Fire crackled and burned, it's heat fierce in intensity. Smoke seemed to fill Clarke's nose with scents of death, of burning embers and ash. Something rough, something ragged scratched at her skin, and an ache, a burning sting and a pain ebbed and flowed with each beat of her heart.
Clarke's eyes opened to the dark of a room, to walls of wood, weathered, aged, scratched in places. Furs covered parts of the wall, their patterns magnificent. Tapestries lined the places not covered by the furs, and they depicted battles, they depicted scenes that Clarke was sure must have been fabled stories, histories, memories passed down from mother to daughter and father to son.
A quiet ringing echoed out around her, the motion slow, careful and gentle to her ears. It took Clarke only a moment longer to remember where she had been, what she had seen. And then she sat, she pushed herself up into a sitting position, and she couldn't help but to gasp out as an old wound stretched, as it seemed to reopen, and she grimaced as a muscle protested the motion.
That ringing stopped, and as Clarke blinked, as her eyes settled to the dimmed light, she found a fire that burned in a fireplace, its embers gentle, its flame happy to dance. Light flickered to and fro, the shadow it left behind lazy in motion. But Clarke's gaze landed on a girl who sat nearby. The girl had hair, brown and braided, its colour perhaps tinged with the barest hints of red. Her braids framed a face that still clung to a youthful roundness, but, Clarke was sure from the shadows cast across the girl's face, that she would one day have features as sharp and as cunning as an eagle. Her eyes, from what little glances Clarke could steal, seemed green, seemed emerald, piercing and vibrant in the orange glow of the fires.
The girl ran a whetstone across a small knife. Her fingers seemed sure, dextrous, certain of movement as she sharpened her blade. But the girl must have sensed Clarke's waking for she paused mid stroke, she looked up from where she sat in a small chair.
Clarke wasn't sure what to think, she wasn't even sure what to say as the girl placed the whetstone down on a table nearby. All she could really think of doing was swallowing past the lump in her throat borne from fear and apprehension, and from thirst and dehydration.
"You are awake," the girl said, and Clarke couldn't help but to think the girl's voice rich in timber, familiar in tone. "I will get nomon."
Perhaps it was the oddness of the situation, perhaps it was the way the girl seemed content in her company, or perhaps it was the fact that Clarke had lost track of how many days it had been since she left Camp Jaha, since she had eaten a full meal and had quenched her thirst fully. But she found herself unable to process what happened, unable to accept the things she saw.
And so Clarke stared wide-eyed, slack jawed, dumbfounded and densely as the girl waved, as the girl stood, tucked her knife into its place on her hip and then turned and took her leave through a door that swung open to reveal a larger room beyond the four walls Clarke found herself in.
Clarke listened to the girl's footsteps that faded away, that seemed to travel through what must be a small home tucked away in a quiet corner of the lands. She heard the girl call out though, and the sound seemed happy, seemed just a little excited. And so it didn't quite surprise Clarke when she heard a second pair of footsteps.
It only took another few short moments before the girl returned with the older woman in tow, but in that time Clarke took the chance to eye the room she was in once more, and she thought the furs and tapestries well loved, well used at times of cold. She thought the lightest of scratches in the chair the girl had sat in spoke of times long gone, of ancient moments shared between child and parent.
But Clarke also noticed a faint scent beginning to flow around her, something warm, something spiced, something that spoke of food. A shadow fell across Clarke's lap, and she looked back to the door with uncertainty from where she had propped herself up on the bed. Standing in the doorway stood that older woman, whose hair was fiercely braided, the colour a rich and deep brown and with the faintest traces of grey. The woman's eyes were as green as the girl's, yet Clarke saw a wisdom, a depth and a life far more ancient in them than that of the girl's youthful gaze. And Clarke was sure from the woman's face, from the sharpness of her jaw and the line of her nose, that the girl was the woman's daughter.
"You are awake," the woman said, and Clarke couldn't help but think the voice pulled at the corners of her mind ever so slightly.
"Where am I?" perhaps Clarke should have thought of something different to say. Or perhaps she could be forgiven, if only because the situation seemed so sudden, too sudden for her mind to really comprehend.
"You are safe," the girl said with a cheery smile as she stuck her head around the woman's waist only for her to be pushed back with a quiet scolding.
The woman took another step forward before sitting in the chair, the girl leant against the doorframe, and through it all, Clarke found herself unsure, uncertain and perhaps a little fearful of what was to come.
"Where am I?" Clarke asked again, and this time her voice seemed a little quieter, a little timid as she tried sitting up straighter only for her head to spin, for her muscles to protest the movement.
"In Trikru lands," the woman answered as she crossed her legs and levelled her chin, eyes hard and lips tight.
"I—" Clarke coughed, her throat scratched and raw.
The girl took a step forward though, hand outstretched and holding a small flask of drink that Clarke heard slosh. "Thank you," Clarke said as she reached forward and took the offered flask with unsure fingers.
It felt cool to the touch, its body a beaten metal, dented and full of life and scratches, and Clarke thought it beautiful, if only because it quenched her thirst as she brought it to her lips, it cooled her throat as she swallowed, and she groaned as she drank greedily.
A laugh seemed to fill the room then, or perhaps not a laugh, but a chuckle, something kind, something full of humour, and as Clarke pulled the flask away she found herself eyeing the woman once more, whose features seemed to have softened ever so slightly at the way Clarke had so desperately taken to the flask.
"Sorry," Clarke said, and she wiped the back of her hand across her mouth. "I didn't mean to drink it all."
"You were thirsty," the woman answered with a shrug.
"Thank you," Clarke said, and she found herself realising she must have stumbled upon a home hidden away from the world, perhaps a small village unknown to her, where people had tried to live far away from the Mountain.
But she couldn't help but to feel a little worry, if only because she knew not what these people, if there were others, would think of her, if they knew who she was, where she had come from or what she had done.
"Nessa," the woman said after a pause, and Clarke looked to the woman to see her staring intently at the girl. "Leave us, Nessa."
Clarke couldn't help but to find the childish frown that grew on the girl's face charming, disarming and youthful.
"But nomon, you sa—"
"Leave us, Nessa."
The girl muttered something, that from the woman's expression, Clarke thought was colourful in language and insult, but Clarke didn't think the woman cared, not much anyway.
"Forgive me," the woman said as the door closed behind her, and as the girl— Nessa— faded into the quiet of the noise that only just filtered in through the house. "Nessa is not used to seeing newcomers, she wished to be here when you woke," and the woman tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, she leant forward a little, and let her eyes peer up at Clarke with an odd intensity she found familiar.
"I—" but once more Clarke's words died in her throat for she was unsure of what to say. And she knew not if she should apologise for intruding, for wandering into these people's lives, or for saying thanks, for offering gratitude for being taken to a place, at least for a day, or however long it was since she had fainted. But as Clarke continued to think, as she continued to let her thoughts run through her mind, she found herself wondering, if just for a second, that she could be a prisoner, someone now held hostage, or perhaps she would simply be set free in moments to come, be set out into the world once more to wander, to travel lost and without aim and hope until whatever foolish fate awaited her.
"What is your name?" the woman's voice cut into her spiralling thoughts, and Clarke couldn't help but to startle, to think the voice odd, rich, too familiar.
"Clarke," and she wondered if the woman had heard of her people, of those that had come to the ground in a ball of fire.
"You are with Skaikru?" that was answer enough.
"Yes," Clarke said with an uncertain nodding of her head.
"I know who you are," the woman said, and at that Clarke couldn't help but to feel the fear spike ever so gently. "You are the one who led your people in battle."
"I did," and Clarke wondered if the woman knew of what had happened in the Mountain, of what had happened when Lexa, whose name now boiled Clarke's blood, had left her alone, had betrayed her, stabbed her in the back and left her broken.
"Are you lost?"
And she was, but she didn't know whether she wished to explain, to face the things she had done.
"No," Clarke lied, but from the way the woman's eyes softened just a little, and from the way a smirk played across her lips, Clarke knew the woman read the lie.
"Ok," and the woman leant back in her chair. "Do not worry," and she gestured around herself. "It is not often we have the company of others, so it will be good for Nessa to have someone else to talk with." Clarke couldn't help but to do much more than blink owlishly, to not quite let the words sink in. "Now rest, Klark," the woman said, and she couldn't help but to think the way the woman's tongue clicked her name out just a little too familiar. "You must heal," and with that the woman stood.
"Thank you," but Clarke paused, for she found herself unsure of what to call the woman, but she remembered Nessa calling out, she remembered her protests, and so Clarke settled for a stab in the dark, however blindly it would be. "Thank you, Nomon," and she knew her words came out as much question as thanks.
But Clarke knew she had guessed wrong when the woman smiled, laughed, and shook her head. "No," and the corners of her eyes crinkled enough to speak of a life of laughter, of pains, memories and love. "Nomon means mother," and Clarke couldn't even try to deny that her cheeks reddened, that her ears burned. "My name is Alexandria," and she turned for the door. "Now sleep, rest. We will wake you when food is ready."
Clarke dreamt of fires, of burning heat that graced her body, that bathed her in a flame that licked at her flesh, that bubbled her mind and twisted her body. She dreamt of pain, she dreamt of agony, of dreams that were broken, shattered, laid to waste at her feet. But, in the corners of her mind, where her thoughts never dared travel, she knew something soft lingered, something gentle, something kind, something that had once given her pause, had once calmed the raging of her life, had made her hope for a life not so full of anguish, of frustrations and fear and desperation and ag—
A hand gripped her shoulder, it shook her awake and Clarke bolted up, looked around herself wildly, frantically.
The dark of a night had settled its way through the small room, the furs and tapestries upon the walls seemed more dull, and a lone candle burned atop the small table beside the chair, its flame flickered and danced and cast a shadow across every surface.
A squeeze was felt on her shoulder again, and Clarke let her gaze settle onto the presence by her side.
Nessa sat on her heels, the girl leaning back just a little as uncertainty filled her eyes, but her hand remained on Clarke's shoulder, her eyes were wide, and Clarke couldn't help but to think an innocence still strived for its rightful place upon the girl's face, despite the depths of life that could be seen within green eyes.
"Dinner is ready," Nessa whispered. "Nomon said to let you sleep, but I thought you would be hungry," she continued as she reached back and took hold of a small bowl, its content steaming broth and roasted meats and vegetables.
"How long was I asleep?" Clarke asked as she took the bowl.
"Long," Nessa shrugged. "It is dark now."
"Thank you," Clarke said as she took hold of a spoon and pulled it through the broth and let the scents fill her nose.
"Nomon says you should eat slowly," Nessa continued. "She said you had not eaten for a long time, and that it would be better if you are careful," she finished as she bit her lip and eyed whatever state Clarke was sure she was in.
"Thank you, Nessa," Clarke said, and she couldn't help but to smile just a little at the way Nessa seemed bashful.
"Nomon says you came from the sky," Nessa continued as she sat in the chair and let her eyes wander over Clarke's body, over her clothes, torn and still dirtied.
"I did," Clarke said, and she wondered how much Nessa knew, how much she was aware of.
"Have you met the Commander?" Nessa asked, "did you meet her?" and Nessa's eyes seemed wider now, seemed eager. "She was there at the battle of the Mountain."
And Clarke felt the flickering of anger beginning to build, beginning to take hold, but she couldn't help but to try, at least partially, to stamp it down, to control it. If only because Nessa was, and must be innocent from all the wrongs Clarke felt she had faced.
"She was there," and Clarke couldn't help but to think Nessa mimicked Lexa in the way she sat up, levelled her chin and let her face smooth.
"The Commander is—"
"Nessa," the girl's eyes widened and she turned in her chair to find Alexandria standing in the doorway, one of the woman's eyebrows raised, and a hand on her hip. "Did I not tell you to leave Klark be?" Alexandria continued more gently, her tone soft now, caring, but still filled with reprimand.
"Yes, nomon," Nessa said, her tone just a little exasperated, and Clarke felt the corners of her lips twitch up just barely.
"Now go," Alexandria said as she stepped forward and pulled Nessa from the chair gently. "Leave Klark be. I must talk with her."
And so Clarke watched as Nessa looked over her shoulder, smiled and waved a quick motion before she ducked out of the room and let the door close behind her with a quiet creak and thud.
"You must forgive Nessa again," Alexandria said. "She is excited to meet a member of Skaikru," she continued as she came to sit in the chair. "She has only ever heard of you and your people from the few whose paths we have crossed."
"It's ok," Clarke said as she sat more fully and swung her legs over the side of the bed, the barest hints of distaste the only thing she let show as she gazed upon the dirt covering her pants.
But Alexandria must have seen where her gaze was directed, "I will get you new clothes," and she turned and ducked out the door quietly, and Clarke peered out the crack in an attempt to see others, to see if she stayed in a village, if people moved about, or even to confirm if she was truely free to leave. But all she saw was Nessa's face that smiled back through the crack with a toothy grin.
And so Clarke was left alone for yet another few short moments, she looked down to the bowl, and she felt her stomach grumble, she felt the hunger beginning to really take hold.
And it hadn't been a conscious decision, something planned or decided upon, but she thought that if she took a bite, if she let herself satisfy her hunger then she would be, in some way, giving up too easily, accepting help before she had suffered as much punishment she thought she should have suffered.
But, she thought it couldn't hurt. Not as much as her mind hurt.
And so Clarke brought the spoon to her lips, let the heat wash across her face, and she took a careful bite. Meat gave way for her teeth, roots, tree-borne vegetables or berries all mixed together with the spices and pulled a groan from her with ease.
Clarke ate quickly, she ate fully, she let her hunger take hold, and she didn't quite care for the dangers of filling her stomach too quickly, and she thought that whatever problems were to arise just another way for her to feel the pain of her victims.
Her door opened once more, and she looked up to see Alexandria standing before her, a small bundle in her arms, head cocked to the side as she eyed Clarke. It lasted only a moment before Alexandria took another step forward with a shrug and sat the bundle down on the table before turning to face her.
"They may not fit exactly," Alexandria said. "But they are the closest to your size that I have," and she smiled warmly as she leant her hip against the table edge and crossed her arms.
Clarke stood from the bed, placed the bowl down on the table, her motions a little unsure, but she found herself reaching for the clothes, the furs and leathers that seemed well-worn, cared for and used. And perhaps it was the fact that she had found herself already thinking of staying if it was offered, that she would take this opportunity to steal away whatever life she could until the offer had run dry. Or perhaps it was simply because she was afraid.
"I—" but the words died in her throat, and she was unsure of what to say, what she could say.
"You do not need to say anything, Klark," Alexandria said, and she smiled, it crinkled the corners of her eyes, and it seemed genuine.
"Thank you," and Clarke thought she understood the unspoken offer, the unspoken hand that was held out to her in the moment, free of judgement.
"Now come, Klark," Alexandria said, "we must get you clean."
And so Clarke looked down at herself for long enough for a disgust to fill her mind at the state of her clothes and body, but she found herself following shakily as Alexandria moved to the door and held it open for her.
"Where am I?" Clarke asked again as she snatched the bundle of clothes from the table, and she knew her tone to be careful, unsure if the question would cause offence, or would be seen as intruding. "Are there other people here?" and she couldn't help but to ask, if only because she had seen no one, had heard no one other than Nessa and Alexandria.
"We live alone," Alexandria answered as she moved ahead, Clarke quick to fall into unstable step behind her.
And from her tone, from the slightest hints of tightness in her voice, Clarke was sure the Alexandria wished not to expand, wished not to delve too deeply into the why.
Clarke looked around the larger room she walked through, this one a living room, quarters where life would happen. A table dominated its centre, a bowl of fruits lay atop. Furs and tapestries adorned the walls much like they had done in the room she had woken in. But Clarke saw weapon's, too. A bow and quiver of arrows, a sword and a knife all lay atop the table, each weapon's edge sharp, point dangerous and glinting in the little candle light that echoed out around her. A large couch of sorts, fur draped and grand sat pressed against the far side of the room.
But once more Clarke had little time to think over what had been said and what she saw because she came to a door that opened with a gentle push of Alexandria's hand. This room had hidden away what must have been a wash room, for a large wash basin sat in its centre, the metal of its body brass, beaten, dented in places, scratched in others, burnished and glowing warmly to even more candles that flickered and danced around the room. A gentle fire, more ember and coal than flame burned underneath the wash basin, and steam rose, danced, hovered in the air.
Clarke looked to Alexandria to find the her taking a step back, eyes just once casting a watchful eye over the wash room.
"Take your time," Alexandria said as she reached out for the door handle. "Nessa will not disturb you," she added with a smile.
And not for the first time Clarke couldn't help but to think the offer strange, too freely given, too kind. But she couldn't quite care, couldn't quite deny the allure, couldn't hold back her bodily aches any longer. And so she did little more than smile awkwardly, nod her head and wait until Alexandria had closed the door before turning to the wash basin.
Clarke undressed stiffly, her nose turning up to the grime stuck to her clothes. It didn't take her long until she stood naked in the wash room. Skin prickled just barely to the cold, but it was soon chased away by the heat of the steam that misted her vision, that had seemed to find purchase within every little corner to be found. She took a step towards the wash basin, enough that she could feel the heat from the flames. She peered down, she let her gaze settle upon the water that seemed milky, that seemed spiced, full of a kind of natural soap, and she thought it so far removed from even a day before, so very different to what she had been living for countless days.
But she saw her reflection, too. And what she saw disgusted her, made her stomach twist, made her mind scream in agony.
And so she did the only thing she thought made sense, she took a step forward, let her foot dip into the water and she let the ripples break her reflection lest it pull her deeper and deeper.
The water was hot, it was close to uncomfortable, hot enough that it stole her breath, broke her revelry and made her think of things she wished not to think of. But perhaps she should embrace the pain, embrace the guilt, let it wash over her.
She dipped herself further into the water, she let herself stand in its heat, and she took just one more breath before she let herself ease into its searing embrace. The water lapped at her flesh, curved around her body, seemed to laugh at the way her ribs seemed too exposed, to the way her chest seemed smaller, seemed more frail, and she whimpered as she let her back touch the heat of the wash basin, as she let it sting into the very fibres of her body.
And she imagined the water that touched her chin, that lapped at her jaw, that threatened to glide past her mouth, that threatened to smother her nose, was a fire, was a flame, was air, acid fog and putrid rain.
And she did so for she thought it the only thing she could do to feel even the tiniest semblance of the pain and agony her victims had experienced.
And so it didn't quite surprise Clarke when she felt tears begin to fall. It didn't surprise her as she felt her shoulders shake, and it didn't surprise her when she realised she cried in a stranger's bath, in a stranger's home, in a stranger's land so very far from anyone she had ever known.