Clarke's eyes cracked open to a single ray of light breaking through her partly shuttered blinds. It was early morning yet the sun always seemed to find its way into her bedroom and into her cabin in the woods that was small and made entirely from three different rooms.

The first was her bedroom full of belongings she had collected over the near ten years since she had come to the ground. Small paintings hung from hooks she had nailed into the wooden walls, some depicted landscapes she had visited and had lost herself in their beauty, others showed people she had met along the way, some she remembered more fondly than others, some she sometimes wished she could forget. A simple wardrobe sat in the far corner, and within it hung the clothes she had grown fond of over the years. The centre of her bedroom was dominated by a lush fur, thick and cream in colour.

A yawn escaped past Clarke's lips as she decided whether to settle deeper into the white furs that covered her, a gift from King Roan she had outwardly been reluctant to accept, but inwardly had been thankful for their warmth in the coldest months.

Despite the sleep that just barely pulled at the corners of Clarke's mind, she forced herself to sit, to pull the furs from her body and to rise in the cool warmth of the early morning. And so she swung her legs over the side of the bed and she let out a sigh as her toes danced against the fur covered floor.

Clarke, loosely clothed in an oversized cotton shirt and sleep shorts, padded her way to the second of three rooms within her small cabin. On the way there she let her fingers brush against the warmth of the wooden walls, she let her memories recall the hours, the sweat, the pain and the frustration she had felt as she had built the cabin with more stubborn determination than skilled knowledge and she couldn't help but to smile at the way one of the floorboards underfoot creaked as she stepped in that one perfect spot.

It took Clarke barely six steps before she pushed open a door and entered her washroom. In stark contrast to her bedroom, her washroom was a pristinely neat space. A basket of dirty clothes was kept in one corner, while the beaten brass pipes of a shower-head pointed down into a brass bathtub dominated the opposite wall. Even a small toilet was present with a sink and two shining faucets and a shimmering mirror above.

Raven had been responsible for almost all of what Clarke looked upon. But not directly. It had taken almost three years for Raven to set up plumbing in the nearest towns to Arkadia, and even a year longer before she had been able to even consider working on other clans. Despite how far removed from society Clarke now lived she had been gifted these creature comforts, and that, too, she had accepted with reticence yet she had been inwardly thankful for it during the cold nights that often settled throughout the lands.

And it was with that thought that Clarke shed her clothes, she let them pile at her feet and she fell into the rhythm she had repeated for years.

The heat of the water that struck her body helped to soothe the aches she felt in her muscles, the throb a weary companion to life on the ground. The soap she scrubbed into her flesh lightened her mind and filled the room with the smell of flowers from clans afar and it helped to take her far enough away that just for a moment she could forget.

Scars littered Clarke's body, some deep with stories so very fabled that she knew, she was certain and sure that if someone were to look upon her they would see nothing but the remnants of the Commander of Death. And yet there were other scars, smaller, perhaps beautiful, maybe even intricate in their appearance, merely the result of a foot poorly placed in the mud, a hammer poorly aimed in fatigue, or a forehead too slowly ducked whilst traipsing through the thickest parts of the forests.

There was beauty in the world. There was beauty in life. It had taken her longer than she cared to admit to recognise, to realise and to understand. But she knew now that the darkest moments of her life, the narrowest points of view she had ever had gave meaning to the times where she laughed, where she smiled, cherished and loved and opened herself up. And she believed it so for she knew there could be no light without shadow, just as there could be no love without pain.

And so Clarke turned her face into the heat of the water and imagined it tearing away the dark, all in the hopes that she would one day see the light.


The third and last room of Clarke's cabin was something of a mix between dining room, kitchen and living room. A single large circular table dominated the centre with four chairs arranged around it. A bowl of fruit sat atop with a single candle that kept her company during the nights she could not sleep. On one side of the room was her kitchen, or closest thing to it. A fireplace of stone juxtaposed with the wood of the cabin and was recessed into the wall with a chimney that rose upwards. Pots were neatly laid about, their metal bodies beaten and blackened from years of use. Far enough away from the fireplace stood shelves, their back to the wall, their surfaces full of dried foods, meats, fruits and jars of anything Clarke could ever find herself in need of. She even had the odd spice from lands so very far away that she had dreams of going, of travelling, of taking the time to simply lose herself to the world, and yet she hadn't done that.

She told herself it was because she didn't have the time.

But she knew that a lie.

And so Clarke found herself sitting at her main table as she laced up her boots. Clarke needn't pay too much attention to the movements her fingers made. Instead she found herself looking at the empty stretch of wall on the free side of her cabin. She didn't entirely know what to put there, even after all the years that had passed. She had at times thought a painting would do, but nothing had seemed to entice her enough to commit to creating such a large canvas. She had thought of trading for a tapestry, a fur, a quilt or some other intricate hanging that had been created with as much care and love as she could find, but that, too, had done little to spark her imagination.

But the sounds of neighing from outside pulled her thoughts to the present and Clarke knew whatever ideas she had would need to wait for she had more pressing issues at hand. Like needing to feed herself for the week.

And so Clarke rose, let her hands pat over the leathers and furs she wore and she reached for the bow and quiver of arrows laid atop the table as she began to move to her front door.


The early morning air was already beginning to warm by the time Clarke had saddled her horse. River was a mare of somewhat cheeky disposition, a caramel brown coat and an annoying habit of nipping playfully whenever she walked past.

Clarke had given up trying to train her out of it, in part because River was more than stubborn, and in part because River did it only in way of greeting where it wasn't too hard that it hurt. But still, Clarke found she had to keep herself on her toes around River, especially if she had food nearby.

"Ready?" Clarke asked into the quiet.

River met Clarke's response with a gentle push of her head, the motion part answer and part play. She laughed, tried not to let River push her again as she took hold of her reins and began leading her out of the small stable River called home. Clarke spared a moment to gauge how much of the hay River had eaten last night and she couldn't help but sigh, if only because she had expected to find what she did.

"I see you haven't taken to the hay from the Plains Riders," Clarke said as she let one of her hands scratch up and down River's neck.

A snort was the only response she got.

"You're getting a little bit chunky, River," and Clarke shifted the packs tied to River's side a little more tightly together. "It's better for you than Trikru hay."

River seemed to side-eye her with far too much awareness for an animal, and Clarke was sure River understood more than she let on.

"Look," Clarke said as she lifted her foot into a stirrup, "I'll make you a deal, River," and at that River's head perked up. "Each day you eat the new hay, you get an extra apple, deal?"

River flicked an ear in response before she let out a single neigh.

"I knew you'd see reason," Clarke said with a laugh as she turned back to make sure the gate to River's stable was closed.

And with that Clarke mounted River in a single motion and clicked out a quiet command, River all too happy to respond as she set off, their routine well rehearsed after so many years.


The forests Clarke now called home were grand. Trees whose trunks were wide and moss covered reached up into the sky. Their branches fanned out overhead and were covered in so many shadows and beams of light that it made the forest floor seem at times to be a sparkling dream-scape of dappled light and dancing shadow. Birds flit overhead, some happy in their chirp as they sang to neighbour and friend. Others hooted warnings, alarm and any other thing they so desired as Clarke passed by so very far below them.

Even animals could be heard, some small as they skittered and scattered about in the undergrowth, some large and their forms shadowed to the depths of the forests. At first Clarke had been afraid, she had been nervous and unsure of the dangers that lurked behind every towering tree, memories of a mighty pauna, a black wild cat and a river monster always lingering in the depths of her thoughts. But she had found that the parts of the forest that surrounded her cabin had been void of large predators and that the only thing she really had to watch out for was the smallest of birds that seemed content to swoop and dive at her should she venture too close to their hidden nests.

A broken branch and a bare bush caught Clarke's attention then and she knew it was time to dismount and to leave River in the forests lest she give way her presence any further.

This, too, was a familiar happening for them both, and it didn't surprise Clarke that River was well trained, that she didn't run, and that she needn't tie the mare to a tree, if only because she was sure Athena had chosen a horse that had just as much personality to keep her company in her solitude as it had training to obey when needed.

"Stay, River," Clarke said quietly as she slid off her back and began to unhook her pack from where she had lashed it to River's side.

River's body rippled with contentedness at the weight shed, and Clarke found herself pressing her lips to River's mighty neck as she scratched River's chin before she turned to the tracks she had spied just moments earlier.

Clarke spared a second to look over her shoulder for she always worried about leaving River unattended, but as usual she was simply met with River already pulling at the budding fruits of the nearest tree, her mind elsewhere and her worries faraway.

Clarke turned back to the bush and she eyed the stems that had been eaten away, she eyed the depressions left in the muddied dirt and she recognised the kind of small deer that must have come through the lands. As Clarke looked around herself she saw signs of other deers that had grazed on nearby bushes and she knew from the numbers that they would be heading to the gently flowing river that wended its way through the lands without worry or care.

And so Clarke began to move forward, feet sure as she planted them between dry leaf and delicate twig. She pulled an arrow from her quiver and knocked it as she continued to walk, all the while her ears straining to hear the first sounds of the animal she now tracked.

As much as Clarke enjoyed riding atop River, as much as she enjoyed letting herself become lost in the swaying of River's gait, she found that stalking through the forests had a calming affect on her. She thought it perhaps in part because she needn't rely on anyone or anything else other than herself, she thought it perhaps in part because she was closest to the ground and that she could forget her worries, and she thought it perhaps in part because it forced her to keep her mind focused, to keep her mind on the task at hand and to discard any wandering thoughts should they suddenly feel the need to become more vocal than she liked.

Clarke paused by another grazed upon bush, she reached out to a broken tree twig, the pad of her finger brushed against the sap and she knew the animals must be close.

And so she set off again, but this time she moved more quietly, each step she took more consciously considered than the last. Even the wind seemed to settle into a calming stillness around her, the leaves swayed not to the breeze and even the others animals, airborne and home to the ground quietened their chatter.

Clarke let the creaking of the bowstring held in her fingers lose itself to the wind, she let the weathered and smoothened wood of her bow warm her palm and she tried not to make too much noise as she slowed her steps and came to the gentlest of stops at the forest's edge.

In front of Clarke sprawled the lazy river. It trickled and bubbled across the lands to pool at a grand lake almost two days ride from her cabin. The mud that had been underfoot in the depths of the forest slowly turned into hard packed dirt and then to pebbles and driftwood that had been at one time swallowed by the river before being discarded where it pleased. Those pebbles that made up the river's edge were smoothed to the elements, their colour was rich in browns, reds, ochres and yellows and dusty greys that all bled together to create a cacophony of earthen warmth.

At the river's edge Clarke saw the animals she had been stalking. Five drank from the flowing water, their coats a mixture of browns and dusted whites that blended with the pebbles under-hoof.

Clarke took a moment to consider what to do next, but she ordered her thoughts as quickly as they had come. She took in a steadying breath as she began to draw back her bowstring. The creaking rhythm that she felt settled her mind and she took aim at the second furthest deer, this one with its side most exposed to her for as clean a kill as possible.

Clarke spent the next half second casting aside the regret she always felt at taking life and then she fired.

The arrow snapped forward in a flash. It whistled through the air for only a split second and then it struck true. The other deers bolted an instant after she had fired, even the one she targeted began to move but it was too late.

The sound of her arrow striking the deer was almost more like a snap, a crack, a quiet gunshot that just barely echoed out around her. And this was the part Clarke never quite enjoyed. The deer let out something of a startled and pained cry, its shout frayed at the edges as it began to move, as it began to seek shelter from whatever pain had struck it. But it didn't get far, perhaps only five or six great leaps across the river's edge before it collapsed on the ground. Its chest rose once, twice, a third time before it shuddered to a stop as a pool of blood began to seep out underneath its body.

Clarke rose from where she had remained crouched in the shadows, she shifted her bow to her back and she cast her gaze outwards as she began to move towards the now dead deer. Regret was something Clarke had come to accept, it was something she perhaps didn't even truly feel anymore, if only because she knew it would consume her, she knew it had done so once before. But still, she could feel sorry and a remorse for the life she had taken. And so, as she came to kneel down beside the deer's body she found her hand already coming to rest atop its brown speckled coat.

It was a cruel contrast, the things she saw. Though her fingers were met by the warmth of the animal, though her fingers were greeted by the softness of its fur, the way its eyes stared outwards made her want to recoil, the way the blood pooled out from its wound made her think of the life it had lived, the conflict it must have survived and the stories she had stopped before they had a chance to play out.

"I'm sorry, little one," Clarke said quietly as she pulled her arrow free.

And with that Clarke went about preparing the deer for the weighted trip back to where she had left River in the forest.


Nighttime settled over the lands late during summer. Clarke was never quite completely certain of the time anymore, but if she had to guess she'd say it must have been at least later than six, perhaps even seven in the evening.

The sun had taken residence lower in the sky, its light had darkened to a mellow gold and the heat of the long afternoon was slowly beginning to cool. The deer she had hunted would feed her for the week easily, perhaps even longer if she went through the effort of drying the meat. Its hide she would use, perhaps its purpose not so clear in her mind just yet, but its use a certainty. Even its bones, useful for crafting tools, objects and intricate belongings, and its organs could be used as offal, as a way of making hearty a meal of roots and vegetables should she ever have a poor streak of hunts.

And so Clarke sighed as she finished twisting shut the last of her jars of soon to be pickled meat. Sweat lingered to Clarke's forehead, her forearms burned a little from the exertion of her day's events and still she knew she needed to brush River lest she become a little too nippy come morning light.

But Clarke didn't mind, if only because she enjoyed River's company as much as she was sure the mare enjoyed hers. She thought it was a special bond they had created, yet perhaps no different to any other master of beast. But at least she knew River expected nothing of her except her company and her care for the things she couldn't do herself. And Clarke was all too happy to do those things, she was all too happy to scratch River behind the ear, under the chin or to feed her a too sweet apple on the occasions she was feeling generous.

And that was why Clarke now lived the life she did. It was why she had walked away from her people almost five years ago, it was why she had visited Arkadia only three times since settling in the forests. She had sent letters, of course. She had even sent a painting, a drawing, even a fur or two, just enough to tell those she cared for that she was well, that she was as sane as could be expected and that she had things to do to keep her mind busy.

But she had grown tired of the blame, of the judgement, of the expectations. At first she thought she could manage, but as the deaths kept coming, as the anguish and the remorse and regrets always seemed to flow with no ebb in sight, she had cracked. She had broken. And she had left.

The clans had survived. Not without their troubles though. ALIE had been defeated and in her wake the clans had threatened Skaikru, had threatened to destroy them and to rid tech from the lands once and for all. But the absence of a nightblood, of a rightful heir to the throne had stayed their hand. At least for a little while.

But things were always complicated on the ground.

And so it didn't really surprise Clarke to find that there had been a nightblood discovered at the furthest reaches of the Coalition's territory, whose bringing to Polis had been delayed by her people's appearance, whose absence in Polis had saved their life when Ontari had cut down every one of the nightbloods under Lexa's care.

Athena was her name. An adolescent, a woman, a youth, all those things had been thrown at her, and all those things had been true, if only because the young grew old so very quickly on the ground. Athena had rode into Polis atop a shimmering black steed with the last scouts of the flamekeeper order in tow and Clarke had been there to greet the woman who had only just turned fifteen, only four years younger than herself.

Athena had been wide eyed, she had been nervous, she had been unsure of her place amongst the fabled halls of Polis tower. But she had been an accomplished warrior, she had been tested in battle already, and with no other nightbloods able to challenge her for the flame she had ascended.

And it was that moment that had sealed Clarke's fate.

She had been present when that blue chip had been cut into Athena's neck, she had been there when Athena had remained motionless for almost three days, she had been there with uncertainty plaguing her mind as she tried to reconcile the fact that Lexa had been nothing more than a vessel, a shadow, a shell of something that had been passed down from Commander to Commander as if they were nothing more than a courier. And Clarke had believed it. She told herself that simply because Lexa's death had shattered her, it had torn her apart and left her in pieces. When she had seen Lexa in the city of light she had felt a relief, a want and a loss and longing all over again. In her heartbreak she had told herself that giving the flame up, that letting Athena ascend would let her in some way hold on to the memory of Lexa with just a little more solidity.

But reality was often so very different than dreams.

Athena had woken and Clarke knew. She knew in the way Athena had looked at her, she knew in the way the younger girl had stared at her with unblinking eyes full of an emotion that she had seen in one other.

And it broke her. The realisation that Lexa had been nothing more than a chip, that she had never known who the Lexa before the flame truly was had shattered her to pieces. But love wasn't rational, it wasn't fair, it wasn't kind and it wasn't just.

Clarke couldn't accept it, despite how much she had hoped for the answers and the chances she now had. She couldn't reconcile the emotions she saw in Athena's eyes when she looked at her with a face that wasn't Lexa's. She couldn't reconcile the way Athena had begun to say her name with a voice that wasn't Lexa's. And Clarke accepted none of those things for she was disgusted with herself, she was furious and so very desperately broken.

And so, despite all the things Clarke told herself and others about why she now lived a life of solitude?

Deep down she knew the reason why was because she was afraid Lexa had never died.

Right?