I am the Commander.
I am the last Natblida. I am Heda, whether if the Coalition or my people accepts it or not. That fact remains true—and until they remove my flame from my neck and place it in another Commander when I am dead, I am their Heda.
I am the Commander, whether if my people want it to be or not. Chaos reigns outside while I am in my cell; the people, confused and fearful of what is to come. The Ambassadors, each seeking their own Natblidas, desperately trying to find alternatives for the benefit of their people. Myself, wondering if I should've stayed fallen, if my choice to escalate things further worsened them still, asking myself if it were the right decision at all.
But there is no time for regrets now. I made a promise; to fight for my people, and fight I will. For there is no turning back from this mess.
…
They want to find Luna.
Luna, the one that escaped the Conclave, to forcibly put my flame into. Luna, a Natblida gone so far away they couldn't possibly find; and even so no one would tell.
I wonder what the Coalition thought. What a choice it would've been, between a coward and a paraplegic?
…
They cast a vote of No-Confidence, after they take me out of my cell and don me in my Commander's attire and place my people's medallion on my head.
6-7. Skaikru. Trikru. Yujleda. Delfikru. Ouskejon Kru. Sankru. They all vouch for me—believe in me still, despite the war that I'd started once I decided to initiate Skaikru into the Coalition.
Or perhaps it wasn't. Perhaps they didn't believe in me, but believed I was best for their people—if the vote was successful, and I am dethroned, they will have no Natblida left. Perhaps a search party could be called, a search for Natblidas—but that itself could only be futile and buy us a moment in peace, before the growing tensions snap and all hell breaks loose.
13 wars between 13 Clans. A war no-one and nothing can stop. A war that stretches far and wide; a war within wars itself; a war with no end in sight. All for a thirst for power—the power a Commander has—a power a person has which is the only thing stopping a war.
It was why I formed a Coalition. When the only thing that maintains peace within your people is the presence of a Commander, what will be of them when the Commander is dead, and they decide that the Spirit of the Commander is a lie; that Natblidas should be no more?
Roan vouches for me.
Azgeda, the Ice Nation, the Nation that killed my beloved once and nearly twice again, vouches for my survival.
I meet with him, in my chambers, after the vote.
Peace is momentary, he tells me, once the doors shut and there is no one but me and him in my chamber. I can be a peacekipa; my presence can maintain basic peace between my people, but it does nothing to deter the tension or the unvoiced questions of my people. Of how worthy I am of the Heda's power. Of how I cannot fight—and how that reflects the stature of all the Clans, as a whole—paralysed, unable to defend themselves against the brewing war, discourse running within themselves. Of how anyone can challenge me, knowing that no-one fights for me— the only thing keeping them back my power, and the impressive echo that was once my reign, before the bullet hit my spine.
All this Roan tells me, and all this I know. He says I need to prove myself worthy—even if the only difference between my past and current rule was a bullet to the spine and none more, my people do not see it so. For if I am dead, or dethroned yet again, then chaos will reign between the 13 Clans, each in a war with each other in a tryst for desperate power.
And then he put a knife to my neck; and asked whether if I am their Commander. In response, I nodded towards his wrist, where my blade was stationed just under his nerve; where a even a nick would cause irreversible damage.
He sheathed his blade; but his point was proven. I can barely fight; his blade would've slit my neck long before the nerve damage would've set in. I am weak, and vulnerable to attacks, and that should not be the case for a Heda.
I have to learn to fight again.
…
Not all of them believe me a Commander. Some think I should've disappeared after my paralysis, and let Ontari command next. Some do not think I deserve to fall, and have a new Commander rise, and kill that new Commander again and thrust that power back to myself—some even call me a megalomaniac.
(And if I were to reignite my people's belief in me, what better than to stop a war?)
But I am here to do what has to be done—to clean up the mess that's been made by Ontari and Pike alike—to end a war that should have never started. Not for a thirst for power, nor it is for a desire to rule. It is to finish my mission—to unite the 13 Clans, a mission I promised Clarke once I initiated her clan into the Coalition.
And after that, they can thrust my flame into Luna or into Ontari's corpse or to some other Natblida for all I care—I am here to finish a war, not to create one between my people.
…
I call for a surrender. I send my messengers out; the past ones' deaths not forgotten on me, for these ones were clad with bulletproof armour, and were commanded not to approach the Skaikru until their guns were down and a weaponless negotiator was sent out to talk with them.
We will tighten the barricade one mile per day. No supplies were to be sent in or out—and if Skaikru has not surrendered Pike by the fifth day, we will charge and massacre all that is in there, to wipe out Skaikru once and for all.
Clarke tells me not to. It is her people, after all, that is being starved and forced to surrender. Neither do I want to kill the Skaikru; not just because of the resentment she would hold against me if I do, but because of the unnecessary deaths that will become of this needless war.
It is a test of wills. Mine against Pike's. I could only hope he couldn't tell I was bluffing.
…
He wants to kill his prisoners.
My people, my messengers say. If I do not call off the barricade and the impending war, then he will slaughter my people. One by one, a ritual execution, in front of my eyes.
Does he not know that this threat was a call for war in itself?
If I called off the barricade, he would have the land forever. He would trust in the fact that the Commander of the 13 Clans fears him, for he has her prisoners in stead, and with that fact he would continue to capture, to wage war, to kill—all without us stopping him, for fear he would kill those he captured, and would capture in the lands he took— if I didn't stop him.
My knuckles whiten at the thought. My hands shake as I grasp at my chair's armrests, trying to make sense of his threat. I have never been angrier in my life, not even when I learned 300 of my warriors were dead, not even when Titus defiled Costia's memory, not even when I found out I couldn't walk.
He would kill my people that only wanted to learn the ways of his, in a desperate attempt to continue his survival, in an attempt to wage futile war, all for the sake of spiting me.
Clarke tells me no. Tells me to call of the barricade in an attempt to save eighteen lives. Tells me she'll infiltrate and work with the spies she had on the inside to free those trapped. But I know that is impossible—the imprisoned was Pike's prize. His desperate last hope. There was no way we could even try to break into the holding cell, let alone have near a chance at freeing them.
I know it is impossible, but I let Clarke try, anyway.
Pike would never release the prisoners. They were as good as dead, once they were used as a hostage in Pike's plans. If I surrender, they would survive… but just surviving is not living in itself. And judging by the type of person Pike is, I don't doubt that death would be a mercy, from what my messengers tell me of the conditions they are in.
But by calling a war, I am deliberately killing my own; and it is not just them, but countless lives of my warriors and the innocent as well. I do not want a war; I long for an era of jus no drein jus daun, where blood must not have blood, where peace can reign for a better world. But we are far from it, and now I must decide.
Pike knows his odds to live through this war are next to impossible. He is desperate, and is willing to do what he must to live. Even through the calling of a war. Even through the needless slaughter of his prisoners that wanted nothing but a better life they thought they could find in the Skaikru.
I know some of them myself. Acher. Denae. Lincoln.
They had all wanted to live, and yet now they are only pawns in a plan they did not stand for. I hate it. I hate Pike with the flames of unabridged rage I once reserved for only the Ice Queen, and none more. He knows he cannot win, he knows I will not back away from the barricade for the sake of 18 lives, and he knows he has to die, and yet he tries this anyway. He kills 18 innocent lives just to spite me for the sake of his already-damned life.
Victory stands on the back of sacrifice.
Pike's desperate war will not stand.
I will remember their names, as heroes who had sacrificed themselves in a damned war. Lincoln. Denae. Charis. Rivo. Taruk. Cos… You will be remembered. All of you.
So I call off my messengers, and sound the war horn.
…
I meet with Pike, after he executes the eighteen in front of my eyes.
It was murder. Needless, desperate slaughter, all for the chance for his own life. And when Clarke comes back, after the execution's been done, I don't need to ask to know she'd witnessed it all as well— her eyes, too tired and weary for a day that was far too long.
We enter the Camp—me, Roan, Titus and Clarke, uninterrupted. A group of Skaikru form, murmurs of discontent within them, staring at my chair and my Commander's attire—and when I catch their gaze, quickly flittering to the whole of us. We are told to place our weapons outside, and I put my two twin blades on the rack, though a small knife, hidden from view, is stored in a compartment under the armrests of my wheelchair.
He greets Roan as the Commander, even though he flanks my side. And once he points at me, gestures that I am the real Commander, his eyes flitter from my chair to myself, and his jaw works, as if unsure whether or not to laugh.
His jaw stops once I nod at him, and closes once I move towards the table, and Roan pushes aside the chair that's been offered. My back aches, for the longevity I've been in my wheelchair hurts my spine— and I long for even simple exercise, a change in seats to place my mind aside from the nagging pain, but I don't tell him.
Disbelief. Surprise. Awe, perhaps. All evident on Pike's features, until I clear my throat and remind him why we were here.
''We are here to negotiate a surrender.'' I did not mention the war in the background that was brewing, if ends could not meet in our negotiation.
Pike laughs; hard, loud, sarcastically. Humour his defence mechanism; for if you imagined everything were a joke, why not laugh at it?
He does not want to die. That much is obvious. But if he were the leader of these people, then he should know of his sacrifice for his people once he was elected Chancellor and put on a medallion to prove it.
''Surrender yourself now, and we will ignore the eighteen you murdered, and reaccept Skaikru into the Coalition. Our rules and protection will apply to them like any other Clan. However, if you choose to resist, then we will raze your people to the ground. There will be no survivors. No Skaikru. Do you understand?''
He does not want to die. That much is obvious. And I tell him I will ignore the massacre he'd performed at two—but how could I ignore lives, human lives, my people's lives that were killed in a negotiation, all for the sought-after peace that was but a dream from War?
His jaw readies for a laugh again, but something I cannot decipher, something —understanding? Fear? Realisation—and horror? Acceptance?— something passes his eyes. And my eyes meet his, and I realise—he, like Clarke, was doing what he thought was best for his people—from the murder of 300 to the slaughter of 18 and capture of our camps alike. Not for war. Not for the sake of spite. And especially not for his survival; but for his people's lives.
Even if it is done in disastrous manners, manners that ensure war, all he does is— what he thinks — is for the good of his people. And that I can understand.
''5:00.'' I tell him, and I hope he understands.
For if he doesn't, and I am wrong, then there is a path of massacre and killing that will follow our footsteps to an end and a time when there will be war; of jus drein jus daun, whether necessary or not; whether if we want it, or not.
…
Clarke doesn't protest when my soldiers drag Pike in.
Doesn't protest when we check him for weapons and strip him of his armour; doesn't protest when we tell him of the terms of his surrender; doesn't protest when we tell him of his death; doesn't protest when I tell him how he will die.
Death by a thousand cuts. For the injustice he brought to my people; for the 300 dead, razed in a war that should've never happened; for my people he didn't spare in his camp; for being indirectly responsible for my own paralysis when he sounded a war horn I could not stop.
It's not personal. He has to be sacrificed to resume my power; the invincible, unquestioned Commander, one impervious to revolution or anarchy or war. And yet it feels so; for he has committed crimes against my people, crimes that stretch far and wide that I myself am affected as well.
(And although my people don't accept it; not yet; I am the rightful Commander of the 13 Clans, and Commanders should hold no bias with regards to punishment and death.)
Pike's eyes plead; for his survival, for his life. When he realises that I won't spare him mercy, his eyes flitter to Clarke's; and my heart speeds, for reasons I wish I could forget.
She is Wanheda. If she decides to spare him mercy, a death by a quick kiss of her blade, my people will feel insulted. Robbed of their chance for justice; and revenge. She has done it once; for Finn, her past lover; and it was only my command, my rule that quelled their desire for their rightful vengeance. But now, I am no longer the Commander my past self was. My kill order for Pike was there to provide closure to my people and those affected; and to show my power. Power which cannot be questioned; and if it were, even slightly, there will be war.
The Clans I fought so hard to join together will fight, for the Commander's power. There will be no more Natblidas; no more selectively-chosen rulers. They will clash; in a desire for rule. And that war I cannot stop.
Jus drain jus dun. Blood must have blood. It may be a way of the past, but an effective one at that; and one I cannot change, not right now, until the war is over and done and my people are proud.
Once Pike dies, the war will be over. And there will be no more needless slaughter or blood; not if I can help it.
…
He asks for Clarke.
Pike, the doomed leader of the Skaikru, asks for Clarke.
I don't check Clarke for knives when she leaves for Pike's cell. Nor do I station soldiers to escort her to his cell, or spies to listen into their conversation. It wasn't necessary.
She wants to save her people; and that sentiment I understand. But she should know, better than anyone, that some people were not worth saving—and how she could not save everyone, despite how much she may want to.
And if their deaths prevented the start of a new war, and paved a way for peace, then all the more well; for I cannot see a route which Pike survives and peace is brought abound our world; where Skaikru and our people coexist with no ill-will or intent, where there is no discourse or tension or the looming shadow of war.
I hope she makes the right decision, for all of us.
…
Pike is dead.
Officially dead in 2:00 at night, due to blood-loss caused by 2,307 cuts. Unofficially dead in 10:00 in the morning, survived 5,127 cuts and had to be killed by my blade, severing his aorta and cutting off blood flow, resulting in his death.
I suppose they could call it a mercy. I had witnessed the entire spectacle, from dusk till dawn, his execution positioned at the centre of Polis. My people had started slowly; cutting shallowly and steadily, to ensure his death was not too quickly done, to ensure his survival till the 1,000th cut; and basked in his moans of pain and the defeat in his posture. It is for justice; closure; revenge; but when I glance upon the crowd, each grasping their way towards the blade, hands stretching outwards as if wanting to taste their revenge in form of Pike's blood, taking turns slicing him and competing to see who could make him groan as if it were some blood sport, all I see is a lynch mob.
Clarke had made it 50 cuts in before she retired to her chamber. And after her leave, my people became even more so animated—the only thing, the presence of a Skaikru keeping them down now gone, they went even further with no end in sight. They had him stabbed; skinned; gouged and maimed, and took ''breaks'' where the healers would stitch his worst wounds. And once it was done, the fun would start all over again.
A few even asked me for the honour of stabbing him with not the ceremonial knife but with my own—the Heda's—blade, and even Indra questioned whether if I was going to leave my viewing balcony at Polis to torture him myself.
My people kept cutting, and planned for more—until I ended their joy once and for all. We kill for justice; for closure and revenge. And we instructed a death by a thousand cuts; and five times of that he received. We kill for revenge, for vengeance, to avenge the helpless he had felled. Not to fill sadistic impulses, not for death for the sake of it, not for blood, just because blood could be had.
I killed Pike. I could say it was a merciful death, and perhaps future tales of the unbidden war between the Skaikru and the Clans might; but I had let my people torture him, five times more than what was supposed, before I ended it once and for all.
His eyes were hollow; vacant once he saw the giddy sea of people part, empty when he saw me wheel through, unseeing when he heard my sword draw, unresponsive when I stabbed my blade into his still-beating heart. He was not afraid; nor was he grateful for my ''mercy''. He wasn't resigned, nor was he not fighting. He stared at me in the eye; a word from leader to leader, a message only I understood. His last words a croak, blood overrunning his lips; but his true ones I saw, from his eyes.
He was not sorry for the murder of my people. But he was sorry for the cold war it had caused—and the countless deaths it took, his side and mine alike. Neither of us wanted a war—officially not one but in our hearts it were— he understood that now. But too late he realised; and now, his sacrifice to end it for both sides, once and for all.
I would be lying if I said I didn't feel some sort of satisfaction at his death. But was it retribution, or plain and simple hate; revenge?
I didn't know. But he was dead anyway, and my people liberated among it.
…
I am Heda.
The Commander of the 13 Clans. Creator of the Coalition; beloved to Wanheda, the Commander of Death; my rule upheld by my people and their approval. I am Lexa kom Trikru, the rightful ruler of the 13 Clans.
They call me Enokomwor now. Ender of wars. I am hesitant to add it into my rooster of titles; for though I did stop an impending war, it was not without cost, nor was it by my own. And the wounds were still fresh, some I dare not think nor open for I had my people to think of, and I forbid myself to engross myself in my own, senseless problems in comparison to those on a grander scale, because I fear a downward spiral from then on out.
Though I have everything, from inconsequential titles to limitless power, I fear. I am scared for the future that is to come. Roan is right; peace is momentary. And though I pave a road for the betterment of us all, when will war find its way onto my shores? And what of the Commander that could not walk—that did not want to dwell on that fact that she couldn't, for fear of future hardships both personal and public that was to come?
It scares me. The future. But I am here now, so I shall celebrate the end of this one, and worry for the next tomorrow. It was not the end yet. But after the next war, and the one after that one still, it could be.
I would make it be.
