The first thing Nessa became aware of was the odd sensation of the wind that seemed to breathe around her without the rustle of tree branches, leaves and gentle bush. Even the warmth of the sun she so often found accompanying the wind was lacking for she could not feel its heat, she could not feel its touch and its bite. But it was strange. It was strange and odd and unusual. And it was so for the air was not cold and it was not warm, it seemed to dance on the very edge between cool night and warm morning.

The next thing Nessa became aware of was the odd scratchiness that wriggled somewhere in the back of her throat, that seemed to play with her mind, seemed to dance on the periphery of her thoughts. But try as she might, she found herself unable to put a finger on it, she found herself unable to grasp what it must be. And for why, she could not tell.

But as her mind began to wake further, she found herself unable to pinpoint what her last memory was. She remembered walking through the forests near home with Klark and Jaxta. She remembered Jaxta's laugh, the sound warm and rich to her ears as the woman seemed to find a humour in whatever she had said. She remembered Jaxta hushing them for a moment as the woman knelt down and surveyed the lands before waving them forward with a small smile upon her lips. Nessa remembered breaking free from the forest at the water's edge. She remembered Klark trying to fire arrow after arrow at the fish that danced just out of reach. She even remembered striking her first fish and wishing that nomon had been there to see.

And Nessa thought those memories happy, she thought them carefree, full of companionship and joy, things for which she had wished so very deeply for as long as she could remember.

Nessa remembered latching onto Klark's arrival, of never wanting to let go, of never wanting to let her feel the desire to return to her own people. She remembered waking to Klark's whimpers in the middle of the night, she remembered trying to soothe Klark's fears. She remembered the days of play, of trying to teach Klark all her nomon had taught her.

She remembered the joy when Dhorma had appeared yet again, she remembered the shock of her sister's appearance, of not even having expected it for almost another year. She remembered the hopes, the dreams, Jaxta's arrival and Jaxta's death.

Nessa's mind came to a shuddering halt for she remembered it all. She remembered the horn that had echoed out through the forests, she remembered Jaxta pushing them into her room, she remembered Jaxta slamming her door shut.

And Nessa remembered Jaxta's body, the wounds, the blood, the pain and the anguish.

But most of all, Nessa remembered the fall, she remembered the fear, the pain and the impact of the arrow that had hit her, that had stolen her breath, made her resign herself to never seeing nomon again, to never getting to run through the forests with Klark again, to never getting to embrace Dhorma, to show him what she had learnt, to never getting to hear his laugh and to never seeing Polis with Lexa.

And Nessa's eyes snapped open.

Pain spread throughout her body. Her arms ached, her ribs seemed to protest every single breath she took and her throat seemed bruised and battered and beaten more than she could even imagine.

As Nessa's vision cleared, she found herself unable to recognise what she saw. The roof, for surely it must be a roof, was a dulled grey colour. Rectangles of what seemed like metal spread out overhead and dots of burning light seemed to shine a deep and dark white that was at odds with what should be the sky, the blue and the dark of a night. That wind that had first woken her, that had ghosted across her body seemed to draw her attention to a hole overhead that was covered by a mesh of metal, of rods, of odd things she couldn't quite grasp, but as she continued to watch, as she continued to look, she thought she could see it breathe in time to the wind she felt dancing across her body.

Nessa heard noise then, and as she looked from the corner of her eye she couldn't help but to feel fear spike, she couldn't help but to feel a terror and a panic and a dread. And it was for she saw what must surely be tech. Something grotesque, something far beyond her understanding seemed to snake its way from under her own skin and twist and wind and disappear from her vision.

Nessa's eyes began to water, her vision began to blur and she found her lips trembling as she realised what must have happened, she realised who must have attacked despite the tales of their defeat.

And it was a sadness that filled Nessa's heart when she realised that Klark must have been hunted, must have been searched for by the last of the Mountain Men in their quest for vengeance.

And Nessa could not remember anything other than the fall, could only just barely grasp flickers of what had happened once she had come to a tumbling stop at the foot of the ridgeline. She knew not where klark was now, but she hoped Klark was free, she hoped Klark had escaped.

As acceptance of what must have happened settled in Nessa promised herself she would not break when the pain started, she promised herself she would not let them know where Klark might have escaped to, and if they knew, if they had somehow found out, she would deny, with every ounce of strength she had, the very fact that she was the Commander's sister.

And so, as Nessa's tears began to overflow from the fear she felt, as her lips began to tremble a little more strongly, she hoped Klark had escaped, she hoped Dhorma had found her nomon, and she hoped her sister would be prou—

"Nessa?" her name being called cut through her thoughts. "Nessa?" it sounded once more, this time it seemed more sure, more convinced.

Despite the warnings raging through her mind that it was a trap, a ploy, a trick of the mind, she turned her head a little more this time, uncaring of the pain in her throat for she was certain she recognised her nomon's voice.

And maybe it was her mind reaching out desperately, perhaps it was her mind conjuring up the only thing it could in her last moments, but what she found sitting beside her, who she found smiling at her with love and relief, was the only person she wanted to embrace as tightly as she could as the fear settled into her heart.

Her nomon sat in a chair, her hair whose braids had always been so very perfect, now appeared a mess of loose strands and wild curls. The kindness and humour, at times annoyance and reprimand, she so often saw in her nomon's eyes was replaced by a fear, a hope, a relief and a sadness and longing she thought she had never seen before. Even shadows darkened under her nomon's eyes enough that it gave her pause, made her second guess if it truly was her nomon that she saw or someone else, someone who only seemed oddly familiar.

"Nessa," her nomon said again but this time her face broke into a love splintered with sadness.

"Nom—" she choked on the words in her throat as pain stabbed into the tired muscles.

"Hush, Nessa," her nomon said as she leant forward as tears fell from her eyes, "you are safe," and it was simple, it was gentle, calming, and perhaps for the moment Nessa found herself uncaring if what she saw was a figment of her imagination, if it was a ghost conjured by whatever medicines she must have been given.

All that she knew was that she felt safe, felt loved. And if her nomon was the last thing she would see, then Nessa would embrace it with as much strength her tired heart could muster.

Clarke stood in a dimly lit bathroom, a mirror dominated the wall, and a single light flickered overhead. She grimaced at the wound that had only just begun to heal after little more than a week. The chest tube had been removed sooner than she had anticipated, that operation having been much more simple than the one that had saved her from a life of constant stabbing pain every breath she took.

Clarke couldn't even quite remember how many days it was since the attack, she had lost count of how many days she had woken in a daze, in a cloud of uncertainty only to fall back to sleep before finally arriving at Arkadia. Even the week and a half since then, she found had almost slipped her by with the few conversations she had had with Alexandria and Lexa blurring together, and the short and often awkward exchanged with her own mother seemingly too brief, too shallow for either of them to handle.

As Clarke continued to look down herself and at the new scars that littered her body, and the wounds still healed, she found herself unsure of what to think.

Part of herself felt numb that she had returned to Arkadia long before she had ever anticipated, part of herself felt adrift in a sea of nothing where she knew not what to feel or what to think of her predicament. She had avoided as much contact with those she had once called friends, she had avoided explaining why she had disappeared, if she was truthful, she had avoided explanation of anything at all. And perhaps it was simply because she didn't know what to make of the fact that she had been hunted, that Nessa and Alexandria's lives had been turned upside down, had been destroyed all in her name.

That truth made her blood boil, made her see red, made her want to scream and lash out at anyone she thought responsible. And perhaps, if she embraced those feelings, she could forget, at least for a while, the guilt and anger at the actions she had taken at the Mountain, and the hurt, the betrayal, and that other insidious feeling she had come to recognise towards Lexa.

She knew she would face those feelings in time. But not yet, perhaps not for weeks, months, maybe even years.

Clarke pulled her gaze from her torso and she found herself looking at the eyes of the woman who stared back. What she saw frightened her, what she saw made her shiver, made her want to pull her gaze away and never look it in the eyes again. But something deep down forced her to look, forced her to take in the pain and the suffering she saw.

The woman who stared back seemed tired. Shadows darkened under her eyes enough to make it seem as though her eyes had sunken into her face. Cuts and bruises had only just began to fade from across her face, and her features seemed more pronounced, more defined, less full of the health, of the vibrancy and the youth that had once clung to her cheeks. As Clarke continued to look into the woman's eyes she found the blue that stared back to be full of anguish, full of something she recognised all too well. And it saddened her to know that what she saw was not someone else, but was herself, was what she had become, perhaps what she would always appear to be for the rest of her breathing days.

But perhaps she thought it fitting that someone who had become known as Wanheda, appeared to be void of youthfulness, of health, of happiness and joy.

Disgust flared in the pit of her stomach, and it came out strong, stronger than she could imagine and before she knew it Clarke lashed out with her right hand and punched the mirror as hard as she could.

Pain erupted across her knuckles, blood splattered across the cracks and she gasped and whimpered and cursed as she brought her hand away as chunks of mirror fell and shattered against the harsh of the floor.

"Wanheda?" a voice called out to her from behind the closed bathroom door, its tone careful, worried.

"I'm ok," Clarke called out, and she grimaced as she eyed the flesh that now lay flayed open across her knuckles.

Though Clarke could see the white of bone, or of tendon, she felt no pain, not quite, anyway. The blood that dripped from the broken mirror splattered into the sink and for a moment Clarke admired its richness, the depths of its red before a regret took control of her thoughts. She reached for a washcloth then, wetted it under the tap and began to clean what she could of her blood that had snaked its way through the cracks in the mirror, and the blood that had dripped from her hand and onto the bathroom counter or into the sink.

Clarke didn't much care about the stinging that began to take hold of her wound, and she didn't care as her hand protested the motion as she reached forward and turned on the shadow tap. And perhaps for a moment to let herself imagine how much pain, how much agony it would be to turn the tap as hot as it could go, as hot as it would ever go, and then step into its searing embrace. But perhaps it was a morose kind of thought she had, for she found herself turning the heat down until it was only just tolerable, only just past her breaking point. Clarke did so for she knew she could and would stay under its heat longer, she knew she would let its embrace batter her body, steal her breath and replace any and all sense of who she was with that of a lost woman, of a lost soul, someone who seemed trapped between the searing heat of her angers, and the coldness of what she thought her heart must have become.

But a bitter laugh escaped her lips for she thought herself stupid, she thought herself too poetic in descriptive thought, too easy to lament her woes perhaps simply too pathetic.

And so Clarke stripped. She pulled the shirt she wore off her battered body, flung it into a far corner. She pulled her pants free, uncaring of the protesting pain of her ribs as she bent and twisted and shimmied her way out from their too restrictive embrace. And as the cold of the Ark's air touched her body, she embraced it for as long as she could before her body began to shiver, before her mind began to seek the heat of the shower.

Clarke stepped into the falling water without worry, and as the steam stole her vision and as the heat stole her breath, she found herself feeling alive.

Clarke felt more alive than she had felt in years. She felt every burning drop of water that lavished her flesh, that stung her bleeding knuckles, that broke against her battered body.

Tears began to fall without warning, and Clarke felt her lips trembling as a sob broke free. A choked sob escape her lips as she imagined what it must have felt for all she had killed, from those warriors who had attacked them at the drop ship, who she had engulfed in flame. She imagined what it must have been like for the children, for those who had wanted no part in the lives that had been taken, who she had killed in the Mountain. She imagined the confusion, the agony, the burning, searing, all encompassing horror and panic and pain that they must have experienced as they all felt themselves burn, as they all watched loved one melt and twist and degenerate into a pool of mess, into a pool of putrid steaming flesh.

Clarke fell to her knees, she let the pain stab into her body as she curled into herself and it hurt. The heat of the steam engulfed Clarke, the burning heat of the shower felt like a flame that battered her body. And she wanted more, she needed more, she needed so very desperately to feel the anguish, to feel the pain. To feel the guilt that had broken her mind more times than she could ever imagine.

And so Clarke Griffin didn't care how much her flesh began to burn as she reached up and turned the shower faucet, as she let the water turn to its hottest setting, and she didn't care that her flesh turned red, that whatever wounds had only just begun to heal opened anew. And she didn't care.

Because she deserved it.