At the crack of dawn, Clarke tiptoed through the shadows to someone else's tent. It was on the other side of the camp from her own tent, about as far away as it could possibly be. She suspected that wasn't an accident. And yet, she was still going to rudely barge in and wake up its occupant before the sun was even up. It was necessary for her sanity, she told herself. She wished she had some sort of armour, but all she had was desperation hidden behind layers and layers of fake confidence, behind the bluff that she was Clarke Griffin and she could tread wherever she wanted to. That she had more daring than anyone else in this camp. Everyone, that is, except for the person inside the tent. Clarke knew she couldn't afford to hesitate. She waltzed right in. Her first step was to move the sword away from the sleeping bag, far out of reaching distance. Then she knelt down and shook the sleeper's shoulder. For the first time since she had dreamt up her ridiculous plan, she felt guilt. Sleep was a rarity for both of them. But it was too late to turn back now. "Octavia?" she whispered.

Octavia was up in a flash, pulling on her boots with one hand as she reached for her sword with the other. When her hand came up empty, she turned to Clarke wordlessly. Clarke handed her the sword. She had feared the sleeping Octavia's instincts, but awake Octavia was slightly less likely to stab her. Maybe ten percent less. It was a risky move. But the wrath of a swordless Octavia could be sharper than any blade. Best to try and keep her to her usual low buzz of anger and condemnation.

"What's the emergency?" Octavia asked slowly, enunciating every syllable. Her tone said that she had already deduced there was no such thing. Octavia was well-acquainted with Clarke's emergency face and this wasn't it.

"No emergency," Clarke said breezily. "I just wanted to talk to you while the rest of the camp is tucked away in their beds. I have a favour to ask."

Octavia tilted her head in question. Her sword hand was twitching. A bad sign.

"I was hoping you could spar with me. Teach me a few moves."

Octavia narrowed her eyes. "Hand-to-hand or swordplay?"

"Hand-to-hand."

"Let me get this straight. You want me to attack you? Beat you up?"

"I want you to teach me to fight."

"Why? Are you expecting trouble?" Octavia poked the tip of her sword with her finger as though she were checking its pointiness. She didn't draw blood.

"No more than usual. Look, I'm not preparing for war or anything. I'm just running out of pencils." Clarke had drawn and drawn until her hands ached, but it still wasn't enough. She needed a new outlet. "Are you in or not?"

"In," Octavia said with a devilish grin. She pushed past Clarke on her way out of the tent, almost knocking her over. Clarke rubbed her shoulder and followed Octavia out to a private clearing where no one would be able to hear her scream.

Clarke took a lot of hits. Hard ones. But she made sure to give as good as she got. She couldn't match Octavia in technique or strength, but she matched her in rage and that was enough. Clarke thought that Octavia was surprised by that. Good. There would come a time when she had played all her cards and used up all of her reserves. Then this rage would be all that she had left. She suspected that Octavia was already in that place. That she called it home. Revelled in it. Clarke wasn't ready to join her there yet, but she had learnt to prepare for the worst. Sometimes she thought it was inevitable.

They sparred in near-silence for a long time. A kick and a counter-kick. Hold and then release. Heavy breathing. The gurgling of water. Octavia taught her through demonstration. Painful demonstration. Octavia would strike out and Clarke would have a split-second to mirror her before the impact came. Octavia shuffled from move to move at a rapid-fire speed, daring Clarke to slip up. At one point Octavia managed to get her hands around Clarke's neck, and she lost a few breaths before she could twist out of her grasp. Clarke knew that if she faltered the game would be over. She was dancing with a hurricane. Given half a second to think about it, Octavia might just decide to cut her losses and knock Clarke out. Inspired by that train of thought, Clarke took some initiative and thumped Octavia on the head with her fist. She reeled back for a second, caught off guard. Clarke followed up with a swift kick to her ankle. She couldn't show hesitation now. Octavia would be fine. She had a thick skull. Octavia proved her right when she slid onto her knees and tried to yank her off her feet. Clarke found herself balancing perilously on one foot for a moment, then purposely fell forward instead of backwards, landing on top of Octavia and knocking her down. Clarke was feeling smug until she felt a sharp pain in her hand and was distracted enough to let Octavia scramble away. She looked down to see teeth marks. And blood.

Octavia opened her mouth and Clarke knew a sarcastic comment was coming, but she charged forward and tackled her to the ground before the words could escape. Then they were wrestling around in the mud, all the pretence of a lesson gone. Clarke wouldn't falter. The pain and the fear and the regret had to come out right now. It had to. She needed to channel it somewhere before she was crushed under its weight. And tears weren't good enough. Tears were empty and damp and useless. But this battle was perfect. It made her feel alive. It made her feel like she was more than just her screwed-up brain. She was also bones and muscles and power, raw power that was unburdened and unashamed. They fought and fought bloody. Clarke lost count of how many times her head had banged against the hard ground, how many scratch marks she had given Octavia, how many times their eyes had met and looked away again. She kept seeing herself reflected in Octavia's eyes, a wild and vicious thing, and she knew that Octavia saw the same thing mirrored back at her. It only egged them on. It showed each of them that the other was strong enough to take the blows, to take the pain. They fought on and on until the rain started to fall. Then they sprang apart like cats doused with water. It was over, just like that. They stood in the rain until they were both soaked through, discreetly cataloguing their wounds. They were impressive ones, and they would be hard to explain later.

Octavia picked up her sword from where she had left it leaning against a tree and strapped it to her back. She turned to Clarke with a smile that was both wider and bloodier than Clarke had ever seen from her before. "Same time tomorrow?"