Clarke hits the side of a building with enough force that she feels the panther skull's bone cut into the back of her head. Pain erupts across her body and for just a moment all she sees is blinding white and all she hears is a deafening hollow ringing.

Clarke doesn't know how long she spends looking up into the blue of the sky, she doesn't know how long the ringing in her ears lasts and she doesn't even know if she quite understands what just happened.

But the shouting that starts, the yells, the cries and screams that echo out around her are enough to break her from whatever daze has fallen upon her. Clarke gasps through the pain that flares up her leg as she sits, as she forces herself upright.

Black smoke rises into the sky, debris litters the ground, some burn openly, others smoulder and simmer. Clarke thinks she can tell where the explosion struck for she sees a patch of the ground that is cratered, blackened and charred. She looks only long enough to register the blood, the bodies, the death and the pieces that lie on the ground before she turns her gaze, tries not to let her mind break even further.

She staggers to her feet, winces as pain flares up her thigh and as she pulls her hand away she sees it covered in blood from whatever wound has sliced its way through her flesh.

Clarke tastes blood on her tongue, she spits and she grimaces as it splatters onto the ground, equal parts saliva and red mucus. Her head throbs, she is sure blood covers her hair, and she can't quite make her eyes focus on anything in particular. She takes a step forward only to stumble, only to fall to her knees as tears fall from her eyes. But she rises, she struggles to her feet and she begins to move, one hand supporting herself against the wall.

Azgeda warriors move about, some in as much pain as her, others dazed, others confused and broken. She sees a man staring at what was once a foot, she sees another cradling the lifeless body of a young second, whose chest is torn apart, whose eyes stare up with hollow life into the sky overhead.

Clarke trips, she stumbles and slips, and as she steadies herself she finds that she stands in a pool of blood, a river of remains she can't even identify. Bile rises in her throat, she feels it coming and she turns her face just in time to avoid emptying her stomach onto what was once a man, a woman, a child, someone who had dreams and desires.

"Onta—" her voice dies in her throat as she tries to call for her friends. "Entani," Clarke looks around for them, she searches the faces of those that lie around her. "Torv—" pain kills her voice before she can finish.

And she stumbles again, she trips, staggers forward until she comes to her knees, her shoulder resting against the rough stone wall of whatever building that rises up beside her.

Clarke doesn't quite realise it at first, but she feels her eyelids growing heavy, she feels her limbs becoming tired, and some part of her, perhaps some prehistoric portion of her brain seems to tell her to keep moving, to keep fighting, to try to move, to open her eyes. But she can't, or perhaps she won't, and she doesn't for it seems too comfortable, too easy and simple to let herself take just one moment of rest, just one moment to let the pain in her body wash away. And hasn't she earned it? Doesn't she deserve to take a break? At least for just one little sec—

"Clarke," she feels hands grip her by the shoulders, "come, Clarke," and she feels someone's breath brush against the shell of her ear as she is pulled to her feet. "We must leave. Now."

"No," Clarke protests, but her voice comes out quiet, weak, too hoarse to be heard over the shouts and the commotion that spreads out around her.

"Hush," the voice says to her as she feels her feet leave the ground and her body be hugged against a strong chest.

And with that Clarke's world goes black.

It's quiet. It's silent. Her vision is as white as the Azgeda plains and a hollow ringing echoes out in her mind and Ontari doesn't know if she is asleep, if she lies unconscious or if she has died.

Her body aches, her bones feel like they have been crushed, her muscles feel like they have been torn apart and stitched back together with no ware for how they were before. Even her lungs feel like they have been crushed, they feel like she has been struck by the mightiest of avalanches that has buried her so far down that her body won't be found for generations.

But then the pain comes.

A hot searing ache burns in her shoulder, her face seems to prickle and burn and her ribs can't seem to take in as much air as she thinks they should. Ontari blinks then, and it scares her to realise that the white doesn't fade as she expects it to. She blinks again, and as she does her eyes feel raw, they feel burnt, exposed to the elements.

That same ringing continues to wriggle its way into her mind and it takes her a moment longer to realise that she can't move her arm, that she can't bring it to her head, can't hold it over the aching pounding pain that seems to have taken residence in her skull.

Ontari tries calling out for Entani, she tries calling out for Clarke, for Torvun, for anyone that is nearby, but she can't even hear her own voice, she can't even tell if she makes noise.

Ontari coughs, pain wracks up her body and she gasps and gags on the blood she feels coating her mouth. She spits, she splutters and she tastes and feels her blood splutter past her lips. She tries to roll onto her side, she tries to force her legs under her, but pain flares up in her right shoulder once more. It's a blinding kind of pain, it's a searing kind of hurt that makes her breath freeze, that makes her mind go numb.

Ontari calls out for help then, and perhaps at any other time she would be too prideful, she would be too stubborn to admit defeat, to admit a need for help, for comfort, for any kind of relief. But right now, in the moment, all Ontari feels is afraid, and she feels afraid for she can't see, can't hear, can't sense her friends.

And that terrifies her, it chills what little of her blood she thinks remains in her body and it makes her want to scream, it makes her want to shy away, recoil from the isolation and the silence.

And so Ontari calls out again, she ignores the cracking she feels in her throat and she calls out, she cries out, she splutters past the pain, the blood and the fear.

Something draws her attention though, and at first it seems to be more imagined mirage than seen shadow. But as she continues to look, as she continues to blink, she realises that the shape begins to solidify, it begins to shift and shimmer and turn into something a little more concrete, a little more certain.

Ontari thinks it a person, she thinks it a man, perhaps a woman, a warrior or a child. Whoever it is staggers past her vision, seems too lost, too dazed, too uncertain on their feet. But then she sees another shadow, and this one too seems unfocused, unsure of what to do, of where to go.

"Hel—" pain silences her words, she chokes on the blood coating her tongue and she spits and at least tries to direct so that it won't just land back on her face. But even turning her neck seems to hurt more than it should.

She thinks she hears her name called out then, and it seems distant, it seems quiet and so very far away. But it comes again, this time a little closer, and she thinks she can even sense a shadow that looms over her, she thinks she can even see the very hazy outline of someone who stands over her, who looks down at her, who takes in her weakness, her pathetic-ness, her helplessness.

"Ontari," she hears her name, and the shadow bends down over her. "You are ok, Ontari," the voice sounds deep, distant and familiar.

"T—" she splutters, she coughs, she gags. "Torvun?"

"I am here," and she feels a rough hand brush against her chin, she feels it try to wipe away whatever blood must cover her face.

"Torvun," Ontari's voice breaks, it seems to quiver and shake and tremble despite how hard she fights to keep it even, to keep it sure. "Torvun," Ontari doesn't quite mean for it to come out choked, for it to come out so broken, but it does. It does. And it humiliates her. "I—" she blinks, she tries to move, tries to do anything. "I can not see."

"You are ok," Torvun whispers and she hates how quiet his voice is.

"I can not see," she doesn't know why she repeats it. "I ca—"

"You are ok, Ontari," Torvun whispers again, and she sees his shadow look away, or at least she thinks he looks away for she can't even make out his face, not really.

"I—" her voice breaks.

"I am getting help," Torvun whispers. "Do not be afraid, Ontari."

Bodies lie scattered across the ground. Pools of blood and pieces of flesh and muscle, bone and sinew all seem thrown about without care or worry. Shouts of pain echo in the air, calls for help, for healers, for anyone with any experience.

Costia's mouth feels dry, her thoughts feel numb and she doesn't know where to look, she doesn't know how to help or even who to help. Azgeda warriors lie on the ground, some dead, others so severely wounded that she feels sick to the stomach. Even city people, children, the elderly, those going about their day have been caught in the explosion.

Polis guards, other clan warriors and the Azgeda fortunate enough not to be near the explosion rush to help those who need it most. Perhaps Costia's stunned stupor lasts only a few short seconds, but in that time she sees healers rushing back and forth with healer packs hastily strapped to bodies and stuffed with any number of different supplies they would need. She sees warriors on stretchers, some missing limbs, many missing more than one being carried away, she sees warriors rushing past, weapon laden as they rush out the gates of Polis in search for whoever was responsible, and she sees even more warriors filling the streets of Polis, some pushing back the crowd of people gathering in the distance, others already going door to door as they begin the hunt.

But Costia's gaze snaps to the far corner, to where she sees the largest number of Azgeda wounded, and her blood freezes when she recognises who lies on a stretcher, whose bloodied furs have strayed so very far from the pristine white she knows are cared for deeply.

"Ontari," she doesn't mean to shout the woman's name, but she finds herself uncaring as she begins pushing through the crowds of warriors. "Ontari," and she calls it once more, but she doesn't think her voice is heard over the commotion, over the other names being called, over the other sounds of pain, physical and emotional, that have escaped out into the open.

Costia doesn't even realise who holds one half of the stretcher until she skitters to a stop beside it.

"Costia," Torvun's voice comes out hoarse, gruff, broken and tired, as Costia can't help but to recoil just a bit as she sees the charred top of Torvun's head, the blackened flesh that she can't tell if it is from the ash that covers the ground, or from burns.

"I—" Costia looks away, she looks down, and her eyes widen in shock as she takes in Ontari.

Ontari's face is pale, her lips red and bloodied. One of them is split cleanly open, the gruesome cut almost reaching the lowest point of one of her clan's scars etched into her cheeks, its severity enough to expose more of Ontari's upper jaw than Costia would ever like to see. Her hair is burnt, braids seared and singed. But her eyes are what makes Costia's heart slam still. Both of Ontari's eyes are bloodshot, the whites chased away by a sickening red. A though Ontari's eyes seem to be looking around wildly, Costia can tell she focuses on nothing in particular.

"Ontari," Costia's voice comes out quiet as she reaches down, as she tries to comfort the wounded woman. But she stops herself when she sees how low Ontari's right shoulder hangs, and she can't help but to wince, but to look away, if only because she can't bare to see the other woman's discomfort.

"We are going to the Mountain," Torvun says then, and Costia's gaze snaps up to him to see his face set with determination. "Our wounded will be best cared for there."

"Where is Clarke?" Costia asks as she looks past Torvun, as she looks to the Azgeda warrior who holds the other end of the stretcher.

"I do not know," Torvun shrugs heavily, and from the way his eyes don't quite settle on her, Costia thinks his mind not quite fully recovered from the explosion.

"Entani?"

"Not found yet," he says as he pushes past her and begins guiding the stretchered Ontari through the crowd of people and to where she can see the wounded are being gathered.

"Torvun," But Costia's voice trails off as he simply continues to walk away, each step he takes pained, heavy and muted.

But something brings her attention around, and as she turns she finds a sea of Polis Guards moving through the crowd with more healers, she sees Anya pushing her way forward, and she sees Lexa, red sash flowing down her body and her face twisted in fury and agony.

Costia doesn't realise she has already begun moving towards them until they come face to face, and from the way Anya's eyes narrow, and from the way Lexa's head tilts to the side ever so slightly, Costia is sure her expression must be wrong, must be broken and lost.

"Clarke is gone," she says, and she sees Lexa's eyes widen, she sees her breath still and she sees the hand Lexa has on her sword's hilt tighten. "She is missing," Costia curses her poor choice of words. "They have not found a body," and she looks away as she tries not to picture Ontari's wounded state.

Lexa must relax just a little at that for Costia sees her breathe in deeply before releasing it in one long and steady motion.

"Ilian is responsible," Lexa says then, and her voice comes out cold. "He has fled."

Costia looks past Lexa and to the warriors, and as she watches the Polis Guards already moving away to help the wounded, all that remain are a mix of Trikru and Azgeda warriors who were not present during the explosion.

"I am coming with you," Costia says, and she knows Lexa means to hunt down Ilian, to stalk him, catch and to kill.

Torvun moves from stretcher to stretcher. Each step he takes comes with a shooting pain into his hip, but he ignores it, just as he ignores the two teeth missing from his mouth. One hand can't quite close properly, and the other can't stop twitching. He doesn't know if either of those things are from the adrenaline that still races through his veins, or if it is from the explosion. He pauses, only long enough to check and make sure that the healer he had dragged to Ontari's side still stays knelt over her doing whatever the woman can to relieve Ontari's pain.

When he is satisfied he turns back to the stretcher and he takes a long moment to look at what remains of the woman's face. Satisfied that she is neither Clarke nor Entani he moves on to the next, but he only takes in long enough to register that it is a Trikru warrior before he moves on to the next.

Torvun repeats his search over and over again. Each time he discards an unfamiliar face he feels his heart slow just a little more. He doesn't want to begin searching the dead, he doesn't want to begin sifting through the body part that are slowly being gathered, and he doesn't want to accept the fact that he feels like he has failed, that his only task in years has been to protect Clarke and now she might be dead.

Anger and hurt, pain and frustration and failure begin to well inside his heart, but he keeps his face blank, he keeps his steps measured and he does so for he knows he can't let anyone see, he knows he can't let anyone know.

But he hears his name, and it comes weak, distant and quiet.

Torvun's head snaps around, he crushes the grimace he feels forming as pain shoots up the side of his neck and he begins searching for whoever called out his name.

He hears it again, and his gaze settles on a person who remains slouched on the ground, both arms wrapped around their torso and half their face covered in a bandage.

"Entani," he doesn't know if he shouts or if he breathes out her name, but as he races however slowly towards her, he knows he feels relief racing through his heart.

"Torvun," her voice comes out shallow and broken.

"You are ok," and he fights the snarl twitching at the corners of his lips as he kneels down beside her.

"Yes," Entani says, but her voice falters.

"Your ribs?" and he looks down at the way she holds her arms close to her body.

"Broken."

Torvun looks her in the only eye he can see, and he can't help but to feel pity at the blood that already stains the bandage wrapped around Entani's head, that already drips past its edges and down her jaw.

"It is not as bad as it looks," Entani says softly. "Ontari? Clarke?" she asks, and Torvun watches as she tries to rise only to gasp and settle back onto the ground.

"Ontari is hurt," he says. "Badly. We are all going to the Mountain. Only Skaikru tech will save our wounded."

"And Clarke?" Entani's voice comes out a whisper then.

"I have not found her yet," and he watches as Entani's eye closes, as she tries to settle her breathing. "I—" he fights back the hurt. "I will begin searching the dead."

"Where is Ontari?" Entani asks instead, and Torvun knows she makes no mention of Clarke for she simply wishes not to even consider.

"There," and he points back the way he had come. "I can help yo—"

"No," and Entani grits her teeth as she begins to rise to her feet. "I will do it myself," and Entani reaches out, grips her forearm briefly to steady herself before she squeezes once and then begins to move towards where Torvun left Ontari. "Clarke must be alive," Entani says over her shoulder, "find her, Torvun."

Clarke's mind throbs, a pounding headache seems to be cascading through her skull with each beat of her heart. She doesn't know at first what has happened, where she is, or even why her body aches.

But as she comes to, as her mind settles, she finds the memories flooding back into view. Clarke remembers the explosion, she remembers her feet being lifted off the ground and she remembers being slammed into something. She remembers regaining consciousness only to struggle to stay awake.

And then she remembers.

She remembers the man's voice, she remembers weakly protesting his insistence that she come with him. And then her blood freezes.

Her blood freezes for she realises that a hood has been placed over her head, that her hands are tied behind her back and that she feels the harsh bite of the night's wind against what little of her flesh is exposed to the elements.

It takes Clarke a moment but she hears and feels the gentlest hints of burning embers. As the realisation that she has been in some way captured sinks in, she finds herself trying to piece together what and why.

She doesn't mean to shift where she lies on the ground, and she doesn't meant to move at all, but the discomfort flowing through her makes her shift, makes her twitch and shuffle just a little. Clarke senses a stilling of movement and she finds that her own breathing turns quiet, gentle and calm.

"You are awake," it shouldn't surprise Clarke to hear the voice she does, but perhaps it does, if only because she doesn't know what to think, at least in the moment.

"Teben?" Clarke's voice comes out hoarse and dry.

Clarke senses Teben shuffle closer before she feels herself being lifted into a sitting position. She winces just a little to the pain that still splinters through her body, and she grimaces as Teben begins to pull the hood from her face, the motion at least partly cautious.

With the hood gone Clarke finds herself sitting in what must be old ruins. The walls of whatever room they are in are brick, broken, weathered and smoothed to the elements. Leaves, dry and dying lie scattered about where they lie. As Clarke looks up she finds the roof half missing, its tiled and wood structure shorn away long ago.

"It is night," Teben says quietly as she comes to sit opposite Clarke, the slowly smouldering coals that sit between them giving only enough light that Clarke just make out Teben's worried expression.

"Where's Ilian?" Clarke says, and though she has no proof, she is sure, she is certain he is responsible.

"Hunting," Teben says, and Clarke sees her look away, look out a gap in the brick that surrounds them.

"Where are my friends?" Clarke asks.

"I do not know," Teben says as she looks back to her. "Ilian did not wait to see who died and who survived."

If Clarke's body didn't ache so much, if her head wasn't splitting in two from a piercing headache, and if she didn't feel so drained, she was sure she would be angry, would be furious, would try to attack and to do more.

"We were good to you," Clarke says. "Why?" and she watches as Teben's eyes narrow a fraction. "You said you didn't want to hurt anyone, but you killed people, Teben. You killed people," and Clarke knows the images of the body parts lying about will be burnt into her memory for the rest of her life.

Teben looks away, and for a moment Clarke thinks she senses a regret taking place in Teben's eyes, and if it was any other time she would feel sorry for the woman, but right now all Clarke feels is a hollow ache that seems to border between pain and anger.

"I did not lie," Teben says and she turns back to Clarke.

"But people are dead," Clarke says and she leans forward just a bit. "My friends, Teben. They could be dead."

"I know," and Teben looks down to her arm, to the bandage that seems fresh. "It was not my plan to escape. It was not my plan to kill anyone else," Teben says as she looks back to Clarke. "Ilian," and she shrugs. "He was responsible for that," she continues.

"You can fix this," Clarke latches on to the fact that Teben seems willing to blame Ilian, seems willing to be open to remorse. "Let me go, Teben. Let me go, We can return to Polis and fix everything before it's too late," but Clarke thought it was already too late for Ilian. Perhaps even Teben. "I—" she coughs as her throat seems to protest her words, and as she does so she thinks she tastes whatever ash she had breathed in after the explosion.

Teben's gaze seems to fall to the glowing embers, and Clarke watches as the woman wars with whatever uncertainties must be filling her mind, and part of her wants to ask Teben what their plan with tech is, part of her wants to know what their end goal is, but right now in the moment she thinks it not the right time. If only because she simply wants to make sure sh can get away before her moment has passed.

"I will treat you well, Clarke," Teben says as she looks up to meet her gaze. "You were kind to me when I was your prisoner. You gave me treatment when you could have tortured me," and Clarke can't help but to feel deflated as Teben seems to harden her resolve. "I will show you the same respect. Now rest, Ilian will be back soon."