Ontari doesn't quite know how long it is that she waits, she doesn't quite know how long it takes for Clarke's breaths to even out in slumber, or even how long it takes for Entani's constant tossing and turning to still as deeper sleep takes hold. But she knows it long enough that her mind screams out in annoyance, in frustration, in slowly building anticipation.
Entani shifts ever so slightly in the bed the three of them share, and the motion causes Ontari to still, to listen, to wait for just a moment longer. But, the healer eases deeper into sleep, deeper into calm, and so Ontari smiles, bites her lip just for the briefest of moments, and then rises as quietly as she can.
The long fur robe, its colour darker, richer, warmer than that of the stark white she so often wears, hangs from her shoulders, its front kept closed by a single fur belt tied around her waist. As Ontari moves, as she slips from the bed, she can't quite help but to enjoy the way the fur feels as it brushes against her flesh, as it glides across her body and silences any sound leathers and armour would make.
Ontari pats the slightest signs of her knife that she keeps tucked against her hip, the motion half-thought, more sensed than conscious decision. And perhaps walking through Azgeda camp unarmed was not such a dangerous thing, perhaps sneaking through the dark surrounded by allies, regardless of their clan, was not so deadly. But fool, Ontari was not, and so she will keep her knife on her at all times.
The air prickles what little of her chest is exposed to the night, and she stifles the barest hints of a moan of pleasure at the way it reminds her of the Azgeda winds. But she knows she lets slip too much sound when she ducks out the tent's small entrance to be met with Torvun's reproachful gaze, the man reclined in a large chair, one hand ever constant atop his knife, his broad sword and bow and quiver of arrows barely an arm's reach away.
"Where do you go?" Torvun asks quietly, the gruffness of his voice the only thing that gives away the fact that he was soundly asleep mere moments ago.
"Nowhere," Ontari says as she self-consciously swipes at a strand of hair that seems to have escaped her braids.
"You are not dressed," Torvun says evenly, and Ontari will deny that the tips of her ears burn until her dying breath.
"I am dressed," she answers with a hiss as she pulls her furs more firmly across her body.
But Torvun seems not to agree, if only because he smirks, tilts his head to the side and eyes her for another long moment.
"Ok," he answers after a moment. "We leave early in the mor—"
"I know," Ontari says as she glances behind herself and back into the tent through a sliver of the fabric.
But Ontari can't deny the thrill that begins to race through her veins, she can't deny the want that seems to be taking hold somewhere in the furthest corners of her mind. And so she turns back to Torvun, eyes the way the moon's light bounces off his bald head, and the beard that casts a mighty shadow down his chest.
"You are a poor guard, Torvun," she says jokingly as she begins walking into the darkness. "Any assassin would see your head from afar."
And so, as Ontari begins moving away from the tent, she knows she hears Torvun's chortle of mirth fade into the sounds of the forest that begins to swallow her whole. Ontari passes an Azgeda warrior, a man she has spoken with only a few times, and they share a quick nod of acknowledgement as she passes.
She passes other Azgeda warriors, too, some wide awake as they keep watch for the night, others half asleep as they trudge and wend their way through the many tents. Even some seem to be making the most of the quiet of the night and solitude, their movements in the dark a sign that they train for battle without sight, without sound.
And it's pride, Ontari feels, as she passes lone Azgeda warrior after lone Azgeda warrior, if only because she knows that Azgeda's standing within the Coalition was shaken by Nia's actions, by her treachery at having sided with the filth of the Mountain. And it's pride for she knows any of the other clans would have been stepped over, would have been forced into the dirt, would have been taken advantage of. And yet, her time in Polis showed that, though clans tried to do such things, Clarke navigated her role as ambassador as well as any, that the Azgeda warriors that moved through the streets of Polis with weapons perfectly cleaned, faces painted brilliantly white, and scars as prominent as could be, were sign enough that Azgeda would not allow itself to be taken advantage of.
And so it is pride she feels. Pride that Azgeda survived. Pride that Azgeda now commands more than some clans combined, pride that Azgeda will continue to thrive. Pride that Azgeda is strong, stronger than it was, and will be stronger tomorrow, and the day after, and the day aft—
"Where do you go?" Ontari stops, she looks around and finds a Trikru guard standing before her, her gaze careful, one hand resting atop her knife.
"Not of your concern," Ontari says simply as she continues walking, and she can't find it in herself to care that the woman eyes her suspiciously, that she looks upon her with distrust. But Ontari doesn't blame her. If only because she would do the same in her boots.
And so she continues to push onwards, eyes glancing around as she eyes the trees, around TonDC, the camp fires she spies in the distance that signal the border of TonDC's walls. She also hears the telltale sign of another camp, this one larger than the Azgeda, and she knows she comes to her destination when she breaks free from the trees and into a larger clearing, this one with fires that burn in fire pits, their construction permanent, well used.
More Trikru guards stand by now, their eyes quick to snap to her appearance. She sees some tense for a moment before relaxing, and she knows that after the months of Azgeda presence both around TonDC and the Mountain and Arkadia, that Azgeda warriors roaming Trikru places is not so uncommon, not so unheard of.
Ontari shakes her wandering thoughts though, she lets her mind ease into the motions she makes and she ignores the eyes she feels following her movements as she walks deeper and deeper into the Trikru camp.
She knows what she searches for though, and it only takes her a moment to recognise the tent in the distance. As she comes to a stop outside, as she settles the beating of her heart, she can't help but to look around herself, to anyone who may have followed, to anyone who may still watch. But Ontari sees no one, she sees no followers, and she sees hardly a thing in the dark of the night. And so she turns back to the tent's entrance and ducks inside as quietly as she can.
And perhaps Ontari thinks she is more quiet than she was, if only because as soon as she crosses into the tent's interior she feels the press of a knife to her throat, and a body that crowds her space, makes it hard for her to respond without struggle.
"You should not sneak into someone's tent uninvited," the voice says evenly, and Ontari can't fight the smirk that lifts the corners of her mouth.
And so Ontari lifts her chin, raises and eyebrow and smiles as she pushes the woman away from her gently.
"That has never stopped me before," Ontari says.
"It has not," and Costia lowers her knife, lets it come to rest atop a small desk. "Why are you here?" Costia continues as she leans against the desk's edge and crosses her arms, but from the way Ontari can see her eyes sparkling, from the way she hears the slightest hints of eagerness in Costia's voice, she is sure the woman knows.
And so in answer?
Ontari lets her hand move to the fur belt tied around her waist, she lets the motion come slow and steady, her gaze never wavering from Costia's eyes. And all it takes is the slightest of tugs, all it takes is the simplest flick of her wrist, and then the belt comes loose, she lets its sound rustle the air and then she drops it to the floor.
"Perhaps," Ontari says as she shrugs, the motion enough to expose a lone shoulder, "this," and she feels the smirk build as Costia's eyes seem to trace the paleness of her flesh. "Is why," and at that Ontari lets her fur robe fall to the floor to reveal just how bare she is underneath.
Lexa thinks it early morning from the light that shines through the gaps in the closed windows. Her footsteps continue to echo out around her quietly, each step she takes adding to the noise of a slowly waking people. She passes servants and guards, many already dressed, already prepared for the new day. But Lexa knows it to be early still, too early for the ambassadors, too early for those that need not do much more than argue after the morning meal.
Shana walks behind her, the head handmaiden quiet in her shadow. A servant passes them by, the young boy bows, smiles and seems to blush just barely as Lexa gives him a short nod of her head.
"You have spoken to Jass?" Lexa asks.
"Yes, Heda," Shana answers.
Shana's answer is enough for Lexa to know that the other handmaidens will already know what to do, may already be slowly and carefully taking steps to discern more of whatever it is that happens. And as Lexa continues to walk, as she continues to move through the halls of Polis tower, she finds herself trying to piece together the things she knows, the things she knows that she does not know. Even the things she suspects and believes may be true do not slip her notice.
Lexa comes to a stop in front of heavy set doors. A guard stands beside them, and as she approaches he bows his head before moving to open the doors at her approach. She waits only a moment longer before they finish swinging open with a groan, and as she steps inside she can't help but to blink at the darkness of the room.
Shelves line the walls of the somewhat large storeroom. Basket of twisted twine hang from the ceiling, tables dominate the centre of the room, each one's surface adorned with rows and rows of tech, some old, some new, much to be sorted and used. A single ray of light filters down from the high ceiling where a fabric sheet remains the sole barrier to the outside world.
"Close the door," Lexa says to the guard, "do not allow us to be disturbed," she finishes with a slight warming of her gaze as the guard bows his head and begins to close the door.
Shana waits until the doors close before looking up at the ceiling, to the fabric, to the ray of morning sun that gives light to the room's interior.
"You think someone would try to sneak in through the opening?" Shana asks.
"Yes," Lexa says simply. "If they are to steal tech this is the easiest place to do so."
"But all this is broken, Heda," Shana says as she gestures around them. "It is of no use to anyone."
"That is true," Lexa says as she begins to move through the storeroom, as she begins to look at each piece of broken tech that has been found, catalogued, stored for some use that escapes her in the moment.
"With Skaikru's help, this tech could prove useful," Shana says though, and Lexa watches as the handmaiden begins to think, begins to sift through whatever thoughts exist within her mind.
"Yes," Lexa says with a nod as she comes to a stop beside a table, whose contents of broken tech spill out across its surface.
"You think it is a member of Skaikru doing these things?" Shana asks then.
"Perhaps," Lexa says, and it has crossed her mind, she has considered the possibility that not all members of Skaikru are as happy as it would seem. "But I do not think that is the case," and Lexa continues to think, she continues to consider. "Perhaps it is Skaikru, a member of Skaikru, someone who wishes to keep tech away from others," and Lexa pauses to think once more. "Or it is not Skaikru. It is someone who wishes to cause chaos amongst the Coalition."
"Why?" Shana asks.
"I do not know," and it is the truth. "At least not yet, Shana," Lexa says. "Watch ambassador Elios," and she looks up at the ray of light. "He is the most openly hostile to tech," but Lexa trails off, she lets her voice quieten as she tries to imagine him sneaking, stealing, interfering.
"You do not think it is Elios," Shana says.
"No," and Lexa sighs. "He does not trust tech, he is combative. A nuisance, a thorn in my side. But he speaks his mind. I do not believe he would be the one to sneak and steal, Shana."
"Perhaps it is someone who does not like Azgeda?"
"Perhaps," and Lexa had considered that, too, if only because she was not so blind as to ignore the fact that Azgeda was slowly returning to its once former self, though under less hostile guidance. Lexa turns to the door then, begins to move towards it and tries to ease whatever misgivings may have taken hold of her expression. "Two handmaidens will guard the interior of this storeroom at all times," Lexa says as she reaches for the door.
"I will have it done," Shana says as she falls into step behind her.
Arkadia rises up out of the morning mist. Its twisting, hulking body stands in stark contrast to the greens of the forests that sprawl out around it. Azgeda warriors line the hill that looks down upon the slowly growing town. Horses whose bodies long for the cold of Azgeda plains seem to twitch and shift with a want to be let loose. Trikru warriors also sit atop their own horses, their warriors draped in the browns and greens and blacks of their clan.
Clarke looks down and to the guard towers that dot the large wall whose gates remain ever open now. She sees guards already looking their way, and she sees members of Skaikru moving about, some already in the midst of whatever work they find themselves doing, others half asleep and half awake.
Clarke hears the a quiet scuffle behind her, and as she turns she finds Jenma holding the prisoner firmly in place upon a horse, hands shackled behind her back, and a rope tying her arms to her sides. Dried blood has dirtied the prisoner's clothes, her arm stained a deep red.
"Let's go," Clarke calls out quietly, her voice able to carry on the wind.
And so she clicks her tongue and her horse begins to move forward with her command. And through it all, Clarke finds herself trying to gauge just how she is going to get information out of the prisoner.
The halls of Arkadia echo out with the sounds of her footsteps. Those who walk behind her seem to carry tempered wariness with each passing step, and as they turn a corner Clarke finds herself face to face with her mother who stands by the doors to the med-bay.
"I was radioed," Abby says in way of explanation as she eyes the prisoner who stands between Jenma and Leeton.
"Hi," Clarke says as she moves forward and takes her mother in a brief embrace. "Can you check her out," and Clarke gestures to the prisoner once more, and as she turns, she finds the woman's eyes narrowed, her lips just slightly clammy, and her face pale.
And as Abby simply nods her head and turns for the med-bay, Clarke knows her mother already suspects why she wishes for the prisoner to be seen to, she knows Abby already understands that her questioning could devolve into something best left unspoken.
It's odd, it has always been odd, but as Clarke stands aside, as she watches her mother inspect the prisoner, she can't help but to feel out of place in the med-bay, if only because she doesn't feel as though walking the halls of what was once the Ark comes as naturally as it had done when she was a child. Perhaps it's the fact that she wears Azgeda clothing, that, since crashing to the ground, she has spent more time sleeping under the stars in a tent swaddled in furs, than she has slept in a bunk, under synthetic sheets and metal walls.
Ontari stands beside her, the woman eyeing a screen that flashes a patient's heartbeat, and Clarke can't help but to smile just a little lightly as Ontari seems enamoured by the beep that echoes out quietly, and as she bounces her head with each little sound.
Clarke thinks she enjoys moments like this though, moments where her people, the Azgeda she has lived with and fought beside, find moments of awe amongst a sea of tech that would have once simply meant that they had been captured by the mountain, that they would soon be bled dry.
"Why do we waste supplies on the prisoner?" Jenma asks quietly, and Clarke looks up to the the red haired woman eyeing that same prisoner with a distrust and dislike that Clarke doesn't blame.
"I don't want her to die before we get information out of her," Clarke says, and she smiles as Leeton seems to listen more closely as she steps closer to Jenma.
"I see," Jenma says in way of acknowledgement.
"What clan do you think she comes from?" Leeton asks, and Clarke sees her look to Torvun who scratches through his beard in thought.
"I do not know," Torvun answers. "Not Glowing Forest," he says after a moment.
"Not Azgeda," Jenma says.
"Obviously," Ontari adds.
"Rock Line?" Leeton says as she eyes the prisoner once more.
"We'll find out soon," Clarke says.
It only takes a few short minutes before Clarke finds herself standing outside the closed doors of what was once the brig. The prisoner sits in a lone chair, her freshly bandaged arm contrasting with the dirt and grime that covers her body from the few shorts days of imprisonment in TonDC.
Ontari, Entani and Torvun all stands aside, each one eyeing the prisoner, and Leeton and Jenma, even Bronat and a few other Azgeda warriors seem to have followed, all in the hopes of hearing answers as to why their travels through Trikru lands and to Polis have been so haphazard.
"What happened?" Abby asks quietly as she comes to stand a little closer.
"It's a long story," Clarke says, and she tries to smile as warmly as she can, despite the misgivings in her mother's gaze for the things Clarke is sure her mother expects to soon happen.
"I'd like to hear it," Abby says.
"We were in the reaper tunnels," Clarke says. "We were attacked," Clarke continues, and she considers how much to reveal for the moment. "We fought back," and she gestures to the prisoner. "One survived, so now we're here," and Clarke doesn't miss the scepticism in her mother's gaze. "It's complicated but I'll explain more once we get what we need from her."
"What are you going to do?" Abby asks, and Clarke doesn't hear any reproach in her mother's voice, she doesn't even hear any argument, but perhaps she hears the faintest signs of regret, of understanding and acceptance.
"What we need to do," Clarke answers as simply as she can.
Abby closes her eyes, but they open after a moment, and within her mother's gaze, Clarke sees a readiness and an acknowledgement of the way things are now.
"Ok," Abby says. "Get me," and she trails off for a moment as she tries to consider her words. "If things get out of hand."
"I will," Clarke says as she watches her mother eye the prisoner for another short second before turning to leave.
Clarke waits until her mother leaves the brig before she turns her attention to the prisoner who must have watched the conversation unravelling before her, but Clarke fears not for being overhead, for she knows the confines the woman sits in to be soundproofed, to be kept in the dark and silence as pleased.
"Jenma," Clarke calls over her shoulder.
"Clarke?"
"Make sure we aren't disturbed. I don't want any Skaikru coming in here before we get answers."
"Yes, Clarke," Jenma says as she gestures for the other Azgeda who had crowded into the brig to turn for the exit. "We will wait outside."
"Rock Line?" Clarke asks after a moment, and she senses Entani peer more closely at the prisoner.
"Perhaps," Entani answers. "She is pale."
"So not Desert clan."
"Lake Clan?" Ontari asks.
"I do not think so," Torvun says.
Clarke sighs heavily then, and she doesn't even care that the woman sees, if only because she thinks it might help in the time to come, if the woman thinks her patience is running thin, if her want to avoid causing any more pain is coming to an end.
"I just want answers," Clarke says.
Torvun begins to step forward at that, head cocked to the side, hands already beginning to close into fists.
"Hold up," and Clarke reaches out, grips Torvun's arm. "Let me play good cop first," and Clarke can't help but to smile at the confusion in Torvun's eyes, or the odd expression that seems to take over Ontari's face. "I'll explain later. Just let me talk to her," And so Clarke reaches out, unlocks the door sealing the woman inside and she steps forward.
The interior of the cell seems musky, seems unused. The chair the woman sits in remains bolted to the floor, her feet shackled, her arms free. Another chair sits by the cell's door, its construction metal and just barely rusted. Light overhead shines just a little too brightly, too, its angle enough that it shines into the woman's eyes, enough that Clarke knows it will cast her face in a shadow once she sits face to face with the woman.
Clarke reaches out for the chair then, and as she begins to walk forward she lets its scrape against the floor, its sound piercing and uncomfortable even to her ears. But, she brings it to a stop as suddenly as she can, she lets it settle onto the floor with a satisfying clang and then she takes a seat, each motion careful and measured.
"Welcome to Arkadia," Clarke says then, and she leans back in her chair, crosses her legs and makes herself as comfortable as she can.
The woman simply looks her in the eyes, an uncertain hostility tinged with defiance and fear the only thing she lets be seen.
"Did you think more about what I had to say?" Clarke asks, and she lets her eyebrow raise in question.
The woman doesn't answer though, not quite, at least not in words. But Clarke sees her swallow, she sees her flinch even subconsciously to the reminder.
"You don't have to talk," Clarke continues. "But I doubt there's anyone in the world who would want to be hurt," and Clarke shrugs, she tries to make the motion as uncaring as possible. "I'm sure there's people who would accept the pain, would never give up whatever secrets they have if put in the situation you're in right now," and Clarke lifts a hand only to drop it again. "But I'm sure there's people in the world who'd rather avoid any hurt if they could," Clarke pauses then, and she waits long enough that she knows the woman has time to think over both things she has said. "I know I'd rather not hurt if given the choice," Clarke continues. "There's no shame in admitting you're not fond of pain," Clarke leans forward, enough that her face slips free from the shadow. "You'd have to be sick to enjoy pain. Wouldn't you?"
"Teben," the woman says, and Clarke finds herself surprised at the softness to her voice, at the lightness she hears. "My name is Teben."
"Your friends attacked me and my friends," Clarke says and she leans back, "I'd like to know why, Teben."
Teben looks away, and Clarke isn't sure if she is trying to gauge whether to explain why they were attacked, or if she simply tries to judge whether to speak at all.
"Why were you in the reaper tunnels?" Clarke asks instead of waiting for an answer.
Teben doesn't meet her gaze, simply seems to deflate, seems to resign herself to the fact that pain will soon be coming her way.
"Do you want to know what I think?" Clarke asks.
Teben looks her in the eyes at that, and Clarke thinks she sees the woman's resolve beginning to fray, if only slightly, and she thinks so because she sees Teben's gaze move to behind her, to over her shoulder where Ontari had stood, and Clarke wouldn't be surprised if Ontari now did something, now made motions that would suggest pain was soon to come.
"I think you were trying to stop us from finding out what you're doing with tech," and Clarke pauses for a moment. "I think you were using the reaper tunnels because Trikru don't like going into them, and you knew that. You know you'd be able to do whatever you wanted without worrying about being discovered."
Teben's eyes close for just a brief moment, but it's long enough that Clarke knows it to be more than a simple blinking.
"But you didn't count on Azgeda following an animal into the tunnels," Clarke continues. "So when we appeared, you panicked, you did the only thing you could do when you realised we found a piece of destroyed tech," and Clarke leans forward once more. "You attacked us to make sure we wouldn't explore anymore."
Teben looks away yet again, and Clarke thinks she knows she has guessed correctly.
"This can end one of two ways, Teben," Clarke says. "You can start talking, you can answer all the questions we have, or you can start hurting," she shrugs. "It's up to you."
"I do not trust tech," Teben says, and Clarke feels the smallest of victories at having convinced Teben to admit that much.
"Why?" Clarke asks.
"Because of the Mountain," Teben spits, the venom in her tone contrasting with the softness of her voice. "Because of the reapers. Because of Azgeda," and she jerks her head outwards in some direction.
"Because of Azgeda?" Clarke asks, and she hears someone bristle behind her at the mention of their clan.
Teben must sense the anger at what she says though for she flinches, she seems to shy away from whatever expression is plastered on someone's face over Clarke's shoulder.
"Because of Nia," Teben says. "She tried to throw the Coalition into chaos because she wanted tech."
"So that's why you've been taking tech?" Clarke asks.
"I—" but Teben seems to cut herself off, seems to think she has spoken more than she should for her mouth clicks shut and she shrinks in on herself.
Clarke thinks Teben unlikely to say anything more now, and perhaps she doesn't wish to push, not more than she has now, if only because getting Teben to talk is better than having her sullen and resigned to silent acceptance of torture and so she stands, she eyes Teben for a long moment and then she turns to the cell's door.
"Are you going to hurt me now?" Teben's voice calls after her and it sounds small, fearful, resigned and accepting of whatever is to come.
"No, Teben," Clarke says as she turns back to the woman.
"No?" and Teben sounds surprised, sounds hopeful, untrusting and unbelieving.
"No," Clarke says. "I told you. If you talk, you don't hurt, it's as simple as that."