It's cool, the wind whistles through the tent, and the air seems to bring a chill, something not quite as comfortable as the northern winds, but just enough that it makes her heart ache for the cold.
Ontari shifts under the furs, tries to find comfort in the warmth, but she finds herself unable to do so, finds herself unable to find the cold, the chill and the ice.
"Stop," the murmur is perhaps more felt than heard, more sensed then listened to, but Ontari can't help but to smile, can't help but to still her movements, at least when she pulls an arm free from the furs and lets her skin prickle to the cold. "Stop, Ontari."
"Sorry," she says, and she smiles as she feels the press of lips at her collarbone.
"You move too much," Costia says as she lets her leg dance between Ontari's for a moment.
"It is hot," Ontari answers, and she finds herself warring with whether to lean into Costia's warmth, into her heat, her body, or to move away just a little, to chase the cold, to feel the chill of the air.
"It is cool," Costia counters.
"For you," and Ontari wonders what happened to her, she wonders when she found herself smitten, when she found herself too happy to fall into this routine of stealing whatever few moments she can steal within the chaotic dance that her life has become.
"You think too loudly," Costia says, and Ontari glances downwards to see Costia looking up at her, cheek resting against the rise of her breast, eyes sleepy and hair tussled and untamed.
"I think always," Ontari counters and she flinches just barely as Costia bites into her flesh before soothing it with a kiss.
"I do not appreciate sarcasm," Costia says.
"But you appreciate this," Ontari says as she lets her leg shift enough that it brushes against Costia in a way that makes the woman's eyes flutter for a moment.
"Perhaps," Costia laughs then, the sound lighter than it had been but still too dark to be free of her past.
"What do you think?" Ontari asks then.
"Of?" Costia says, and Ontari finds herself enjoying the sleep that pulls at Costia's eyes, that makes her gaze narrow and droop.
"The tech," and Ontari hopes things to not be as bad as she expects, if only because she can't quite shake the sense of annoyance that builds at the thought of tech becoming yet another cause for conflict.
"I do not know," Costia says, and her voice comes truthful and tired.
"Do you think it is a member of Skaikru?" Ontari asks.
"Perhaps," Costia pauses for a moment to think, to consider. "Perhaps it is the prisoner?" and Ontari knows she speaks of Jaha, of the man that fills her heart with anger, that makes her blood boil.
"Perhaps," but Ontari shakes her head. "But I do not think he is the one to be responsible for it," and she pauses, too, if only so that she can settle the beating of her heart. "He is not responsible. He is too closely guarded."
"Then it is a member of one of the clans," Costia says. "Someone who does not like tech. One of Teben's friends."
"And we will get the information we need in time," Ontari says as she shifts a little closer to Costia under the furs.
Costia hums a response at that, seems to let sleep pull at her more firmly and Ontari doesn't mind the way she finds herself settling into the warmth of the furs and the quiet of the night. Costia pulls closer to her still, lets her arm reach around and hug them closer together and Ontari tries to ignore the slight pulling of her shoulder, of the muscle that she thinks never quite fully healed, but not enough to stop her from fighting, from doing what she must.
"Does it hurt?" Costia says, and Ontari hears the worry in the woman's voice.
"No," she says, and it is truth, as much as she believes it to be for pain has always been a constant in her life, from training injury to freezing cold.
"No?" Costia asks, voice a little more filled with sleep.
"It does not," Ontari says as she rolls onto her side and leans into Costia's warmth.
And perhaps, as Ontari lets herself take in Costia's face, as she eyes the scars upon her body, the one that cuts through her cheek and just barely touches her lip, to the way her fingers don't seem quite so straight, she thinks it funny, she thinks it ironic that they have found each other, have both suffered in their own ways, have perhaps grown close because of, and not despite the things they have survived.
But most of all, Ontari doesn't think she minds the fact that she has fallen for a woman who comes from the trees.
And so she smiles as Costia leans over her, presses her lips to the scar that still seems just a little swollen, just a little inelegant and gruesome.
"Ok," Costia finishes with a smile as her eyes close and as she embraces what is left of the night.
Clarke doesn't quite know why she thinks that Teben will be more open to talking without others, she doesn't even know why she thinks it a good idea to disturb what little sleep the woman has had over the last few days. But Clarke thinks it important to at least try to get answers, to try to see if Teben will be more willing to talk in the absence of others.
The insides fo the Ark flicker and echo to the light and the sounds of her footsteps, too. Each path she takes familiar yet distant, something she once knew like the back of her hand, but has long since become more acquaintance than friend.
She passes other warriors, some from Azgeda who have been stationed at Arkadia for weeks, perhaps even months. Each one she passes bows their head lowly in supplication, she passes warriors and those from other clans, too, some wary of her presence, others more openly hostile. She even passes members of Skaikru who she recognises from her past, who look at her with cautioned curiosity.
But Clarke comes to where Teben has been imprisoned without quite realising she has made it so far into the Ark's depths. Teben stills sits in her chair, her head drooping down in sleep as her chest rises ever so slowly. Her feet remain shackled and Clarke can't help but to feel the slightest stab of pity.
And she can't for the woman seems pale in the artificial lighting of the Ark. Her skin seems clammy, almost white, and her hair, dirtied and matted, braids not quite so recognisable after the days of imprisonment.
Even Teben's features seem full of fear. Shadows linger under her eyes, her arm, still bandaged, just barely shows the traces of her injury with the hints of dried blood that seep through. And maybe, in another life, in another time, Clarke would have thought Teben attractive, would have thought her pretty, even, from the prideful line of her nose, to the sharpness of her face. But all that, Clarke thinks, marred by the actions she has taken, by the things she has kept secret and hidden away.
Clarke shakes her head, takes a step forward and lets the quiet hiss of the cell doors open as she steps through and takes a seat in the only other chair that sits a short distance from where Teben remains shackled in her cold chair.
Teben wakes to the sounds though, the woman seems to startle, seems to flinch away from the place she finds herself, and Clarke watches as she looks around, as she blinks back the harshness of the light before her gaze settles upon her.
"What time is it?" Teben asks, and Clarke finds the woman's voice quiet, small, fearful and hopeful for reprieve.
"Late," Clarke says. "Or early," and she shrugs, would have gestured to a window to the outside if one was present. "People are sound asleep."
Teben sighs, blinks back the tired and tries to get a little more comfortable in the chair. Clarke thinks the fidgeting of the woman telling, though, and she can't help but to wonder how long it must have been. And she was no monster, she took no joy in causing suffering when not needed.
"Do you need to relieve yourself?" Clarke asks, and she says it as simply as possible, as straightforwardly as she can, if only because she knows, if put in Teben's shoes, she would wish for even a little dignity.
Teben looks away though, seems to war with the question, with something within her own mind.
And so Clarke takes pity, steps forward and reaches for the key to unlock Teben's shackles from the chair.
"If you try to attack me or escape I'll kill you slowly," Clarke says, and she knows Teben understands the threat. "And if you do actually kill me, then Azgeda will punish you," and Clarke sees Teben nod an understanding at that, too. "Don't take long," Clarke finishes as she pulls Teben to her feet and guides her to the single bathroom in the brig, its size far too small to be comfortable.
As Teben steps inside as awkwardly as her shackled feet allow, Clarke finds herself leaning against the nearest bulkhead, her mind trying to sift through the things she knows, and she thinks it time she travels to Polis, to those who can provide more answers, and she wonders what will await her, she wonders if the ambassadors will accuse her of taking more time than needed, or if they have been told of Roan's suspicions. But perhaps most of all, she finds it annoying. And she finds it annoying that life hasn't quite taken a turn for the easy, for the simple, where her only job was to enjoy each day as it came.
But she doesn't mind, not really. If only because she enjoys working, she enjoys doing what she can for her people. And perhaps she does for it keeps her mind off the things she has done, if keeps herself from second guessing every choice she has made, every decision she has come to, and every life she has taken, from the first of the reapers she faced, to the Mountain, and to those that had threatened to throw the Coalition into chaos under Nia's rule.
Clarke hears the flushing of the plumbing then, and she also hears a yelp of shock, of surprise, fear and uncertainty. She can't quite fight back the smile though, for she realises that Teben must not have known of the tech behind Skaikru waste removal, of its automatic functions that stole away what it could as quickly as it could lest it spread disease and infection.
The door opens then, and Teben looks around, eyes just a little wider, hands wet from the water she must have discovered, and Clarke feels that same stab of pity as she eyes the way Teben seems to deflate, to accept and to understand that her life has turned into something Clarke is sure she never anticipated.
"Tech's not all bad," Clarke says as she reaches forward, takes Teben by the upper arm and begins to direct her back to her cell.
Teben doesn't answer, at least not in words, but the way her gaze doesn't meet hers, from the way Teben seems unwilling to meet Clarke's questioning look, Clarke thinks it answer enough.
And so Clarke finds herself sitting in front of Teben once more, the woman's feet shackled to the bolt in the ground, arms resting in her lap and her eyes wary and curious.
"How's your arm?" Clarke asks and she gestures to the bandage.
"Sore," Teben answers with a shrug, with a guarded simplicity.
"It must have hurt," and Clarke doesn't say it to gloat.
"It did," Teben says.
And Clarke thinks that she has guessed correctly, that her belief that Teben would talk without others was correct.
"Why'd you do it, Teben?" Clarke asks, and she lets herself lean back in her chair, she lets herself try to seem as unthreatening as possible.
But Teben looks away at the question, she seems to peer into the corner of the room, to a shadow, to anywhere but where Clarke sat.
"This has been the longest I have gone without being able to see the sky, the sun or the stars," Teben says, and Clarke watches as she looks up, looks into the artificial light overhead.
"That can change, Teben," Clarke says.
"This tech," and Teben shrugs, gestures around with her uninjured arm. "It makes noise," and Clarke knows Teben talks of the quiet buzzing of the powerlines that snake their way through the walls of the Ark, that provide enough power to keep the lights running, the automatic doors operating, and any other number of technological marvels.
"It's annoying, isn't it?" Clarke says, and she can't quite fight back the small smile as Teben nods and scowls up at the light.
"Tech is dangerous," Teben says, and she looks away from the light and to Clarke. "All it has done is destroy and cause conflict," and Teben shakes her head as if to cast aside any doubt that might have been creeping into her thoughts.
"Do you really believe that?" Clarke asks.
"Yes," and Teben meets her gaze, the woman seems to harden her resolve as much as she can.
And so Clarke sighs for she thinks this conversation has come to an end, if only because Teben doesn't try to stifle the yawn that comes next. Clarke stands, looks at Teben for a long moment and she wonders what the woman thinks of her, wonders what she must look like to others who only know of her through her actions, through the stories she knows are told of her deeds.
"If you didn't like tech," Clarke begins, "there were better ways of dealing with it than attacking me and my friends, and of stealing, destroying."
"Maybe," Teben says and the woman smiles sadly, and perhaps, if only for a second, Clarke thinks she sees the barest hints of regret in Teben's eyes.
"We're going to Polis soon," Clarke says as she turns for the door. "The Commander probably won't be as forgiving as I've been."
It isn't that she dislikes scars, it isn't even that she thinks them gruesome to look at, for she is a healer, has always been exposed to the wounds of others, but still, she can't quite find it in herself to think of the scar across her ribs as anything other than a blemish, a curse of sort, perhaps even a taunt.
Entani sighs, pulls the rest of her shirt over her head and lets it drop to the bed with little more than a quiet thump. The wound caused by the trap the Mountain Men had set, that had been healed with tech, still seems to ache in the cold. The wound, she knows, will always be with her, always remind her of the betrayal of who had once ruled Azgeda, and she finds herself feeling a disappointment, something simmering, not quite so strong as to cause her to rage into the night, but not so simple that she can ignore its existence.
She doesn't mind though, if only because she thinks the wound's scar intriguing, if only because she has now seen Skaikru healers see to other wounds, has seen them perform surgeries on those who would have once been maimed for life.
"Entani," she hears her name called out quietly, and so she looks up, looks to the tent's entrance to see Torvun's head poking through. "Hunters have returned. There is food if you wish," and she sees him gesture behind him.
She nods then, if only because she does feel hungry, and she goes to stand, to rise to her feet.
"Stay," and Torvun shakes his head. "I will return with food soon."
And so Entani sits back on the bed, pulls her spear from where it lies by her feet and begins to run her whetstone over its sharpened edge.
She can't help but to wonder where Ontari has gone, but she thinks she knows, she thinks she has an idea, and Entani can't help but to think of Clarke, too, of what she must be doing, of how she had seen her friend talk to the dark haired woman. But Entani doesn't mind Clarke going off with others at times when her mind is in turmoil. And she doesn't for she enjoys not worrying of things larger than herself, not quite at least.
And Entani likes her life, she likes the role she plays, that her friends rely on her to be the levelled headed one, to be the one who helps them when they hurt, when they fall, when they think themselves lost. And perhaps that is why she had become a healer, had chosen that over a scout, over a warrior, over any other trade she could have chosen.
She hears Torvun's feet returning though, the man's footsteps surprisingly quiet for just how large he is. She hears her name called out once more, and she knows Torvun doesn't quite like to intrude, if only because he always sees himself as a guard, that he takes his role as protector of Clarke as seriously as he would any other role as a royal guard.
And yet, Entani thinks Torvun has earned a break, has earned a reprieve, earned a little time for himself. And so she calls out a quiet come in.
It isn't quite comical, but Entani smiles as Torvun's head pokes back into the tent, as he eyes the interior for a moment.
"Come, Torvun," and she shifts further onto the bed, if only to give him more space. "Clarke is away. As is Ontari."
And so Torvun thinks for a moment before accepting with a heavy sigh.
"How is your wound?" Torvun says as he ducks into the tent, comes to sit on the beds edge and passes one plate towards her, the other held in his hands.
"Ok," Entani shrugs and she looks back down to her ribs, to the wound that is now more scar, less raised than it had once been. "Not fully healed," and Entani knows it will take time, that wounds as severe as hers was will always take a long time to fully heal. "How is your new scar?" and she smiles as Torvun runs a finger across the scar that just barely missed his eye in the training accident what seems like so long ago.
"Mighty," Torvun says with a laugh, and Entani doesn't hold back the rolling of her eyes.
"So," and Entani leans back into her pillows, pulls the plate onto her chest.
"So?" Torvun asks as he settles himself more comfortably on the corner of the bed.
"What is new, Torvun?"
And contentedness, Entani thinks, is the emotion she feels in the moment, with a friend before her, a meal shared between them, and an adventure she is sure, to unfold in a way they will never expect.
"Heda," Gustus begins, and Lexa can't hold back the slight groan that escapes her.
"I know, Gustus," Lexa says, and she smiles as Shana rolls her eyes subtly.
"Titus will not approve," and she knows Gustus only says what he says simply because he worries.
"Titus does not approve of many things," Lexa counters, and she grimaces just a little as she feels a tug in her hair.
"You worry too much, Gustus," Shana adds, and Lexa finds herself ever intrigued by just how well Shana seems able to pronounce the man's name the same as she does.
"It is my duty to worry, Shana," Gustus counters, and Lexa feels the man's body shift a little as he seems to deflate just a little at the acceptance of her actions.
"You should not fear, Gustus," Lexa adds, if only because this is not the first time she has used Shana as a decoy. "Shana fools many, and I will be with my handmaidens. There is little to worry for."
"And yet I worry every time," Gustus says.
Lexa simply smiles though, turns from Shana and eyes herself in the large mirror that dominates a corner of her washroom. And it's odd, even thought it isn't the first time, Lexa thinks it will always be odd that she wears clothes that are just barely too large or too small, that change her posture enough to throw others off, and that her hair is braided in a way so vastly different to that of what she is used to. Lexa turns to Shana then, eyes the long coat that falls to the floor and the red sash that drapes down one side of Shana's body.
"Heda," Lexa says with a smile as she bows her head.
"Handmaiden," Shana answers with the slightest raising of her chin. "Come, Gustus," Shana continues as she turns for the door. "We must not keep Titus waiting any longer."
The forest breathes around Lexa, its scents cleaner, crisper, more free than any scents that wove their way through Polis. Trees reach up into the skies and the early night feels more alive than Lexa can ever remember it being.
Or perhaps it is simply because this is the first time in what seems like months that she has had away from ambassadors, that she has had without worrying about what the next argument will be, or even whether consensus will be made before it is far too late for her to even think of having a full night's sleep.
But Lexa stops, she pauses, looks around herself, to the dark of the shadows, the swaying of the leaves and the quiet murmurings of the forest. Jass stills beside her, the handmaiden sure in her own movements as she draws an arrow, sights down its shaft and looks out into the forest. Other handmaidens fan out too, each one careful in their movements as they try to find the source of the movement, of the sound that had broken the silence.
A low hoot echoes out around them, and Lexa knows one of her handmaidens has found a trail, has found where the animal must have travelled and so she answers the hoot with her own quiet birdcall, the sound familiar on her lips.
She senses movements overhead, she knows one of her handmaidens who has scaled the trees has already begun to move, and she knows too that the hunt will be swift, will be fast, precise and as perfect as any could be.
Jass meets her gaze then, the woman's eyebrow quirked up, and Lexa answers the questioning gaze with a nod. And so Jass smiles reaches out and takes a stick in her hands before snapping it with a clenching of her fist.
The sound breaks the silence, it startles a bird somewhere in the trees. But Lexa hears and sees the animal they hunt. She sees it dart from the bushes, she sees it rush forward, away, deeper into the undergrowth.
But the handmaiden in the trees sees it too, and Lexa can't help but to marvel as she sees the woman leap from branch to branch, her eyes focused on the animal as she keeps track of its motions.
The others with Lexa move, too, one leaps forward, an arrow fired more quickly than Lexa could quite see, but the arrow must miss, if only just barely, for she hears the woman curse even before the arrow hits a tree trunk of the ground and Lexa knows the woman must have already known as soon as she fired that she would miss.
But Lexa doesn't mind, doesn't care. And she doesn't for she didn't choose such a small animal to hunt, she didn't choose a time where shadows overwhelmed sight for it to be easy.
And so she leaps forward, she begins darting past tree and bush, over fallen tree trunk and rock and stone. Handmaidens follow, too, each one quick, sure, certain in their motions as they begin to circling, as they begin to spread out, to try to cut off escape.
Lexa feels the smile on her lips, she feels the wind in her hair and she can't quite fight back the bark of laughter as she senses one handmaiden trip, slide and fall to the ground in the slippery underbrush only to roll onto her feet without breaking a step.
And it's fun. It's fun, and it's exhilarating. It's carefree to rush through the trees without worry of those that would see her. It's wonderful to feel the wind in her hair, to feel the blood pumping through her veins, the beat of her heart and the air that fills her lungs. And as Lexa leaps over another fall tree, as she reaches for an arrow in her quiver, she can't help but to think she misses the moments like this, where her days were spent in conflict, where her decisions and actions and choices had immediate results, where her word was law, where all that was important in the moment was herself, her weapon and whoever it was that she faced.
Jass scaled a tree, seemed to pull herself up branch after branch without quite touching the tree, and as she pushed off, Lexa found herself marvelling at the way the woman curved in the air, seemed to give herself enough space above the bushes to fully see the animal, and she fired, her arrow snapped forward and she hit the ground with a roll before coming to her feet. Lexa knew Jass must have hit her mark though for the woman came to a stop, a victorious smirk on her lips as she raised her arms in victory.
"I win," Jass says simply as she turns in a circle and gestures to the other handmaidens who come to a heaving stop around them.
"It was a lucky shot, Jass," someone calls out and Lexa looks to the sound to see the other handmaiden, this one younger than most, raising the small animal, the arrow Jass fired embedded in its heart.
"It was skill," Jass counters, and Lexa can't help but to think she would enjoy living like this forward, surrounded by those she trusts the most.
"Come, Jass," Lexa says as she eyes the animal now in Jass' hands. "You caught the animal. You must feed us," and Jass rolls her eyes.
"But Heda," Jass begins with feigned annoyance. "If I am the victor, should I not be free to d—"
The forest erupts with a booming echo that bounces off the trees, that fills the air, that sends Lexa to the forest floor in shock and surprise. Jass drops the animal, darts over to her and almost flings herself atop Lexa, even the other handmaidens turn outwards, draw weapons and crouch low as they search the forest, the trees and bushes and forest and shadows for sign of attack, for the source of what must surely be tech.
"Heda?" Jass hisses as the booming echo dies out and as she comes off her, the woman's gaze now void of mirth of humour.
"I am ok, Jass," Lexa says, and she winces just a little to the ringing in her ears, eyes already searching for the source of the explosion.
"That was tech," someone says quietly. "Weapons like what the Mountain used."
"Yes," and Lexa feels worry beginning to rise, beginning to take hold deep in her core.
"What do we do, Heda?" another handmaiden questions, this woman already holding freshly drawn bow and arrow.
And so Lexa comes to her feet, draws another arrow and grits her teeth as she imagines the words Gustus will say when she returns.
"We investigate."