Hey everyone, here is the second chapter.

As everyone probably knows by now this story is going to be very different. Octavia/Aerrow will not be the only pairing in this story, and is one that will not become a thing until much later, however a lot of focus will be on their interaction. This story is not going to be as innocent as the previous two, and its rating is well earnt, so I encourage you to read at your own discretion.

I'm very much a novice writer still, so I greatly appreciate any feedback, positive or negative. If you do have anything you wish to say about this story, where you think it should go, or about my writing itself and how it could be improved, please feel free to let me know.

On a side note, since I'm far from an expert translator, all the Trigedasleng spoken in this story will be expressed in italics, while all the english will be in normal font.


I'VE BEEN UP IN THE AIR, OUT OF MY HEAD

STUCK IN A MOMENT OF EMOTION I DESTROYED

IS THIS THE END I FEEL?

Octavia's mouth gaped as she struggled to get over the tsunami of emotion that overcame her upon seeing him again.

The searing pain from her stab wound was forgotten, shoved to the back of her mind as shock, disbelief and ecstasy all surged through her. She had dreamed of this moment, meeting him again, but never had she thought it would actually happen.

She didn't recognise him at first. He looked so different to what she remembered. She knew he was only eighteen years old, but he gave off the persona of someone far older.

He stood at around one seventy-five centimetres – not overly tall or threatening, but she was well aware that looks were deceiving. The heavy wolf-skin clothing he wore made him appear broader, more thickly built than she remembered, and there was something in his stance that eerily reminded her of the monster she had fought inside Mount Weather.

Of someone with purpose, but no identity.

She hadn't recognised him because of his eyes. She was so used to their gleaming purple shade and had forgotten that they were now bright blue, while his hair which was formerly a streaked brown was now bright blonde, though the colour was tainted by his months living in the wilderness. The changes were a direct result of Oblivion, a permanent reminder of what the anarchic organisation had done to him.

Additionally, his blonde hair was much longer too. While it had always been long-ish, reaching the bottom of his ears at the side and the base of his neck at the back when she had known him, now it settled between his shoulder blades, tied back behind his ears in a large and rough ponytail.

The exception was a small and tightly woven braid on his right hand side, which ran down past the front of his ear and reached his collar bone. Attached to its end was a bright yellow feather.

The ugly scar that had ran around his left eye – a consequence of a previous battle – was gone, in its place were a series of small tattoos in the shape of x's – the mark of the Qinta warriors. At some point since she had seen him last he had joined them together with a series of intricate lines to form a design in the rough shape of a C, running in a semicircle around the outside of his eye.

The last time she had seen him had been after the battle at Mount Weather, when he was walking away from her, away from Arkadia – or Camp Jaha as it was known back then – with Clarke at his side. She had no idea what had happened in those three months since then, where they had gone, who they had met, what they had done to survive, but she guessed from the pain of isolation she saw in his eyes and the fact that Clarke was nowhere to be seen that something had gone wrong.

It was strange. He looked so different yet the feeling of familiarity remained, like she had known him for a lifetime. She got to her feet and raced over to hug him, but she only made it one step before the stab wound in her abdomen reminded her explosively of its existence, sending fiery pain racing through her entire body.

She suppressed a scream and dropped to the ground, teeth gritted in agony.

He was at her side in seconds, cobalt eyes flitting up and down her body in assessment.

"You're hurt." He exclaimed, pursing his lips at the sight of the wound on her torso.

Even his voice was different she realised. It was slightly deeper and raspier than ever, hoarse from apparent disuse. There was not a trace of youthful innocence left in it.

"Yeah, thanks for noticing." Octavia grunted in reply.

He gently maneuvered her out of her thick outer jacket and lifted up her shirt, exposing her midriff so he could examine the wound.

"That bad huh?" She managed to joke, despite the waves of pain shooting through her.

The look on his face said it all.

It was not good.

The Ice Nation warrior had struck her well, a clean and efficient blow, straight to the gut – a strike intended not to kill, but rather to maim, so the victim died a slow death from blood loss, in agony the entire time.

He furrowed his brow and clenched his jaw, deep in thought.

"It's worse." He replied roughly. "Without help you'll bleed out in a couple of hours. Help I can't give you, not here at least."

The full reality of her situation finally crashed into her, knocking the air from her lungs.

She was going to die.

She had been close to death before, too close, but never had she had the time to actually acknowledge the peril she had been in. This time was different. And it terrified her.

Seeing the panic rising in her eyes, he cupped his hands to her cheeks with a gentleness that anyone who didn't know him wouldn't think he could possess.

"I will not let that happen." He told her firmly, as if reading her dark thoughts. "Now stay calm, try and keep still."

"Why?" she fought back a wince at the higher pitch in her voice. "What are you going to do?"

Without saying another word and with an almost frightening level of strength, he hoisted her up off the ground in a single, fluid motion and held her close to his chest as he disappeared back into the forest.

The last thing Octavia remembered before passing out was his heartbeat, pounding strong and loud against her ear

Night began to fall as Aerrow Eroxin marched through the woods, clutching the dying girl to his chest, legs moving with a purpose and urgency they hadn't done for weeks. His face and eyes were set in a concrete expression of determination.

He couldn't let her die.

He couldn't lose anyone else he cared about.

He didn't know exactly where he was heading. He only hoped it was the right way.

He didn't even know where he was, not really. He had spent so many days wandering alone in the wilderness that he had lost all sense of direction. Not that he needed one anyway. His journey had been as purposeless as his life. He hadn't had direction since Clarke... Since Oblivion...

He could only guess by the cold and the pine trees that he was still in Ice Nation territory, which led him to wonder what Octavia was doing so far from camp. At least what of it he remembered.

He couldn't stop replaying the events of just a few hours prior in his mind. It had just been another day in his vagabond routine, wandering aimlessly as the nomad he had become. No urgency, no purpose.

That had all changed when he'd heard a distinctive female voice. One that he remembered from somewhere, though couldn't quite picture where.

Against his resigned instincts, he had decided to go and investigate anyway, and his pace quickened exponentially when he'd heard the sounds of clashing swords.

And then all he remembered was seeing her again: Octavia Blake.

He forcefully denied ever feeling the surge of warmth that flooded his being when he saw her, burying it beneath heavy layers of shame.

It was something about her face, that made him feel something other than the endless cycle of guilt and despair he'd been festering in. Something that, for the first time in over a month, didn't make him feel lost.

He had no idea why either. All he had known at the time was that Octavia was in trouble. He recalled seeing her go down... the Azgeda scouts standing over her... ready to kill her... and he had simply acted.

The blood on his hands brought with it a new level of shame, and he swallowed back tremors of denial.

'I am Aerrow, last of the Qinta warriors.'

The words he'd spoken kept repeating themselves, over and over again.

He knew exactly why.

They were lies.

The Qinta were extinct. by his hand.

He had ceased to be one of them, and instead become their destruction.

The name Aerrow was a lie too. He hadn't heard it in so long. It meant nothing to him anymore. He had ceased to be anyone the moment Oblivion had-

He cut his line of thought, refusing to bring those memories back, engrained coping mechanisms snapping violently into place.

The familiar sense of rustling leaves by his side gave him a much needed reassurance. It was the one thing that had kept him grounded since Mount Weather.

He glanced down at the large, metre long black and white reptile scurrying beside him, keeping in step with him easily. She was an Australian Lace Monitor, and she had been his only friend for months. Her name was Cleo – Ironically named by none other than the girl in his arms, after the beautiful Egyptian queen.

Ever since he had saved the big lizard from certain death at the hands of mutated Wolves many months ago, she had stuck faithfully by his side, and had saved his life in turn on multiple occasions. Despite the lizard being unable to speak, it sometimes felt as if she could understand him perfectly, and the mental bond they shared was an equal to their physical one, one of a strength that was impossible to break.

Aerrow was interrupted from his thoughts by Octavia twisting and squirming in his arms, her condition continuing to deteriorate as she slowly bled out. She cried out in pain and a thick film of sweat had formed on her forehead. He gritted his teeth, frustrated that there was nothing he was able to do for her at this point in time. He purposely had no medical equipment with him, and there wasn't even any dry wood around to start a fire and cauterise her wound.

His only hope was to return to one of the trading posts he'd passed sporadically in recent days, and that the grounders who operated them were more accommodating than the ones who'd inflicted her injuries.

He prayed he would find something, anything soon. Octavia didn't have much time.

He breathed a huge sigh of relief when he saw it in the distance. The flickering light in the window of one such trading post. He recognised it as the most recent one he'd seen, and was immensely thankful for Cleo's incredible tracking abilities. He'd never have found it without her.

He gave no time to think of what he might say to the grounder inside the building to convince them to allow him to help Octavia, or even if they had the proper supplies, he simply strode up to the door, pushed it open with his back and went in.

"I need your help-" he began, only to cut himself off when he turned around and saw there was no one in sight.

Excellent.

He wasted no time in moving through the main section of the building, full of food and various items that were used to trade.

He kicked down the door at the back of the room, which led to the grounder's sleeping quarters.

He gently laid the still unconscious Octavia down on the bed, making sure she was as comfortable as possible, before quickly disrobing his outermost fur, ignoring the biting cold and pressing it firmly against her wound. Satisfied that it was the best he could do for the time being, he turned his back to her and returned to the main room to scour for supplies.

He was relieved to find most of the items he needed: a scalpel, a needle and thread, scissors, strips of cloth, and crucially a mortar and pestle.

He hurried back into the bedroom and set them aside before quickly gathering Octavia's two swords and striking them together over the fireplace, sparking the thankfully-prepared kindling into life. Blowing rapidly to grow the flame, as soon as the room was illuminated enough to see properly he set a pot of water over it to boil and turned back to Octavia.

He found her still sweating profusely and now deathly pale. She had lost a lot of blood. He tried rolling the hem of her shirt up and out of the way to have better access to her wound, but the weathered leather was frustratingly noncompliant, so with a resigned growl he instead cut the garment away with one of the swords.

Wasting no time in pushing it aside, he did his best to ignore her exposed breasts as he used one of the rags he'd gathered to clean her wound as best he could.

It was small, but deep, though luckily the blade appeared to have missed any of her vital organs, a fact which he deduced from the lack of bruising to the surrounding area. He carefully cleaned away the excess blood and dirt from around the wound using another rag dipped in the not-yet boiled water.

One such stroke caused Octavia flinch with pain, arching her back and sending her breast into contact with his forearm. He stilled at the contact, his eyes drawn to the swell of her chest and the darkened peaks of her mounds. The feeling of forbidden skin against his own was indescribable.

God he had spent so long alone, without the touch of another...

He forced the emotions away. Now was definitely not the time or place. He squeezed his eyes shut, looked away and took a deep breath before continuing to clean up her wound.

He swabbed the area with the boiled water to prevent infection as best he could – drawing a sharp squeal of pain from the barely conscious girl – before sewing her wound back up with the needle and thread. He then wrapped her abdomen in the last of the rags, before pulling something from the pocket in his pants.

He had kept it from his time with the Qinta – a small pouch full of a unique and specific blend of healing herbs that held extraordinary medicinal properties. They stopped infections, countered a variety of venoms and poisons, but also reduced pain and promoted healing.

Taken in too high a dose though, they were lethal, and it was for this specific reason that he'd kept them.

He held the pouch up in front of him, dark eyes illuminated by the flickering orange flames as he pondered just what he was about to do.

If he gave her enough herbs to heal her, he was committing himself to rendering their true purpose obsolete.

After a brief yet severe internal war, he crushed the pouch in a slightly trembling fist. He bowed his head against it, closing his eyes and exhaling in shaky acceptance, before opening the drawstring and emptying a small amount into the mortar. He ground them up with the pestle, before adding them to the remaining hot water to create a tea, which he gave to Octavia.

Then he immediately flung the pouch into the fire, taking what remained of the herbs with it. He glared into the flames, eyes unblinking as they devoured it.

Only when one of his last remaining links to the Qinta was gone did he swivel around and return his focus to Octavia, hoping he hadn't been too late.

Thankfully she seemed to be stabilising, and had sunk into a deep state of unconsciousness as her body and the herbs worked to heal her.

Dabbing at her forehead to help ease her fever, Aerrow settled down next to her, kneeling beside the bed with her hand in his, gently running his thumb over the back of her palm, while Cleo had long since curled up and fallen asleep next to the fire, drawing its warmth into her cold-blooded body to fight off the chill of the night.

Eventually, he forced himself to stand so he could gather some more water to wash his blood-stained hands with. He covered her with the thick blankets and exited the room.

Returning to the main room, he searched for a larger bucket with which to use in the small stream outside.

He froze though when his eyes instead found a mirror perched against the wall.

His every muscle stilled instantly, breath catching in his throat.

Blonde hair and blue eyes stared back at him, haunting, mocking. Pale skin and an unblemished chest threw him to the grip of ice cold fingers clutching tightly at his heart, seizing and holding and squeezing.

Faint gasps of air escaped his throat as his chest collapsed in on itself, heaving and struggling for fresh oxygen, but none came.

The reflection prevented it.

He couldn't breathe!

He wheezed and gasped in a desperate attempt for air but he succeeded only in pulling in the haunted emotions in those glazed sapphires. Panic and dread and guilt and raw fucking terror engulfed him, dragging him back down into the depths of the darkness he'd been so resolutely avoiding.

No no no no no!

"We need you… Subject Alpha."

"Make no mistake, this is your destiny. Everything in your life has been dictated by us"

Words, voices built in his head and he was powerless to stop them, They just built in intensity, swirling, droning, deafening.

"Don't be afraid… By injecting you with Subject Sierra's DNA… you will become the deadliest living thing on this planet…"

"Aerrow what the hell?"

"What have you become?"

He clutched at his head, fingers clawing through his hair, tearing the knotted strains from their roots and gouging deep lines of skin from his scalp with his nails. The voices only got faster and the grip on his chest tighter.

"This is our story."

"How many times are you going to watch her die?."

"One of your warriors gutted her like a fucking trout!"

"This isn't who you are!"

"I remember everything…"

"Who are you?"

"I am that madness."-

A scream of pure unrestrained agony tore itself from his throat as his fist shot out in front of him, shattering the mirror in a violent explosion of emotion.

He didn't even notice the pain of his fist slamming into the hard wooden wall behind it. He just held it there, trembling, skin white from pressure and terror and with shards of glass still sticking out from his fingers, trails of red contrasting starkly with the pallid flesh.

The moment the mirror broke and the reflection vanished, so too did the iron grip around his chest, and he slumped forward as heaving breaths sucked life back into his lungs.

He had to shove his uninjured hand against the wall in front of him to steady himself as the aftershocks of the attack continued to send shivers through his body.

Panting, he could only drop his head and shake off the remnants of memories, visions and voices that were all too fresh and painful, trying to banish them back to their confines within the depths of his mind.

Finally finding the strength to open his eyes, he looked down at the forgotten bucket at his feet, and his teeth clamped together with sudden and vicious resolve

Fuck the water, fuck Octavia, the first thing he was doing was finding more charcoal to re-dye his hair.

He straightened and turned, blank and muted resolve set on his face.

Only to find himself staring directly into the deathly sharp tip of an arrow.

"Don't move." An angry female voice snarled at him in trigedasleng.

Aerrow froze once again.

Immediately his eyes sharpened as his focus returned to the present and he raised his arms above his head.

He stared intensely at the person holding him at arrow point.

His attacker was a woman, a few years older than him by the look of it. She was taller than Octavia, but still slightly shorter than himself. Underneath the thick fur vest she wore she appeared to have a lean build, her muscles small and wiry – as was common in Azgeda lands. Similarly, her skin was untanned and she had extremely long black hair, with brown and yellow streaks in it. It reached down to her waist and was contained by several large braids.

Curiously, she had different coloured eyes, one brown and one green, and on her left cheek she had a tattoo resembling a star, yet to him, with its curving ends, it looked more like a shuriken throwing star.

Her rounded face was hard, and fire boiled in her heterochromic eyes. Aerrow didn't take too much notice of any of those features though. He was focussed entirely on the crossbow she held in her hands.

"I'm not looking for trouble." He spoke calmly in trig, forcing himself to keep the slurred Qinta accent from his voice.

"Get out." She growled slowly.

"I can't."

The woman paused. "Why?"

Aerrow simply pivoted slightly and gestured toward the bedroom door, allowing her to see Octavia's unconscious body on the bed, outer blankets still covered in blood.

"My friend was dying. I needed to help her." He explained.

If anything the woman seemed even more offended, likely due to his unauthorised use of her sleeping quarters as an infirmary.

"If she is dying then you can't help her. Now leave." She snapped.

Aerrow stood his ground firmly, and his eyes sharpened. "No."

The woman raised the crossbow up to his eyes. "Last chance." She hissed, "leave now, or I put an arrow through your skull."

Aerrow stayed where he was. "Not until my friend has healed." He growled back before softening his voice. "I apologise for trespassing, truly, she would have died otherwise. I was able to treat her but she's too weak to move. Allow her a day to heal and then we will be gone, that's all I ask. Please."

His conviction evidently took her by surprise, and her eyes softened ever so slightly as she seemed to realise that Octavia's injuries must have been more severe than she'd assumed. She flicked her eyes once more to the injured girl, but her crossbow remained raised.

She took a deep breath. "What happened to her?" She asked eventually.

"She was stabbed by Ice Nation warriors."

"Why?"

"I don't know. She's-" he cut himself off, fearing that mentioning Octavia was a member of Skaikru would lead this woman to throw both of them back out into the cold.

She picked up on it straight away though. "She's what? Tell me!"

Aerrow sighed. "It's a long story."

The woman's scowl twisted to a crooked, unwelcoming grin. "We've got time." She drawled.

Aerrow closed his eyes and sighed. There was no getting out of this. So he sat down on a nearby bench, and told her his story.

He had been born in space, on a gigantic space station called The Ark. It was constructed from twelve individual space stations after humanity wiped itself out in an apocalyptic nuclear war. It was humanity's last hope of survival.

On the Ark Aerrow had been something of a special child, blessed with physical and mental capabilities that far surpassed those of his peers. He was the youngest ever member of the guard, and was promoted from cadet to full status at just fifteen years old. He received his promotion ahead of his best friend, Dylan Joyce. Dylan had not taken this well and took Aerrow captive. After killing his girlfriend Arianna and his parents in front of him, Dylan then mutilated his body and left him to suffer, setting the whole thing up so the guard thought it was Aerrow that committed the crime, and he found himself locked up in solitary confinement.

Once his body had healed, Aerrow was left with one burning desire: revenge. So he trained. For over two years, he trained every waking moment of his entire duration in solitary, learning every martial arts move and fighting style known to man. He turned himself into a human weapon and the day he turned eighteen, the day he was meant to be executed for his crimes, he planned on finally taking from Dylan what his former friend had taken from him.

Alas, he never got to go through with his plan, and he instead found himself loaded onto a drop ship and sent to the ground with the rest of the juvenile prisoners – all one hundred of them. The goal was to see if the ground was survivable, having been nearly a century since the war. It was, but the hundred delinquents soon learned that they were not alone. There were other survivors too, grounders, and the conflict between the two peoples – despite the efforts of their leaders: Clarke Griffin and Bellamy Blake – escalated to the point of war. In the middle of all this, Aerrow found something he never thought he would again: love.

A young girl named Sienna Hart had come to him asking for him to train her to be a warrior. After a rough start the two progressively got closer and closer and eventually got together – a moment that would prove to change both of their lives. It was like the two were meant to be together. It was like destiny.

But then something happened... and in the aftermath of the final battle with the grounders, Aerrow – despite finding a friend in Cleo - was left dead inside and wracked by grief, and as a result, he was unable to control his unadulterated rage and committed terrible massacres on both the sky people (who had managed to successfully land a section of the Ark on the ground, which later became Camp Jaha) and the grounders.

It was at this point in time that he found Clarke Griffin again. He had formed a bond with her soon after the hundred first landed and had cared for her to an extent. But then a combination of differing ideals and Sienna had come between them, and he was unable to stop himself from falling for his protégé. Clarke deeply resented him for this, and for a long time it felt like she would hate him forever, and he would be alone forever.

And then the massacres came back to haunt him. The grounders demanded his life in return for the lives he had taken, and got their wish after he lost an ill-fated duel with their Commander, Lexa, or so they had thought. Using some advanced drugs taken from a brief stint as a captive in Mount Weather, he had cheated death and joined the Qinta, and finally it felt like he had found home again. They not only developed his fighting skills to an entirely new level, but also taught him how to be better, how to live with his pain and accept his life for what it was.

But he never forgot where he came from. Clarke still needed his help to rescue the surviving delinquents, who were being held captive inside Mount Weather. She had formed an alliance with the grounders' Commander, Lexa, and the two of them had planned an attack on the Mountain. Aerrow came back to them, saving Clarke's life in the process, and in a moment of need had given themselves to each other in a night of shared passion, only for him to be taken away from her again, this time by her own mother, Abby.

He'd been taken back inside the Mountain, and it was there that he learnt about the horror that was Oblivion.

He'd thought Dylan had killed Arianna and tortured him out of anger and jealousy. He could not have been more wrong.

Oblivion had forced the boy to do what he had, and a lot more than that. Their leader, Hans Van Dyke, took great sadistic delight in revealing how he was the final piece in a genetic puzzle that had been under construction for three generations, that Oblivion had been breeding people of different cultures together so as to combine the natural advantages of said cultures.

Aerrow had been one of two people that would combine to produce the 'perfect human being' – Subject X. Sienna had been the other, but since she was... gone... Van Dyke had instead spliced her DNA with his, turning him into Subject X. It was this event that had result in the changes to his hair and eye colour, as well as the removal of his many accumulated scars.

Van Dyke had also blocked him from his memories of his friends, and so he captured them and brought them into Van Dyke's hands, where the scientist planned on drilling bone marrow from their bodies in order for he and his men to survive the radiation on the ground. The Qinta found them through Cleo, and in the following battle, the Oblivion soldiers were killed, but so was the entire Qinta army, courtesy of Aerrow's enhanced abilities.

During the battle, Octavia had managed to escape, and she duelled him in a grim and bloody battle before eventually, with the help of Cleo, she was able to defeat him and restore his memory of himself. Horrified by what he had done, Aerrow had chosen to leave that life behind, and had left with Clarke to go to the Coast, where they could live out the rest of their lives in peace.

Or so he thought...

"It's a sad story…" The woman commented after he had finished.

He frowned. He'd never even noticed he'd lapsed into english while retelling his story until she started speaking the language too.

"…If it's true."

He bristled at her casual discarding of everything he'd only so recently had to fight back.

"Why would I lie?" Aerrow snarled in gravelly disbelief.

The woman shrugged uncaringly. "All people lie. Some more than others, some for nobler reasons than others, but all lie nonetheless."

"Like you're any different." Aerrow shot back, "I told you everything and you've given nothing in return. Don't you think if I was here for any other reason I would have acted on it by now?"

"Why are you doing this Aerrow? Helping her." The woman said suddenly, "You think it's going to change anything?"

Aerrow narrowed his eyes, confused.

The woman jerked the crossbow in the direction of Octavia. "That girl in there, is she the one you called… Clarke? Or perhaps this Sienna you seemed so taken with?"

Aerrow flicked his eyes to Octavia, then back to the grounder. His confusion rapidly turned to despair at the mention of those two names, and he was quick to fight it back with anger.

He shook his head in disgust, stood up and made to walk past her, but she brought the crossbow back up to his chest. "Where are you going?"

"I'm leaving." He said simply. "I'll help my friend somewhere else."

"What's the matter?" The woman asked, almost mocked, "Did I hit a soft spot? Did you love these women? Did you lose them? Did they leave you or something?"

On hearing her words, Aerrow's heart broke in half, again, and his anger was unable to fight back the grief any longer, and the mention of Sienna's name in the context of love brought back all those memories... The first time he had met her... training her... kissing her... feeling her, warm and soft against him... and finally... seeing her fall... feeling her fingers slip through his as he lost her forever...

"Why all the past tense, Aerrow?" The woman continued, "'Sienna and I were warriors', 'Sienna and I were meant to be together'…"

Water stung his eyes, glazing his vision in a mercy, so he didn't have to look upon his captor's pitiless form. He could feel tears, once tightly locked away, now free flowing down his cheeks as the grounder woman's words cut through him like a scythe.

He could have done anything to silence her. Could have told her the full truth from the beginning instead of omitting crucial details for his own mental protection. He could have disarmed her, killed her even. But what would it have gained? It would have changed nothing, he'd still be here, still alive, still suffering.

In the end he just shook his head sadly and made to walk past her, only to be stopped once more by the tip of her arrow digging into his chest. He didn't feel any pain whatsoever.

"Get out of my way." His voice came out as nothing more than a desperately pained whisper.

"Not until you tell me the truth." The woman told him fiercely. "Are you helping that girl out of the goodness of your heart? Or to try and get her back, your precious Sienna..."

"Sienna... is dead..." Aerrow's cracked and broken voice escaped his lips before he could silence it. The admission was plain and simple, his voice hoarse and barely audible.

And then he shattered.

"So kill me, whatever your name is!" He hissed, grabbing the tip of her crossbow and shoving the tip directly between her eyes. "You'll be doing me a favour!"

He glared at her, daring her, begging her to pull the trigger, fully expecting her to.

He was shocked then, when he saw her eyes widen in gradual understanding.

She was motionless, stunned at the agony written on his face, the unspoken plea in his eyes, and the despair at being denied what he so desperately sought.

She was shocked. He had wanted her to kill him.

"I'm sorry." She whispered, finally lowering the crossbow.

Aerrow remained frozen where he was, eyes closed in despair. He felt the imprint of the arrow lingering on his skin, cherishing it, and how close it had come to bringing him to death.

He turned back to look at the remains of the shattered mirror on the floor, before he was compelled to shuffle slowly and miserably back to Octavia's side.

"It's Oceana." He heard the woman call from behind him. He stopped, and turned around for face her again. "My name is Oceana."


If you wish to know what Aerrow looks like, search up Dwayne Cameron as a character named Bray from an old tv show called 'The Tribe'. Aerrow looks pretty much exactly like that, but with the alterations I've made.