Smoke rises into the sky, the smell of death, charred bodies and plants fills the air, and as Lexa takes in a shallow breath she feels the tingling of her skin and the sweat that drips down her forehead. She never finds it comfortable just how eerily quiet the forest becomes after tech is used. But even now, long after that echoing boom had crashed through the forest, the bird call remains quiet and land animals that would once have scampered through bush and thicket, remain still.
Lexa stands in what must have been a campsite, for supplies lay scattered about, leathers and furs, wood frames of tents, even chests with personal belongings all seem to have been thrown with such force as to render them completely destroyed. Small fires smoulder and burn in patches, their heat contained to just a few small patches of slowly charring grass and bush. Metal shards lie scattered about, their edges torn and ripped and mangled.
But what draws Lexa's attention the most are the bodies that lie in pieces on the ground, some maimed almost beyond recognition, others almost peaceful in death, the only sign of disturbance being the lifeless eyes that stare out into nothing.
And she recognises the destruction for what it is, and she knows tech is behind this, she knows it can not be a coincidence, not with the things she has been told, not with the things that have happened.
A handmaiden crouches down then, the woman's hand reaching out for a body that lies at her feet, whose limbs are broken, cracked open to the air, whose blood and organs spill out from wounds too ghastly for Lexa to look upon for longer than a few moments.
"Heda," the woman says, and Lexa's eyes narrow as the handmaiden brushes across the person's face as a ragged, broken, helpless breath to escape past grotesquely charred lips. "This man is not dead."
And Lexa forces herself to look at the man, whose eyes seem sightless, white and boiled over from whatever searing heat washed across his face, but Lexa sees his throat moving ever so slightly as he fights for breath, she sees his torn lips that reveal blackened gums quivering and she knows death soon to come.
"Heda," and Lexa looks to Jass who approaches her, the woman's hands holding broken tech, the remains surely still hot to the touch by the way Jass cradles it in furs found on the ground. "This is tech," Jass continues. "From their supplies," and she gestures to a torn crate.
Lexa takes in a deep breath, she holds it for a moment before releasing, and in the time that takes, she thinks over the things she knows, and she wonders just how much of this she will keep secret from most, she wonders who she will keep it from, and she thinks over what Clarke will say when they reunite, what Clarke must have discovered on her return from Azgeda, for surely her delayed return is due to the same problems she finds herself facing.
But she pushes aside those worries for now, if only because she knows she can only deal with what is in front of her right now.
And so Lexa lets out the breath as she kneels down beside the dying man, whose breathing seems more ragged and broken, whose sightless eyes are boiled over, charred and seared a ghastly white.
"Your fight is over," Lexa says as she pulls a knife from her belt and slides it into his chest. And the motion comes almost automatically, the taking of another life not unfamiliar to her.
Lexa stands, discards the man's death as yet another thing to weigh upon her sleeping conscience, and as she does those around her stand, they look out around themselves once more and Lexa knows she will need to discuss what has happened with Gustus when she returns.
"Gather any tech you can find," Lexa says. "Gather the bodies and burn them," and Lexa thinks it just a little odd that these warriors, these people who lie dead at her feet have no discernible clan markings, have seemingly discarded their origins for some shared belief that revolves around tech that she can't quite grasp in the mome—
A handmaiden by the clearing's edge whistles, the sound low, quiet, loud enough for all to hear. Her bow raises, arrow knocked and point glinting in what little of the sun makes it through to the forest floor. Those around Lexa snap around to the sound, some move close to her, one even stands in front and crouches low, her body placed close enough to shield, her crouch low enough for Lexa to still see over her.
They wait, Lexa's ears strain to pick up any little sound, and she thinks she heard whatever it was, she is certain her handmaiden would not have mistaken the sound for something as simple as forest life.
And perhaps it's the fact that no sound follows, perhaps it's the fact that she stands in an open clearing, but Lexa's skin crawls, she thinks someone wishes not to be found, not to be discovered, and she is sure whoever it is must in some way be connected to the dead that now lie upon the forest floor, to the broken pieces of tech, to the destruction caused by what must be Mountain Man weapons.
"Come," Lexa says quietly, low enough that she knows only her handmaidens will hear, and she looks out and into the trees. "Burn the bodies, gather any tech that remains."
And so Lexa looks around just once more in feigned search, shakes her head and shrugs, if only for whoever it is that watches. As the handmaidens begin to react to her orders, she makes a mental note to send one or two out when it is dark, to trace their steps, to track whoever it is that wishes to remain hidden.
Ilian tries to tame his breathing, tries to tame the throbbing in his side and the slight ringing that echoes in his ears. The explosion had caught him by surprise, it had startled, shocked, scared the spirits out of him.
But none of that mattered. Not now when Hepoli lies in pieces on the ground, her face unrecognisable, her last experience, he is sure, being the pain and shock and fear that must have flashed through her mind for that one split second before she was torn to pieces. He hardly recognises the others, too, those he has known for years, some for only a few short weeks. But they knew the risks just as he knew them.
And perhaps it was foolish to try to experiment, perhaps it was foolish to think nothing would happen. But it did, and now, as he crouches low in the forest, he can't help but to curse the blood slowly seeping out from where a piece of metal had just barely sliced through the flesh of his hip.
The arrival of the others surprises him too, and at first he isn't so sure who they were, isn't so sure who they could be to have arrived at the scene so quickly, but it becomes clear as the first slips into the light.
He recognises the handmaidens, any who has spent time in Polis would recognise them, and he is sure even those who have never set foot within Polis' city walls would recognise them from the clothes they wear, from the way they move with a distinct purpose.
He eyes one handmaiden, a small animal slung across her shoulders, and Ilian thinks it odd that they would hunt in such large numbers, would dare to venture out and leave Heda with so few to guard her or to do her bidding. But Ilian's gaze is drawn to another handmaiden who stands in the centre of them, who eyes a piece of tech and who talks to another, and at first Ilian thinks her oddly familiar, at first he thinks he has seen her before, but he can't quite put his finger on it.
Maybe it's the shock of the explosion, of losing friends who just that morning had laughed with him, perhaps it's even the fact that his body aches and his ears ring, but it dawns on him slowly, and as he takes in the green of her eyes, he finds himself smiling, if only slightly at the realisation that Heda has left Polis, has seemingly gone on a hunt, to relieve whatever stresses the ambassadors bring her with each new day. He can't blame her, too, not when he, himself, spends far too much time guarding Elios and attending far too many meetings.
Ilian doesn't quite realise it at first, but as the handmaidens begin to move, as they begin to shift around Heda, he recognises the alertness on their faces and he knows they must sense his presence, and so he lets his breath even out as quietly as possible, he tries not to move, and he relaxes into the dirt and the shadow of the bush he crouches beside.
And through it all, he tries to settle the loss he feels, the hurt, the anger and the frustrations that seem to constantly be bubbling to the surface with each passing day.
Clarke's steps echo out around her. Behind her trail a row of Azgeda warriors, each one well armed, ready and threatening in posture. She doesn't blame those from Skaikru who seem to take precaution and step aside, she doesn't blame those who look on with guarded curiosity and she doesn't even blame the other clan's warriors who mingle within Arkadia's walls. But though she doesn't blame, she can't help but to feel just a little annoyance at the lack of respect she sees in some eyes, and perhaps in some more hostile warriors she is sure she sees hostility. And yet she dismisses each thing with a rolling of her eyes.
Abby walks beside her, the doctor eyeing a chart in her hands before looking back to her.
"Remember," Abby continues, "the prisoner's bandages will need to be changed often to keep the chance of infection down," and Clarke doesn't miss the slight scoff from one of the Azgeda behind her who hears Abby's words.
"I know," Clarke says and she doesn't mind her mother's fretting, if only because it helps her to remember the times less fraught with danger, with violence and responsibility. "And I know what you're going to say," Clarke finishes with a smile.
"And what is that, Clarke?" Abby asks.
"You're going to ask if we really need to move her," and Clarke sees Abby's lips tighten just a little as she looks away.
"I know," Abby sighs. "I know you have to take her to Polis," and Clarke doesn't even blame her mother for wanting what is best for Teben, if only from the perspective of a healer.
"She'll be ok as long as she doesn't do anything stupid," Clarke says.
"I know," Abby says with a weary shaking of her head.
They both turn a corner then, and Clarke sees Costia and Anya standing by the closed doors to the brig, both women in hushed conversation, and Clarke is sure she sees Costia's gaze move up and over her shoulder and to Ontari who trails Clarke closely.
"You'll visit Polis," Clarke says then, and she reaches out, grasps her mother's wrist gently as she pulls them both aside as the other Azgeda move past, Torvun quick to give her a questioning look only for her to wave him off with a reassuring smile. "When all this blows over, I want you to come," Clarke says.
"I already visit weekly," Abby says. "I have the clinic there."
"Take a break," Clarke counters with a quick shake of her head. And though Clarke thinks she will never forgive her mother for what she had done to her father, though she thinks it will always burn, always sting in the corners of her mind, she finds herself willing to accept why her mother did what she had done, she thinks she even understands, can in some sick way even empathise with the decision that was taken. And so Clarke thinks it important to reach out with every chance she can take, if only because she knows healing will only happen if an effort is made.
Abby seems to understand what Clarke offers though, for she pauses, looks away and then bites her lip as she turns back to her daughter.
"Ok," and Abby twists her wrist enough that she can grasp Clarke's hand and squeeze.
"Good," Clarke says, and she smiles, nods her head away and back to where they had come from. "I can take it from here," Clarke continues.
And so Abby smiles once more, squeezes her hand and then turns to leave with just one wary glance to Teben who watches those that stand outside the brig.
Clarke waits until her mother turns the corridor of the hallway before she turns back to the brig's entrance, to Anya and to her Azgeda warriors who stand by. She even notices Costia and Ontari in quiet conversation now.
"Clarke," Anya says simply, arms crossed and eyebrow raised just barely.
"Anya," Clarke says as she nods her head before smiling to Costia, "Costia."
Costia returns her greeting with a small smile, and it isn't lost on Clarke that Costia seems to always be warmer towards her, and she thinks it because of their shared connection with Lexa, she even thinks it because Costia seems to be a much warmer person than Anya. Clarke is even sure Anya tolerates her, just barely, and mostly because she is sure Lexa has told her to do so.
"We're taking the prisoner to Polis with us," Clarke says and she gestures to Teben. "She is Azgeda's prisoner, we have a claim to her life," and Clarke doesn't miss the way Anya takes her measure for a brief second before looking to the Azgeda warriors behind her, to Torvun who stands close by.
"Ok," Anya says. "We will accompany you to Polis," and Clarke didn't think Anya would have left them to travel alone, no matter how close their clans have slowly been growing since the Mountain's fall.
"Cool," and Clarke smiles as she steps forward and towards the brig's door. "I'm going to check on Teben then we can get out of here."
And so Anya nods, falls aside and seems content to watch and to take in all that happens around her. Clarke feels Teben's gaze move to her though, and as Clarke looks through the windowed doors that separate them, she is sure she sees an uncertainty in the woman's eyes.
The doors open with a quiet hissing before they come to a stop with a thunk, and as Clarke steps through she feels Entani and Torvun step forward with her, Ontari happy to stand at the door's threshold, her presence not so needed in the moment.
"I am being moved?" Teben asks, and Clarke eyes the bandage across the woman's forearm, to the fresh blood that seems to not be so fully dried.
"Yeah," Clarke answers as Entani steps forward, healer's pack in her arms as she comes to kneel beside Teben. "We're changing your bandage first," Clarke finishes, and she is sure Entani moves just a little more roughly than she needs as she begins to unwrap Teben's wound.
Teben whimpers slightly then, and Clarke eyes the redness of the wound, of its edges that seem a little inflamed, the stitching surely itching and a nuisance.
"Are you thirsty?" Clarke asks.
Teben meets her gaze then, and Clarke is sure the woman doesn't trust her fully, she even thinks Teben suspects her kindness, or perhaps it's a lack of open hostility, is nothing but a ruse to lull her into a false sense of calm.
"It's not a trick," Clarke says simply. "We're going to be moving quickly. You either drink now, or you don't until we make camp," she says. "No one is going to help you until then," and Clarke shrugs. "If you aren't thirsty that's fine by m—"
"Yes," Teben says, and Clarke sees her look to Torvun who must be staring at her intently before back to her. "Please," and Teben shrugs, the motion the only thing she can really do in her captive state.
"Torvun," Clarke says, and she hears Torvun step forward, large hand coming into her vision as he holds a flask to Teben's lips. Through it all Clarke never takes her eyes from Teben, and she watches as Teben takes a nervous gulp before leaning into it, seems to embrace whatever kindness is being shown, and perhaps for a moment Clarke thinks she sees in Teben's eyes the thought that this might be another game, another ploy, something that is merely a sign that the pain may soon come, that Azgeda's reputation for violence will soon be experienced.
"Thank you," Teben says, and to Clarke it seems tinged with a sadness, perhaps even a hollow regret and acceptance that asking for the bare necessities is now fraught with distrust and wariness.
"I told you, Teben," Clarke says, and Teben looks at her. "If you answer our questions we'll treat you well," but Clarke pauses. "Or better than we would."
"I know," and Teben licks her lip as if in chase of another taste of the cool water in the flask.
But Clarke stands, gestures behind her for Azgeda warriors to step forward, and it doesn't surprise her to see Jenma and Leeton step forward, both women's faces painted a deathly white, the eyes blackened a ghastly grey that seems to bleed down and into their flesh.
Teben's eyes widen just a moment at their sudden appearance, and Clarke thinks the stunt works for Teben flinches away from them, seems to shy away.
"Get her up," Clarke says. "We're moving."
The morning is crisp, the air cool, the sun's light not quite so awake yet. Clarke takes in a deep breath as she lets the cool of the air wrap her body, and as she does so she imagines that each inhale fills her lungs with a calm.
And she isn't so sure why she does so, perhaps it is because she knows her time away from the ambassadors is soon to end, perhaps she does so in the hope that when she returns to Polis she won't have to argue for Azgeda's position anymore than normal, that she won't have to come up with reason and explanation for every little thing she negotiates for on behalf of Azgeda. Or perhaps it is simple because she feels a tingling in her fingertips, and she thinks it an anticipation, an eagerness to be reunited with Lexa. But that will have to wait. At least for the next few days during their voyage.
"Clarke," she hears her name called, and as she turns from her horse she finds Abby walking her way, Bellamy in tow, rifle slung over his shoulder, his expression easy as he nods to those he passes that he recognises.
"Hey," and Clarke runs a hand across her horse's neck before stepping towards her mother.
Abby looks past her and to Teben who sits atop a horse, her arms tied together in front of her, another rope wrapped around her torso to keep her mounted atop the horse stiffly.
"Do you have a radio?" Abby asks, her voice a little more quiet.
"Yeah," and Clarke always keeps one close by, and she is sure others would frown on Azgeda having more than the other clans, but she thinks it a simple perk of being both partly Azgeda and a former member of Skaikru.
"Good," and Abby looks away before she steps a little closer. "It's not urgent," and Abby sighs before rubbing a hand across her face. "But with everything you've said," and she gestures around them and to the Azgeda warriors, some already on horseback, others in the last stages of preparing for the journey. "Our scouting parties," Abby continues. "One hasn't checked in yet," and Clarke sees her mother's gaze harden. "They sometimes get lost, forgot to check in," and Clarke winces just a little, if only because she knows it must be annoying for scouting parties to go without contacting others for longer periods of time than usual. "But one hasn't checked in this morning," Abby says. "Bellamy's about to go out, look for them, but I thought you'd like to know," Abby finishes with an awkward shrug. "I'll keep you informed with the radios."
"Thank you," Clarke says, and she wonders if this is yet another small sign that things are connected, that whatever it is that happens is part of a larger ploy, of some foolish person's attempt to disrupt Azgeda, to throw the Coalition into chaos yet again.
She hopes not.
The journey to Polis goes by with little fanfare or disruption. Perhaps Clarke expects things to be less smooth than they are, perhaps she even expects to be attacked, to be ambushed by warriors whose use of tech leaves them as equally dangerous as they are pathetic. But none of that happens, and with each passing hour, she finds herself growing more and more restless for she can't quite put her finger on the why of the things happening.
Even her mother radios her on the second day to say that the missing scouting party had simply become lost after crossing a river at a bend too far south than they were supposed to, and with that Clarke can't even help but to think that Skaikru are no threat, not when they seem so oblivious to the ground even with the help of tech.
And yet, she still thinks things are moving below the surface. Or perhaps she thinks herself too paranoid, too prone to falling into the trap of thinking the world is out to get her.
"Clarke," she blinks back the surprise as she feels someone sit beside her on the fallen tree.
"Hey," Clarke says as Ontari yawns, passes her a bowl of steaming broth.
"Entani is out hunting with Leeton and Jenma," Ontari says, and Clarke nods for a moment as she mixes the broth with a wooden spoon before taking a small bite.
"No Bronat?" Clarke asks, and she looks around for the man who so often seems to think things are funnier than they are.
"Jenma told him to watch the prisoner tonight," Ontari answers, and Clarke can't help but to think that in a punishment for something he must have done earlier.
"I see," and Clarke smiles as she leans back against a large protruding branch.
But her gaze lands upon the Trikru warriors who accompany them, and she finds herself eyeing Octavia and Lincoln who both sit by a fire with a few she recognises, but can't quite put a name to, she sees Anya in hushed conversation with Indra, the gist of which she is sure is to do with Teben, to their worries, or perhaps something entirely different. But perhaps Clarke finds Costia's lack of of presence unusual, if only because she often sees the woman ghosting Anya's footsteps almost always.
"Costia," Clarke begins and she sees Ontari pause midway to bringing her spoon to her lips at the woman's mention.
"Yes," Ontari says, her nonchalance not lost on Clarke. "Costia."
"She's usually out with the others," Clarke says as she lifts her chin in the direction of Anya and the others. "Where is she?" Clarke asks, but she thinks she knows already.
"Sleeping," Ontari says simply.
"In her tent or ours?" and Clarke can't help but to laugh just a little at the face Ontari makes at that.
"In her tent," and Ontari scoffs before continuing to eat.
"You aren't with her?" Clarke asks, and she tries to make her voice as light as possible, if only because she doesn't want Ontari to think she pries, that she doesn't approve, but Clarke can't quite blame herself for being just a little curious to the dynamic she senses between both women.
"I was," Ontari says. "And now I am hungry."
"I see," Clarke says, and she looks up to the sound of a birdcall, the sound enough to let her know that a scouting party arrives, that it is friend and not foe that moves in the forests nearby.
"Yes," Ontari says as she brings the furs of her collar a little more close to her face as a breeze ruffles both their hairs.
"So," and Clarke doesn't think Ontari will be open to discussing much of her personal life, at least not before having a little drink. "You two seem to be spending more time together," Clarke says.
"Yes," and Clarke can feel Ontari staring at her with an intensity she is sure would unnerve many.
"It seems serious," Clarke continues.
"Yes," Ontari answers, and Clarke thinks that as much as she will ever get out of the woman for now.
"I'm happy for you both," and Clarke turns to face Ontari more fully now, if only to make sure Ontari can see she speaks truthfully.
And so Clarke thinks she smiles a little more fiercely when Ontari meets her gaze with a bashful smile that seems to betray just how young Ontari truly is behind the fierce exterior she wears so comfortably.
Ontari coughs then, perhaps from a want to change topics, perhaps to try to cover for her smile, or simply because she doesn't know what else to do or to say, but Clarke lets it pass, and she watches as Ontari turns her attention to the bowl in her hands.
And this Clarke thinks is easy, this calm between friends, when she can forget about responsibility, at least for a short while, enough that she can enjoy the presence of those she cares about.
Clarke knows she will cherish it for as long as she can.