The tower wasn't quite right, it too was a poor imitation of how she remembered the weeks she spent there. The rain had given way to glorious sun and a deep warmth clung to the air and it mocked her, infuriated her even. She found herself waiting in the Heda's chamber, Ontari spoke quietly in Trigedasleng to her advisors, they looked at her with long aching glares, filled with disgust, but just as they had abided Lexa, they abided Ontari too. Now it was Clarke's turn to learn how to rise to such things.
"Wanheda," Ontari swiftly turned on her feet, dismissing her advisors. "Thank you for waiting."
"Thank you for hosting us." Clarke nodded with measure and restraint and took these things as permission to sit in her ambassador's chair once more.
"I imagine you think there is an underlying motive to my actions." Ontari sat herself down too.
"Oh, I know there is."
"You know nothing." Ontari leaned in and her voice was an angry dull tone.
"A woman who kills twelve children whilst they sleep doesn't invite someone like me to Polis without a good reason."
"And someone like you doesn't accept such invitation without a motive of your own." her back prickled. "We are one and the same, Clarke."
"You're a murderer, I'm nothing like you." she spat.
"How much blood stains your hands, Clarke? I ensured my seat, that much is true, but it was righteous. I rose to the task no one else was strong enough to do to ensure my people would have a strong leader in their darkest hour of need. You on the other hand, Wanheda, took the lives of many to save the lives of a few."
"Nice." Clarke laughed bitterly, she looked between the ceiling and throne and everywhere that wasn't an extension of this Commander, catching her breath, she blinked away any facet of emotion.
"Enough of these accusations." she sighed and felt a twinge of regret. Clarke shuffled in her chair, tapping her knee, waiting for it. "She loved you very much, Clarke."
"Don't you dare." Clarke shook. "You might have her memories, but you are not her, you never will be—"
"You're right, I'm not Aleksa nor would I want to be. I don't have her memories, Clarke. I just see what she shows me."
"And she's showing you she loved me?" Clarke's brow knitted and furled with confusion.
"No." Ontari whispered, quietly. The memories come to her like instincts, like a smell, there's sweet long drifting scents of Clarke's perfume and short sharp whiffs of good wine. "I see you standing on a balcony, it's raining, there's wine in her cup but she doesn't care much for it." she sighs and recalls what isn't hers. "She's too absorbed, too consumed listening to the way you speak. You're telling her the story of the thirteenth station, how it was blown out of the sky, how it united the other twelve, there was a survivor who made it to the Ark. Just one." Ontari shakes her head and closes her eyes, she was still acclimating to the noise in her head, the neverending mandala of memories that weren't her own. "She loved you, Clarke. Take my word for it." she tried.
"Whatever it is that AI is feeding you… it's wrong." Clarke clenched her jaw. Her back was wound straight, her body felt tight, her fingers twitched and somehow she held onto these little slights. "There were no survivors from the thirteenth station."
"That's not how the vision comes to me."
"If you think you're going to win me over by feeding me a few lines about how much she loved me then I overestimated your capabilities. Please, let's just move on to our business together, Heda."
"As you wish." Ontari conceded and leant further back into her chair.
"You told me there's a war coming, who with?"
"A silent enemy." the Heda tried, she knew these things would not be enough to satiate her, but she would give her the little she had. "She is dangerous Clarke, the one who burnt the world, the great deceiver, she is back and she's building an army within your walls."
"The nuclear war was over a hundred years ago, anyone who made it to the Ark back then is long dead and so are their children—"
"You misunderstand me, Clarke. She never left the Earth, she was dormant… and now she is not."
"How could you possibly know this? I am the only source of information the Grounders have ever had within the walls of Arkadia."
"My spirit senses it." Ontari looked her in the eyes, and they dilated and fixated and weighed her up the same way the last Commander's did and it unnerves her. "A darkness is coming, Clarke and it will use you and everyone you love to find the true Zion."
"You're talking about ALIE, aren't you?" a clarity washed over her. It was short lived. Ontari flew from her chair and her hand was wrapped around Clarke's lips, wild eyed, containing these things.
"We cannot talk freely, Clarke. She is listening." Ontari mouthed.
"Who?" she whispered, confused.
"We don't have time to explain, go back to your friends, try to act normal. If you do value your life, Clarke. Do not speak of our conversation to anyone."
He was supposed to stick with Octavia, supposed to play detective and tag along on whatever trouble the younger Blake could get them in. Those days were gone. Instead, he chose to right himself. Be a silent force wandering around the walls of the tower looking for something he wasn't sure he'd even recognise as significant. Clarke was with the Commander, Octavia was chasing after Indra, and so he ventured through different empty rooms as little more than a tourist.
This room was different to the others, maybe a temple, maybe a storage closet, there was trinkets everywhere and drawings on the walls.
"Who goes there?" a soft voice called from the shadows, disturbing his self-driven tour of the books on the table.
"No one." Jasper shrugged. He should have left, but his feet dance around on the spot and he's curious. "Maybe I'm lost."
"No one accidentally finds this room." she stepped out of a dark corner where she ministered over what might have been the oldest looking book he'd ever seen, leather bound, gigantic, important looking. Her English was good, her accent was slight and soft unlike the harsh tones the warriors used with one another. She was an educated woman.
"Yeah, well, I'm not from around here." he scratched the stubble on the side of his face.
"Neither am I... none of us are." she breezed past him like these many shades of grey were suddenly and simply black and white. "Like I said, nobody finds this room by accident." she said it again, and this time the light was more forgiving and he caught a better look at her face.
Her skin was caramel, a soft mix of mocha and cream, unlike the other grounders her skin was a unmarred and clean—along with the thick raven curls of her hair.
"Sounds like an important room." Jasper licked his lips nervously, he wasn't altogether sure why these things unnerved him. The tone of her voice and the way she handled the book itself reminded him of someone he once knew, someone long gone.
"You're one of them, aren't you?" her eyebrow raised and she leaned against the table. "Skaikru, no?"
"Yes." he nodded.
"You traveled a long way to accidentally find this room." her shoulders gave way to a soft chuckle.
"Who are you?" Jasper stepped forward, curiously.
"Gonkepa." she tapped the book.
"Librarian, makes sense." he chuckled to himself bitterly. "Of all the things I thought I would find here, a library?" his brows furrowed together and shook his head with disbelief.
"You thought us all savages?" her eyes focused in on him, and he felt a little guilty.
"No." he shook his head. "...Just the ones who left me and my friends to die inside the mountain."
"I'm sorry you hurt." she swallowed and nodded her head. "I see the losses, they're scattered around you, lives snuffed out too soon… you are their keeper."
"I'm no-one's keeper." he eyed her and suddenly felt the intrusive nature of these conversations. She was a stranger, little more, these facts disturbed the rhythm of their little chat and his feet grew antsy to leave. "I'm sorry I bothered you, I should find my friends."
"Like I said, no one finds this room by accident, Jasper kom skaikru. When you find what you're looking for, come back and see me." she smiled, and it was sad long thing that weighed heavy on her eyes. "I really am sorry for your pain."
Jasper shrugged it off and made headway to the door. It hit him, suddenly, a shiver crawled through him and he felt an anger grasp and tighten the muscles in his neck.
"How do you know my name?" he turned around as he stepped back into the corridor. She was gone, the book too. There was no back exit that he could see and light from the corridor diluted the dark corners of the room and left her with nowhere to hide. He doubted himself, felt his mind stumble over itself looking for an explanation.
"Jasper!" Murphy called to him from the far end of the corridor. He was carrying less than expected, a rucksack here and a few little bags there. He was dirty and tired, though that wasn't anything new. "Where are the others?" he walked towards him.
"Beats me." he answered hollowly.
"We should find Clarke; Pike knows were here in Polis. He's probably already got Kane, A few days and he'll be marching on the blockade to declare war."
"Am I supposed to care?" Jasper narrowed his eyes, grabbing a water canteen from Murphy's hip to drink thirstily. "I'm here as a spectator man, nothing more."
"Look, I'm not the hero type, I leave that shit for you and Bellamy Blake to handle. Moping around and being bitter is kind of my deal, you know?" he adjusted the bags on his shoulder. "Why don't we all just stick to what we're good at?"
"Murphy, you made it." Clarke appeared on the stairwell, she was flanked by guards, the fact that they answered to her and didn't lead her by chains meant that the meeting had gone better than anticipated.
"Barely." he bit, handing off some of the luggage to Jasper who took it unwillingly. "Pike knows we're missing, he's going to march on the blockade, Clarke. He thinks we're traitors."
"We are." Jasper glanced between them both like these things were simply black and white. "We left our people, our friends, back in that camp." he reasoned, and it was all true.
"Where is Octavia?" Clarke felt the stress wind her up.
"Here." Indra marched up the stairs from below with Octavia close on her heel. "There is much for us to do."
"It can wait." Clarke ordered, following the rest of the stairs onto the floor where everyone she had left now stood. "Tomorrow morning at breakfast we all need to slip away, quietly, and meet by the sign we past on our way into the city."
"I do not take orders from Skaikru pigs." Indra gnashed, her fingers tightening around the knurls of her staff.
"Pike knows we're here, that means he knows Kane is involved in this. Marcus has been good to you, you owe him your help." she stepped up.
"I owe that traitor nothing!" Indra barked and her voice carried.
"Fine! If not for Kane, then do it for your people! There is a war brewing, Indra. Bigger than Skaikru, bigger than the Mountain Men, the deceiver returns and is building an army." she gritted her teeth and talked in hushed tones.
"You are the only deceiver my people should fear." she shook and Clarke watched expertly for an attempt with the wooden staff. "I will have no part in this." she hissed with the last of her restraint, and with that she was gone, limping down the stairs with all the strength she had left.
"Do you think you can convince her?" Clarke glanced at Octavia. The youngest Blake watched the warrior walk away and every ounce of her wanted to follow. But she didn't. She stayed and she didn't know why but it had to count for something.
"She's not coming, Clarke. The best you can do is hope she doesn't tell anyone what you're planning."
"Then that'll have to be enough, as for the rest of you, are you in?" One by one, they all offered little nods. "Good," she nodded too. "That's good."
The bullets put down their front ranks and the battle is already lost before it's started. She runs, weaving in and out of her soldiers, shouting orders and calling for cover.
"Kill them all!" she demands and the betrayal is hot in her veins.
With each march, each step to the eastern most entrance of the camp, she sees the overwhelming loss around her and she's never seen a massacre like this. She glanced to her left, it was a mistake, she watched her warriors drag the youngest of their clan's seconds to safety. They were bloody and there was no hope for them, their short fight wasted on these ungrateful deceivers. Before she could shout commands, the warriors are put down too and their blood all puddles together and thickens the consistency of the wet mud beneath them and that is all they are good for now.
A flash of braids run pasts her, furious and ready, she's brandishing the weapon of the enemy and lets off careless shots towards the camp. Indra is faster, she disarms her, kicks her in the mud until they can lock eyes and Octavia is trembling.
"Why are your people doing this?" Indra seethes. Her blade pressed into her neck. She itches for this, her spirit begs for it, but she hesitates before she draws the final cut.
"They are not my people anymore." Octavia heaves, "I am your second, I am Trikru."
Her answer stalls Indra, forces her to pause. The girl had made her decision, chosen her alliance and now they would both stand behind it. "Then you will die like Trikru." Indra rises from the ground, tossing the gun to the floor and offers her a hand from the ground.
They fight on for pointless minutes, that's all it takes for only a tiny last few of them to be left standing. Octavia ran just a few steps in front and a stray bullet put her down, it cut through her, dropped her like a hunted animal.
"Octavia!" Indra yells and feels a sharp burn and then a heavy wetness on her shoulder. The same bullet tore through her too, caught her good arm and rendered it maim. She fell to her knees with the pain, but somehow she kept moving, she crawled and inched and dragged herself through the dirt towards her second.
"Indra, are you hit?" Octavia shouted from the ground, gasping for air. She was on her back, in a worse state than the older warrior and beyond the sharp pain in her shoulder, all Indra feels is the guilt of it all.
"You should have watched your centre, stupid girl." Indra shook her head, crawling to where Octavia lay. "Why didn't you watch your centre?" she frantically assessed the damage, pulled and ripped at her shirt, watched as the river fork opened at Octavia's gut and poured down her sides.
Octavia's eyes were soft and vacant, she stared at the sky, the clouds were beautiful. They were peaceful. It was astounding how different the sky could be; up there it was a sphere of pure blue and little more, from down here, it was fractals of blue and purple and pink and endless oranges. Maybe she was like the sky, maybe she could be entirely different too.
"I'm dying." Octavia blinked and whispered, she rolled her head and looked her warrior in the eyes. "This is it, isn't it?"
"You are not worthy enough to die on this battlefield." Indra snapped, pushing her hands down on the wound. "The healers will be here soon, a few stitches, that's all you need."
"Indra…" Octavia blinked and gasped.
"Hush now." Indra looked to the trees and blinked away her tears. The fire in her gut was put down and all that was left was a great smoke that billowed high within her, a dampness, an ache in her chest that consumed her from the inside out. She did her best to hide these things, hands pressed to Octavia's gut, in control of the uncontrollable.
"Thank you." Octavia mouthed, and there's red dribbling from the corner of her lip. "Up there—In the sky, I was no one. You made me someone important."
"You will not die, I will not allow it." Indra gritted her teeth and she hates herself for feeling this unimportant girl's death above that of her brothers in arms. But she does, and she's past denying it. "You elevated yourself, I was just here to guide it."
"You are the only person who's ever believed in me, you know?" her eyes water and she's clinging on for nothing.
"You were so much like her." Indra shakes her head in disbelief of it all. She would die here too, she decided these things, so she let down her guard just enough for the little humanity she had left to shine through.
"Her?"
"Someone special to me." Indra offered a little nod, and she feels the loss of her daughter fresh once again after all these years. "Foolish, brave girls." she swallowed and stroked her hair.
"Trust Clarke, she is the only one you can trust now." Octavia's breath hitches and the air can't quite catch up to the demands of her body and she's scared, it's palpable, she is in the hands of the spirit now.
"Go in peace, brave warrior." Indra nods and grasps her hand. "Yo gonplei ste odon, Octavia kom Trikru."
It's Bellamy who finds them. Octavia is on her back, eyes open and long gone, Indra is slumped next to her barely breathing herself. He falls to his knees and the sound that pours from his chest stirs her, like a wounded stag, a trapped bear. It's barely an iota of what they deserve but Indra takes pleasure in it; the last gift of Octavia Blake.
"She suffered, your bullet made sure of that." Indra eyed him, even in her last moments this was all warfare and she would reign supreme.
She sees it within him, the part of his soul that stretches and rips in two and she knows her death won't be as clean as Octavia's but she is a warrior above all else so she will suffer these things gladly.
"Did she say anything before she died?" Bellamy wept and pulled his little sister into his arms, she's limp and cold and these things will haunt him above all else.
"Yes." Indra nods, heaves, struggles for her breath. "And I will never tell you a single word of it." she raises her chin.
Indra awoke with a sweat, her shoulder burned from the bullet fragment still trapped in her nerve as it did most nights. She was shaky on her legs, but fresh air was a necessity so she stepped out of her door. It was barely dawn, but she was alive and Octavia was alive and these little things along with the fresh air were enough for now.
"Adonis..." she shook her head at the sky and hoped a sign of her presence would befall her. "Foolish, brave girl." she bit at her daughter's spirit and leant her weight on the wall with her good arm. Her and Octavia were alive, but there were some wounds that would never heal.