Chapter 18
Gonna Bury Me
Bury – Unions
Azgeda
The sharp cracks rent the air, and the sound escaped despite the thick, barred wood doors. It was a thing any Azgeda could not mistake.
"You will die for this,"
Another crack, and a high cry.
The warrior was grizzled with gray, but he swing the cat o'nine with heavy strikes. He'd carried her up, and then below again.
Shackled to the gratings of her cell, the back of her tunic in tatters, Clarke sagged, blood pooling at her feet.
Pressed against the other side of the narrow, dim corridor stood a younger man, with a short, dark beard half-grown in, and tightly clasped eyelids. He could not quite hide the horror on his face.
"Well, prisa kom skai, do you relent?" asked the elder guard, his voice assured, flicking the whip languidly.
His subordinate opened his eyes reluctantly hoping to see a nod, as he had not heard neither assent nor plea. His hands shook at his sides till he balled them. The sky girl's back was a bloody mess. Her shirt hardly hanging on at her shoulders.
It was impossible to judge what skin remained from neck till the waist of her pants. The swelling red of the wounds wept blood like midnight.
Dark bruises were blooming already on her neck and shoulders, exposed the ruined tunic. Her hands were holding onto the bars like a buoy.
Yet she turned her head slowly, painfully towards the man holding the whip. A small, crooked smile taunted him.
"Is that all you've got?" Clarke whispered.
Despite her brave words, she choked on them.
Black blood trickled from her mouth.
The cat o'nine lashed out, and split against her tor back, drawing forth another of those inhuman screams.
"Enough," the second gasped.
His senior shot him a look, face like gathering grey clouds.
"She'll die. She's just a girl. A sky girl. Weak," the younger rushed out.
The other grunted. "Boy, then you toss her back in."
The younger nodded curtly, and watched the other stalk away. He stayed where he was another moment, waiting. Breathing fast. Mustering his courage.
"Just a girl. A sky girl. Weak, and broken," he reminded himself silently.
As he crossed the short distance, and reached her, he looked down at her face.
The girl must have bit her own tongue, or scraped her mouth on the grating because they had not struck her above her shoulders again. They'd already knocked the sense out of her, {Alistair} had said, and the queen wanted her face untouched. Recognizable.
It was. Deep shadows welled beneath puffy, closed eyes, and black smudged her mouth and chin, still, it did not hide her identity.
All the congeda talked of her beauty, and the southerners had talked of those vying for her power in their hands. The prisa did not just look beautiful, as all claimed who'd seen her, and she didn't look broken like they wanted. Exhausted. Tormented. But stubborn, too. Her jaw was clenched, and her shoulders tight. Yet the flickering below her lids told him she was more conscious than she appeared, sagged against the grating.
Still, she was small and fair, whipped bloody, back in ruins, head beaten soft. So, mindful not to cause her greater pain by grazing her flayed form, he unlocked the manacles. Foolish with a prisoner, yet he couldn't make himself unlock the chains instead to drag her by, and re-secure her in the cell. At least she ought to be able to lay down.
As he lowered and released her wrists, she whimpered, and he went to scoop her up to carry her, but froze as he considered her back again. She swayed, and he opened his arms to catch her. Watched her face screw up in pain.
Her soft, bloody body collapsed into his arms, and he caught hold of her hips clumsily, avoiding the wrecked flesh of her back. Her face buried into his tunic, and stifled sobs broke through.
"Prisa," he muttered, if he was caught holding her...
Tentatively, he raised one hand to cup the back of her head. He froze at her weak groan. Remembered the brutal blow Alistair had assaulted her with only an hour ago, above.
Still, she leaned fearfully into his hold, and he felt her thin arms raise. Softly, bruised hands clutching at him for sanctuary, slipping beneath his cloak. He could feel their chill even through his tunic.
"Prisa," he whispered again, breathing the word against the golden head resting on his chest, "all you have to do is accept the queen's-"
Lodging between his ribs before he could finish the plea...
He gurgled, as her eyes gazed up at him.
It was his own knife, from his belt, where her small hands had clung.
Clarke flung herself back, grabbing hold of the cell grating again, and let him hit the ground at her feet.
It was just as easy as killing Finn. And Atom. But at least he was not an ally, not one of hers.
There were keys on the ground that he'd dropped when she'd flung herself at him. The big ring of iron looked like the ones used at the commander's tower, and Clarke tried to blink away the spots in her vision that bending down created. She would have felt safer tossing the guard into her cell to keep him out of the sight of the corridor, but he was a great big, burly man. Though his beard hid his age, he had to outweigh her by sixty pounds or more. Instead, Clarke shuffled down the row, trying for quiet, but her bad leg dragged, and her gut burned, and she didn't even hear her own cries.
Black blood trailed behind, and only the gratings of the cells helped her force her way down the row.
The floor rocked beneath her.
She'd been thrown in the cell farthest from the main corridor, farthest from the smoky fires.
Two cells passed, three, five, their occupants beginning to rise and watch her pass. Words were called out, in mixes of English and the grounder's tongue, but she did not hear.
Six cells, seven. She'd made the corner now, and could just see the stairs in the distance.
Her head throbbed from the exertion. In the poor illumination of the few lit torches on the walls between cells, Clarke did not realize her vision was dimming.
Tunneling...
The voices around her almost broke through but all her world had shrunk to her back, the knee that had torn, the belly wound that hunched her over...
The dirty stone floor was jarringly hard as she fell. The crack in the air this time was her skull on impact.
She hadn't even gotten that far.
Some of the prisoners retracted, huddling in the darkest corners of their cells, but a few began to holler out louder. It brought guards stomping down from the other branches of the dungeon labyrinth.
Azgeda
Someone had opened the door.
She was screaming again.
Curled in a tight ball, Charlotte pressed her hands to her ears. The floor was cold, and her clothes were gross. She bit her lip to keep from crying.
"One sound out of you, and she'll get it twice over," the guard outside the grating reminded gloatingly. He was the same who fed Charlotte, and controlled that awful door. He opened and shut them at will. At his whim, the guard chose when to block out the sounds, and when to let them through. that door that separated Charlotte's sector from the main corridor.
The heavy door to Charlotte's sector was so dark it was impossible to see when the torches were all blown out. Not even the metal bars crossing it gleamed. When she'd been dragged through, she'd seen how it was as thick as some of the younger trees she'd climbed back home at Hundred Camp.
It was just out of arm's reach of her cell. Hers was the first on this row, and she'd seen that there were doors, and halls twisting off away after hers. Clarke, Charlotte was fairly sure, was just one row over, and with the door opened...
This had to be a nightmare. She used to have them every time she closed her eyes, and maybe now she'd gotten struck in one.
Arkadia
The stool she sat on was flecked with blood. On the Ark, she would have never tolerated it. Sanitizing it would have been top priority. Now here on the ground, there was so little left of the Ark procedures that instead she dropped down on it without a thought. The ground had a way of wearing people down to the essentials of who they were, and what they cared about.
Marcus approached her warily, not so differently than he would an animal he met in the woods. Abigail Griffin might not be his declared adversary anymore, but she was no less lethal for it.
"Well," demanded Abby.
A trickle of unease sank through him. Marcus cleared his throat.
"The commander's army (depends on days!) but we'll know more tomorrow night,"
"My daughter," Abby's mouth twisted.
"A lot of people care about Clarke, and the commander is doing everything she can to get her back," Marcus reminded her.
When it came, Abby's laugh veered between hysterical, and simply bitter.
Sliding down the wall, Marcus stilled to wait with her.
Azgeda
Consciousness came in slow, spiking waves of pain.
She didn't want to wake.
Agony pulled at her in some places even beyond how her whole body seemed to burn. As much as she tried to stay in the murky depths, the pain dragged her to the surface. How she came to be chained to a wall, hanging from her wrists, with her toes barely brushing the ground, she didn't know.
But then... Caliban's face swam into her mind, bloody and fierce.
He was not a gentle man, but he was honorable.
He was strong, too, and he said that when he looked at her, he saw strength.
The ache in her chest as she couldn't hide from the memory was actually sharp enough to make itself known despite the abuse her body suffered. He didn't deserve to die for standing between her and the Ice Nation. She had never wanted to marry Caliban, even though she'd considered it just to close the issue. But she enjoyed his companionship him, and most of all... trusted him. She'd won his respect when she brought down the mountain, but Clarke did not know what had won his loyalty. Just that she'd had it.
"Wanheda strikes again. Finn, Murphy, Caliban," the voice in her head was spiteful. It was also undeniably honest.
Was she soon to join them?
Her wrists were chaffed raw from the tight, rough cuffs. The aching threat of dislocation remained in her shoulders due to her position strung up on the wall.
Along with the throbbing, almost misery of an aching head, there was a wet feeling along the back of her head and neck which suggested a bleeding wound. Her entire abdomen ached with a wound she could guess was caused by a sword. One of her legs was screaming in fury at the mistreatment of it, so terribly that she really could not even guess what the injury was. She was shivering uncontrollably, but couldn't even decide if it was from the fever or the sheer frigidity of the ice nation in spring.
"I could not let Wanheda fall into the ice queen's hands." Lexa had been apologetic, but adamant.
Memories of being dragged to Lexa were running rampant in Clarke's mind. This time, she'd failed.
.
The cold of the cell had her growing numb because the more she considered it, the better death sounded. Between Octavia and Bellamy, Lexa, and Indra, Miller, and Jackson... they could manage to see everyone through Praimfaya. Clarke could rest finally. Her people were in trustworthy hands, and Clarke would no longer have to walk with death shadowing her steps.
If anyone tried to follow her into Azgeda... how many would die in her name? Her people needed to be preparing for the internment, not driven to the brink of war yet again.
They don't need me anymore. My existence just makes things worse, Clarke realized. Her only reason for being was keeping her people, keeping humanity, alive. Safe. If she is the greatest danger to them now... drawing them into conflict with the vicious, largest of the clans... then she has no reason left.
There was far too great of traffic crossing their path, Roan realized. This close to Fron Tenac, you might meet a dozen parties in a day's travel, and that'd be heading in both directions. When Remy counted the twenty-fifth, heading away from the capital, before mid-day, there was no more denying the alarm that crept higher.
People were fleeing. Small bundles tied to their backs, to their flat footed nags, to their children... Roan remembered what this looked like.
When his father had died on his knees in the palace courtyard, people had fled.
His father's men, mostly. The wench rumored to be both the warmer of his bed, and the bearer of his last child. The uncles, and aunts, and cousins beyond number that Roan had grown up with. The pretty slip of a green eyed girl Roan had been soft on, young as he was, whose father had been Roan's father's oldest friend. Boys Roan had sparred with every morning since they could hold a weapon.
Half his world, it'd been.
At fourteen, it had been as if the ground was sliding out from under his feet.
Remy and Seiku had both said, that when his banishment came to light, people had fled, then too. Near every comrade he'd held, his youngest sister...
It was said that those who abandon Fron Tenac do not return.
Roan had overcome that old saying, but still he wondered. Would his return be futile?
No blood of his was left in the capital except the queen. His brothers, all dead, young. All but one sister known dead, too. The last one simply vanished in his wake. He would have searched for her, if he'd heard.
As they headed for the capital, they met more and more each day. Warriors of all years, from young second with terrified looks in their eyes, greyed men with their families...
Four days out, they said the shrieks damned all who remained to hear them.
Three days out, a heavy old cook and her family, swore she could not abide such heresy. Not on her conscious. The screams. Those terrible screams. What was being down to that girl, with the doors to below thrown open so that the sounds might echo out.
Two days out, no one stopped to speak, but quickened their pace when they recognized the queen's son.
When the sun was setting, still half a day's hard ride from the palace, they heard words that drove Roan from panic to despair.
"She stopped screaming yesterday,"
It couldn't be true.
Roan threw the saddle back on his barely cooled mount, and left the rest behind. His mind was in Fron Tenac, and his body must hurry to meet it. The better to quickly put aside these ridiculous rumors that
The power of wanheda at the queen's disposal.
No.
That power would keep his mother on her throne evermore.
Polis
"All is as expected,"
"Not exactly good news, there,"
Octavia paced. There was little else to do. With the chosen moved in, Monty was getting argo up and running while food was being brought down daily. The temple was under heavy guard. Despite the camp followers who'd left in the army's wake, and the exodus to the west, there was still people who remained above ground in Polis.
"There was never a chance Nia would simply let Clarke walk into the arms of my army when they breached her border," Lexa dismissed.
"The scouts say she's dead," Octavia bellowed, swinging around to stare at Lexa incredulously.
The commander's eyes slid closed in meditative thought, or denial.
"There is no proof. Only the word of common people,"
"Will you believe it when her head arrives?" hissed Octavia.
"Clarke has survived worse-"
"And has died choking on her own blood. She's human-"
"I've sent my army. Twelve hundred warriors, three hundred horses, two thousand weapons, after her. There is nothing else I can do-"
"You could remember why Clarke was a target to begin. You,"
The queen's aged face was weathered by the old scars, and years out in the blinding sun and snow. The thickened lines, and ruddy cheeks did not diminish her presence. Her chin was raised as if to still balance a crown that she did not wear in private, and her back was unbent by years or weariness.
"The wanheda must bow," reminded Nia sharply, grinding the heel of her boot restlessly into the grit of the floor.
Avoiding each other's gaze was a practiced art for the pair that stood before their queen. Silently endearing Nia's temper, Echo and Ontari each bowed their heads in agreement.
"The girl does not break as easily as I'd suspected. If she will not join Azgeda, then she must not die until my people see walk before me and fall at my feet to beg for it," continued the queen.
"Your majesty, her body would proof enough of your victory," began Echo.
"Let me visit her. She will break," interjected Ontari.
Nia smiled at the pair before her throne.
"My dearest, she kill her guard just days ago. I have no wish to see the outcome of spat between the two of you," Nia crooned.
Ontari's eyes glinted, but the queen silenced whatever retort had been building with a sharp glance and sickly sweet tone with her next words.
"Besides, my darling, I have yet to be convinced you have returned to fighting form. Until I am, I will not set you against Polis nor Wanheda."
Gaze falling to the floor, Ontari did not interrupt again. Her thick gray wool cloak seemed to swallow her with it's high collar and voluminous folds. Smothering a smirk, Echo was quick to step forwards. Putting her back to the young girl would be foolish outside of the queen's presence, but for now, she could put Ontari in her place.
"Anyone with luck may kill another, but a queen must bend her enemies to her will," she corrected Echo.
The queen stood, and crossed the room. A table was covered with unrolled maps.
"Lexa's army will never make it to our doors, but I have sent another legion out to toy with her near the border,"
Mount Weather
The four inch thick steel door snapped shut as the lock engaged. The sound echoed in the long, empty hallway with it's low ceiling.
"Exactly how long is this going to go on?" Wick demanded wearily.
Miller kept walking. His eye throbbed, but he didn't intend to waste a trip to medical over something so trivial.
"As long as it has to," was his only answer, without looking back.
Wick leaned his eye back against the door. He needed to wash his face. Bellamy's right hook wasn't a joke, and his nose had taken the brunt of it. Wick though about slipping back inside the holding bay, but what else was there to say?
Sorry we locked you up, and Miller tried to beat the hell out of you.
Sorry we didn't let you open the door.
Sorry we still don't have any news worth hearing.
Considering his options, Wick groaned again. He thumped his head back against the door. If he went back in with such weak apologies, he'd deserve whatever Bellamy threw at him. Maybe Raven... He needed Raven. She was the only thing on this planet that made sense anymore. Maybe she'd visit Bellamy tomorrow to keep him and Miller from killing each other instead.
Maybe she'd know how to keep Bellamy from destroying everything if Clarke died.