Who we are and who we need to be to survive are two very different things.
The battle at Mount Weather had finally come to an end. It was won with so many casualties in the front line, and the screams of death still fresh and haunted the living. Even the victory did not lessen the underlying sick feeling in their stomachs. But no one dared to mention anything about what happened in the Mountain. How the sound of the soldiers' boots plodded the ground as they drag them down to the dungeon and inside a solitary room where a bed almost twice their size lay in the middle, contraptions ready and waiting for its victim. How the whirling and high pitched sound of the drill from the hands of these men crack open both their flesh and bone, fresh blood oozing out like a stream towards the ground. Even after all those ghastly memories, they were finally walking home. Back to The Ark. Back to their safe haven. The silence among them was their fanfare. Now the battle will become but another piece of a tragedy that will make their life even more worthwhile.
Victory stands on the back of sacrifice.
It was that mantra that echoed inside Clarke's head when she pulled the lever with Bellamy to irradiate level 5 in Mount Weather; killing innocent civilians, and even children in order to achieve that very victory: to save their people. The damage was irrevocable, but in her heart she knew it was the only thing she could do. She tried her best and damn them if they told her otherwise; to make the right choice. Be the wishful good guy that her dad could be proud of. But ironically, the right choice that she made turned her into something else, something way repulsive and completely remote from the time they first landed on Earth. Clarke Griffin. Once crawled with the innocence of a child on a foreign land, stripped in a matter of a second with the normality of living, burdened by the overwhelming decision of being a leader among the survivors, acknowledged, respected and feared. To others, she was their savior. The only one who would put a foot down when others would not. Some would think her actions were understandable, given the desperate scenarios that had happened a few months prior where blood spilled every waking hour and lives tick every passing minute.
However, some people still thought that the act was incomprehensible. Why would she slay so many, over a thousand just to save only a few? What justifies the right from the wrong in war? Who gave her; a simple 18-year-old girl the right, the power to command and dispose their lives?
Think with your head, Clarke. Do not let your feelings stop you now.
Yet another voice whispered in her head. It drifted silently inside, and then it grew thick until it roared like an untamed beast enough to paralyze her. Clarke stood outside of camp, feet frozen with a torrent of emotions. Everyone was finally home safe. She looked for a brief moment at the faces of the people she saved, her own mother, the soldiers, and even the happiness visible on the laughter of her friends. And then it came like a knife to her gut the picture in the monitor room of the faces of people she burned in Mount Weather, desperate, screaming and withering to corpses. The guilt was now at the pit of her throat, and she wanted to throw up.
Bellamy approached her. His hard face evident with the smile from their victory, one arm extended towards Clarke, urging the blonde to go inside with him. It came out barely inaudible, but Clarke said something, something sad and lonely. His eyes widened and it was the first time he felt that she was so far away. The look of concern became visible on his face. Clarke did not look at him straight in the eye, terrified that he would pick up what she was feeling in the present, that he would be able to tell that despite how Clarke would want to join them inside the camp, he would figure out that she wanted nothing more than to run away at this very moment.
He wanted to say something else. Maybe something witty, political or whatever. Bellamy knew that Clarke was ready to turn her back, but the right words to make her stay died inside him. He met her sharp blue eyes and then almost immediately, sadness crept all over his face and a pitiful look of longing followed. He voiced out reasons, begging and desperate, but Clarke answered him, even more resolute.
I bear it so that they don't have to.
She kissed him on the cheek and Bellamy took comfort in this. They hugged inside a sphere of mutual agreement. He whispered forgiveness in her ear. It felt hollow. It felt impetuous. Yet it stings with a little hope. But Clarke could not stop the ever swirling anger in her heart, even at how genuine that word came out of her co- leader's mouth. Forgiveness had never sounded so bizarre to a killer. She had been too slow to save everyone. She was their leader, but in the end, she walked the land with an iron fist to decide, ultimately the fate of their lives. But she knew better. She left nothing but destruction on her trail. She was nothing but a murderer and more lives will end under her command.
So she left. That was the call.
Almost three months passed after that. Under the eyes of various sceneries, Clarke had ventured to different places, both known and unknown among the delinquents. Once, she revisited that same lake they encountered when they first landed on Earth. It was the same lake that she and her friends partook in a moment of joy, where the sight of clear water seemed to have easily marveled them so. It was also the very same lake where they first saw a man-eating water snake. It didn't come as a surprise how such a land could be both beautiful and unforgiving at the same time that even something so visibly serene could have teeth to kill even the most naive.
She made her first stop there. It had been an excruciating walk and her feet were almost revolting against the torture called walking. She was careful not to leave any tracks in case someone from Camp Jaha would follow her. The sound of running water rung in her ears, and it felt like music, peaceful and soothing. She looked for any movement in the lake and huffed out a sigh of relief after acknowledging the absence of the said beast.
Clarke proceeded to remove her jacket, followed by the gray shirt, gloves until her top was bare. She made a dip, felt the cool water on her feet first, slowly submerging half of her lower body, deep enough until she could no longer see the callousness of her feet. The water healed the tiredness in her muscles, but it took no qualm to still her ever restless mind.
She thought she would not get over her self-exile. It took her weeks before she did yet the ghosts of the dead was forever cradled on her back and no matter how many times she tried to wash the blood on her hands, the invisible yet burdening scars never faded away. The scars burned fresh and they stung every step. Once, she had imagined putting a gun in her mouth and firing a bullet - fabricate that one last feeling - a euphoria analogous with living but she chose not to. Self-murder was never the answer to anything, even if it was enough punishment for someone who decided to commit a genocide.
But it wasn't Clarke's body that had been weariest after all of this; her heart had died when she left her to die in front of that metal gate and her insides became nothing more but a big wrecking ball she chose to tread on her leave.
Love is weakness.
There was a sudden rattle in the brush behind the log where Clarke's backpack lay. It became silent for a few seconds and Clarke wondered if she would have to dye her hands bloody again. Then a boar, half her size, emerged from the shrubs, nose sniffing and trotting past the rocks and to Clarke's remaining rations, failing to notice the presence of the Sky Girl observing from the waters.
There was a hunger in her chest that Clarke could not justify. It felt like a storm, coiled with unexplained emotions and easily provoked. It didn't take a second before the gun was raised and then gunshots followed after. Bullets fired with no stop. Whatever life that remained on the creature ended with another bullet to the heart. It did not take long before it stopped struggling and ceased, tears and blood pooled in one on the dirt.
The storm softened in her chest and relief washed all the remains.
It was not the urge to pull the trigger before even realizing it that frightened her, but more of the lack of empathy for using a gun to end a life. Clarke was never a fan of violence. She was the last among her people who would choose bloodshed over logic. But maybe life should be all about survival regardless of the means. She doesn't deserve any better. It felt weirdly normal. It felt like it was the only right thing that she could do.
The path to forgiveness was still a long way. She'd wash her hands again and again until someone could reason out that it was wrong to shoot someone dead in a heartbeat.
But for now, the critter would make an excellent dinner.
She did not mean to remember the place, but her body had a fascination for revisiting old wounds. And before she knew it, Clarke was already standing above the hidden underground bunker that Finn discovered. It was supposed to be a shelter built for nuclear war, yet no survivors after the apocalypse ended lived to tell the tale. The place was still intact, however, hidden among the dirt, rocks, and mosses. Only a few of them knew of the place and they were secretive of its existence.
It became a sanctuary when they were in despair.
When Clarke opened the hatch, she felt dead air ooze out of the blockhouse. She recalled the dead corpse of a Grounder that was left here, fed to hungry flies and insects, mercilessly executed with no remorse by Finn's hand. The stench of death hung so dense and Clarke felt immediately ill when she reached the bunker floor. She made her way to one of the wooden shelves to light one candle, and slowly her eyes adjusted to the dimness of the room.
Finn had been one of the dearest people to her; the very first man who befriended her when the delinquents shunned her for her upbringing. Teased and called her a Sky Princess. Clarke was attracted to his liberated self. He was both tact and impeccable, knew how to say the right things at the right time; a complete opposite of Well, her best friend, and perhaps that only friend she ever had. His love for her made her strong, and she knew it was not the emotional fluctuation in their brains which was caused by the war that made them seek each other. It was like being with him was a breath of fresh air in this war-torn land.
And then the execution flashed to her mind; the man she loved tied to a pole with thousands of Grounders screaming for justice. Torch fire flickered all around the darkness. It was that very moment where Clarke blamed herself for being weak, for deciding to leave them when they burned a mass of Grounder warriors alive outside the drop ship. Finn had been a different person after that. His sin visible and so deep, and deeper it went as more blood spilled on his face from lives he took away with a gun. Ruthless, cold, paranoid and unhesitating to spill more. He only wanted to save Clarke because he felt for her. He felt love, and ultimately it was that very emotion that made him bleed until his last breath. Love was never without a tragedy and it ended when she stabbed him in his heart.
What could have been more painful? Dying at the hands of savages or breathing your last at the hands of the woman you loved the most?
When the first candle light died, she lit another and Clarke sat there until the foul stench of death no longer bothered her.
Another one of Clarke's stop was almost miles away from the drop ship where the entrance was near the dense forest she and her friends had been oddly familiar with. The following area was new to Clarke though. The trees stood higher and the light barely got in with the burly branches expanding towards each other. The eerie silence made Clarke wary about the thought of encountering a Reaper or another pauna. At the deepest area of the forestry, Clarke stumbled upon a camping area, graced by a few Grounders before the vicinity was abandoned. Perhaps it had been days since they left. Surprisingly, their tent still stood and vacated with leftover scraps. Clarke took her time to restock for the chill following her was disturbing, and the temperature in the forest was abnormally lower. The tent had a small unopened box and it didn't take long before it got unbarred upon first sight.
The box had a brown muffler, which could cover half of the blonde's torso. Bandages. Herbs. Tiny vials and a bunch of paper.
During the months of her travel, Clarke had heightened her senses for survival, and less of anything else. She hunted, cooked and made her own shelter with her bare hands. Self-preservation had been her top priority. The piece of fabric would serve to tent her freezing body. Apparently, her favorite jacket, sturdy and all during the war was not able to survive the trek and she remembered losing both of the sleeves when she used each as a bandage to cover her leg wound when she - accidentally - fell off a cliff.
Besides, it wouldn't possibly be atrocious to pilfer items that were just abandoned.
Clarke took everything and placed the items in her sack. She lazily wrapped the cloth around her neck. It felt just like that time in TonDC. The thought of wearing a Grounder property made her a bit sick because she could vividly remember every damn thing that happened there, but their clothes were surprisingly adept to the harshness of Earth. The fur was soft, warm and overall comfortable for the sky girl to carry.
Outside, Clarke noticed the faint tracks on the soil. Slightly noticeable tracks. The prints weren't as clear as day, but it wasn't difficult to map out where they headed after this.
She followed the road a bit until she saw a clearing. A tree post, almost thrice her size stood in the middle of camp and Clarke approached it, curious about something only to be struck surprised with the sight of a red cloth carefully wrapped on its trunk.
Red reminded her too much of things. Blood, death, anger, passion, and love. It was something she could not believe possible herself, but Clarke thought of this impossible possibility when they first met.
She burned with a fire that Clarke could not control. Made her feel so much with just a look, and she remembered how her searing presence was no more but a pretense when she held Clarke for the first time. The embrace felt like water, careful and calming; and her kiss touched Clarke's and she tasted the earth from her lips. There were too many sensations in just one person and it was intoxicating. Clarke got addicted and she paid the price. Love found another way to be a bitch in her life.
Clarke unwrapped the piece of red cloth from the wood. There was a scent that lingered and it was oddly familiar. No one among the Grounders wore any garment painted in crimson aside from their leader. It meant nobility and power. It meant beauty and strength. It meant as a right given to a person to rule a battalion.
The cloth rested on the palm of her hand. Clarke gazed at it for a second, almost in trance yet answers never came to calm her. The thought that this could have been a message did cross her mind, but after the events that transpired, she even had the damn to do something so subtle? Her body flushed with so much emotion at the memory. She was angry, full of spite, and she wanted nothing more than to punch that bloody woman's face until her knuckles bleed
But at the end of the day, Clarke felt the loathe on herself more.
So much she could literally feel the hatred choking her throat.
She hated herself for falling in love with someone who crushed her senseless.
Loathing over the phantom in her heart would not do her any good, and so she moved forward, keeping the cloth in her pocket. Clarke followed the faint Grounder trail which led her in the middle of nowhere. The tracks ended near a crossroad. North, east or west. Three possible scenarios. Three possible endings. Clarke saw a sign nailed to a tree that faced north. There were writings, possibly done with blood, but it was written in hieroglyphs, obviously not English alphabets that she could not decipher. It could be the written version of the Grounder language, Trigedasleng. A complicated language would complement a really complicated writing system.
She did understand this one word: OUTSIDERS
Clarke was still new to their culture and she never encountered them writing anything even during their war meetings; barely even aware if they were literate enough. But their leader once said that there exist a city where Grounders lived peaceful lives and flourished. How the city promised a new impression on Grounders for the Sky People so that they would understand each other more in a non-violent way. She described it with so much color that Clarke wondered it if was even true. It sounded something that came out of a fairy tale book.
Clarke inhaled, exhaled and let out a small laugh. She pulled a tiny coin from her pocket. It would have been valuable back in space, barely enough to buy her bread, but none of these slivers meant anything here on the ground, well, nothing aside as a form of amusement. She placed the silver near the joint of her finger and flicked it with her thumb. It rose to the sky with a 'ting'. Clarke grabbed it full with her hand as it fell. The head would usher her to go north. The tail would beckon her to take the east road, which doesn't look promising.
She took a breath, gradually allowing the coin to decide her fate, and then she opened her hand to see the coin's head visible.
North aka. Walking into a Grounder trap. That was probably a good sign. She had no goal in mind at first, but with this Grounder city that seemed to have been stuck in her head, Clarke figured to pay a visit. She'd also like to see something or someone breathing and walked with two legs after all the miles of solitary walk.
The north road was creepier at most. The sign could have been a warning of impending danger and Clarke cursed herself for not reading a lot about the Trikru's language during the Coalition. Her hand gripped the handle of her pistol as she walked with careful steps. Clarke found the lull in the desolated area quite comforting, but she guessed that anything might prowl unexpectedly in this kind of ambiance and she had to be both cautious and diligent.
The sun was setting and she had to make haste and find shelter. The forest beasts would grow hungry once the light died out and danger would quickly fill the void. Her gun would not be able to save her from things she could not see.
The temperature was falling too fast as well and freezing to death was the last item on the list of Clarke's reasons for dying. Luckily, Clarke saw a huge tree among its neighbors where it stood proud and completely different. It had branches stout and long, with green leaves lush enough to use as a cover for pending predators. There was a small opening near its roots. It was the perfect pseudo-resting place for Clarke to shack for the night. It wasn't luxurious like a tent, but it would manage to keep her sheltered until sunrise. The two flint stones she happened to snag in the Grounder camp proved her useful and it produced a fire strong enough to keep her warm. Clarke rested her back on the tree's trunk and let out that despondent sigh she had been keeping the whole day.
Slowly, she closed her eyes. The iron curtain in the forest soon turned into a deafening sound to her ears and Clarke hoped that after all of this, she still had the ticket to dream of something wonderful.
Something that did not involve seeing a mountain full of corpses.
For the past few months, Clarke's body had been rather flaky and even the faintest sound in her surroundings was enough to bolt her in full gear. There was a snap, possibly from a twig on the ground and then silence followed. Clarke's hand automatically held her gun upward, knowing that she wasn't alone anymore and raised the barrel within eye level. She heard her heart drumming twice as fast until it was the only thing she could hear.
Croak.
Clarke had never looked so dumbfounded in her entire life. She saw the intruder; a tiny round creature with stubby long legs. It had an almost transparent chin, which grew bloated as it inhaled oxygen in its lungs. Back in the Ark, her father gave her books about the creatures that used to wander in Earth before the apocalypse. She read about the dinosaurs before they became extinct and preceded by carnivorous mammals and reptiles alike until the present time when she learned that some beasts had been domesticated and not all were that fearsome like their ancestors. Clarke ransacked her brain and remembered that this tiny harmless thing was called a furoug? Frak? No, that wasn't it. Frog, yes. The critter was addressed as a frog. Either way, the creature stood near the campfire. Its skin glowed a bit when it exhaled air. The frog never did anything but stood in front of Clarke. dumbfounded as they both were. It eyed her a bit, croaked louder, wagged its tail and then jumped into the shrub until the silence was back once more.
Hold it.
Frogs, if her memory was clear as day, had no tail in its anatomy on the book she read.
The quizzical look on Clarke's face did not leave her after the realization. She stood and hoped to follow the peculiar creature to examine it, but before she could leave the shallow pit of her sanctuary, the wind rustled and a cold breeze followed. Her muffler did a good job to keep her from freezing.
In the darkness, Clarke noticed a flicker of green at the corner of her eye. It made no sound at first, and a minute later the lone green light became a multitude of tiny dots that filled Clarke's eyes. The image of the galaxy flashed right before her. They were like stars with shades of yellow and emerald, dying and breathing, like a candle light that burns and then fades away. The stillness was gone that instant and the forest was filled with light with the woodland around her glimmered with the same hue.
Clarke held up her hand, hoping to touch the glamour in front of her; completely mesmerized by the swarm of fireflies dancing around. They pranced and made their presence, illuminating the forest area with the same shine as the moonlight, and for the first time, no longer did the darkness scared Clarke and she felt peace.
Clarke looked at the night sky.
The moon was beautiful.
While the color red reminded her too much of the throbbing anger in her heart, the color green reminded her of the hurt. The moment of painful clarity. The betrayal. The nightmarish scenario when the woman she thought she loved turned her back with her warriors and abandoned Clarke to fight demons by herself.
May we meet again.
Clarke remembered Lexa.
The Commander's emerald eyes that looked at Clarke's, strong, bound and determined yet full of love and longing that made the sky girl weak to her knees. Green eyes that she used to worship and loved back in a moment's notice regardless of their calling. Regardless of the war. Regardless of how raw she still felt with Finn's death. Yet Lexa, wise and unyielding as she had always been, with or without the war paint on her face already had this power in her that Clarke, even with her quiet 'not yet' was captured completely.
After the battle, Clarke had been indifferent and almost dead if not for her boiling resentment towards the Commander, and her travels were nothing but an excuse to run away from everything. Clarke hadn't really guessed of what she'd do if saw Lexa again so Polis; the promised land of the Grounders became her next destination.
She had already ended one life after another.
She had already killed the man she loved and survived the guilt.
If the nightmares would stop, and then probably Clarke could start forgiving herself.
So maybe, just maybe, she thought, that putting a bullet to the Commander's head would finally end it.
