Clarke doesn't know how long she's walked through the forest. She lost track of time after the first time she felt too light headed. Even the headache seems to come and go without warning. The blindfold over her eyes doesn't help the situation either, with its scratchy, rough material. She had given up trying to listen to the sounds around her, she had given up trying to memorise and recall anything that would help give her any idea of where she was.
She trips then, an unseen tree root the likely culprit and she grimaces at the strain she feels throughout her body as someone, Teben or Ilian, reaches out and takes hold of her elbow to keep her from falling yet again into the dirt.
Before too long Clarke is pulled to a standstill. Her feet ache, her mind wanders and she finds herself longing for a bed, for somewhere to rest her head and to sleep.
Rough hands take her by the shoulders and push her down onto the ground. She finds where she sits to be stone, smoothed to the years. The surface is cold as if it has been hidden away from the sun. She isn't left wondering just where she is for long though, for the blindfold over her eyes is pulled away to reveal the curved and cracked walls of a cave.
Ilian sits in front of her, an arm pulled out from his sleeve where a cut has dug itself into his upper arm. His leg is stretched out before him and his pants are pulled down just enough to reveal a wound cut into his hip covered in paste and bandages. It takes Clarke a moment longer before she realises Teben sits near her.
As Clarke looked around she finds that she sits in a small cave. Green moss covers the entrance, vines hang down and shield the cave from prying eyes, and Clarke can just barely make out the grand trees that reach up into the sky.
She knows better than to antagonise, at least for now. She knows she needs rest, she knows she needs to gather her strength and bide her time before trying to escape. But all that can wait until she figures out just where they are in the forests.
Teben moving beside her draws her attention and she watches as the woman unslings a pack and empties its content onto the cave's floor. Fresh bandages spill out, a small vial of past clinks against stone and food supplies of dried fruits and meats tumble together as the woman sorts them into neat piles.
Clarke can't help but to grimace at the thought that she still doesn't know if her friends are safe, she can't help but to feel a spike of fear and anger and hopelessness at not being able to help them. But she tries to stamp down those emotions before they take hold and begin to dictate her next actions.
She takes in a deep breath, winces at a pull in her ribs and she finds her throat scratched, raw and dry. She must make a disgruntled noise though for Ilian looks up from his wound and eyes her for a second. Perhaps for the first time since she had met him, she finds that his emotions seem a little more open for her to see. As she looks closer she finds a desperation and a kindness that seems beaten back into submission behind his eyes and she can't help but wonder what happened in his life for him to do whatever he has done.
"Why'd you do it, Ilian?" she makes sure her voice comes out curious, perhaps a little questioning, but free of accusation, of anger or fear.
Ilian looks at her for a long while, she watches as his braids frame his face and at times make him seem younger than he his. She watches as he chews on his lip, and she watches as he takes a deep breath and leans away until his back comes to rest against the cave wall.
"I was a sheep farmer," he says eventually, and his voice comes out soft, and she can sense a longing deep down within the man. "Before the Mountain," he continues. "With my family. My mother. Brother, father."
Clarke thinks she knows where this goes, she doesn't even need to look at Teben to sense that the other woman has settled her gaze somewhere far in the distance where memories may still linger.
"You both lost people you care about," Clarke says, and it comes out as much a guess as certainty.
"My sister," Teben says and this time Clarke turns to look at the woman. "After the Mountain fell she tried to help those who were injured. But she was killed by the last of the Mountain Men in one of their raids," and her eyes begin to water just barely to the memories. "She was not even a warrior but a trader," and Clarke can sense the hurt, the longing and the slowly simmering anger. "She traded tech after your people arrived. She wanted to learn as much as she could. To bring back anything that could help us and help those who had suffered under the Mountain's rule," and Teben shakes her head and closes her eyes as pain fills her mind.
"Teben lost her sister to the Mountain's evil," Ilian says and Clarke turns back to him. "The Mountain took my brother and father."
And perhaps it should be obvious, perhaps it always was obvious that the clans feared the Mountain. But as Clarke looks from Teben to Ilian, she finds the realisation dawning on her that there must be so very many people who still believe that the lands around the Mountain, and even the Mountain itself are still cursed.
"I'm sorry you've lost people you care about," and Clarke looks Ilian in the eyes long enough to know he listens before she does the same with Teben.
"You are a warrior, too, Clarke," Ilian says. "I know you suffered your own losses at the hands of Mountain," and she knows he talks of what she did to end the Mountain, she knows he talks of Nia and her ploy to throw the coalition into chaos with the help of the last of the Mountain Men. "That is why we need your help."
That surprises Clarke.
She had assumed that they had taken her as distraction, as insurance that whatever plans they had would succeed. But now, as she looks Ilian in the eyes, she finds herself believing that he speaks the truth.
"You need my help?" this time her voice comes out incredulous. "You've killed people, Ilian," and Clarke tries hard to fight the growing frustration and anger she feels bubbling under the surface.
"I had no choice," he says.
"Everyone has a choice," she counters. "You chose to steal. You chose to kill. To hurt."
"I had no choice," he says again with a little more venom in his voice. "The Mountain is a curse," he says and he shuffles onto his knees awkwardly given his injured hip. "It is a disease," and Clarke finds herself flinching away from his touch as he reaches forward and takes her hands in his desperately. "You must understand, Clarke," and he squeezes her hands. "It's spirit isa curse. It's spirit is a disease. A sickness that has plagued our people for generations — that will continue to plague and corrupt our people for generations to come."
Clarke takes just one moment to look at Teben and she sees the woman looking outwards as if her mind has wandered somewhere faraway but Ilian's words pull Clarke's attention back with a bite and a pain.
"You must understand, Clarke. You must."
Clarke finds herself remembering the guilt and the weight of her actions in the Mountain, and though she thinks it not so heavy on her soul these days, she knows it a shadow that can darken even her lightest of days when she lets herself be lost to the past.
"So what?" and Clarke's voice comes out quiet. "You're stealing tech? Attacking and hurting people to prove a point?"
"No," Ilian shakes his head and for a moment she thinks she sees tears welling in his eyes. "No one was ever supposed to be hurt," and she finds herself looking into his gaze to see a desperate brokenness taking hold. "But the Mountain must be destroyed," and he squeezes her hands again.
"How?" Clarke asks, and she tries not to let her eagerness for an answer colour her tone too much.
But she finds Ilian's mind too far lost to whatever drives him for he simply smiles a sad smile as he squeezes her hands once more before letting them go and shuffling back to where he had originally sat.
"You removed the threat of the Mountain Men, Clarke," he says. "Now you must help us kill the Mountain's spirit."
Clarke stays quiet for a long time. She finds herself unsure of how to respond, and perhaps even unsure of whether she should respond at all. But as she continues to take in the way Ilian looks at her she sees no sign of misdirection, no sign of hate or anger of deceit.
"You want me to help you kill the Mountain's spirit?" Clarke tries hard to keep her voice level.
"Yes," Ilian answers.
"Why?"
"Can you not see, Clarke?" he asks. "The Mountain is poison. It corrupts everything it touches and it will continue to do so," he gestures to Teben and to the surrounding lands and Clarke knows he thinks of Teben's sister, of his own family.
"And you need me, why?"
"I—" but Ilian pauses, perhaps to think, perhaps to order his thoughts. "You were never meant to be hurt," Ilian says eventually. "You were never supposed to find Teben and her friends in the cave."
"We never meant to hurt anyone, Clarke," Teben says quietly.
"But you did," and Clarke begins to feel her headache slowly returning in part because she thinks she grows tired of their continued insistence that no one was supposed to be hurt.
"You must understand, Clarke," Ilian says. "I needed to escape, I needed to get out of Polis. Our mission is more important than me, than Teben, than any of the others."
"Tell me what you're going to do, Ilian," Clarke says and she knows it a risk, she knows it a little too wishful to think he will give away all his secrets so soon. "I can't help you if I don't know what you're going to do."
Ilian pauses and thinks, and as Clarke watches she thinks she senses a guarding of his thoughts slowly beginning to form.
"I will tell you in time," he says eventually. "But for now rest. We will continue to move soon."
It has taken Torvun and the rest of the Azgeda almost three days of nonstop travel to arrive at the Mountain. It still looms high above the forest. Around its base trees have been cleared and a city of permanent tents and buildings, some partly constructed, others long since finished. Warriors, villagers and traders from all clans are welcome to rest at the Mountain, are welcome to seek medical aid if needed, or even to visit if desired.
Despite all that, and all that has happened, Torvun still can't quite shake the feeling that seems to always prickle the back of his neck when he approaches the main entrance to the Mountain.
Torvun walks at the front of the wounded convoy, his role as Clarke's guard having made him the de facto leader of the group. Healers rush forward to greet them as they move closer and closer to the Mountain's entrance, the lead scouts he had sent ahead having informed the Mountain of their arrival.
Ontari walks beside him, one hand holding onto his elbow as he guides her forward. Her face still remains burnt and reddened. But thankfully her vision has returned, if only enough to see shapes, and to make out the barest of detail around them. Torvun thinks Ontari's shoulder blade must be fractured, perhaps even her collar bone, too, from the way she holds it close to her side. But Ontari hasn't complained, hasn't said much more than needed. He knows she worries for Entani most, though, for the healer has remained lying on the stretcher unable to walk or to even sit unsupported.
A shadow falls across his path then, and as Torvun looks forward he finds Skaikru healers already standing at the entrance, bags slung over their shoulders and worried expressions plastered across faces.
He recognises some from his time at the Mountain and at Arkadia, and he sees others who must be seconds, younger and still in training. But his gaze settles on Abby who stands at the front, the woman's gaze just as keen, and the frown across her face just as much alike Clarke's.
And for the first time in what seems likes days, Torvun finds himself relaxing just a fraction. If only because he knows those he cares for will be safe.
Lexa stalks forward, each step she takes measured a sure through the forest. Around her are barely a handful of her most fierce warriors, the rest having been sent further ahead as distraction and to lessen the chance that their presence is discovered.
The barely heard noise of whoever they stalk wafts through the forest, its sound so quiet that Lexa could almost fool herself into thinking it simply a trick of the wind. But the footsteps she follows, those that have been carefully concealed, are enough to tell her that she is close. Anya and Costia move about close to her, both women equally at home amongst the forest. Gustus lurks close by, too, the man's size ever astonishing as he disappears into the undergrowth, foliage and shadows.
Annoyance and anger simmers in the corners of Lexa's mind, exasperation and frustration linger in her senses. All those emotions exist for three days have passed since Clarke's disappearance, three days have passed since the Azgeda set off to the Mountain, and three days have passed since Ilian slipped through her fingers.
What infuriates Lexa the most though, is the fact that she isn't sure whether the tracks she follows will lead them to revelation, or whether the tracks she follows are merely another distraction, and that Jenma and the other Azgeda who set off towards Arkadia will be the ones to stumble upon the truth. But Lexa can't commit to heading straight to the Mountain, if only because the fear of overlooking something, of not finding Clarke before it is too late, still casts a lingering shadow.
And so Lexa comes to a quiet halt, her eyes straining to see through the darkening of the afternoon sky. Trees reach up all around her, their trunks moss covered and vibrant in the orange light that filters down from above. Bushes seem to rustle to the wind and the chirp of birdsong only just gentles down to the forest floor.
But those with Lexa must sense the shifting in atmosphere for they turn quiet too. And as Lexa continues to watch, as she continues to stare into the vastness around her, she sees the first signs of movement.
A shadow, something slight, quiet and careful begins to move unaware that they are watched. It's a man, Lexa finds, whose inelegant movements speak of unfamiliarity with the forests. But more rise, some movements more sure, others less certain.
And Lexa knows.
She feels an anticipation beginning to build, she feels her blood beginning to strum a little more quickly through her veins and she knows an attack is to come should she give the command, she knows violence and action will erupt around her should she deem it necessary. And so she takes in one gentle breath and she holds it for long enough that the excitement begins to fade.
And then she releases it.
Lexa raises her hand into the air and with a flick of her wrist she gives the signal to move forward. Those few who crouch around her move with the shadows and the wind. She cares not for capturing any others in the moment either, if only because they still have the woman they captured earlier, and if only because she is sure those she stalks are not the only people in the forests between her and the Mountain.
Another shadow pauses their movements in front of her, and she knows something is sensed for they lower themselves just a little into the underbrush and seem to look around. Through the distance Lexa can just make out that it is a man whose weathered face speaks of age and experience.
For a moment Lexa is sure whatever presence he must have sensed was missed for he turns back the way he faced and begins to move only to sto—
A shadow darts forward much closer than could be expected, and if Lexa was anyone else she would have been surprised, she would have been startled. But she knows her handmaidens, and she knows Shana's skill with deception and camouflage unparalleled.
And so it doesn't surprise her when the flash of Shana's body darts forward from the undergrowth not three paces from the man. It doesn't surprise her when Shana buries a knife into his chest and it doesn't surprise her when the handmaiden smothers the man's cries for help with a hand clasped over his mouth as she lowers him to the ground with little shown effort.
But no one could truly silence an act of violence so close to another without it being sensed.
Another person must feel the attack for they whip around to face Shana, their eyes widen in shock and surprise before narrowing in recognition of the life lost and the violence soon to be.
And so Lexa moves. An arrow whips past her, it slices through the air and silences the person before they can make a sound or make a move towards Shana, but others react, others move, others flee.
Violence erupts all around Lexa.
Her warriors rush out from the shadows, weapons drawn, snarls upon their lips. Costia must have scaled a nearby tree for arrow after arrow whips down from above, their aim true, the rhythm of each shot a long lost memory Lexa had once cherished deeply. Anya ducks a swing of a battle axe, a heavyset man already whipping around to face the woman, but Lexa ignores the spike of worry as she deflects a woman's slash aimed squarely for her chest. Gustus breaks through the forest flooring, she feels more than sees or hears him crash against others, and she grits her teeth as she tunes out all the commotion around her as she parries a strike, as she slides beneath a wide swing of a sword and she snarls out as she rises to her feet faster than expected and slashes up at an exposed side.
Lexa smiles a gruesome smile as she turns to face whoever comes next. And for just a moment, she finds herself feeling sorry for all those that stand between her and wherever they have taken Clarke.
Torvun's head feels itchy and raw. The Skaikru healers plastered an odd paste that was cold to the touch across his scalp from where the fire has burnt him. His hip still hurts, but the pain seems more numb now, less persistent.
Bruised bone.
That is what the healer's had said it was. His left hand has stopped twitching though, that he is thankful for. But his right still can't quite close as much as he would like, two fingers not quite listening to his demands. Even his mouth feels a little more sore than it had just days ago, but he knows part of that is the simple fact that the Skaikru healers had packed where two of his teeth had been knocked out with some sort of ointment that seems to burn and wriggle its way into his jaw.
Torvun takes in a deep breath as he continues to walk the length of the healer's room inside the Mountain. Cots and beds fill the space, many filled with wounded Azgeda, some from other clans wounded in training or hunting accidents.
Scents waft their way through the room, too, these ones enough to rid tired minds of darkening thoughts, but he knows it perhaps too little too late for those most seriously injured.
He makes it to the far end of the room then, but Torvun turns, takes in the sea of Azgeda that fill the space and he begins counting once more, if only because he feels a need to make sure all those he brought from Polis to the Mountain have arrived, that all those who were wounded are being given the best care they can get. And so he begins another lap of the room as he passes warrior after warrior, their number added to the list until he is sure all are accounted for.
It isn't quite so conscious, it isn't quite so thought, but after Torvun must count the room more times than he can remember, he finds himself standing over two beds. Entani lies sleeping in one, her torso fur-free and bandaged in tight and plastered layers that he knows are merely there to stop her from worsening her wounds until Skaikru can see to her properly. He watches for a moment longer until he is satisfied that Entani's breathing remains steady, or as steady as can be expected. But he turns his attention to Ontari he lies in the next bed, her right arm bandaged and tied to her chest, her shoulder wrapped just as thickly as Entani's.
The cut that cuts down her right cheek and touches the top of her lip has been stitched closed and smothered in an oddly green paste that seems to glow in the dark. The flesh around the swells though, and though Ontari has said and done little to indicate pain, Torvun knows it must pain her.
But above all those injuries, he knows Ontari feels vulnerable and helpless for her sight still remains barely there, and as he watches her eyes take in the shapes she must see, he thinks he sees them unfocused, unsure and desperate.
"Torvun?" she asks quietly, and he watches as her eyes, partly clouded, peer in his direction.
"I am here, Ontari," he says quietly as he comes to kneel beside her bed.
She turns to the sound of his voice and Torvun feels a stab of guilt and responsibility as he sees her eyes try to find where his face must be.
"Clarke?" she asks.
He shakes his head before speaking, "still not found," and he winces at the pain in his hip as he shuffles into a more comfortable position.
"She is alive," Ontari says after a moment.
"Yes," and he believes it fully. "Rest, Ontari," he says eventually, and he sees her frown, the expression partly frustration, partly annoyance and something deeper. But he finds himself unliking of the quietness that has taken hold of Ontari, he finds himself unliking of the state Entani is in, and if only to soothe his own worries he smiles, regrets it for only a moment as his missing teeth sting and he reaches out and squeezes Ontari's hand. "I did not realise you enjoyed being healed by the Mountain so often."
He knows Ontari thinks of the last time she had been wounded seriously enough to be treated by the Mountain, he knows she thinks of the last time Entani had suffered wounds to her ribs and had coughed up more blood than he thought possible, and though he knew that Ontari knew he meant only to alleviate her worries, he could see that the words he said had the opposite affect.
"Clarke was with us those times," Ontari says.
Torvun sighs, if only because he finds himself unsure of what else to say. And so he rises, makes enough noise that Ontari can follow his movements and he looks down at her for just a moment longer.
"Rest, Ontari," he sees her eyes roll just slightly as she settles deeper into her bed.
And with that Torvun begins to move away, his gaze just once cast over the healer's room as he takes count of the injured Azgeda that remain.
The moon sits low in the sky. Trees barely make a sound as the wind rustles through their branches and the few birds that call out to others flitter from shadowed branch to shadowed branch.
Torvun stands in the shadows of a large fallen tree. His broadsword strapped to his back, his knife tucked into place on his hip. In his hands he holds his mother's bow, and knocked to it is an arrow he remembers sharpening the day before the explosion at the Polis gates.
The tracks that lie before him are fresh, or perhaps just fresh enough. He can tell from the lead pair of foot prints that the person was limping. Two other tracks follow, one pair more heavily depressed into the ground as if the person was weighted down. The third and last set of tracks show signs of struggle, some steps come short, one after the other. Others come in longer and less defined imprints that he knows show someone stumbled, slipped or tried to find their footing.
But what gives him some relief is the fact that he recognises the marks in the earth, he would recognise them anywhere for he has shadowed those very same foot prints for what seems like years now.
Torvun takes in a deep breath and takes one last cautious look over his shoulder and back into the forest that had swallowed him whole. Perhaps it's the pain from his wounds, and perhaps it's his lack of sleep, but whatever it may be, he shudders, he shivers and he feels the slightest hints of foreboding consuming his mind. But he clears his mind of the darkening thoughts as soon as they appear.
Torvun steps out from the shadows, each step he takes brings a stinging pain into his hip. He clutches the bow and arrow as firmly as he can in his hands, and begins to walk towards the reaper tunnel that opens up before him.
But he stops at the entrance to confirm that the tracks he had found near the Mountain still lead towards its entrance. He doesn't quite know why he had the idea that Clarke may have been taken into the reaper tunnels, but he doesn't care. Not when he thinks he has guessed correctly.
He looks into the dark of the tunnel then, and he remembers the times when reapers had infested the dark, he remembers mothers and fathers would tell their children, and he even remembers the first time he had come face to face with one so very long ago that he thinks it more dream than memory.
Torvun doesn't know how deep into the tunnels Clarke has been taken, he doesn't know how many others may be hiding in their waiting for her rescuers or laying in wait and ready to ambush. He doesn't even quite know if he can find his way without getting lost in the labyrinth of twisting passageways of granite rock. But he doesn't care. Because he will rescue Clarke, no matter the cost.
And with that Torvun squares his shoulders. He ignores the pain that litters his body and he descends into the dark of what had once been a childhood terror.