Clarke's footsteps echo out around her, each sound rings out with a rhythm, a dance, a beat that sets her heart at ease and puts her mind to rest. And it does so for the fact that voices don't carry as far in the depths of the Azgeda capital, words aren't hissed with annoyance, where ambassador after ambassador deems it suitable to argue at any time of day.
And so Clarke smiles, she nods to a passing warrior whose face is scarred, whose hair is braided back out of her eyes, and whose furs swish ever so gently with each step she takes.
Clarke walks with the barest hints of a limp though, and she does for the beast had struck her, had tried to maim, to kill, to drown her as they had both crashed through the surface of the frozen lake. But Clarke didn't die, she wasn't maimed, wasn't drowned and didn't bleed out in the frozen plains of the far north.
She can't even quite stifle the laugh at the memory of Ontari who had seen her emerge from the frozen water, who had seemed far too impressed, too thrilled, too flushed at the sight before her.
"Wanheda," Clarke pauses at the call, she turns and she finds a warrior walking her way, his gaze moving from Torvun then back to her for just a moment.
"Yes?" Clarke says.
"King Roan calls for you in the throne room," the warrior says as he bows his head. "It is not urgent."
"Ok," and Clarke nods. "I'll be there soon," and so the warrior bows once more before turning and moving through the hallway. "We're being sent back to Polis," Clarke says as the guard turns a corner. "Aren't we?"
"That would be a wise guess," Torvun says, and Clarke looks up at the man, whose chest seems far too broad, whose beard seems even longer than when she had first seen him, and whose bald head gleams and dances to the firelight of the flames that burn in sconces hanging from the walls.
"Yeah," and Clarke sighs as she tucks her hands into her furs, "I guess we should go find Ontari and Entani."
The throne room looks exactly the same as the last time Clarke had set foot in it, the large fire pit in the centre burns and crackles, the furs and tapestries that hang from the ceiling and walls sway ever so gently to the breeze that wends its way through the open space, and the guards that stand to the side, that eye and gauge, judge and take heed of every person that passes, remain ever silent and ready.
"King Roan," Clarke says as she comes to a stop before the man, hair pulled back in a single braid, leathered torso, and lightly armour forearms swinging a sword, fierce and deadly in the firelight.
"Clarke," he says as he ducks the swing of an attacker, whose body shifts, spins and dances just out of reach before Roan can retaliate.
Clarke feels Ontari beside her begin to pay more attention to the attacker, begin to try to discern a pattern, and she thinks she senses Entani's preparation to step in, to provide aid if needed.
"You sent for me," and Clarke lets her hands rest upon her hips as she takes in the way Roan moves, attacks and defends.
"I did," and Roan strikes out with a hand, catches the opponent off guard and causes him to stumble back just enough for Roan to pounce, to slam a fist down on the hands wrist and open his defences enough to have a sword levelled at his throat.
"I yield," the warrior says.
"Leave us," Roan's voice calls out then, and Clarke watches as the warrior bows, picks his sword up and begins to move to the exit as guards follow.
Clarke knows their presence to be guarded, even still, and she knows members of the Royal guard must still be hidden within earshot, within sight, somewhere within the walls, in the shadows, in the ceilings even. And perhaps she thinks she will try to pry those secrets from Torvun in the privacy of the open, of the lands, where being overheard by others need not be a concern.
"So," and Roan turns his attention to Clarke before taking a moment to look between the others that stand beside her. "You are all called Clarke?" he asks, an eyebrow raising ever so slightly as he looks from Ontari and Entani.
"I—" but Ontari's words die in her throat, her voice comes out startled, panicked, even. And so Ontari's next words come out rushed and frantic. "Forgive me, King Roan, I did not realise you meant for only Clarke to be present, we will leave, I did not mean to assu—"
"I am joking, Ontari," Roan says as he raises a hand a turns to his thrown. "Every Azgeda knows where Wanheda goes, her shadows are never far."
Entani snickers ever so quietly at that, and Clarke can't help but to feel just a little sympathy for Ontari who seems to deflate, who seems to shrink away from the attention drawn to her in the moment.
"Your Northern Hunts were successful," Roan says as he takes a seat in the throne, surface covered in the pelt of a might beast.
"They were," Clarke answers and she finds herself trying to discern just how close to death they had all come at the hands of the elements or that of a hungry beast.
"It is talk of the Capital," Roan continues. "The mighty Wanheda and her band of warriors return with a beast larger than most have ever seen, whose body bore no signs of wounds, who was struck down by her power alone," and Roan's eyes seem to hold a mirth, a jest, something full of humour.
"Yeah," and Clarke shrugs, she fights the smile that threatens to break across her lips.
"It drowned," Roan says and he laughs. "That is the only way you were able to kill it, yes?" and Clarke wonders just what has been said about her exploits during the Northern Hunts.
"I can't really confirm how we killed it," Clarke says.
"Very well," and Roan pulls a leg up so that his ankle rests atop his knee, his fingers begin to tap ever so slightly against the throne's armrest and he looks up into the morning light streaming in from an open window far up in the ceiling. "Your secret is safe with me, Clarke."
"That's good to know," and she looks to Entani to find the healer eyeing a bruise that seems to be spreading across Roan's cheek.
"I am returning you to Polis," Roan says then, and Clarke holds back the sigh just barely as he looks back to her. "You have been gone long enough."
"Yeah," and Clarke rolls her shoulders for a moment as she tries to settle her thoughts.
Roan looks around himself for a long moment then, and Clarke thinks she senses a distinct shifting of his emotions, of his demeanour, and she knows Ontari and Entani react to it, too, if only because they seem to step just barely closer to themselves, and Clarke feels Torvun, ever quiet behind her, seemingly take in all that surround them.
But Roan's gaze snaps back to her, and gone is the mirth, is the humour.
"Leave us," he calls out, "everyone."
Clarke looks to Torvun for a moment to find him eyeing the shadows before he bows and turns to leave, Ontari and Entani in tow, their glances curious but guarded. Even the last of the guards, those who had been hidden seem to appear out of nowhere as they begin to make their way to the exit.
And so Clarke looks back to Roan, she waits until she hears the last of the footsteps fade before speaking.
"What's going on?"
"While you were on your hunts," Roan begins. "Echo was ensuring no one in Polis made moves to threaten Azgeda sovereignty."
"I wouldn't think they would, even with me gone."
"Not openly," Roan says.
"What?" and Clarke takes a step closer as she lowers her voice. "You think clans would try to start a war again?"
"No," Roan answers, "but I would not risk it."
"And why would they do it when I'm gone?" Clarke asks. "If it's all secret, what's to stop them from doing it secretly with me there?"
"Some fear you and your power," Roan says, and it comes out fact, but still, Clarke can't help but to roll her eyes.
"So that's it?" Clarke asks. "Echo found a plan, some one is trying to weaken Azgeda?"
"Not quite," and Roan comes to stand, he pulls out two radios from behind the furs he sits upon.
"Radios?"
"Yes," and Roan stops in front of her, both radios held out for her to inspect.
"And?" Clarke can't help but to let her confusion show now, if only because she knows what radios are, knows what they do and sees no sign of strangeness.
"Raven showed Echo exactly how to use this tech," Roan began. "As she did with all those given access to it, from all clans."
"She did," and Clarke looks up with a curiosity and an uncertainty.
"Echo would not forget how to use them, she would not accidentally wield a piece of tech."
"She wouldn't."
"We use these radios to talk between Polis and the Capital," Roan continues. "They must remain the same so that communication is not broken, so that changes to current trade routes, treaties, negotiations can happen as quickly as possible. It is for the betterment of the entire Coalition."
"Yeah," and Clarke looks down to the radios again. "I'm sorry, Roan," Clarke looks the man in the eyes. "But I'm not following."
"Look at the markings Raven made, to show where to turn this," and Roan points to a dial on the radio's face, "so that it can join with this radio."
And Clarke follows Roan's finger from dial to dial to find that they don't line up to the same signal, that one seems to have been moved just a fraction.
"Echo could have knocked it?" Clarke offers.
"She did not," Roan says, and Clarke feels the conviction in his voice.
"So what?" and Clarke looks away for a moment to think. "You think someone is messing with our ability to talk?"
"I do not know what to think," Roan says. "But I am not so foolish as to leave any chance of Azgeda being attacked un-investigated."
"And no one else knows about this?" Clarke asks.
"No one does."
"So," and Clarke takes a moment to think of how to go about doing whatever it was Roan expected her to do. "Now what?"
"Investigate," Roan says, and it comes out simple. "You were the one to tell me that ambassadors have threatened us in the past, that they talk over you when they please, seem to think you are nothing but a killer, that you have no place negotiating for Azgeda in Polis."
"Yeah," and Clarke can't help but to feel the flash of annoyance at the memories.
"I do not wish for my paranoia to be confirmed," Roan says as he turns from her and takes a few steps to his throne. "I do not wish for my distrust of everything to be confirmed," and he sighs as he comes to sit in his throne. "But I would rather have my paranoia be nothing more than the echoes of a false shadow, then one that would give way to an assassin hiding in our midsts."
And Clarke can't help but to roll her eyes, can't help but to think Roan's words just a little dramatic.
"You're being dramatic."
"I am now King," Roan says as he sweeps his hands out before him. "Am I not allowed to play the part?" and he laughs lightly. "Go to the capital, Clarke," he continues. "Prove me wrong, prove me nothing but an old man that sees things that do not exist."
The Azgeda winds whistle through the air with little worry for the warriors that ride out the capital gates. The day's sun beats down upon their shoulders and it seems not to care for the cold, for the furs or the snow that drifted over the lands. Clarke rides at the head of the convoy of warriors, just over a hundred at her back. Each one a fierce warrior that had seen battle with her during the Mountain, or during the hunt for the last of the Mountain Men. Familiar faces dot those she rides with, too, Jenma and Bronat and Leeton seemingly having found a place amongst those that now call themselves Wanheda's guard.
But at her side ride Ontari and Entani, Torvun ever present behind them, and Clarke finds herself thinking over what Roan had said, what he suspected, and what it could mean for Azgeda in the coming days and weeks.
Ontari eyes her curiously though, and Clarke can't help but to sigh, to try not to let her worry show too openly upon her face.
"Will you tell us what King Roan said?" Ontari asks quietly as she pulls her horse ever so slightly closer to her.
"In time," Clarke answers as she shifts the skull that rests behind her neck, as she pulls the pelt of the beast she had killed long ago more tightly around her shoulders. "When we make camp," and she looks behind her to see some warriors in happy conversation, other's spinning knives through fingers, and some even riding on their horses backwards as they talked with those close to them.
And Clarke finds that she likes the ease in which her warriors now travel, that they seem to sense a peace is building, ever so slowly, ever so easily over the lands. But, violence still exists, and would always exist, if only because bandits would always roam the lands, those banished from their clans for crimes, or from those that harboured ancient hates, whose origin was long muddied by generations of fairytales.
But still, Clarke thinks she enjoys the scene behind her.
"We're making a stop at Ton DC and Arkadia before going to Polis," Clarke calls out, and she sees some groan, some in half jest, some a little more seriously at the days added to their journey. "No complaining," Clarke says, and she enjoys the ease in which her warriors feel, but she knows each one would be willing to fight to the very end by her side if need be. "Anyone I catch complaining has to do the hunting for two nights in a row."
They make camp at a rocky outcrop where Azgeda snow plains begin to bleed into the sparse beginnings of the trees that turn into flowing forests. The wind seems to have settled a little, the moon already finding a place to rest in the sky and the stars seem to exist somewhere far away in the depths of space.
Clarke leans back in her chair, the fire that burns in the centre of her large tent enough to send warmth to the every little nook and cranny of her tent. Ontari sits behind Entani, both women close to the fire opposite Clarke, and she finds herself happy to watch as Ontari's fingers card through Entani's braids, as she begins to unravel them, to ease them into something a little more comfortable for the night.
Torvun sits closest to the door, one hand ever present upon the knife strapped to his hip, his sword resting not far from reach, but Clarke thinks an attack not so likely, and yet, she can't blame Torvun for turning to old habits, to old comforts.
"We'll arrive at Ton DC in the next day, hopefully," Clarke says. "If we ride hard enough."
"If you wish for us to arrive at Ton DC in the next day, then we will do so," Ontari says in answer as she peeks around Entani's head.
Clarke brings a spoonful of warm broth to her lips then, and she can't help but to moan a little as the tastes explode across her tongue.
"Why do we travel to Ton DC? To Arkadia?" Entani questions past the slight wince as Ontari pulls her hair just a touch too roughly in her attempts to tame the curls and locks.
Clarke takes a moment to think then, if only because she finds herself still not so sure of Roan's wariness, his concern. But she can't blame him, could never blame him for simply wanting what was best for their people.
And so, "Roan thinks someone tried to mess with the radios while we were gone," and Clarke makes sure her voice stays low and quiet.
"Why would he think that?" Ontari asks.
"There were signs that someone was fiddling around with them, using them when they weren't supposed to," and Clarke shrugs as she thinks over the situation. "It could just have been someone curious about them, a child, a servant, someone who never got to see tech up close before," and she eyes the way Torvun glances outwards and to the shadow of a warrior that walks past outside.
"But King Roan believes someone interferes?" Ontari presses.
"He isn't taking any chances," and Clarke stirs her bowl for a moment. "That's why we're going to Ton DC, and to Arkadia first," and she takes another bite. "I'll see if anything is happening there, anything suspicious, at least it'll give us an idea about what to expect, good or bad, once we get to Polis."
"A wise decision, mighty Wanheda," Entani says, and Clarke finds herself smiling at the jest in the healer's voice.
"I thought so," she answers with a laugh.
Noise seems to drone on, each voice merely adding to the headache that was ever present during clan meetings. A warrior's barking threat echoes out around the throne room, and she can't help but to feel an anger, an annoyance, something hot and tempered with rage beginning to build.
Her hand rises then, the motion slow, measured, simple. But the motion is clear enough for all to see, and so it doesn't surprise her when the voices quieten in quick succession.
"Elios," Lexa calls out. "Speak your troubles."
"Heda," the man says, and Lexa watches with intent as he steps forward, his slender frame snakelike, his eyes sharp and wicked in the light as he sneers at the closest ambassador that glares his way. "With no disrespect," and he bowed his head, the five dots that arced across his forehead glinting in the firelight. "We do not wish for Skaikru's help when it comes to matters internal to the clan."
"And why do you not wish for their help?" Lexa questions and she eyes the way Elios' guard steps just slightly closer to the ambassador, the guard's hand resting atop the knife strapped to his hip as he eyes the growing anger in another warrior close by.
"Glowing Forest has survived for generations without tech," he says simply. "We survived the Mountain. We survived Azgeda's plot to throw the Coalition into chaos twice," and he pauses, looks around himself for a moment. "There are others here that agree with what I say."
"Who here agrees with ambassador Elios?" Lexa calls out, and she looks from face to face she sees before settling on Elios once more. "Anyone?"
"You are all cowards," Elios snaps. "You do not wish to stand behind the customs of your clan? You are willing to throw that all aside simply because Skaikru comes with tech that has caused nothing but strife for our people?"
Lexa sits back a little further in her throne as Elios continues to argue his position, and she can't help but to agree, at least somewhat, if only because the clans had survived for generations, had been able to thrive, and that tech had been perhaps one of the sole things to throw their world into chaos, from the Mountain, to the appearance of Skaikru. And yet, Lexa also knows the benefits, the advantages tech could have.
But her gaze snaps to Elios' guard who stands close behind his ambassador. And Lexa begins to think over all she knows of the man, of his measured personality, his quiet, his ease at times, and his quiet contemplation, but, she also sees his annoyance, his frustrations at the words Elios says. And so, as the man rolls his eyes ever so subtly she feels it time to attack.
"Ilian," Lexa says, and she watches as he looks up, as he glances once to Elios who quietens. "What is your opinion on the matter of Skaikru tech being forced upon all clans?"
And Lexa can't help but to feel just a faint spark of satisfaction at the way Elios glares before sitting.
"It is good for our people," Ilian says, and Lexa thinks she believes what he says. "It has helped the clans that can not grow root and vegetable. It has helped provide healers, and care for our injured when they would be maimed, when they would have once never fought, never rode, never travelled or survived."
"But?" and Lexa looks around to the other ambassadors that seem to take in what Ilian says.
"There is no but, Heda," and Ilian bows his head. "Forgive me ambassador Elios," he adds quietly as Elios turns and glares more harshly at him. "Heda asked my opinion and I gave it."
"I did, Ilian," and Lexa lets her hand rise once more as she motions Ilian back. "We will continue this discussion further tomorrow," and Lexa nods to the guards who stand by the throne room doors. "For now, enjoy the quiet, enjoy the peace," and she can't help but to smirk just a bit at the way some warriors groan ever so quietly for she knows they know what she is soon to say. "Azgeda will return to Polis in the days to come. Their warriors will not take kindly to some of what has been said of them."