[seven]
When Clarke finally decides she's put it off long enough, she leaves her room to seek out the Ice Nation king. She pretends not to notice the odd looks her fellow Arkadians give her as she passes through the common areas. The whispers that follow on her heels. Small tidbits of conversation about marriage, the king, the enemy, and war. The stares and the words settle on Clarke's shoulders, wearying her step as she emerges from the interior of the Ark and onto the path leading to the front gates.
Her heart starts pounding away in her chest when she sees the gate already open, her mother standing there with her arms crossed and her face pinched into an expression bred between anger and pain.
Clarke hurries over to see what damage has already been done and to prevent any more.
She rounds the gate fully, and the sight that greets her is almost comically absurd. Her mother, clad in jeans and a plaid jacket, squared off with the king of Azgeda. Roan towers over Abby, his impressively solid body at least a foot and a half taller and twice as wide. His sword is thankfully not on him, but his scarred face and Azgeda furs are a strange juxtaposition to Abby's unblemished visage and disinfectant-cleansed hands. Clarke has clearly walked into the middle of a heated argument, which is, to absolutely no one's surprise, about her.
Abby and Roan are too busy glaring at one another to even note Clarke's presence.
"She's a little girl," Abby hisses at Roan, a reply to something Clarke had not heard, as Abby invades the king's space with a deep scowl. "If you seriously think you can trick her into doing your bidding– "
"I will not keep repeating myself," Roan cuts Abby off in a short tone, his eyes flashing dangerously. But Clarke is surprised at how measured and careful his words are – Roan rarely tolerates anyone questioning him, let alone blatantly arguing with him in front of his warriors, who stare wide-eyed at the pair. "Clarke is a woman capable of making her own decisions. She's led your people this far, and she has succeeded where even you have failed."
Clarke winces at his words, but she doesn't disagree with him. She simply can't. If she and Bellamy and Raven and the others hadn't taken charge when they did, the old guard from the Ark would have driven everyone to war months ago. Her mother included.
Abby blinks up at the king, taken aback. But her anger does not relent. "She's my daughter. I won't see her just bargain her life away like – like chattel!"
"Mom," Clarke interjects before anymore words can be exchanged. All eyes turn to her – Roan's blue-green gaze burning and bright and almost terrifying, if she didn't trust him as much as she does, and her mother's deep brown worried and wet with unspent tears.
"Clarke," her mother says, rubbing away the water building up in her eyes. "Go back inside. The king," she spits this word derisively, "was just about to take his people and leave."
Clarke looks to Roan, who hasn't stopped watching her. His gaze is intense, and for a moment, she thinks about her conversation with Raven. Roan looks angry, yes. But he also looks possessive. For the first time, she can see it. Her chest feels unbearably tight.
"You're leaving?" She hates how weak her voice sounds, but she can't help it.
Roan's stare intensifies. It's as if he's seeking something out from her, but she can't figure out what. Finally, in his raspy voice, he says, "No. Not unless you ask me to."
Not unless you ask me to says a lot, Clarke thinks. Or maybe she's overthinking it. Maybe Raven has skewed her vision now, and she's reading into things that shouldn't be read into. But it feels like the king of Ice Nation just gave her more power than he's been willing to relent the past few days. The immediate power to turn him away, to return to her people, to stop these talks of a marriage alliance, to go to war.
Clarke is tired of war.
"I'd like you to stay," she tells him, and she ignores the startled look her mother gives her from the corner of her eye. "If you will."
Something shifts in his green-blue eyes. He considers her a moment longer and nods. "Of course."
"Clarke – "her mother tries, but Clarke cuts Abby off with just a look.
"Mom. Please. We need to talk about the attacks. I can't do that if you're going to argue the whole time."
"Clarke, I'm arguing because he's clearly trying to trick you. Don't you see? He wants to – to marry you, and what? You didn't agree, so now he wants to force your hand. Clarke, tell me you understand that," Abby begs, her eyes glistening once more.
Clarke shakes her head. "No. There's more to it. Please, mom. Let me work things out for myself."
"I just – "Abby hesitates. It breaks Clarke, to see her mother so torn, but at the same time it gives her resolve. Her mother let her father die. Her mother let 100 children fall to the Earth. Her mother has been behind too many bad decisions to count. "I just… I love you, Clarke."
Clarke offers her mother a small, watery smile. "I know, mom. I love you too."
Abby takes one last look at Roan, who holds her stare unflinchingly. Abby's dark eyes promise death and pain and all the things a mother would wish on someone who could hurt their child, and Clarke appreciates that. But Clarke's relieved when Abby finally leaves, brushing past Clarke to return to the safety that lies inside the gates.
Clarke is left alone with Roan. She's been left alone with him countless times before, but something about this moment is different. Heavier. She forces her eyes to meet his, and again, her chest feels too tight. Like her lungs don't have enough room to breathe. His eyes are sharp upon her, but they're gentle, too.
"I see where you get your fire from," Roan finally says to break the silence, and Clarke manages a short laugh.
"A lot of people have made a less kind comparison," Clarke admits.
Roan shrugs. "A lot of people are foolish." He glances at the gates, his expression turning thoughtful. "Not many would challenge me like that. In front of my warriors, no less. Even before I became king." His turquois eyes turn back to Clarke. "In fact, I believe I know of one other." He smiles, and Clarke wonders at this moment between them, so unlike all the others they've had these past few days. This moment feels soft. Gentle. Good.
This moment makes her feel that Roan is, indeed, her friend, and not only her ally.
She wonders for what feels like the hundredth time at Raven's words from earlier, and Roan's smile quickly turns into a roguish smirk, a sly glint appearing in his eyes. Clarke ducks her head and crosses her arms. She needs to stop staring at him – she's certain he can read her like a book. She needs to get Raven and her silly ideas out of her head, ASAP.
"Did your people find anything at the site where our guards were attacked?"
There. She looks up at him to find his smile completely gone. The only evidence that it had existed to begin with is his lingering stare. As if he, too, had been enjoying a conversation with no heavy undertones, no politics. No death.
Now his jaw has tightened and his lips have pressed into a thin line. "Yes. It's obvious why Skaikru believes we did this. Someone left our mark on a stripped tree."
Clarke's brow wrinkles. "I don't understand."
Roan gestures towards his royal guard and the emblems on their armor. A white background with a black handprint, crude though they were; the same emblem that now covers street signs, alleyways, and the Tower in Polis. "It marks us as Azgeda when we're at war or when we've secured territory."
Clarke tilts her head. "But that seems too obvious."
"Perhaps. But it worked."
There was no arguing that. "Anything else?"
Roan frowns. The change is slight from his typical stoic expression, but Clarke is better and better at reading him every day. "One of our trackers managed to follow a trail from the site that leads east. Into Trikru territory."
Clarke closes her eyes and sighs. "That doesn't mean – "
"I know, Clarke."
Roan's gentle words surprise her. Her eyes snap open and she stares at him questioningly.
"You were right," he admits. "About the connection between the massacre in Azgeda and this. Someone doesn't want peace among our people."
Clarke nods. Her gut had told her she was right about this, that there is something more going on here, but to hear Roan agree with her… She's relieved. "I'll talk to Kane and ask if anyone's been acting strange lately. In Skaikru and in Trikru."
"Good."
Before Clarke can leave, Roan calls her name. She stops, but she doesn't face him.
"Clarke," he says, softer. She has always been aware of the effect his voice has on her. It makes her blood heat up, her heart beat just a little bit faster. But she hasn't realized, until now, how significant that is.
She doesn't want to hear her name leave his lips again, for fear of what the hell she'd do, so she turns. He's closer than she thought, and she eyes the foot of space left between them.
He clearly notices her sudden discomfort, but he says nothing. "I know you've lost a friend. But I believe it would be safer for you in Polis."
Clarke doesn't retort right away, even though she wants to. She wants to argue a million different things against that statement. That her safety isn't his concern. That she can look after herself. That her people have her back. That she owes it to Harper, to Nathan's dad, to stay and fight and make sure they didn't die in vain. But where she would normally butt heads with him, she finds she doesn't want to.
"My people need me, Roan."
He nods, expecting this. "I know. And I know you'll do everything you can for them. But I truly think the best thing we can do is return to Polis. See what Echo has learned about the massacre in Quehanna."
"And get married?" Clarke is brazen enough to add, a sarcastic arch to her brow.
Roan smirks, and Clarke feels tingles all the way to her toes. "I was going to say strategize, but if that's what you desire, Wanheda, then who am I to refuse?"
Clarke's belly flutters. She manages to roll her eyes, but she's not quite sure she pulled off nonchalant as much as she wishes. "Let me think about it."
"Returning to Polis, or marrying me?"
She doesn't deign him a response. But she smiles when, as she turns her back on him and walks through Arkadia's gates, she hears him chuckle to himself.
000
Bellamy is no stranger to digging graves. Sweat drips down his spine and gathers on his forehead, but he keeps his head down and focuses on his task. He spears damp soil with the shovel, heaves it up and over his shoulder, and adds it to the growing pile beside him. Spear, heave, spear, heave.
On some level, it helps.
Monty is refusing to talk to anyone. Jasper is talking too much, of course. Raven had only spared Bellamy a nod of acknowledgement on her way to Clarke's room earlier. Kane keeps pestering Bellamy about this issue and that one. Nathan is, understandably, still hiding out in his room, grieving for his father.
Bellamy feels alone.
Harper and David Miller and six others. Gone. Some he had known closely, others only in passing, but their faces haunt him.
As if that isn't enough, Bellamy is growing more and more concerned about Clarke and Roan.
Clarke hadn't even noticed him. Up on the watch tower over the gate, keeping an eye on Dr. Griffin to make sure the Ice Nation warriors didn't harm her as she argued with Roan. Clarke hadn't even noticed him. At first, he understood. Seeing Abby Griffin stand toe-to-toe with Ice Nation's king unsettled Bellamy. He had nearly marched down there himself until he saw Clarke run up. He had been certain she would side with her mother and leave, and in turn make the grounders leave too, but Clarke still manages to surprise him.
She stayed. She asked Roan to stay.
Bellamy feels sick.
Shovel, heave. The pile of dirt beside him grows as he sinks deeper into the earth.
Suddenly, a pair of legs are in his sights. Someone drops into a sitting position, legs dangling languidly into the open grave, like a child on a chair too big for them.
Of course, it's Octavia.
Her eyes are dark – literally. Bellamy isn't sure what she uses to chalk the area around her eyes black, but she looks less and less like his baby sister every time he sees her. Her hair has very few braids left in it. Their increasing absence is both a protest to Lincoln's death, he thinks, and her growing distance from not only Arkadians, but grounders, too.
For as alone as Bellamy feels, he knows it's nothing compared to Octavia.
Bellamy pauses his shoveling to glance up at her, but he can't get a good read. She looks bored, but she rarely seeks out his company anymore, not even in boredom. Not since she admitted she only lets him live because he's her blood.
His heart aches.
"What's eating at you, big brother?" she asks, and Bellamy hates how much her voice sounds like a taunt. There had been a time when she would look at him with wide blue eyes like he hung the moon. How could so much go wrong?
Bellamy goes back to shoveling. "Not now, O." He can't take her anger right now. He has so much he needs to sort out himself – his relationship with his sister is something he knows can't be fixed with just one conversation.
Octavia produces an apple from her satchel and bites into it lazily. She eyes the grave. "Y'know, there used to be a time when you'd drop everything for me," she points out.
Bellamy sighs. More dirt is added to the pile. "I still do. You just don't see it that way anymore."
Octavia smiles. He misses her smiles. They used to be so full of joy, of curiosity, of wonder. Now, they're all sharp. "Nah. You just don't wanna admit I'm not the girl you drop everything for, now. But it's okay, Bell. I'm not some little girl hiding under the floorboards anymore."
Bellamy keeps his eyes on the head of the shovel. "I guess you aren't," he mumbles.
Octavia rolls her eyes. "What're you gonna do about Clarke?" For once, she actually sounds interested. Like she wants, maybe needs, an answer.
Bellamy pauses again. He uses the hem of his shirt to wipe the sweat off his forehead. "Not sure what you mean," he finally decides on, because no, he doesn't know what his little sister wants anymore. "Clarke makes her own decisions."
"Ugh. If you two could pull your heads out of your asses for one second, you'd realize how ridiculous you both are."
Bellamy glares up at his sister. "The hell's that mean?"
"It means you never grew a pair after all that shit at Mount Weather and told her how you feel. You let her leave. Then she fell in love with Lexa, and you still stayed on the sidelines. Then Lexa died, and you still didn't do anything."
"She was grieving! Lexa was her world." He eyes his sister carefully, and without malice, adds, "You know what it's like to lose the one person who means everything to you."
Octavia's eyes harden. She takes another bite of her apple, chews it, swallows. "Yeah. I do. But I don't think Lexa was Clarke's whole world. I think Lexa was a big part of it, yeah, but I think you were, too."
"Past tense."
Octavia pulls her legs up underneath her and gives him an exasperated glance. "Present tense, idiot. She essentially ran all the way to Polis to get you. She even talked about marrying someone else just to get you free."
Bellamy hates that word, lately. Marry. He runs his fingers through his hair and gets frustrated at all the knots he encounters. "She might've gone for me, but she'll marry him because she thinks it's the right thing. For all of us." Or maybe she'll marry him for different reasons. Bellamy's beginning to think he doesn't know the half of Clarke's relationship with Roan.
Octavia's nose scrunches in annoyance. She stands, suddenly, towering over him, and her shadow eclipses the sun. "Whatever. Thought you could use someone to talk to, but I can see we're past that now." Her eyes flick once more to the grave, and she adds as an almost afterthought, "Harper was one of the good ones."
"Yeah," Bellamy agrees quietly. "She was."
But Octavia has already left.
000
Roan watches as eight bodies are carried in wooden boxes to freshly dug graves. The sun is setting slowly and shadows stretch over the burial site, cast from the surrounding forest and the great leviathan building that is the remnants of Skaikru's Ark.
He stands far enough away from the gathering of Arkadians that no one notices him, settled back into one of the Ark's blanketing shadows. Aurra stands beside him, at her insistence that he is among enemies. The rest of his guard remain at their makeshift camp to prepare for departure the next morning.
Aurra watches the quiet ceremony with interest, shifting beside Roan. Most would mistake her restlessness at unease in such an unfamiliar situation, but Roan remembers her as the long-limbed child who could hardly ever sit still. He rarely believes in things like fate or destiny, but he doesn't believe Aurra could have ever been anything other than a warrior.
"Do they not find it offensive to bury their dead in the ground?" Aurra wonders aloud, her voice barely loud enough for Roan to catch.
"No," he answers. "They visit the graves. They believe it keeps their loved ones close and in their memory."
Aurra's brows furrow. "But they trap their souls beneath the earth. It's… cruel."
Roan shrugs. "It's their way, just as it is ours to burn our dead and set them free."
Aurra goes silent, and Roan watches raptly as Clarke emerges from the crowd to stand at the head of what he assumes is her friend's coffin. Her hair shines a bright, rich gold in the dying sunlight, and she easily stands out among the rest of her people.
Or perhaps that is only to him. Perhaps he has let his baser desires get the best of him, despite trying his hardest to resist. After she had looked at him so differently earlier that day, he couldn't get her out of his head.
Roan desperately wants to know if she will return to Polis with him or send him back alone. If they stand on opposite sides of a war. He knows he must be patient. He knows grief and fear weigh heavy on her heart.
He knows she has reasons to stay.
His gaze shifts to Bellamy, who approaches to stand beside her. They speak to their people, but neither Aurra or Roan can quite make out the words. It doesn't matter, either way. Words of death and grief are nearly the same in all cultures, he thinks.
Roan stays, engulfed in dusk's encroaching shadows, as the coffins are lowered into the ground. He stays long after most Arkadians have left, going elsewhere to grieve or think or live. He stays because Clarke stays, a frown heavy on her lips, as her people refill the ground. An hour passes and night settles, but Roan remains in his shadow and Aurra stays alert beside him.
Perhaps some part of him hopes Clarke knows she isn't alone.