hands over my weary face and my fingertips scrape across my stubble. Five days ago I had a magnificent braided beard. I've since cut it off and received a near constant itch as payment. I don't know why I did it.

Shaving is one thing I feel confident in handling, so I get to it. I sharpen my dagger on a strap of leather and prepare the lather with my horsehair brush, once my fathers. Before I apply it, I take another good look at myself in the leftover water on hand.

Everyone's lineage is a hodge podge since the nuclear war. Mine is no exception. I am a mixture of various different races, the names of which have long since been forgotten. Part of my fathers bloodline is ancient and existed in the upper Northern lands for centuries upon centuries. It is said that during all that time, his people lived off the land, and scavenged like everyone does now. Perhaps that is why I have always been so competent at such things, even from a young age. Physically, I take after my mother, soft features reign. My cheeks are slightly rounded with the leftovers of my youth. The perpetual tan from outdoors living has faint lines running through it, most prominently across my low brow and at the corners of my piercing green eyes. My face is relatively blemish free, though a nasty scar from an ill fated fight creeps along the edge of my jaw and ends just past my earlobe. By most accounts, attractive. Finding male companionship has never been an issue for me.

Reassured that I at least still look like myself, I begin coating my face with the frothing white substance. I am almost finished applying the lather when there's a rap on my grimy tent flap. I cock my head sideways at the unexpected visitor who sweeps into the small space without waiting for my response. It's my superior and trainer, Lord Tyrell, the queen's right hand man. He's an imposing specimen, much taller and well built than myself, but he's never intimidated me before, and we generally get along well, though recently I have been struggling to keep my temper in his presence.

Despite knowing how ridiculous I must look right now, I turn and straighten to attention. Tyrell doesn't look happy, but he doesn't look angry either. Training is done for the day. I have no idea what this intrusion is about and my recent anxiety rears its ugly head again.

"A scout has reported hostiles encroaching on the queen's territory," he says in his slightly too high pitched voice. "You're to join Tarn and Joyde on a reconnaissance mission to verify this claim. If you find them, and one happens to be the Wanheda, capture it and return. Kill everyone else."

That's not what reconnaissance means, I think. Another one of my irrational waves of hatred washes over me. My hands clench at my sides. I am almost grateful for the partial mask.

"Do you understand?" he says, raising an eyebrow at my lack of response.

"I do, my lord," I reply in clipped tones, with a jerky dip of my head.

Lord Tyrell turns to leave but then stops when he notices the pen residing on my little makeshift table. Thankfully the paper with the condemning words has long since become indistinguishable from the ground. Still, my pulse quickens.

He gives me a curious look and says, "Why do you have that?"

I have no idea how to respond but then I hear myself saying, "Found it during our sweep of the city. Thought I could trade it in for a new pair of socks. I was wrong."

That seemed to satisfy the man. He smiled slightly as he picked it up, examining it. "I'm not surprised. Writing is a dead art. Completely useless to a knight."

With Tyrell gone (taking the pen with him) I reluctantly wipe off the lather and hasten to don my mismatched armour. Among other things, it appears the itch is here to stay.

Having grown up in the Ice Nation, a harsher Northern climate, I've always loved the winter, or at least, learned to appreciate its stark beauty. The lovely chill. The absolute silence. No longer. I haven't been outside of the packed city since we overthrew the commander and claimed it as our own. Without the warmth from all of those additional bodies, I'm cold. Really cold. Colder than I can ever remember being. I'm wearing my usual white furs over top my armour. I am more than adequately clothed for this land. I should be focused on the mission, but all I can think about is how cold I am. And how warm Velest could make me if I let her.

I'm startled out of my disturbing thoughts by Tarn. A relatively handsome man I have slept with on more than one occasion. Absentmindedly, I wonder why I didn't think of him to warm my bed instead.

Tarn has spotted remnants of human tracks in the powdery snow. They can't be more than an hour old or the slight winds would have completely erased them from detection. We spread out and follow, weapons at the ready. Thinking back to similar hunting expeditions my father and I would go on, I steady my nerves and hone my sight in the moonlit darkness, ready to flick my wrist at a moments notice.

It's only minutes later before movement whips my head to the side and nearly embeds my dagger into an innocent hare. That false alarm averted, I creep on for some time, all the while cursing myself for not wearing gloves. If I were equally proficient with both hands, I would shove my right into the depths of my furs. As it is, I simply hope my dagger hand doesn't freeze to stone before I need its services.

The time for that comes sooner than expected. I hear hushed voices somewhere close by and signal to the others so that we can investigate together. We're all of equal rank here but Joyde takes it upon herself to take the lead on our ambush. She's always been an attention seeker, so I am not surprised. I am however surprised by what happens next.

There's no one here, nothing except for a little silver box. The incomprehensible voices are coming from the box.

"What is it?" asks Joyde.

"We need to go," I say.

Tarn is nodding in agreement, but Joyde is stepping further into danger, utterly fascinated. Against my better judgement, I go after her. A spear goes right through the top of her head. I am splattered in blood and tissue. I don't need to spare a second glance to know she is long dead before she hits the blood soaked snow by my feet. Eyeing the trees, I pull out my sword and swivel on the spot. I am prepared to deflect further projectiles, be they spears or arrows, but neither comes.

Instead I am surrounded by a ragged group of people who have dropped out of the trees via a clever rope mechanism, a favourite of the Trikru, and one that proved quite troublesome during the war. Their faces are mostly covered against the cold. Some of them have guns. I wonder if any are loaded. I've heard tell from the other warriors that the enemy have long since run out of ammunition, otherwise they would have won.

One of them tells us to drop our weapons. After their previous display of brutality, I don't hesitate. Besides, there's no way I can outmatch the speed of multiple bullets. I am not willing to risk my life on rumour and conjecture. Tarn is. I silently watch as he cuts one of them, only to be cut down himself. There's an eerie silence after the gunshots stop ringing through my ears and the forest itself. That is, until it's replaced by the author of Joyde's demise.

The one with the biggest gun scoops up the intact silver box, presses a button and speaks into it. "You can stop babbling, R. We've got a live one. Let's hope he's more chatty than the last one. Bringing him to you now."

I'm forcefully pushed into the snow while someone secures my arms behind me with an odd sounding restraint. They lift me back up to my feet and proceed to search my person for hidden weapons. Once they're satisfied I'm completely unarmed, they prod me along like cattle, with the end of the same bloody spear that killed Joyde. A constant reminder against my back to warn me of the consequences of acting out.

We walk for what seems like ages, all circulation gone from my too tight restraints. My hands are well and truly stone now, probably black as the night. If we don't get into some sort of warm enclosure soon, my exposed face will follow.

For once my prayers are answered and I'm prodded into a high tent much larger than my own, a welcoming fire crackling in the centre. There is no other source of light save for the moon. A curtain partially obscures a fur covered bed. What I wouldn't give to curl up under their combined warmth. The fire will have to do. I'm stationed just behind it, like it's a barrier between me and the shrouded figure sitting in a throne made of wood and spears. The combination of their hood and relative darkness makes it impossible for me to make out any facial features. I can't even tell if I'm facing a man or woman. Oddly, I feel at ease.

"What's your name?" asks the female voice. There's a definite edge to the tone. Dangerous. Cruel. Whether it's real or being put on, I can't say.

"Enos," I reply without hesitation.

This simple uttering causes my escort to mutter amongst themselves. The shrouded figure holds up a hand, demanding silence.

"Do you know why you're here, Enos?"

"You want something. Information I suppose."

"Good to know we didn't bag a complete idiot," mutters one of them standing off to the side.

The figure shifts position slightly. "Will you give it to me willingly? Or will I have to beat it out of you?"

"Torture rarely provides useful information, and my people are trained not to talk."

Some light chuckling around me. "You've already talked far more than any of the others. Why do you think that is? What makes you so different?"

I've been asking myself that question a lot lately.

I say nothing, wondering how I can possibly get out of this situation alive. That something inside that I don't understand wiggles violently, as if it is physically trying to get me to move closer to this person, as if proximity towards who I can only assume to be the Wanheda will somehow save me.

My silence pays off and the Wanheda rises from its throne and unconcernedly steps down the dais until every part except the head is bathed in an orange glow. It reaches up to pull back its hood, as if preparing to spit venom that will disintegrate me, armour and all. Instead of venom, a large quantity of braided hair spills forth. Then when I can barely stand the suspense any longer, it finally steps into the light so that I can behold all of its terrifying glory.

And I am terrified. More terrified than I've ever been in my life.

When my eyes make contact with the Wanheda's, an impossible scene flashes across my mind.

I, along with my remaining allies are in a stalemate with the queen's forces. Nia has her curved dagger locked around Clarke's throat. I have her son, Prince Roan, in a similar embrace. I am terrified of what is about to happen. I know there is only one way to save her life. I must surrender myself to the queen, let her do whatever unspeakable things she wishes to me.

"You can have me, Nia. No one else need die. On one condition. Let my people leave Polis unharmed. When I have confirmation of this, I will release Roan, and you can have me."

To Clarke's horror, the queen accepts my deal. I can barely stand to maintain our watery gaze - so reminiscent of the mountain - as they lead her away from me for the last time.

Sky blue is the final image I see before I am ripped apart by horses.

Back in reality, I am on my side on the snowy floor, inches from the fire. Clarke is hunched over me, fingers pressed to my neck. I am shaking. My heart is pounding so hard, I feel like it will burst open any second. At first, the blood rushing in my ears drowns out what the huddled group around me is saying. Slowly it becomes intelligible.

"...happened?" says the man with the big gun. Bellamy. "A seizure?"

"I don't know," says Clarke, frowning.

"Looked like he just fainted to me," says an unmoved female warrior, arms crossed. Octavia.

Another woman – Raven - nudges the kneeling girls shoulder gently. "Now that's what I call a knockout beauty."

I see the others as if in muted colours. Only she shines bright.

"Clarke," I murmur in a barely audible voice, turning onto my back, crushing my numb hands, all so that I can see her a little better.

Her eyes lock with mine. Beneath the blue there is madness. It is well hidden, but it is there. I am saddened.

"Why did you use that name?" she snarls, grabbing me by the coat and lifting me into an almost sitting position. Our faces are very close and I have a sudden urge to kiss her. I don't.

Despite my brain's sluggish nature, I finally understand what has happened to me.

"I am the commander," I say.

They all bristle at this declaration, none more so than the golden haired girl. Her iron knuckled fist connects with my skull, and all I see is black.

So that was something...I think. I had a fun time writing this, despite the sad nature. A lot of people think she's gonna die in S3, and I try not to dwell on that possibility...so then I decided to write this fic. :p

I highly doubt anything like this will happen in the show. I think the grounders idea of reincarnation is probably not literal. So you don't have to worry about spoilers for S4 or whatever.

I also have to give credit to a Robert Downey Jr. movie called Chances Are...this fic is gonna have a similar premise...but not the comedy aspect, at least, not to the same degree.

Well anyhoo, tell me what you thought if you'd like. Is it completely mental? Would you actually want to see Enos/Lexa pursue Clarke? Should I continue?