Clarke could feel Bellamy's eyes on her back, burning into her skin as she walked away. She took a shuddering breath, trying not to let the tears in her eyes show. She reached the edge of the forest, the trees blocking out the bright sun.
She couldn't help it. She turned, seeing Bellamy walk into the camp, the gate shutting behind him. His head was drooping and his back was hunched. Defeated.
She shook herself, her lips still tingling from his warm skin. She turned towards the dark woods, resigning herself to what she had chosen.
Clarke trudged forward, quickly shedding the hot black jacket, leaving her only in a sleeveless cream top. Or it was cream. The soft material was now stained with dirt, sweat, and blood. She slipped off her metal gloves, her palms sweating.
She soon found a stream and took a long drink, the fast water clean and cold. She settled herself against a tree, leaning her head against the rough bark. Closing her eyes Clarke sighed.
The quiet surrounded her, leaving her with only the gentle sound of birds and the wind rustling in the trees.
No one was hurt. No one was dead. No one was broken.
She heard a faint sound, almost like the songbirds, but not quite. Was that… Whistling? She strained her ears towards the sound, swiftly pulling her gun at the same time. The whistling came closer, the tune haunting, yet cheerful.
Clarke pointed her gun towards the music, pressing her back against a tree. If someone wanted to sneak up on her, whistling was probably the worst way to do it. A grounder girl rounded the corner, clothes overflowing in a basket she was carrying.
She was young, probably not more than 10 years old, with long, dark brown hair in a practical plait down her back. Flowers were tucked into her braid, woven into the strands like a tapestry. She wore long furs despite the heat, thin pants, and tall boots covering her bottom half. A horn hung from her waist, a knife cleverly concealed in her sleeve. She had dark brown skin, weathered by the sun.
She set down the wicker basket and slipped off her boots. Stepping in the stream, she took a rabbit fur off the top of the pile. She dunked it underneath the water, dirt spiraling down the stream.
Clarke wasn't sure if she should show herself or keep hidden, but the choice was quickly decided when the girl looked up and saw her. She squeaked, immediately dropping the deer cloak she was holding and drew her knife, hand shaking. She looked frightened, stumbling back out of the river.
Clarke raised her arms and slowly lowered her gun to the ground. Shooting a practically defenseless girl in cold blood would not help her. It would just be another body piling up on the pile.
"Clarke von Skaikru." She introduced, just like Lincoln had taught her. "Do you speak English?" She asked. The grounder girl nodded shakily, and sheathed her knife.
"My name is Nadia." She said in a small voice. Her accent was thick, but discernable. Clarke smiled.
"Hi. I'm sorry to startle you. I didn't know you were here. I'll go." She turned, and a flash of recognition flashed over her face.
"Wait!" Nadia shouted, leaping forward and grabbing her arm.
"Clarke of Skaikru, Killer of Mountain Men. My people are eager to meet you."