Chapter Notes:
For Monty, finding his way around Polis is difficult.
For Clarke, Polis brings difficult memories.
For Lexa, Polis holds duties she would rather not do.

It crunches beneath the steady hooves of their horses. Soft. Brittle. The layer of snow is still thin enough to travel at speed, barely slowing the seasoned Azgeda warriors down.

The onset of winter has begun. The slow creeping chill from the north, sapping trees of the remaining yellow leaves, the ground beginning to grow studier, harder.

The small group has been travelling for days. Queen Nia might be many things, but when she gives an order, you do not delay. Not unless you have very important news.

At least she's not with them. They can travel swiftly, any luxuries have been left behind in the Azgeda capital, carrying only the bare essentials needed by hardened warriors.

With Azgeda behind them, the terrain surrounding them has changed. Still cold. Still barren. The borderlands between Azgeda, Broadleaf and the Lake People have always been contested land. Largely uninhabited, it's allowed to grow wild and untamed. Allowed to thrive in ways that even the Broadleaf and Trikru forests aren't.

Beautiful and inviting.

An ideal to strive towards.

Frosted grass stands defiantly in between patches of windblown snow. Still lush, just frozen in place from the freezing temperatures. It's a vast difference from just earlier in the morning, safely back in Azgeda territory where everything had been covered in a thin layer of white.

Nothing to worry about yet, but enough for her warriors to move a little faster. To push their horses into a gentle trot, taking care not to work their animals into a sweat. Even so, they'll have to stop soon. With the reduced amount of daylight these days, the sun is already crawling down towards the horizon.

"We'll set up camp over there!"

Ontari doesn't stop. Doesn't turn her head to see if her warriors have acknowledged her order. Instead, she briefly points out the patch of trees jutting out from the forest up ahead, creating a patch of ground sheltered from the wind in two directions.

It will still be cold, but they're used to that. These are some of the best warriors in all of Azgeda. Trained by Ontari herself at the Queen's orders. A tight-knit group, they're devout believers in their cause, even if they recently lost a few of their number to Wanheda.

Useful fools.

Cold air rustles beneath the tent flaps, icy whispers and howling gusts of wind; promises the chase of winter, the slow — insidious — freeze that latches onto the land. Avoid the winter Embrace the winter. It's a way of life for the Azgeda people, not by choice but simply because they have no other options.

It reaches an equilibrium. Pauses.

The world waits, balanced precariously on the edge. Waits.

Today.

Ontari drains the last of the rapidly cooling stew in her bowl, the taste of salted meat not even registering as her mind focuses intensely on the day to come.

At first they hadn't believed the rumours. Spoken by word of mouth — by commoners and traders — it had been too easy to ignore them. Rumours of a man fallen from the sky, Gonasleng and acting like a Maunon. It was laughable. Everyone knows no Maunon would have made it to the Plains.

Skaikru, perhaps, could have made it there, but they were too preoccupied fighting first the Commander's forces, and then the Maunon themselves.

No. They had thought it nothing more than a rumour.

But then trusted messengers had come back, speaking of the talent of the man from the sky; the smoothness of his tongue and the slippery nature of his words. "A trained Ambassador," the messenger had said. And a Skaikru ambassador should not — could not — have made it that far from his people.

Queen Nia had changed her mind then and Ontari obediently agreed, silently berating the Queen for taking so long to reach the obvious decision. Scouts had been dispatched; some of the few unmarked, officially outcasts, but privately in the service of the Queen, able to go where others cannot. Able to overhear that which isn't meant for Azgeda ears.

Told to ingratiate themselves with the man and discover his plans, they succeeded. Of course they did. Failure would have meant death.

The Queen had thought the man — Jaha, as he came to be known — to be inconsequential, useless. A curious coincidence worthy only of amused thoughts, wondering at the strength of his dedication to live; the lengths he might go to for survival.

He had surprised them. Even Ontari had been surprised at his tenacity, the nature of his plan. Admitting that had been trying, for a moment, but it's good that they did.

She rinses out the small bowl with water from her waterskin, making sure not to spill anything. Any resource is precious. Packing up doesn't take long. A single fur wraps around the bedroll, and her weapons never leave her side.

Pushing aside the tent-flap reveals a lazy flurry of white flakes dancing through the air. It does nothing to dampen her spirit. Today is the day. Her warriors follow her lead, disassembling their small tents and securing them to the horses.

Like the day before, snow crunches underneath the horses' hooves. They don't speak, don't need to. With the target in sight, just a few hours of riding away from the village Jaha has been watching, they're focused. The mood is expectant, already sure of the outcome.

Ontari is unable to prevent the stretch of her lips. Unable to avoid the curl and the way her upper lip lifts ever so slightly in a malicious smirk.

He will be useful.

Titus pales in recognition as his eyes lock on Clarke's pulsating purple ones. Raising her brow slightly, she forces a gentle smile that absolutely doesn't reach her eyes.

"Wanheda"

Titus' attempt at sounding respectful isn't bad, doesn't seem too forced. The slight hesitation that follows his startled realisation of just who Clarke is, however, is what gives him away. It's just long enough for Titus' arms to move at their own accord, crossing defensively in front of this chest. Just enough for him to stand a little taller, shoulders drawn a little tighter.

His clothes — robes, really — are made from a fine cloth that Clarke doesn't recognize, looking as soft as the furs Clarke spotted in Lexa's tent last night. Coloured with vivid highlights, it's clear that Titus has an important position. Even without his shaven head, Titus would stand out in any crowd like a beacon.

Ignoring him might not be the best option, but Clarke hasn't been officially introduced yet. Isn't supposed to trust Lexa enough to know that he's on the Council of Elders in Polis; that he's the Keeper of Records, part of a small group studying the history before and after the Great Flames.

Madi keeps squirming in her arms, exuding a nervous energy Clarke hasn't seen with her before. She's quiet, scanning the crowd and attempting to burrow deeper into Clarke's arms at the same time.

A placid expression finds its way onto Clarke's face as she gives the crowd a once-over, shifting her arms to hold Madi more firmly, protectively. Part of their plan had been to announce Madi's status as a Nightblood, to make sure nobody would question Clarke's behaviour towards her, but now Clarke is beginning to regret it.

There are hundreds of people in the square already, and more and more people come streaming down the streets and out of the houses as the news of their Commander's — Lexa's — return spreads like wildfire.

With so many people, so many unknowns, it's no wonder that Madi is uncomfortable. Clarke feels it too, the phantom pinch between her shoulder blades, the desire to keep something solid — defensible — between Madi and the crowd.

Lexa notices the brewing tension the moment she looks away from Deyne and Skaikru, immediately stepping towards Titus, but making sure to not get between him and Clarke.

"Wanheda, this is Titus, an Elder of Polis and the Keeper of Records."

Clarke raises an eyebrow at the introduction. Lexa didn't mention Titus' clan earlier, and it seems she isn't doing so now either. It doesn't escape her that the traditional greeting isn't used, but Clarke doesn't question it. It's an opportunity she can't ignore.

"Well met Elder. I am Klark kom Skaikru, Wanheda."

Clarke recites the proper greeting, more for the crowd observing with curious eyes and what Lexa had described as loose tongues. They're the right words, but her tone is cold, unable to fully suppress the disdain she feels for the man who wanted her dead.

His mouth opens, surprise flashing across his features, but he doesn't give the customary response. Doesn't welcome her to Polis as an important guest. Clarke doesn't mind, perfectly fine being treated like a normal person, but the crowd around them does. It's subtle, barely there, but she notices it all the same. The way eyes dart towards Titus expectantly, before finding Clarke again to watch her reaction.

Her smile stays overly friendly as she dismisses Titus as unimportant, though her eyes track his every movement. His eyes have fallen from Clarke, landing instead on Madi in her arms.

"Heda?" Clarke tilts her head slightly, just enough to indicate the next move is Lexa's.

At Lexa's gesture, a group of young stable grooms rush out to take care of the travellers' horses. Clarke quietly thanks then, pleased when they don't shy away from her gaze. She doesn't know what she would have done if everyone feared her. When she turns back around, Titus looks even more sour than before, while Lexa looks pleased with herself.

The trip to the Tower passes in an uncomfortable silence as Titus decides to tag along. Perhaps it's for the best, as keeping any distance between herself and Lexa feels like an impossible task. Clarke wants to be closer. Wants to see Lexa with a spring in her step as she shows them around Polis, voice bright and full of pride.

Clarke wants more.

It should scare her. Should make her pull back and question herself. She doesn't though. Not when Lexa feels inevitable, like this thing between them was always meant to happen. It's inexplicable, that despite the anger Clarke felt at Lexa's actions at Mt. Weather, she's never been able to hate the girl. She understood, right from the beginning, even if she didn't want to.

Protecting your people always comes at a cost.

Letting her smile dip back into a neutral expression, Clarke keeps a keen eye on Titus' back, but otherwise attempts to take in the city around her.

It's so vibrant, full of life and energy. It's nothing like the military feeling of TonDC, or even the upbeat hustle of Drom. Sure strides carry them down cobblestone streets, lined with houses and alleyways. Something new peers out from every corner; a ginger and white-striped cat napping on a sun-warmed doorstep. A gaggle of children chasing down the street, followed by a shaggy looking dog.

Here, even with their Commander walking amidst them, the atmosphere remains free, joyous. Heads incline in respect as Lexa walks by. More than a few nod towards Clarke, murmuring thanks for giving long-lost loved ones peace at last; thanks she's sure aren't meant by any ears but their own.

The Tower of Polis is magnificent. Visible from nearly every street of Polis, all you have to do is look up. Clarke isn't sure what she expected. None of her past Hosts went to Polis, too preoccupied with conflict and combat; death. She's heard of it, though.

Perhaps she had expected a worn and battered skyscraper from before the bombs from, from before the Great Flames. A mostly-intact building was most certainly not what she expected. When they approached Polis, the upper floors appeared exposed, with glass and metal giving away to the concrete core. They might be, for all Clarke knows, but up close it looks pristine, all gleaming glass and polished metal.

How they've maintained it is a mystery Clarke itches to explore, but it's something for another day. They're getting closer now, the street expanding before merging into a much wider street running around the Tower base.

The crowd here reminds Clarke of Drom. Stalls line the side of the road, merchants shouting out deals for everyone to hear, while the smell of freshly baked bread wafts towards them.

There's warriors here too, standing guard by the entrances. A small group is seen patrolling in the distance, and Clarke can't help but wonder just how many people live in this place.

Stepping into the Tower of Polis is like stepping into another world. Less busy than the road outside, but no less imposing. Armed guards line the walls, most wearing the distinct armour Clarke has begun to associate with Lexa's personal guard; thin leather, with pieces of metal to protect vulnerable spots, a cog — Heda's symbol — embossed in bright red on their chests.

A few, however, wear very different armour. Colours and structures that seem so foreign among the sea of Trikru warriors, with less leather and large two-handed swords, while others still wear heavy leather and even furs, carrying axes and spears. It leaves no doubt as to Tower's inhabitants. One and all, they look proud. Fierce. Serving their purpose here in the tower, guarding their respective ambassadors.

Madi tugs on Clarke's arm, pointing out paintings lining the walls. Some so old the paint has started to crack, leaving little spots of whitish grey, leaving the imagination to fill in the blanks. Clarke is certain she recognizes some of the people in the portraits; famous people from before the bombs fell.

The newer ones are in much better condition, but simpler in their construction. Each of them depict a different commander in front of Polis, Clarke realises, as her eyes trail down the line from oldest to newest, watching the city change and grow over the years.

Aside from the spark of orange in their eyes, captured by artists of varying talent, Clarke struggles to recognise any of the Commanders. It's a broken line, she realises. A false start, missing at least the First Commander.

Lexa leads them towards a row of lifts, waiting for the manually driven carriage to make its way down to the ground floor.

"Our warriors use them for strength training." Lexa explains, catching Clarke's curious glance at the modified contraption. "Much of the original structure survived the Great Flames, but we do not have the same Tek your people do. Instead, we have replaced the mechanism with manual labour."

Titus attempts to step into the lift with them, but Lexa stops him before he sets foot inside. "Madi is a Nightblood." A confused frown finds its place on his face. "I am taking them to the Sanctuary."

"Very well, Heda." The frown falls away to resigned understanding. He throws a questioning glance at Clarke, making no move to leave.

"She is the girl's sworn protector," Lexa says, "and she is Wanheda. She is allowed access."

It looks like he wants to glower and question Lexa's judgement, but reluctantly steps away, letting the warrior manning the lift close the doors. A satisfying click sounds as the door locks. Less than an hour, and the man has already firmly entrenched himself as a nuisance in Clarke's mind. He's persistent and dogged in his attempts to get his argument through, and seems hesitant to listen to anyone else.

"Titus is not a Nightblood," Lexa offers in explanation, "he does not have access to our Sanctuary. Something he has always protested."

She sighs, leaning against the wall now that they're out of sight. Smiles fondly at Clarke and Madi.

"As you know, Titus is the Keeper of Records, studying our history and advising the Elders and the Commander based on that, but he's somehow found out that us Nightbloods keep records as well. Ever since then he's been wanting access to them, to see what we have kept secret."

The floor beneath them jerks, starting to slowly move upwards, and causing Madi to shriek in surprise.

"We built this Tower, before the bombs."

Clarke looks up in surprise. She hadn't known that.

"It's always been a Sanctuary. A safe place for my people. Somewhere to keep them safe."

Actually, come to think of it, Clarke had never been entrusted with the location of a Sanctuary. Hadn't even known about them until Elenor told her a few weeks ago. There's so much she doesn't know.

"Are they here?" Madi suddenly asks, squirming excitedly in Clarke's arms.

Oh right.

Letting Madi down to the ground seems to be the right move, as she immediately takes three wobbly steps, hanging on to Lexa's leg, looking up at her and waiting for a response.

Clarke can't help but chuckle at the sight of Lexa crouching down to be eye-height with Madi.

"They should be. Maybe not all of them, but most should be back by now." There's no need to ask who Madi means. She has spent all morning talking their ears off about meeting the other Nightbloods; about playing and training with them.

When the doors open, they step out into a small bland corridor. Two warriors stand at attention beside a single metal door. They nod at Lexa and peer curiously at Madi who still has a hand on Lexa's leg. They stiffen slightly at the sight of Clarke. "Wanheda," they gasp, giving her a respectful nod as well.

She isn't sure how to react. Fear she understands, but the almost reverent way Nightbloods see her is something she might never grow used to. A respectful nod in return is what Clarke settles for. It seems to appease the two warriors.

The door swings open slowly, revealing just how thick it is. If Clarke didn't know better, she would have mistaken it for the entrance to an underground bunker.

A few steps past the door, Madi lets go of Lexa's leg and stops in place, staring at the wall in awe. The original colour has faded over the years, but a mural has taken its place, history told in delicate strokes and intricate detail.

Here, at the beginning, are horrendously bright Great Flames. The ones Clarke still sees — feels — in the rare nightmares of the past, causing a full-body shiver to surge through her. The Flames give away to show the ruins of a city — Philadelphia, Clarke recalls — all twisted steel, broken glass and rubble lining bloody streets. In the middle, two women are barely visible, obscured by the smoke of the Flames. Their eyes are open — glowing — one a pair of vivid purple, and other — slightly duller — stormy grey.

Clarke's hand itches.

Faye.

She aches to just reach out. To touch. To feel and to remember. She wants to say goodbye, to say all the things she hadn't been prepared to admit back then. Clarke doesn't. Pushes the bitter-sweet memories aside and blinks the tears threatening to spill away.

"Our history," Lexa starts, before Clarke has a chance to ask the burning question on her mind, "as seen by the Nightbloods. What happened after you and the First Commander were betrayed."

Clarke is too shaken to look at the next part, what she knows must be the betrayal and death of the First Commander. The day Wanheda lived up to her moniker, having watched her lover die. The day Wanheda disappeared.

The next scene is the aftermath of the battle, as seen from afar, on top of a hilltop. A warrior tends to a teenage boy, wiping away the dirt and grime of war. He's a Nightblood, judging by the colour of his wound.

"They heard about the insurrection… Came to help." Lexa's eyes flash orange, no doubt being shown snippets of memories by Heda. Clarke hopes they're not Faye's. "They were too late. The First Commander was dead, and you had disappeared."

"They took the survivors back here, to heal. Heda chose one their first host a few weeks later, and Polis became their home."

Another voice finishes the story for Lexa, who has grown quiet and sombre. Too occupied with the memories, none of them have noticed the new addition to the group. A young blonde boy, barely in his teens by Clarke's estimate. He looks at the mural with sorrowful eyes.

"Hi, I'm Aden."

Lexa turns, able to hear Titus' tight footsteps as he travels down the corridor towards her personal rooms. Each step is so precise, measured. He's angry. Then again, with how Lexa has been avoiding spending any time with him since ordering the assassin be taken to the Healers, it's no wonder Titus has been working himself up.

He's useful; knows Polis and its inhabitants well. Knows the history of the clans perhaps better than Lexa herself, but he's too single-minded in his focus. Well-meaning in his intentions, but endlessly frustrating to work with.

Lexa doesn't have time to speak with him now. She left Clarke and Madi with Aden, promising that she would see them later. Clarke knows why, but neither Aden nor Madi needs to know what Lexa needs to do. She would much rather spend time with them, but as Commander, duty always calls.

Titus doesn't know she survived.

Lexa isn't sure why she hasn't told him. Truth be told, it had been pure instinct at the time. Once the healers had taken the assassin to be treated, one of Lexa's maidens had gone with orders to fake the assassin's death. Amidst the small fanfare her and Ryder's abrupt trip to TonDC had generated, Lexa's personal healer managed to sneak the assassin into one of her private rooms in the tower, inaccessible to anyone but Lexa's most trusted staff.

Staff which does not include Titus.

Lexa paces the room. She's been preparing herself for what to do, and she won't have Titus change her mind. Before he has a chance to knock on the door, Lexa pulls it open and strides through.

"Walk with me, Titus."

She listens attentively as he briefs her on the preparations for the arrival of the clan leaders. Most are here already, with Blue Cliff, the Plains Riders and Azgeda still to arrive. It's to be expected, with those clans having the furthest to travel, and thus the least notice to her summons. An unfortunate hassle when dealing with the Coalition at large.

He pauses momentarily as he tells her of the guards assigned to protect Skaikru, a considering expression flickering across his face.

"She truly is Wanheda, isn't she?"

He doesn't have to ask. He met Clarke himself, and though her eyes had been hard to see in the bright autumn sun, the dim light inside the Tower had been more than enough for him to be certain. Lexa nods sharply. Titus can either accept it or deal with her.

"Then I apologise, Heda, for my words before you left for TonDC. I thought the rumours to be of an imposter, unworthy of the title"

He doesn't sound sorry, but then Titus has always been good at disguising his true feelings. It's a good sign, nonetheless, that he will be more careful around Clarke. Lexa has learned to trust actions more than words, however, so she will be keeping a keen eye on him.

"Titus." She nods in farewell, having led them to the stairwell, knowing well that Titus has other duties to see to now that her briefing is done, not to mention Lexa herself has things to do.

Her personal rooms are separated across multiple floors. One floor with public access, where the throne room is, and where Lexa can entertain guests when necessary. Nobody else lives here, and truth be told, neither does Lexa. She prefers the private floor above the Nightblood floors, where she can have true privacy.

She strides down yet another corridor, footsteps echoing in the silence. Lexa schools her expression— her emotions. This won't be pretty. It isn't something she wants to do, not when memories of that day still haunts her nights with broken screams and pleas for mercy. Lexa has seen much in her short life; has taken part in actions both wonderful and horrid, and yet this is a memory that haunts her nearly as much as finding Costia's head in her bed. Nearly as much as the thought of what could have happened to her people if Clarke hadn't felled the Maunon.

Ryder waits for her outside the room, standing at attention beside his Seken, Agir. Nothing about this is ordinary. Prisoners aren't supposed to be kept this high in the tower; aren't supposed to enjoy the hospitality of Heda's personal floor.

"Has she spoken yet?" Lexa asks, knowing that the answer won't have changed since the last time.

"No, Heda."

She steps into the room, Ryder at her back. The assassin lies strapped to a table, pale and thinner than Lexa remembers, but alive.

For now.

Good. She needs the anger to fuel her through this. It's the only way she'll survive the memories being brought to the forefront.

Monty longs to go with Clarke, to be there for her. The pressure on her shoulders must be intense, and he just knows that Lexa and Clarke must have some crazy plan cooked up. Clarke didn't say anything when she came back last night, but the smile on her face had said more than enough.

With how distant they've been today, with how formal Lexa — and how weird is it to be on a first-name basis with the Commander — has been, there must be something important going on.

For now though, being led through Polis by Deyne, Monty has other things on his mind. Like how Polis is massive. Who knew the Coalition even had this many people? Granted, it's the capital of the entire coalition, but still?

It's more modern than expected too. Somehow, the image of Grounders in rough leather, wearing warpaint and living out of tents hasn't shaken itself from his mind. The ramshackle construction of the TonDC outpost had been the first construction they saw. Despite living in TonDC proper for a few weeks, it's still hard to shake.

The buildings around them might be worn and well-used, but they're still a mix of old and new. The tools and infrastructure required to build and maintain a city like this.. Safe to say that Monty is, once again, pleasantly surprised. Every glance holds new and surprising details, like the lack of wells for fresh water. The lack of any smell.

They must have running water; sewerage. It's the only explanation that makes a shred of sense. Peering over his shoulders, Monty takes in the way their group — the remains of Skaikru — all have the same wondrous expression, none of them even attempting to hide it.

"You must be proud of what you've built here, this is amazing." Kane says.

Deyne chuckles, eyes glancing across the travel-weary group. "We are. Polis is the crown of the Coalition. Each clan has their own capitals of course, but Polis has a little bit of each clan too."

It hasn't been long since they left Clarke and Madi behind, and with every step the Tower looms ever closer above them. That's not where they're going though, turning down another street, leaving the Tower off to the side, and crossing a district line.

"There have not always been twelve clans in the Coalition. Before, it was a collection of individual alliances and trade agreements. This district was set aside for diplomatic missions, guaranteeing the safety of its inhabitants for their stay, by word of Heda. It has seen little use since Heda Lexa united the clans."

Deyne has turned around to address their group, holding her arms out in welcome.

"With the Nomads in the far Plains and other groups even further away, like from the sky," she smirks, "we have kept this small district maintained. And this house will be yours to use until your status in the Coalition has been resolved." Her hands sweep towards a large three-story building.

Leaving their new lodgings behind is difficult. Monty longs to throw himself onto the bed he's claimed for himself; can't wait for the moment he can let the heaviness in his limbs pull him into the soft hay-filled mattress.

It's difficult, but not knowing what's happening with Raven is more important.

Stepping outside, Monty finds a group of warriors standing guard by the district line. Actually, looking down the street, there are guards stationed by every crossing into the district.

When they make no move to stop him, Monty steps past them, noticing absently one of the warriors with a red cog on their clothes following him. He thinks nothing of it, too used to the behaviour from TonDC.

Finding Raven, however, is more difficult than first anticipated. Somehow, locating the hospital that Nyko had mentioned is a task Monty has no idea how to approach. There's no map and he has no description of what it looks like.

"You are looking for your friend, yes?" The guard that's been following Monty speaks up, jostling Monty from his thoughts in the middle of the street.

"This way."

She turns back around, towards the diplomatic district, but passes by the entrance. They make the next right turn, coming out on a wide street with a collection of tall buildings around them and the Tower up towards the other end.

A simple five minute walk from the diplomatic district, and Monty has already been walking around for nearly an hour. Typical. With the guard's help, it's just a matter of asking for the location of Nyko and his patients.

They're walking down a hallway of the narrow building when Raven's sharp voice rings out.

"I am not a little bird! My name is Raven!"

Anya's laughter follows a second later. "Whatever you say, strik sora (little bird)"

Author's Notes:

Gosh I'm sorry about the delay on this chapter!
Work was crazy last week, and the chapter itself was quite difficult to get right. With the different points of view it was a challenge to not reveal too much too soon, but I'm quite pleased with how it's turned out.

What do you think about the change in origin for Polis and the Tower? :0