"We tracked them through the forest, Heda," Jass says, the handmaiden's voice just a little more quiet despite their isolation in her quarters.
"And?" Lexa asks.
"They were wounded," and Jass looks away in thought for a moment. "Favoured their left side over their right."
"I see," and Lexa thinks it could be easy to find someone who is injured.
"But we lost their tracks once they entered the city walls," Jass continues. "In the markets."
"To be expected," and Lexa isn't surprised, for that it the most sensible thing for someone to do if they wish for their tracks to vanish.
"We believe it is a man," Jass continues.
Lexa pauses then, enough for the things she knows to sink in, to settle within her mind.
"Send handmaidens into the city," Lexa says, and she thinks it best to keep things quiet, to make it seem as though she searches not for this unknown wounded man. "Observe, try to identify, do not confront."
Jass nods her understanding at that, but Shana steps forward from where she leans against a table, arms crossed over her chest as she seems to think for a moment.
"Shana?" Lexa asks.
"Titus was angry," Shana says simply.
"Titus knows his place," Lexa counters, and she sees Shana's lips purse a little too tightly for her to ignore.
"More than usual, Heda," and Shana seems to consider her words more than usual.
"Speak your mind, Shana."
"He says you can not leave Polis like you did again," and Lexa knows Shana doesn't share Titus' sentiment, she knows Shana would always side with her, but she knows, too, that Shana simply wishes what is best for her.
"And why is that, Shana?" Lexa asks.
"He said that if you must be present at all times, or that he knows where you are at all time for when you are needed."
It doesn't surprise Lexa, doesn't even phase her that Shana must have faced Titus in all his anger. But Lexa doesn't quite hold it against the man, if only because she knows he takes his duty more seriously than she thinks possible, that he, at times, becomes too focused, too narrow minded to the changing of things.
"I understand, Shana," Lexa says, and she thinks she must talk to Titus, must make it clear that her handmaidens answer to no one but her, that he would do well to treat them with the same level of respect as she demands. "And Gustus?" Lexa asks, but she thinks she already knows the answer.
"He did not mind," Shana says with a sly smile. "Perhaps a little," she adds at the way Lexa's eyebrow raises. "Only because he disapproves of you leaving him behind."
"Understandable," Lexa says, and she doesn't blame Gustus for disapproving of her actions. "Thank you," Lexa adds.
As Shana and Jass both bow their heads and begin to walk to the door Lexa hears the approach of feet, and she recognises the heaviness of one set of footsteps to be that of Gustus, and the other lighter pair that accompanies a barely there swishing of fabric to be none other than who they had just been talking about.
A knock echoes out then, and Lexa eyes the door as Shana reaches it, opens it a fraction before bowing her head in greeting before stepping aside far enough for Titus and Gustus to both step inside.
"Titus," Lexa says as she comes to stand in the centre of her room facing the baldheaded man. "Gustus."
Titus waits until Shana and Jass leave the room, but as Titus turns back to face her, Lexa sees Jass make a face to the back of the man's face before ducking out, the door quick to close behind her.
"Your hunt was successful," Gustus begins, head cocked to the side just a little.
"It was," Lexa says, and she smiles a brief thing before straightening her back and facing Titus, the man's brows furrowed somewhere between worry and annoyance. "Titus, speak your mind."
"Heda," Titus begins, and his voice seems a little strained. "I do not think it is wise for you to leave Polis again."
"And why is that, Titus?" Lexa asks, and she knows he would already know Shana has told her of what he said, but she thinks it important that she makes him say it to her in person.
"You are needed in Polis," Titus says, hands coming together before disappearing into the long sleeves of the robe he wears.
Lexa knows what Titus means though, and she knows he already knows what she will say for she knows him to be no fool.
"We are at peace Titus," Lexa says, and she sees his eyes narrow a fraction.
"That is easily changed," Titus warns, worry now tinging his voice.
"The Coalition is strong," Lexa counters.
"Yes, the Coalition is strong," Titus says, and Lexa looks to Gustus for a moment to see his expression remain still and void of emotion for now. "But if you continue to make a habit of slipping away then the ambassadors will find out," Titus says. "They will not approve."
"They will not do anything."
"Perhaps once they would not have done anything," Titus says. "Not when they had enemies to deal with," and Lexa knows Titus speaks of the Mountain and Azgeda and Nia. "But now they have nowhere and no one to focus their frustrations upon," Titus continues. "I fear their frustrations will turn to you, to Azgeda's growing strength," and Lexa now knows Titus speaks of Clarke, of the forces that accompany her and that seemingly have taken a permanent residence outside Azgeda's borders.
"The ambassadors would do well to remember the wars fought between Azgeda and Trikru and those trapped between them," Lexa says. "Azgeda is different under King Roan," and Lexa believes it. "Our clans growing closer together will ensure the peace will last."
"Some do not see it that way," Titus says with a shaking of his head. "They fear it will only lead to Azgeda usurping more control over the Coalition."
"That will not happen," Lexa says, her voice now ironing.
But Titus seems to consider her words, seems to consider the way her eyes flash warning and annoyance, and so Lexa watches as Titus bows his head, but she knows this conversation only put on hold, only paused until next she does something Titus doesn't approve of.
And so Lexa relaxes just a little as Titus changes topics and begins to bring up the most recent requests the ambassadors have, but through it all, Lexa finds herself wishing something more would happen, if only because it would give her something more to do.
Noise seems to grow in intensity with each passing hour. It starts quiet at first, but Clarke recognises it to be the signs of life that live at the furthest edges of Polis. Farmers mostly, those who spend their days under the sun. She even hears the telltale sign of violence, of metal ringing out against metal, and of flesh beating against flesh, and Clarke knows that to be the sounds of warriors who train, who continue to ready themselves for war, for violence.
Clarke wonders whether some warriors wish for the peace to end, for something to happen that would give them purpose, give them an outlet for their frustrations. And she is no fool, and she knows even some of her own warriors grow restless, grow eager for a change, for something more. Perhaps she will bring up the issue with Lexa.
But, at the thought of Lexa, Clarke finds herself smiling, if only subtly, for she feels the anticipation already growing after the few short days of travel. She thinks it will be good to discuss things, her suspicions with the other woman, to get a second opinion. But most of all? She finds herself eager to reunite for the simple fact that she has missed her company.
And so Clarke shakes her head, clears her mind and looks out around her. Azgeda warriors ride out behind her, each one's face showing the signs of eagerness, of looking forward to having the time to rest at Polis, to trade and to barter in the markets, and to pit their skills against the other warriors who so often frequent Polis.
Clarke's gaze falls onto Teben though, and she eyes the way the woman looks outwards in search of Polis, and Clarke doesn't know what emotion she sees on the other woman's face, perhaps she thinks it worry, perhaps even apprehension, or maybe something between longing and sadness. But whatever it is, Clarke puts it aside for the moment, if only because she knows the time will come when she will need to decide Teben's fate. But for now, she simply wishes to rest.
"Jenma," Clarke calls out, and she sees the woman look up, the red of her hair dazzling in the midday sun.
"Clarke?" Jenma responds as she winds her horse between others before she pulls up beside her.
"We're going to have more warriors than are allowed inside Polis," Clarke says, and she looks over her shoulder, tries to judge just how many Azgeda she now has after some left and some joined between Ton DC, Arkadia and passing by the Mountain. "You're in charge of those that get left outside the city," Clarke continues, and she sees Jenma's eyes widen a fraction in surprise, but Clarke thinks the other woman capable of the responsibility, and more importantly, deserving of it following her actions in the hunt for the last of the Mountain Men, and during the awkwardness of the transition of power between Nia and Roan.
"Thank you, Clarke," Jenma says.
"I'll rotate out warriors that are in Polis once we get settled," Clarke continues.
"I will ensure our camp runs smoothly," Jenma says, and Clarke can't help but to smile a little at the way Jenma sits a little straighter in her saddle and squares her shoulders.
"Good," Clarke says, and as she does so she lets her hand drop to the pack tied to the side of her horse as she begins fishing inside. "I have something for you," Clarke adds, this time her voice just a little lower, if only because she knows it prudent to keep what she is about to give Jenma quiet and not well known.
And so she palms the small radio and hands it to Jenma who stuffs in into her own pack quickly, the woman quick enough to read her actions as a want to keep things subtle.
"You know how to use that?" Clarke asks.
"Yes," Jenma says.
"I'm going to be asking questions in Polis," Clarke says. "And I'm going to keep you up to date with what's going on in case it's something we need to move on quickly," and Clarke worries her lip for a moment. "If we need to, I want to be able to mobilise our forces and catch whoever is messing with tech by surprise."
"I understand," Jenma says.
"Good," and Clarke smiles as she turns her gaze outwards and to the hazy image of Polis tower that now appears on the horizon. "Hopefully it's nothing, but it's better being safe than sorry."
The candle light flickers and the heat of the flame makes his skin prickle and sweat. Ilian tries to ignore the discomfort though, his gaze hardened and his hand steady as he holds the needle to the flame.
His hip still aches, the bone, he is sure, bruised, and the wound still open to the air. Perhaps it's still shock, perhaps it's still despair or even the fact that his ears still haven't quite stopped ringing from the explosion, but he seems to feel empty, seems to be unsure of just what he feels.
Perhaps it's a loss, perhaps an anger, or perhaps simply a resignation and acceptance that things have happened that are so far out of his control that he can't do much more than embrace each thing that comes with open arms.
He grits his teeth then, pulls the needle from the flame and eyes the glowing red tip. Ilian embraces the pain as he brings it to his hip, he embraces the pain as his skin sizzles and as the smell of burning flesh fills his nose.
Ilian begins pushing the needle through his flesh, the thread slowing pulling the open wound closed. Tears begin to well in the corners of his eyes, and perhaps he doesn't know whether those tears are from the pain of dealing with the wound, or whether it's a pain from the loss of Hepoli, but whatever it is, he embraces it, if only because he thinks it the least he can do, if only because he thinks he hasn't come this far to give up now.
But maybe, if only for a moment, he wishes his life had taken a different path somewhere far back in his past, before the loss, before the anger and hurt, before the pain and the suffering.
Before he even realises, Ilian finds that he has pulled his wound closed, the stitching rough but practical. His skin feels clammy though, the sweat that drips down his face enough to sting in the corners of his eyes.
Ilian reaches for a small jar, its contents a cool paste. He opens it with a slight pop, and he can't help but to shiver a little as he scoops up a small amount of the paste, its scent enough to clear the smell of burning flesh. It stings when he begins to rub it into the wound, but that pain isn't so unfamiliar. He even embraces that stinging, too, if only because he thinks it important to remember the sacrifices he has made, and the sacrifices of those he has lo—
A horn bellows out through the air, its sound rich, deep, booming and distant. Ilian recognises it for what it is though. And perhaps it is ironic, perhaps even funny, that the sound he hears once caused fear to spread like wildfire, that it was once a warning, a threat and a curse. But now he can't help but to think it nothing more than a nuisance. If only because he thinks Azgeda have always been more brash than the other clans, have always been more quick to anger than the others. And now, with wanheda at the helm of Azgeda's most fierce warriors, and he connection to Heda, he can't help but to think it nothing but an annoyance, something to deal with, something to handle in the only way he knows.
"Ilian," he hears his name barked out through his closed door. "Ambassador Elios calls for us," the voice says. "We are to join the other ambassadors at Polis towers entrance for Azgeda's return."
Ilian sighs, he doesn't miss the slight annoyance in the other voice, if only because he wishes he didn't have to spend his days following Elios, didn't have to listen and listen and listen when only months earlier he was fighting for his clan, for his life, for the betterment of his people. But perhaps even that was ironic, that now, after all he has fought for, he finds his life monotonous.
At least the offical parts.
The streets of Polis remain ever bustling, ever busy and full of people going about their day. Some look up at her as she passes atop her horse, others eye the Azgeda with a wariness, some with more open hostility, but others seem pleased at her return, some seem amused, curious, perhaps even eager. But she doesn't quite mind for some unknown reason.
Jenma had split off from their main group of warriors and made camp outside the city walls, and so Clarke rides with perhaps half of the warriors she had initially set out with, but she doesn't mind her lack of warriors at her back, if only because she knows the stark white of the faces of many of her warriors will give pause to any who would still harbour old grudges against her clan. And it isn't that she anticipates confrontation, but she hadn't come this far living amongst the clans to be so arrogant as to ignore any potential threat.
People begin to gather further ahead though, and she knows that to be in response to the bellowing horn Ontari had sounded as they passed through the open gates. Perhaps what gives Clarke the most comfort though are the children she sees, those who are too young to have fully grasped what the Mountain had meant, and those who had not been alive during the forming of the Coalition and the violence Nia had inflicted upon who she had thought were lesser clans.
And Clarke thinks she sees awe on the children's faces, for she knows their only exposure to the violence of her actions to be through the stories she knows are told of her and her actions during the Mountain's fall and of her role in the upheaval of Azgeda.
A little girl waves up at her from where she stands beside her mother, one hand clutching a wooden sword, its edge nicked, an obvious sign that even the young begin training as warriors as soon as they are able to hold a weapon.
And perhaps that is why Clarke does what she does, perhaps that is why she accepts the role her life has become, that she can try to sway conflict from ever erupting again lest it welcome the youth with open arms.
She rounds a corner then, and before her rising Polis tower, its stone shining a magnificent golden yellow. Weathered rock and stone reach up into the sky, its surface cracked to the ages, its corners smoothed to the onslaught of generations of wind that has swept across Polis.
Polis guards line the entrance way, their leathered armour glinting in the sunlight. Even more people gather close by, and Clarke doesn't think she will ever grow accustomed to her movements being so openly known.
She sees Azgeda faces amongst those gathered though, their scars enough to differentiate them from the tattoos of the other clans. But what steals Clarke's attention the most is the shining red sash that drapes down a slender framed body that stands before the tower's entrance.
Lexa stands, back straight, one hand resting atop the sword hanging from her waist. Gustus stands beside her in his usual place, the man's large frame enough to dwarf almost all who stand close by. Even Titus, who Clarke tries not to share much time with stands close by, his gaze careful, thoughtful, perhaps even a little disapproving of the scene that her arrival has become.
Clarke takes a moment to register the other ambassadors that stand behind Lexa, those who she finds herself on good terms with, and those who she knows will gladly send their first meeting into chaos. She even sees the faces of the Ambassador guards, some new, some familiar, but each with the same carefully constructed expression of purposeful disinterest.
"Are you ready, Clarke?" Ontari asks quietly, and Clarke doesn't miss the jest in Ontari's voice.
"Not really," Clarke says, and she can't help but to laugh just a little at the sigh she hears coming from Entani.
"You can not complain," Ontari says across Clarke and to Entani at that.
"And why can I not complain?" Entani questions.
"You do not have to sit through their meetings," Ontari says.
"I still have to spend time with them," Entani counters only for Ontari to roll her eyes in answer.
"Yes, you do," Ontari says. "You can not leave us to their mercy like you did at the clan meetings when we fought the Mountain."
"Perhaps I will simply encourage our warriors to train so hard that I must see to them daily."
"Ok," Clarke says for she knows argument is about to break out. "Let's get settled before you two get into an argument," and she smiles as Ontari scoffs.
Clarke turns her attention back the way they ride, and as she does so she finds her gaze drawn to Lexa's who now looks at her with an intensity that Clarke can't help but to embrace. But she shakes her head, if only so that she doesn't make a fool of herself in the moment.
And so Clarke waits until her horse comes to a stop before Lexa, and Clarke sees the other woman's lips twitch up at the corners as her horse throws it's head and nips before coming to an easy rest.
Clarke's feet land on the ground with a thump, the Azgeda behind her quick to follow her actions, and as she does so servants move forward, some already reaching outwards to take the horses reins and guide them to the stables, but through it all Clarke finds herself stepping just a little closer to Lexa until she is within reaching distance. Lexa's hand extends, and Clarke meets the motion halfway, her fingers eager as they close around Lexa's wrist and squeeze.
"Welcome back to Polis, ambassador," Lexa says, as she returns the squeeze before letting their hands fall away.
"It's good to be back," Clarke says, but from the twitching of Lexa's lips, Clarke is sure her barely there lack of reluctance is heard.
"Come," Lexa says, "I am sure you are tired. I will show you to your rooms."
Clarke looks over her shoulder to Ontari though, and she sees the woman's head cocked to the side as she eyes them both before waving for her to go ahead.
"Go," Ontari says. "I will handle Teben."
Clarke smiles at that, begins to walk forward only to stop as she remembers her pack.
"Hold on," Clarke says to Lexa as she turns back to her horse.
She reaches out, snares her pack and hefts it onto her shoulders, its weight a little more than usual as she moves back to Lexa's sides
Lexa eyes her curiously as they begin walking into Polis tower, but Clarke simply shrugs, smiles and lets her feet take her to the lift that will take her up the tower and to her quarters.
Before too long Clarke finds herself standing in the lift, its creaking, shaking, unsteady journey upwards an oddly comforting feeling. Lexa stands by her side, the woman a little stiff, a little restrained, if only because Gustus stands directly behind her, as does Torvun stand behind Clarke.
But Clarke looks down as she feels a gentle tapping on her wrist to find one of Lexa's slender fingers extending outwards from where her hand lies by her side, the motion enough to bring a smile to Clarke's lips.
And so Clarke mirrors Lexa's motion with her own finger, and she can't help but to smile as she feels Lexa step just barely closer to her, the movement, she is sure, the only thing Lexa is willing to do to show her affection until they are alone.
But Clarke shifts the pack on her shoulders into a more comfortable position, and she feels Lexa's eyes follow the motion with a curiosity, for Clarke knows it normal for servants to bring their belongings to them at a later time. But what she has in the pack is far too personal for her to want to let anyone else come across them.
And perhaps this agonisingly slow lift isn't so bad, perhaps the wait hasn't been so bad, perhaps trudging through the snow wasn't so bad, perhaps shivering in the cold, perhaps fleeing from a raging beast will be worth the expression Clarke is sure she will see upon Lexa's face when she reveals just what she has done with the beast's fur.
It better be.