Samsara
By: Athena02
Author's notes: Rated M for violence and language. References to 3x04 "Watch the Thrones". Exploring one of several theories based on current (and ever-changing) canon about the nature of the Commander's spirit passing on and the role of Nightblood. Samsara is a Sanskrit word, the literal meaning of which is "a wandering through".
Note: I wrote this just before 3x06 aired. Much ink has been spilled on 3x07, so I'm just going to say that it completely devastated me. There is no 3x07 in this fic, no ALIE 2.0, no AI chip.
xXxXxXx
"My spirit will choose much more wisely than that. When I die, my spirit will find the next commander."- Lexa
xXxXxXx
The soldier walked quickly through the outdoor courtyard in the center of the immense building. Its five sided shape always confused newcomers, but he'd been here before, and knew exactly where he was headed. His manner was calm and professional, though his mind was a swirling storm. Today's upcoming program briefing to the generals weighed heavily, but he couldn't help but notice that the courtyard seemed far too empty for this time of day. And underneath all of that, there was that annoying itchy feeling, like the electric tingle from dragging your feet over the carpet in a snowstorm, all throughout his body. He looked down at his hands, tugging down the dark blue cuffs of his dress uniform just slightly, enough to cover the veins of his wrists, which traced a faint line more black than blue. He'd been telling the scientists back at the lab on base that the shots made him itchy, but they kept saying it would go away eventually.
He took another step towards his destination, but at the same instant a flash of searing white light rent the sky directly overhead. He was dead nearly before the signal registering that bright flash traveled from his eyes to his brain. In a quarter of a second the nuclear fireball had vaporized him, blasting away the building and everything around him into radioactive ash. But—unlike the millions that would die in fire this day—he was different. As the flesh became nothing, the Spirit endured, finding its way through the columns of radioactive smoke and cries of the dying.
While billions died, Heda was born.
XxXxXxX
Mommy came to school before morning recess. She was crying. She said we were going on vacation for a little while, so I didn't have to go to school. We got into a big black car. A man was driving the car, and he had a short haircut like Daddy's. He said he was Daddy's friend and that Daddy was at work but that Daddy would meet us on vacation.
Mommy kept crying as the man drove and telling me to be a brave little boy. Mommy and the man kept talking about a mountain with weather. I didn't understand because the sky was sunny. But a little bit later I saw a flash in the sky that was very bright so I think there was lightning far away. Mommy cried more each time there was lightning in the sky. We drive for a long time and it got dark. I got sleepy in the back seat, so I laid down.
A loud bang woke me up and I fell down on the floor. The car rolled over onto its back like a turtle. I felt dizzy.
The man grabbed me and pulled me out of the car. I cut my arm on the broken glass in the window and it made a black mark on the glass. Mommy doesn't like when I cut myself, she says I am special and shouldn't get hurt. I yelled at the man, but he picked me up and put me over his shoulder like Daddy does when we play at the park. He ran really fast. I was upside down, but I could see Mommy in the car. She was sleeping. There were some angry people on the other side of the car who were running and yelling at the man. All the yelling didn't wake Mommy up. I told the man that he forgot Mommy, but he didn't stop running. He didn't stop running for a long time, even when we couldn't hear the yelling people any more. He finally stopped after a long time, and I asked him where Mommy was. He said she needed to sleep because she was tired and that she would meet me and Daddy on vacation. The man was very nice. He told me his name was Tony.
Tony and me walked a lot. We would camp out every night. It wasn't fun like it was with Grampa and Grandma in the RV. It was cold and my arm hurt. I got hungry a lot. Tony left me alone sometimes to get food and I'd hide in a tree.
I got really good at hiding in trees, especially when there were people yelling at Tony. Tony had a big black gun. Daddy said that guns were only for Army men, but Tony is Daddy's friend so it's probably okay. I closed my eyes when people yelled at Tony and he had to be an Army man to bad people. I cried the first time because I was scared and wanted Daddy but Tony said it would be okay. He opened his backpack and showed me a knife. He said it was Daddy's and that Daddy would come to get it because it was his favorite. It had a pretty swirl on the blade but Tony said I shouldn't touch it and he put it away. He said it would help keep us safe.
Tony and me walked more. A lot more. He said I was special and we had to get to Weather Mountain. It was dark and always cloudy and smelled like something gross burning a lot of times. It snowed a lot, which was fun at first because it wasn't Christmas yet. But it wasn't fun after a while.
One day I couldn't walk with Tony. It was very cold and my belly hurt too much. Tony couldn't find any food for a long time. We found a cave in the woods. It was warmer than outside in the snow, so he said to wait and stay put and he'd be back with something good. He left his backpack with the water and the blanket and Daddy's knife but took his gun.
Tony didn't come back. I waited in the cave for three days. My tummy hurt really bad. I slept a lot and wanted to sleep more.
A nice lady found me on the fifth day. She said her name was Mrs. Angela. She had two kids, Mary and Alex. Mary is nice and as old as I am, and Alex is nice too even though he's a big kid. They had lots of food in backpacks and Mrs. Angela has a gun. She's not Army but she's nice so I think it's okay. She says I can come with them. She doesn't know Mommy or Daddy or Tony or Weather Mountain but she says we can try to find them.
I'd like that. Mommy is probably done sleeping and she said Daddy would meet us for vacation.
xXxXxXxX
"I miss my phone," sighed Jamal.
"I miss the Internet," added Chris.
"You mean you miss porn," Sara shot back, playfully slapping her brother on the arm.
"Ow!" he glared, rubbing his army dramatically through his ragged sweatshirt.
Sara smiled. "It's okay. I miss it too." They both grinned.
"Shof up, you two and focus. You're going to scare away dinner." I glare at them with a stern glance. I'm not really angry at them, I just hate that shit. The 'Things I Miss From Before' conversation. Where everyone talks about the nice things they had Before when they were younger. The things we'll never have again. Not in this fucked up world.
The four of us are perched on the lower branches of the trees, watching and listening for signs of movement in the forest. If we want to eat tonight, we're going to have to get lucky this hunt. If we're unlucky…well, I'd rather we get lucky.
Luck is rare out here, and most of the time it never shows up when you need it. It's been ten years. Ten years of death, and fire, and sickness. It's colder now, and winter comes earlier and stays longer than it ever used to Before. It's hard to grow things, and many of the plants and animals became too poisoned to eat. A lot of people starved, or froze, or just gave up…The older adults back at the city say there were probably billions gone that died not because of the bombs, but because of what came after. I don't like to think about it; remembering back to when I was a little girl and what it took to make it through that isn't a nice thing at all.
"Psst. Heda!" Jamal's whisper draws my attention back to the present. He points to his eyes, and then to the woods.
His eyes are good. Three young deer meander through the undergrowth. Both of their faces of each deer quickly strip the tender leaves from the shrubs, munching as they make their way to the swath of grass growing beneath the trees we're in.
It's a good hunting spot. We all grew up together, learned the land together, built our Kru together. We work together on this hunt, and we can take down all three deer and make our own luck today.
I push back down on the spike of anticipation in my belly and take slow, measured breaths as the deer move closer. The rough-hewn spear in my hand is sharp and well balanced. My free hand rests against the thick trunk of the pine that conceals me as I slowly stand and plant my feet on the branch under me. I bring the spear back over my shoulder until the broad part of the point is even with my ear. The others coil like springs, ready to strike with arrows, axes, and knives. The deer step forward quietly until they're right below us. The one in front pauses, searching the brush with all four eyes. A moment—a long heartbeat—passes, and it gives up its search with an idle flick of an ear as it bends to graze.
I leap into the air, driving the spear down powerfully with my arm. The strike is true and my spear finds its heart. It's dead even before it finishes falling and its body cushions my fall. I look around me; the others have struck well too. Jamal's dagger finishes the kill Chris' thrown hand axe started, while two of Sara's arrows sprout from the other deer's side. A good, clean kill.
"Did you see that!?" Chris whoops, throwing his hands up in the air triumphantly. "Sara I totally—"
"Shh!" I scold, turning to face him, "You—"
I hear a faint pop and Chris' right eye explodes into a shower of blood, a spray of bone and brain spattering the tree behind him the moment before he crumples to the ground. This has barely registered in my mind before everything speeds up and changes in an instant.
There's several more pops in rapid succession. Sara clutches at her check, her face a grimace of pained surprise. Her bow clatters against the roots of the tree below her and her body makes a soft thump as it falls next to the weapon.
Jamal, the fastest of the kru, was in midmotion of throwing one of his knives when the bullets hit him. He crumples, his knife bouncing weakly from his hand. In the same moment, my right leg explodes in pain, the impact so great that it spins me around and throws me to the ground facedown. I lie there for a moment, overwhelmed with the pain radiating from my calf muscle.
"Tango four down, Sierra Six."
"Roger, One. Do a sweep. Sierra Two, go with him." The men's voices are muffled, as if they were speaking behind thick glass. The forest has grown quiet, and I can hear the thump of footsteps coming closer. I recognize the too-familiar plastic and metal clatter of a weapon and tactical gear, but there's a strange plastic swish added, like a tarp being folded.
My mind races and instinct drives me to move quickly. Thankfully the body of the deer next to me hides me for the second I need to tuck my hand underneath me, near the knife at my belt. And then the footsteps stop next to me.
"Aw man, what a fuckin' mess. Fuckin' mutie kids. That shit's so gross." The muffled voice is right above me.
"What is it? She got some fucked up mutant hand or some shit? I wanna see." Another voice, drawing closer.
"Nah." A boot nudges my leg. I bite my lip to keep from screaming at the pain. "She's got mutie blood. It's all black. Fuckin' gross."
"Wait, black blood? You sure?"
"Yeah, see her leg?"
"You ever read the old classified protocols? There's something in there about this. We gotta bring her into the Mountain."
I can hear the man above me shift, turning to leave. "Oh fuck that. I'm not lugging her ass back on top of those deer too. We got what we needed let's just—"
My eyes snap open. I see a pair of booted legs in front of me, wrapped in an odd gray plastic. My knife is in my hand and I strike quickly, aiming for the back of his legs. The knife is incredibly sharp, the blade with its mesmerizing swirl pattern flashing before it cuts through the layers of cloth and leather and severing the man's Achilles tendons. He starts to drop the instant I rise. He's wearing a hood, and some sort of gas mask that covers his entire face, but a simple adjustment in my aim is all it takes for me to drive the entire length of the blade towards the major arteries in his neck. He falls and I withdraw the blade, ignoring the last gurgle he makes and the pain in my leg as I stand.
The other man quickly tries to raise the rifle in his hands. A quick slash to his arm causes his aim to shift, and his first burst of bullets hits the ground next to me. My free hand punches the mask into his face. He barely has time to gasp before his throat parts under my blade.
"Mike Whiskey Hotel this is Sierra Six! We are under attack! Request reinforcements Protocol Code Alpha Seven!"
If he'd opted to shoot me instead of radioing in, I'd be dead. Instead he dies, the handle of my thrown dagger protruding from the soft part of his throat exposed between the bottom of his mask and the top of his body armor. He falls like a rag doll, and the forest is silent.
I stand, hands red with blood, surrounded by the bodies of my enemies and my kru.
"Sierra Six, Mike Whiskey Hotel. Confirm activation of classified weapons asset recovery team." The radio at the dead man's belt crackles, a foreign thing in the forest. I walk as quickly as I can to cover the distance between us, yanking my knife from his throat and turning back to the treeline.
"Sierra Six?"
"Sierra Six…?"
"Sierra Six, quick reaction and recovery forces enroute to your location. ETA twenty mikes."
A loud and dangerous sounding horn blares, echoing throughout the trees.
I mutter a curse under my breath, moving as fast as my ruined calf will allow. I break stride for a moment to pull Chris' axe from his kill as I pass. My eyes rest on my fallen friend's nearby corpse, and a memory of a scared little boy in the ruins of a roadside gas station flashes in my mind's eye. The first of my kru, my frends, ten years ago.
"Yu gonplei ste odon," I whisper. In this world, it's a better funeral than many get.
They hunt me for days.
I stay just ahead of them, but barely. I lose them occasionally in the trees and ruins, but my leg wound slows me down too much. They learn by the second day not to stray too far from each other at night after I leave two of them dangling by their necks from a tree branch for the others to find in the morning.
But as lethal as I am I cannot keep this game of cat and mouse up forever. I know I heal faster than most, but my leg continues to bleed. The Mountain Men that remain see the spatters on the ground, tracking me, their radios baying like hounds just out of sight. Pain and fatigue start to dull my senses by noon on the fifth day. I decide I have little choice when it comes to how this ends.
The path back to my city is subtly marked, but I recognize each sign as clearly as the noonday sun. I manage to lead a few pursuers into our defensive traps; spike pits and poison manage to give me some breathing room.
The last Mountain Man, their leader, continues on. I don't know if he is without fear, clouded by bloodlust, or insane by this point. He is fast and quiet. He does not waste his ammunition like his companions, firing only when he has a decent shot. It's only through luck that he misses: one round clips a tree trunk right next to my head, another nicks my upper arm, shallowly slicing the skin of my shoulder. This needs to end.
I grip the knife firmly and reach down, running it quickly over the oozing wound in my calf. Not so deep, but just enough to make the blood flow freely onto the forest floor. Gleaming darkly, it is enough of a trail for him to follow. I continue on, weaving through the trees for several hours until I hear a crashing in the undergrowth behind me, and break into a limping run. The Mountain Man can see the blood, read the way my path weaves and stutters. He is a hunter, and can see when prey is desperate and wounded. His focus narrows and pace quickens.
Twilight settles in the sky and the shadows of the forest have deepened when the Mountain Man rushes out from the last line of trees in the forest. Knee-high grass whispers against the plastic sheathing him. He looks up, slowing to a jog, and then stopping to a complete halt. I cannot see his face, but his body language betrays his surprise.
My city, Polis, lies in front of him. Campfire smoke rises from crumbling buildings, and the murmur of hundreds of voices carries distantly over the wind. His head tilts up and up, tracing the line of the central tower that rises above everything, capped with a cauldron of bright flame.
A sentry's warning shout breaks the silence and warriors appear atop the wall of rubble and debris that rings the city. The Mountain Man's hand drops to key his radio.
"Mike Whiskey Hotel, Sierra Six. I have a visual on enemy base. Grid location eighteen sierra uniform juliet—"
I rise from my ambush point hidden in the trees above. My face is streaked with black blood, a black mask to hide me in the failing light, and I am swift death as I sprint across a thick branch before leaping into the air. He hears me at the last second as I land on both feet behind him, but is far too late to react. I drive my right foot into the back of his right knee with a sickening crack, driving him to kneel. He drops the radio, trying to bring the barrel of his rifle around. The angle is too awkward and I am too fast to give him the second that he needs. My left hand grips his mask, quickly ripping it off of his face and throwing it to the ground out of reach. He gasps for air immediately and his skin flushes a mottled red. His kind sickens and burns too easily in this world.
"You can't—"
My hands pull his head back and my knife flashes just before his words end in a gurgle, crimson spilling from the gaping part across his throat. His eyes roll in terror before he falls forward, face down onto the grass that eagerly drinks his lifeblood.
My own blood sings triumphantly, my heart swept up into a storm of emotions; I am alive, victorious. I've defended my home and my people, and brought vengeance for the dead. A dangerous enemy who hunted me lies dead at my feet.
The sound coming from Polis brings me back, my people the anchor to which my heart tethers itself:
"Heda! Heda! Heda! Heda!"
My people line the walls, chanting my name, weapons held high in triumphant salute. I lift the knife to the sky, its patterned blade painted with the crimson hues of the Mountain Man's blood and the reflected sunset. My voice is raw and primal but tempered with the tenor of command.
"I am Heda Takoma kom Trikru! The Mountain has no power here! Jus drein jus daun!"
The chant comes from hundreds of throats, echoing like a heartbeat as I walk to the city and my clan.
"Jus drein jus daun!"
"Jus Drein Jus Daun!"
"JUS DREIN JUS DAUN!"
xXxXxXxX
I hear approaching footsteps from behind me. The newcomer is quiet, but I can hear them take a seat behind me.
I poke at the flames of the campfire in front of me with a short branch, watching the way the crimson and yellow weave and dance. A rabbit, cleaned and dressed, cooks above it on a makeshift spit. Not bad for the end of a day's hunt. Stepping away from the fire, I sit cross-legged next to my hunting companion and she shifts the packs aside to give me more room. I can't help but notice the way her gaze softens when she looks at me, though the look is subtle.
"I cut down the last two snares, Lexa. They were empty though," Clarke kom Skaikru shrugs slightly.
"It will be all right. Remember, this was just a little hunt. A chance to get out of Polis for a day." I smile just enough, and she grins slightly.
Clarke's eyes flicker away for a moment and back. She changes the subject, and her eyes are focused on the dagger she extends in my direction. "Here's your knife back."
"Mochof." Our fingers touch briefly as I carefully take it from her. The contact adds another complex note to the emotions winding between us. The emotions neither of us has given a name to yet. The ones that surface in the quiet moments, away from Polis, away from Arkadia…away from the crushing demands of leadership that ask so much of us.
"When we return to Polis I can have our blademasters make you one of your own; much better than the one you have now."
"The pattern on the blade—those whorls—your blademasters make those?"
I shake my head. "No. that technique is lost to us. This is an old blade, made from Before the War."
Clarke looks momentarily surprised, and her statement is more honest because of it. "I'm surprised it has lasted so long down here."
There's no offense meant, and so I take none. For a moment I am a teacher again, Heda Lexa, with a group of Nightbloods gathered around me on the training grounds.
"It has been carried by every Commander since the First. It is one of the symbols by which the Heda's spirit knows its Home, and symbolizes one of the pillars—strength—of being a Commander."
"Lexa…" Clarke's voice hesitates for a moment, the way that she does when she does when more of our ways are revealed to her and she is contemplating the nature of it. "Do you feel…different? Can you actually feel that spirit?"
My eyes meet hers, and under her clear blue gaze it is almost as if she could see the dreams and the memories within me. "Yes, in its own way. I see flashes sometimes. Dreams, of old things and situations. I see faces that feel familiar but that I know I have never met." I shrug. "That does not happen often. Usually it is a feeling, of knowing when something is the right thing to do, or which path leads to honor when another leads to ruin." No one not of the Nightblood has heard these closely guarded thoughts from me. But my heart pushes the words out of me before I can hold back.
"I don't believe that takes an ancient spirit, Lexa. I know that's a part of you; it doesn't have to come from anywhere else."
I smile at Clarke, and my heart leaps slightly at her words. "That may be true, but I would not be all that I am without the Spirit. I believe it is what makes it so our people survive, what pushes me to overcome everything in order to triumph for the people. And it is what will protect everything I hold close to my heart once my time here is over." My eyes search hers, trying to say what I have not allowed myself to voice aloud.
The pop and snap of the campfire breaks the spell between us, and Clarke rises to check on it. "Perhaps you're right, Lexa. But I hope your spirit stays here with me for a while longer."
I can't hide my smile. My Spirit has always had a home. Perhaps now my heart does too.
xXxXxXxX
Author's Note: The first scene was the seed in my mind from which everything grew when I found myself wondering exploring Lexa's first statement about the Commander's spirit passing on to another. A tweet bout the manner in which Commanders are chosen/rise spawned other ideas. Which got me thinking about the first commander, the ones that came after, and how they rose to leadership and cobbled together a society in the remains of a dying world. 3x04 "Watch the Thrones" put a technological origin on the Nightblood. The rest of the story came together.
Of course, 3x07 blew everything up. I had figured there was a technological angle, but I loved the possibility of a spiritual and metaphysical angle. So no AI chips here.