25
Early
OCTAVIA
I wake to brilliant cyan blue overhead and a thousand shades of green and brown attacking my pupils, and the brightness of it all is so assaulting that I squeeze my eyes shut again. The sunlight on my cheek is almost warm and it paints streaks of red into the blackness on the insides of my eyelids. I stare into the mixing reds and blacks and try to form solid thoughts out of the thick, shapeless tendrils of fog roiling around in my sleepy brain. My eyes are dry and burning dully with that all too familiar sting that comes with too little sleep and too many tears. And there is a slimy, half-dried trail of drool running down my cheek, tracing the sharp edge of my jawline. The drool explains why I feel so completely disoriented. I only ever drool on those rare nights when the exhaustion is so all-consuming that I don't even dream, and a random passerby might mistake me for clinically dead. And on those nights, I swear the memories leak from me as messily as the saliva does.
Despite the valiant sun overhead, the squishy earth beneath me is damp and cool and I pull my knees further into my chest, curling into myself, trying to force the question mark of my body into a capital G, and pulling the edges of the thin blanket tighter around the edges of my own thin skin. And I am grateful for its small offering of warmth and a soft touch. But now I am confused, because my hazy brain can find no memories of settling down into the moss and dirt and cuddling into this blanket and bidding Sleep to wrap his sweet oblivion around me.
So I open my eyes and blink against the colors and the light, forcing them to focus, hoping that they might encourage my brain to focus too. The simple gray blanket bound tightly around me is a standard issue Ark blanket, and though they might be identical to the untrained eye, I immediately know that it is not my own. There are no creases along the top edge worn into the fabric from years of being scrunched in the tight clutch of my balled fist night after night. There is no threadbare patch running along the bottom where my wiggling toes have diligently burrowed their way through the fleece while I've slept, like a man trying to dig his way out of a cell with a spoon. There is no tear in the corner where it once snagged on a rusty nail while playing Supergirl, my arms clutched around Bellamy's neck as he raced around our tiny compartment and I closed my eyes and pretended to fly, my blanket tied to my neck, trailing behind me like a cape.
This blanket is new, so new that there are creases running through it from years of sitting folded in a stack in some dark corner of the Ark. So new that it still smells vaguely of its plastic wrappings. It smells just like the Ark... Man-made... Synthetic... Mass produced. It smells like my hole in the floor. It smells like being trapped.
Suddenly I am utterly repulsed by it and its warm, soft touch against my skin is like fingers crawling over me, prodding me and squeezing me and enclosing me in their clutches. And as I tear it from around my shoulders and the curved edge of my back and the narrow space between my scrunched knees, I suddenly remember why I am laying in the forest. I had to escape the cage of the solid, metal walls of the Ark as badly as I need to escape the cage of the soft, fleece folds of this blanket.
I unwind my limbs and push myself onto my elbows and frantically wriggle out from beneath the fabric. And that is when I finally notice her. She lies mere feet from me, one hand tucked in a fist beneath her chin, the other wrapped around her knees, pulling them so tightly into herself that the curve of her body looks almost painful. Eevie is folded into herself as tightly as I long to be. She is absolutely tiny. She shivers slightly in her sleep. She has no blanket.
And I imagine her lying in the darkness on a strange new cot beneath a strange new blanket, surrounded by metal, struggling to breathe. And in my mind, I see her clutching that blanket in her hands, letting it drag limply behind her as she plods silently, fearfully down the maze of metal corridors in search of an exit, an opening in the bars of the cage wide enough for her to squeeze through. And I see her breaking into the dim light of morning and racing into the forest to find a deep breath, her blanket now flying wildly behind her like a cape.
And I see her stumbling across me, a broken form laying on the ground, my body folded in on itself, my arms wrapped tightly around the rest of me like they've taken it upon themselves to ensure that the rest of me doesn't fall apart while I sleep. And I see her unclench the balls of her fists from around the folds of the only thing she possesses, the only thing she has to offer, and draping the blanket over the mess of me before laying down on the cold, damp earth and pulling her own knees to her chest and wrapping her own arms around her body to hold herself together as she sleeps.
And suddenly I want to cry. But it seems I've finally run out of tears. And all my tired, dry eyes can do is continue to burn. And I suppose it's for the best. Because the sun overhead tells me that morning is fading into afternoon and I know I should go find Indra and Kane. Because the sun shining so brightly overhead is like a sick, ironic joke that only the rest of the universe finds funny. Because I know the storm is coming.
I push myself to my feet and consider the fragile little human curled on the ground before me. I could lift her easily into my arms. I could carry her back into the warm shelter of the Ark. I could tuck her into the soft, dry nest of a proper bed. But I imagine her waking up and feeling trapped. So I snag the abandoned blanket from the forest floor. And I give it a few hard shakes in the wind. And the pieces of bark and dirt and pebbles and pine needles all flick from its fibers into the forest air. But no matter how I try, I cannot shake the smell from it. Still, I wrap the fleece around her to stop the shivering and then I turn my back and leave her alone in the trees. Because I know that this girl doesn't have a home. But whatever she used to call "home..." I know these trees are a whole lot closer to it than the walls of Arkadia. Because I completely understand.
...
CLARKE
"How do I look?" Bellamy asked, striking a playful pose. Clarke eyed his thick jacket and pants, torn and roughly patched, still smelling of the fresh layer of grayish-blue spray paint they had just applied.
"Horrible." She said with a frown, "And more importantly... Unconvincing."
At her assessment, the goofy smile dividing the streaks of white on Bellamy's face drooped into a frown to match Clarke's.
"That's a LITTLE better." She let out a small laugh. "Maybe try grimacing, or baring your teeth and foaming at the mouth a little." She dug her fingers into the container of white chalk and smeared more of it here and there across Bellamy's shoulders and chest and back, adding messy patches of white to the blue-gray. Then she applied the same technique to her own thick jacket and baggy cargo pants.
"How do I look?" She asked, grimly.
"Unconvincing." Bellamy admitted.
"Well... Let's just make sure we aren't seen." Clarke replied, pulling her hood up and leading Bellamy through the halls of Arkadia into the dying afternoon light.
...
OCTAVIA
I take one last deep breath of the outside air and I whisper to myself as I step into the halls of Arkadia, avoiding the faces and eyes of everyone bustling around me. I tell myself I'm not afraid. But I AM afraid. Not that the walls are closing in... Not that I'm going to suffocate. That panic has passed and for now, that ugly beast sleeps quietly in the dark cavern of my chest. I am afraid that when I find Indra and Kane, I will also find Bellamy. I am afraid that instead of this emptiness, I'll feel the anger rising again. And I'm afraid that I'll welcome it. But I'm even more afraid that I'll find Clarke. Because I am terrified that instead of the anger or the emptiness I will feel the smoldering shame and the icy guilt. And if anger is a drug, the shame and the guilt are the terrible, terrible down after the high. And I don't think I can cope with them. Not today... Not now.
I knock tentatively, lightly, on the door to the gaurdroom, but the rasp of my bony knuckles against the metal seems violently loud and I almost wish I could take it back, reach out and pluck the noise from the air and shove it into my pocket instead. The door wedges open and Miller shoots me a friendly smile from the other side of it. I tighten my cheeks, pulling the corners of my mouth up as best as I can, hoping the result bears some semblance to a smile. But if I am grimacing, Miller doesn't seem to notice. He looks like he's about to hug me, and I quickly shuffle through the door and past him, avoiding his eyes so I don't have to see disappointment or confusion or hurt in them. I hope he doesn't think anything of it. I hope he doesn't take it personally. Because I'm not avoiding Miller's arms... I'm avoiding all physical contact with other humans. And I would tell him so, but I guess I'm avoiding all unnecessary verbal contact too.
I glance around the room and breathe a small sigh of relief. There is no mop of curly black hair. There is no braided mess of blond. There is only Indra and Kane and a broad, barrel-chested monster of a man I've never seen before. He has streaks of green and silver running diagonally across his bushy brows and sharp dagger of a nose and disappearing into a scruffy beard almost as thick as Kane's. And the bow resting against the leg of his chair glows a soft white in the dim of the windowless room. Trishana must have arrived while I slept, and despite his formidable appearance, I am relieved to see Turlino at Indra's side.
Kane, Indra, and Turlino are hunched over a table strewn with maps of Arkadia and Ton DC and Polis and everywhere in between. They are drawing out battle plans, readying themselves to make their stand. And the three leaders... The three warriors... Look so impressive that I just stand awkwardly in the corner with Miller, listening as they prepare for the clash... When trees and sky and wild, fertile earth will hold fast to one another while ice and sand and stone rain down upon them.
"Ice Nation's already taken Polis." Miller fills me in through whispers. "They're massing their armies in and around the city. Rock Line took the city with them. And scouts report both the Shallow Valley Crew and the Desert People are less than a day's march away from the city. All four armies could be ready to march on Arkadia as early as tomorrow." He stops whispering as Indra breaks the pensive quiet between the leaders.
"If we position Ingranrona here and here..." Indra suggests, drawing two lines across a map I cannot see. "They can hold the line's defenses and prevent Azgeda's forces from flanking Arkadia and surrounding us entirely."
"Or, if we position them here and here," Kane offers. "We could take the offense and sweep around through the forest here and along this ridge here, to flank THEIR forces from behind."
"If their army is as massive as the scouts indicate," Indra counters. "There is no possible way the riders could flank them... At least not before they have already closed in around, and on top of, Arkadia. An offensive attack would be a foolish use of our limited numbers. We need to utilize every warrior to hold the defensive line. If we split the riders along the eastern and western fronts of Arkadia..."
"How can we even be sure..." Turlino's gruff voice cuts in. "That we will have riders to maneuver? Azgeda's forces will be massed by nightfall and there is yet to be a report of a single rider crossing the plains."
"Chief Rider Rashanna assured me..." Indra starts but is cut off by a sudden pounding on the metal door.
As if magically summoned by Turlino's doubts themselves, the breathless, black-faced warrior steps into the room and turns to Indra. "Riders have been spotted in the West! Ingranrona approaches swiftly. They should reach the forest's edge by sundown."
"Send a party to intercept them." Indra instructs the warrior, the slight edge of excitement ringing in her deep voice. "They ride for Ton DC. Direct them to the gates of Arkadia."
The man gives Indra a sharp nod and bolts from the room as suddenly as he entered it.
Indra turns towards Kane, and unable to stop herself, allows a small grin to cross her face. "She's early."
...
CLARKE
The sword dangling at Clarke's hip kept banging annoyingly against the outside of her thigh and she felt like its unfamiliar weight was making her drift slightly to the left like a car out of alignment. The blade was Trikru steel, but it was a lot more likely to pass as Azgeda than the pistol concealed in her coat, or the rifle hidden beneath the backing of Bellamy's puffy, over-sized jacket.
Clarke fingered the blade's hilt as they walked, wondering why she had never thought to ask Lexa to show her how to use one. She imagined Lexa wrapping her long slender fingers around her wrists and patiently guiding her clumsy hands through the fluid, sweeping motions Lexa had mastered as a child. She imagined those fingers gently digging into her awkward hips, trying to force them to swivel and lunge with any semblance of grace, like a ballroom maestro teaching a lanky pubescent boy how to dance the rumba. She imagined Lexa holding back the laughter and lying to her about how she had struggled for years to master the simple movements that Clarke fumbled through, assuring her that she wasn't 'hopeless,' she just needed practice.
But, no matter how vividly she imagined it, no matter how badly she longed for it, Lexa wasn't here to teach her. And she didn't even know how to walk properly with the blade at her side, let alone how to take a life with it. And maybe someday she would ask Octavia or Indra to give her a lesson or two. But even as the idea popped into her mind she knew she probably never would. Just as she would never ask anyone to teach her to swim.
They walked in silence. It was neither comfortable nor uncomfortable. It was simply there. And the only sounds that broke it were the swish-swish of their pant legs and jacket sleeves rubbing and the goddamn thunk, thunk of the sword against her leg. It was going to be a long walk, a very long walk. And she longed again for her horse, but they had decided that they would be less likely to be seen on foot, and if they had to, more likely to blend in.
Clarke glanced at Bellamy walking beside her, unable to determine if the look on his face was boredom or if he was just really focused. She still hadn't decided whether she was glad to have him with her or not. She had planned to come alone. She had argued that Arkadia needed every possible gun on its wall in case she failed. But really... It just felt like something she was supposed to do on her own.
But Bellamy insisted it was crazy, reckless, and downright stupid for her to go alone... Not to mention, suicidal. And he argued that if she failed, one gun was not going to make a difference, Arkadia would be doomed either way. And the rational part of Clarke knew he was absolutely right. But the rest of her still begrudged the fact that Bellamy always insisted on tagging along, thinking he was some kind of ferocious guard dog, when Clarke saw him more as a whiny puppy with separation anxiety.
Dusk was beginning to fall slowly around them when Clarke reckoned they were about halfway to the city. And she was about to break the silence and suggest taking a quick rest when she heard them... Drumbeats drifting solid and heavy on the wind. Bellamy tugged at her sleeve, pulling her into a dense thicket of tangled blackberry vines as the beating grew louder and louder still, accompanied by the drumming of hundreds and hundreds of boots against the forest floor.
"They're marching already!" She whispered stupidly, as if Bellamy hadn't noticed the deafening pounding and as if anyone could possibly hear her voice in the roar. "They'll reach Arkadia just after nightfall. They're not expecting them this soon. They won't be ready. We need to hurry up!" She added frantically, rising to her feet.
"No!" Bellamy whispered back, tugging her back down beside him. "We have to remain unseen." He argued. "These jackets might pass for Azgeda in the darkness, but there's still way too much daylight. If we get caught..."
He didn't finish his sentence. He didn't need to. They both knew what would happen if they failed. And the rational part of Clarke knew that Bellamy was right again. And the rest of her begrudgingly stayed put, ignoring the bite of countless thorns snagging into her jacket and tearing into any exposed bits of flesh, as they waited for the enemy to show its ugly face.
Clarke knew Azgeda's army was massive. But she had not expected the veritable ocean of warriors that passed through the trees around them. The blue-gray-whites of Azgeda and Boudalan made the mass look like a foaming, storm-tossed sea. Here or there the waves were interrupted by groups of yellow-orange Sangedakru warriors standing out like sandbars and patches of light green and violet Louwoda Kliron moving along like drifting seaweed.
Clarke thought of her first battle on the ground... When she and seventy odd children tried to make a stand against three hundred trained warriors. At the time, it had seemed to her that Trikru's army was never-ending, an unstoppable force.
Three hundred... And now she was looking at an army of at least three THOUSAND.
It seemed to Clarke that her side was ALWAYS outnumbered... Hopelessy outnumbered. The only time she had been part of the larger force was when she had marched on Mt. Weather with Lexa at her side. And next to Lexa she had felt confident, eager, ALIVE. But then the Commander had shattered both of their hearts and Clarke had found herself alone, hopelessly outnumbered again. Outnumbered at the dropship... Outnumbered in the mountain... Outnumbered in the City of Light...
It was a miracle Clarke was still breathing, and Skaikru along with her. But, looking out at this sea of warriors, she doubted any lever or any amount of rocket fuel was going to save her people this time. There was only one hope for her people now. And it was currently crouched pathetically in a thicket of brambles.