Chapter 28/31
She screams, she cries and she tries to grab Torvun and pull him with her out the opening of the tunnel. But time seems to slow down as Clarke feels herself thrown out into emptiness. Her body twists, it turns, and for a horrifyingly slow moment she sees Torvun's face, his lips turned up into one last sad smile before dust swallows him whole.
The force of the tunnels collapsing hits her next and Clarke feels the pressure smash into her and throw her further out without worry or care for the pain her body is already in.
She spins, tumbles and flies out of control through the air and she can't think, can't understand and can't comprehend anything other than the fact her heart breaks and her body aches. She can't hear anything except the rushing of the wind through her ears and she can't do anything to stop the breaking of her mind as Torvun's face sears itself into her memory, as it imprints itself one last time into the deepest parts of her mind.
And Clarke doesn't feel it when she impacts the water. She doesn't feel it when her body smashes into the icy depths so far below. She doesn't feel it as she begins to sink and she doesn't feel it as her mind begins to fade.
Lexa is more than certain that the explosions must have been the reaper tunnels. It's the only logical reason for her being able to feel and hear them without the Mountain coming down on top of her. She knows that could be deadly though, she knows at any moment more explosions can rip through the Mountain, set off a chain reaction or even cause a mudslide and bring the earth down onto the warriors gathering at the Mountain's entrance outside.
But she can't think of that right now. She's thankful for the tech that has somehow begun spitting water down onto the fire throughout the Mountain, but she won't trust it fully. Not yet. Not when she's still stuck inside the Mountain, half dazed, half seared and half ready to lie down and sleep for weeks.
Her eyes still sting from the dying red smoke and the barely-there spot fires that spit and spatter as they fight against the pouring water. She thinks the water enough to fight back the worst of the fires though, and she hopes the way out clear enough that she won't be forced to wait until help arrives.
Ontari and Entani both make the occasional grunt, the occasional pained whimper as she continues to drag and carry both of them. But Lexa doesn't pay much attention to the noises they make. Instead she finds herself taking in the destruction throughout the Mountain. Scorch marks etch themselves into the concrete, painted signs and words and directions seem burn off, smeared and charred away with little hope of ever reading them again. Many of the things clans had brought in from the outside lie ruined, too.
Charred wood lies scattered through the hallways Lexa travels from where it fell from the ceiling or from where it hung upon the walls. Furs and tapestries lie burnt and shrivelled, some more than others, and some fortunate enough to escape the fire somehow. Even belongings, she sees, are destroyed. Clothes burnt, children's playthings little more than kindling now and even weapons whose metal is blackened from the heat.
But Lexa knows they will rebuild. All that has been lost that she sees can be re-crafted, rebuilt, replaced and brought back stronger than before. But perhaps not the loss of life, perhaps not the injuries Ilian has brought down upon her warriors. And that will be something she must deal with in time. But for now? Help those she can.
Lexa begins to hear the sounds of commotion in the far distance. At first it sounds like the echoes of the wind barely making itself known on the breeze, but the longer she listens, the harder she concentrates the more she realises what she hears is a banging, a clanging, a voice trying to be heard yet muffled by something solid.
It takes her a moment to identify which direction the sound comes from and part of her considers ignoring it and continuing on to get Ontari and Entani out of the Mountain. She looks down at Entani though, and despite the fact the Azgeda healer remains unconscious and despite the bandages wrapped around her ribs, Lexa thinks Entani at least stable. She thinks Ontari stable, too. At least enough that being carried hasn't caused her to bleed from some unseen wound, or to make more noise than she does already.
Lexa takes a moment to consider whether she should leave both women where they are while she investigates, but she thinks that not wise. The chances of whoever it is trapped in the Mountain being hostile are slim, the chances of Ontari and Entani somehow finding themselves in need of help high.
And so, with her mind made up, Lexa hitches Ontari more firmly over her shoulders as she takes a firm grasp of Entani and begins to move.
Though her body begins to ache terribly from the strain, it doesn't take Lexa long until she turns one last corner to find the room where the banging echoes out from. A door sits sealed shut in the centre of the large wall, its structure thick metal, its hinges burnt and charred. Wood lies partly in front of the door stopping it from opening fully, but what Lexa notices has sealed the door shut is pieces of Material that stick out from underneath the door frame.
Whatever material it is has melted, clumped together and clearly made it near impossible for the door to the opened. At least from the inside. The banging rings out once more and Lexa can hear the distinct sound of frustration emanating from whoever is stuck behind the doors.
Lexa moves as quickly as her tired body can manage. She sets Ontari down next to Entani nearby the door before she walks up to it and bangs hard on the still warm metal surface.
The banging on the other side stops for a moment as whoever is stuck behind it registers her presence.
"Hello?" the muffled voice comes and Lexa's eyebrow quirks up slightly as she recognises who it is.
"Raven," Lexa says, the name more observation than greeting or question.
"Yeah," Raven says through the door. "Whose that."
"Heda," she will always be Heda to most Skaikru.
"Oh," and there's a pause as Raven must think something over. "I didn't realise you were at the Mountain."
"I was not until recently," Lexa says, the normality of the conversation just a little jarring as she stands amongst the burnt ruins of what had been the Mountain's interior.
"I'm assuming the fires were put out?" Raven asks.
"Yes," Lexa says and she finds herself realising Raven must have been responsible in some way.
"That's good to hear," and Raven does sound relieved. "Did anyone get hurt?"
"Perhaps," Lexa says. "I am sure rescue parties are entering the Mountain now."
"Aren't you a rescue party?" Raven asks.
"No," and it's a simple answer. "I was trapped in the fire."
"Oh," there's a distinctly awkward pause then as Raven must realise what that means. "I'm glad you're safe."
"As am I."
"Cool," again there's an awkward pause. "Can you help me out of here?"
"How?" and Lexa takes a step back and looks at the burnt material at the door's base that seems jammed and clogged.
"I put a whole bunch of stuff under the door," Raven says, her voice more muffled now as she seemingly moves away from the door briefly before returning to it. "To stop the red smoke from getting in here," she says. "It did its job, but when it began melting it clogged up the frame."
"I see."
"I don't have anything to dig it out in here."
Lexa pulls out her knife and she eyes the material before kneeling down.
"Give me a moment."
And so she busies herself with digging out the burnt material that stil makes her nose itch and her eyes sting, and while she does it she finds her thoughts turning to Clarke and to whether taking the time to help Raven out of her predicament might be putting Clarke's life in greater and greater danger.
But Lexa can't leave her people. Not for her own personal wants. She already made that decision when she decided to leave Torvun in the tunnels. She just hopes he got to Clarke before the explosions began.
It doesn't take Lexa long to clear away the burnt material once her knife is able to break through the hardened outer layers. It comes away in crumbling chunks and as the material's dust fills the air the distinct smell of the red smoke lingers in front of her and makes her cough, makes her mind go fuzzy for a moment.
"You ok?" Raven asks through the door.
"Yes," Lexa says as she leans back and tries not to breathe in the dust. "Red smoke still lingers."
"It was flammable," Raven says. "I saw people throwing those canisters around," and there's a pause as she seems to try to remember the events. "As soon as it got anywhere near an open fire it went up in flames and spread."
"Yes," and Lexa nods to herself as she tucks her nose into her shoulder while clearing the last of the crumbling debris.
"What were those explosions?" Raven asks and Lexa coughs again as she leans back and kicks away the material now piling on the floor in front of her.
"Fools attempted to seal the Mountain."
There's a moment's silence as Raven must take in what Lexa says. In that time Lexa stands and she grips the door handle, braces one leg on the opposite side and she yanks hard. There's a creak, a crack, a groan and a slow grinding sound followed by a pop.
The door opens and Lexa all but stumbles back as she finds Raven trips forward, her shoulders clearly having been resting on the door. Lexa takes in the woman to find her in a sleeveless shirt, skin flushed and dirtied, her hair matted to her forehead and shadows under her eyes.
"Thanks," Raven says as she looks out and winces at the state of the Mountain's interior.
"You are welcome, Raven," Lexa says as she turns and begins walking back to Ontari and Entani, both still unconscious and slumped over on the floor.
"Shit," Raven says as she sees them. "They ok?"
"They are not dead," Lexa says as she bends to pick Ontari up over her shoulders. "Can you carry Entani?" she doesn't think carrying Entani will do the injured healer any good, but she doesn't think dragging her over the ground would be any better. They could wait for help, but Lexa finds herself wanting to get out of the Mountain sooner rather than later. If only because she doesn't fully trust that Ilian and his allies have stopped whatever it is they had planned.
"So what happened here?" Raven asks as she awkwardly, and with much greater effort than Lexa, lifts Entani over her shoulders.
"A man called Ilian was foolish enough to want to rid the clans of the Mountain," Lexa says as she begins walking, Raven quick to fall into step behind her.
"I see."
"He wanted to use red smoke to clear the Mountain, perhaps he knew it would cause fire, perhaps he didn't" Lexa says, the answer to her statement not important in the moment. "Then he would use Skaikru tech to bring the tunnels down on the Mountain. Perhaps collapse the Mountain entirely."
Raven remains silent for a long while then, and Lexa is sure the woman thinks things over, contemplates, ponders and runs scenario and problem over and over again in her mind.
But, perhaps out of nowhere, Raven barks out a laugh, and Lexa recognises the laughter as part nervousness, part frayed emotions, elation and tiredness.
"That's stupid," Raven says once her laughter dies out as awkwardly as it had started.
Lexa looks at her quizzically in the hopes Raven will elaborate.
"You can't bring down the Mountain," Raven says and she gestures around them. "Maybe the reaper tunnels are gone, not that I'm complaining about those in particular," Raven says. "But there is no way the Mountain would have collapsed in on itself," and Lexa finds herself wanting an explanation.
"Why?"
"The Mountain was designed to withstand really large bombs," Raven says, and from the slightest of pauses Lexa knows Raven simplifies her explanation for her benefit. "Larger than anything that exists now," and Raven kicks the wall as she passes. "This Mountain survived the collapse of civilisation a hundred years ago," and Lexa nods her head for she knows her people's history. "I'd bet that even if you found every single explosive still left in the world and put them around the main entrance, the most you'd do is loosen the hinges."
Lexa nods her head, and though some of what Raven says is lost on her, though part of her can't really comprehend how the Mountain could withstand even one of the bombs the Mountain dropped on Ton DC, she has come to accept that what Raven says is often able to be backed up by action and proof given time. So she finds herself accepting what Raven says with simple humility.
But, the more she thinks, the more she lets Raven's words settle within her mind, the more she finds herself growing disconcerted with what Raven has revealed.
She knows Ilian distrusts tech completely, she knows him blinded by his experiences and his fear. Perhaps she can't really blame him for tech had almost seen the coalition thrown into a war with Azgeda. But, that problem had been thwarted with the help of Clarke and Skaikru. And tech had been helping the clans, the Mountain provides healing capabilities never once before imagined. Skaikru tech is allowing clans to grow seed where once it was impossible, even the seemingly new ability to pour water from above to kill fire before it can cause utter destruction is a new marvel that must be shared amongst the clans.
Sadness fills her heart then, and it's a sadness because she realises that despite all that she has done, all that has happened in recent years, the clans will more than likely never trust tech unless they are given a reason first hand.
Lexa knows it will be difficult, in part because there are already those who do not trust its good uses, Ilian and his allies are the perfect example. But she will not give up. She can't. Her people need her, perhaps now more than ever.
"Hey," Raven's voice cuts into her thoughts and Lexa takes her eyes off whatever she had been unconsciously looking at to find Raven eyeing her, one side of her body sagging a little with Entani's weight. "You ok?"
Lexa finds it slightly refreshing that Raven speaks to her with a little less deference than most. And she'll tolerate it. At least for now. She has better things to concern herself with for the time being.
"Yes," Lexa says with a nod, her mind already making plans for the future. "Come, we must get Ontari and Entani to the healers."
Pain long since subsided from his body. Or perhaps it hasn't subsided, but rather became one with his being. He doesn't quite remember how long he has been stuck, he doesn't remember how many times he has drifted in and out of consciousness. Maybe it doesn't matter anymore.
Dust cakes his body, it burns into every cut, every wound, every open gash across his flesh. He can't even really see, maybe the dust has stolen his vision, maybe the rock has shut light out from the tunnel's entrance, and maybe he is blind, dead, trapped and lost.
Each one of his breaths seems not to fill his lungs as much as they should, each one of his breaths seems to be followed by a wheezing cough that leaks life out into the foul air around him and he hates it.
It's odd knowing he should be dead. It's odd knowing he probably is. Perhaps the strangest thing though, is the very obvious fact that he can't actually feel one of his leg below the knee. It takes him longer than he'd like to admit to find the courage to fumble in the dark and to feel his leg. It doesn't quite surprise him to find that a large rock seems to sit on where his foot should be.
Torvun pulls on the fabric of his pant leg, but he knows it not quite a pull for he can't really find the strength to grip the fabric firmly. He blinks, or at least he thinks he blinks. His vision doesn't clear as he expects it to. But he knows he for he feels his eyelids scratch, burn and ache with the movement. A hand comes up to wipe his face but that doesn't help, not much at first. But the more he wipes at his face, the more his vision slowly begins to return. At first it's just blurred vision, dark shapes that seem more ephemeral nightmare. But the more he forces his vision to settle, the more those dancing sprites seem to wither and fade from his vision.
Torvun's vision settles on the free leg not trapped by rock and it takes him far too long to understand what he looks at. His right pant leg is torn, ripped and shredded from the shards of rock that had exploded around him. What exposed skin he sees is dirtied, much of it a muddy red from the blood that oozes from any number of wounds. His eyes travel further down his leg until they pass his knee and come to an image that makes his mind reel and twist.
A hand's width below his knee is a jagged sharp protuberance. Its colour oddly white in stark contrast to the dusty grey of everything around him. The next thing he notices is that the rest of his leg sits at an upwards angle, his foot turned around the wrong way. After a moment Torvun begins to understand what he looks at, and for just the briefest of seconds he thinks it funny.
But then something kicks in, perhaps it's pain, perhaps its fear, anger, sadness or something completely unknown to him. He thinks he panics as he tries to push himself up into a seated position only for his arms to give out from under him, he tries to reach down, he tries to grab his leg and push it back into the position it has always been in, but as he grips it, as he tries to rotate it down and back into place a severe and cruel pain seems to explode below his knee. Torvun chokes on whatever sound his body forces him to make as tears spring into his eyes and as his mouth fills with the dust his movements have kicked into the air.
Torvun doesn't know how long he lies on his back, his eyes staring, horrified and broken, at his leg as it flops by his side, as it seems to hang on by either a thing piece of skin and muscle, or perhaps its just the fabric of his pants keeping his leg in place. Blood stains his pants, too, he can feel a wet, sticky sensation that pools around his knee and he knows he must be bleeding. But he knows from experience, he knows from the time he has spent with Entani and Clarke that an artery hasn't been severed or he'd be dead already.
Perhaps he can be thankful for that.
After his reeling mind manages to settle, after he manages to wrestle the horrifying images into the recesses of his consciousness he turns his attention to his second leg. Part of him doesn't expect it to be any better, part of him hopes that the worse has already passed. But he knows himself not so lucky as he finds himself looking down the tunnel.
His vision is blocked by a wall of rock that fills the entrance entirely. Large stone, small stone, dust and dirt all pile up in front of him and he knows there is no chance anyone will be using this tunnel ever again. But then his vision follows the rock and stone blocking his sight down to his leg to find that it seems trapped, pinned, swallowed by the debris.
Most of Torvun's lower left shin is swallowed by the stone, eaten whole without care of worry. He tries wriggling his toes but he can't seem to feel them. At least not entirely. Instead what he feels is the oddest sense of burning as if his foot hangs over a fire and is being slow cooked as flesh and skin charr and slough off the bone.
Torvun tries pulling his leg free, but he finds it half impossible to sit up in his weakened state, and he finds it half impossible to remove his leg from the iron grip the stone has on it.
Each little movement hurts, each little motion makes his right leg burn an agonising burn. He finds it hard to keep his eyes off his bone that protrudes, he finds it hard not to focus on the fact that his leg points upwards and that his heel sits almost exactly beside his hip. But he knows focusing on the already too late will not help him free his left leg and so he grits his teeth and bites out a pained, wheezed and broken sound as he tries pulling on his leg harder and harder and harder—
And something happens.
Torvun doesn't know what it is at first. All he knows is that a new pain, a searing pain and a brutalisingly cruel pain rips through his leg, tears through every tendon and muscle and fibre of his being. If Torvun thought he cried before, he was mistaken. He all but blacks out from the overexposure to whatever pain slams into his mind, he collapses down and he can't catch his breath, he can't clear the tears from his eyes. He can't roll onto his side and curl up into himself in the hopes of hiding from the pain. He can't do anything but let the pain sear through his body until it passes.
And it hurts. It hurts more than he can understand.
After what seems like hours, after what seems like seconds and minutes and days he finds his breathing settling ever so slowly, he finds himself able to open his eyes and he finds his arms steady enough that he can push himself up and support his own weight.
Torvun looks back at his trapped leg and he knows, he feels something is terribly wrong. Something deep within his core tells him he needs to see it, something deep down tells him he needs to know exactly what has happened and so he finds himself fumbling for his knife. It takes him longer than he would like to take hold of his knife from where it remains strapped to his thigh. But, as he draws it, he finds his eyes narrowing just a fraction as he finds the blade bent at an odd angle, the metal having been warped, bent and beaten out of shape by a stone that must have hit him during the tunnel's collapse, or by him having fallen on a rock.
But it will do.
And so Torvun, with shaking hand, reaches out and begins ever so carefully to cut into the fabric of his pants above the knee. It takes him a long time to cut away enough of the pant leg for him to see his trapped limb. With each jerk of the knife he winces, he tries not to cry out in pain as it moves his limb and he finds his breath becoming shakier and shakier with each passing second.
But eventually he cuts enough away that he can see his leg and it makes his heart clench.
Most of his lower leg is bruised, deep purple and black splotches bury themselves across his flesh, a pus seems to ooze from open wounds and his skin seems twisted, seems torn, ripped and looking very much like a sock half twisted out of place. This time he realises what has happened faster than it took him to understand his right leg, and as he looks he knows his leg has been crushed, he knows it trapped, he knows hardly anything must be left. Perhaps the thing trapping him in place is simply the flattened muscle and bone and skin and tendon that still connects the pulverised limb to the rest of his body.
And he throws up.
Torvun's stomach reels, it clenches, spasms and he can't keep anything down. But as he retches, as he gags and splutters, nothing comes save for air, bile and saliva that coats his lips and makes his mouth taste foul. Torvun tries, he fights, he pleads for his body to calm, to steady and eventually it does, but not before he finds himself shaking, skin clammy and sweat stained.
Torvun looks behind him, and for a moment he doesn't see air, he doesn't see open sky. But his vision adjusts and eventually, eventually he sees clouds drifting by, he sees a bird swoop and he knows himself so very close to freedom.
And Torvun knows what he must do.
And yet, it scares him, it frightens him, it makes him want to pretend everything is alright.
Torvun's hands shake and he grits his teeth as he begins cutting a strip of fabric from his pants, he fights back the tears as each little movement he makes jostles what is left of both his legs and he tries not to lose consciousness for he knows he could never wake again.
It takes him far longer than it should to cut two strips of fabric. It takes him far longer than it should just to tie one of them around his right thigh, and it takes him for longer than it should to even begin tying the second strip of fabric around his left.
He knows what it feels like to cut someone's hand off, he knows what it's like to remove whole limbs from bodies. Normally he does it quickly, in one clean strike. He even knows what it's like to accept that one day he might even lose in battle, may have a hand, a leg, an arm or two removed from him by a warrior faster than he is.
But he doesn't think he's ever considered doing any of that to himself.
Perhaps to be safe, perhaps just to make sure and perhaps just to lie to himself he tries pulling his trapped leg free one last time. Pain explodes up his bone, into his hip and into every fibre, every nerve ending and every muscle.
This time he roars out in pain, in fury, in anger and something so very deep and primal that his voice breaks, that his chest hurts and that his mind shuts down.
Torvun wipes the back of his hand across his face in the hopes of shedding the tears colouring his vision, he wipes the back of his hand across his face in the hopes of turning back time.
His shaking hand comes up, knife grasp in whitened fingers and he tries to still his screaming mind. Torvun reaches out with his free hand and ever so gently begins to prod at his leg. He begins at his knee, he feels bone and a deep pain that makes him almost black out. His finger moves lower, that same pain comes and he still feels solid bone. Torvun repeats the movements three more times until he feels something different.
This time, instead of solid bone, he feels mush, or not quite mush. Perhaps it feels like a thick soup, where fragments of bone have been poorly sifted from the broth, have been left to ferment, to stew, to bubble and boil and settle. A different pain comes with this prodding and Torvun grits his teeth as he begins to carefully prod around the circumference of his leg. He can feel where solid bone turns to mulch, he can feel where solid bone splinters, where it fragments and where shards turn to pulp. Each little pressure he puts on his leg sends agonisingly deep pains into his core and he fight, wars to control the rapid beat of his heart.
And Torvun knows what he needs to do.
He checks the fabric is tied as tight as can be expected.
He takes one last look at his leg, at the purple, the deep blue, the furious red that blisters and oozes and seeps pus and blood and any other kind of bodily liquid from the very pores of his inflames flesh.
And then Torvun begins to cut.
Torvun screams as the blade begins to slice into his flesh, tears spring into his eyes and he almost passes out from the pain. His body shakes as he begins to saw, as he begins to force the dulled and chipped blade through muscle. He hits something excruciatingly painful, agony flashes into his hip, it blinds him, rages him, breaks him. Blood begins to spill out, he sees a shard of bone, he feels it cut into his knuckle but still he cuts, still he saws. He begins to pull with is free hand, he begins trying to pull his leg free, try to sever tendon, ligament, muscle and flesh. Torvun can't breathe as he cuts, Torvun can't breathe as he slices through vein. A spray of blood hits him in the face, it coats his chin and is sprays twice, three times, four times before the last of its pressure dies. But he continues to cut, he gasps as the marrow of his bone finds itself exposed to the biting cold and he can't keep himself upright, can't keep himself braced. He falls back to the ground, he falls onto the dust covered tunnel floor and he can't feel anything, he can't see anything.
He knows he hasn't cut all the way through yet, he knows he hasn't freed himself from the collapsed tunnel.
And Torvun knows what he must do.
Torvun twists onto his stomach. He cries out as his twisted, broken right leg folds onto himself, as the flesh pulls, as the exposed bone seems to slice through even more of his flesh.
Torvun feels hate. Torvun feels fury and pain and anger, agony and disgust. He seethes, he loathes, he begins to crawl. His finger nails dig into the ground as he begins to pull himself forward. His finger nails chip, his fingertips bleed as he claws at the ground and pulls himself forward fuelled by wrath. He feels his twisted left leg, ever trapped, ever pulverised, ever crushed, twist under him, he feels his knee tug, bend, pull him back and refuse to let go. But he ignores it. He ignores it and he continues to force himself forward.
Something pulls him back with each tiny sliver of ground he covers. Something pulls him back with each little space forward he battles for. And through it all he feels his trapped leg plead with him, he feels it beg, pray and hope beyond hope that he will stop, that he will cease.
A terribly, a ferocious, a disgusting and agonising snap comes next, a twisting pop echoes out around him, wetness gushes, moist dampness flows freely and Torvun springs forward, he slips, he collapses onto his chest and he feels his leg come free.
Torvun can't look back, not yet, not until he's free.
He begins to pull himself forward, he can't feel his feet anymore.
Torvun pulls himself forward, he can hardly feel anything anymore.
Torvun pulls himself forward and to the tunnel opening, he can't think anymore.
Torvun pulls himself forward and he tries to fight for breath, he tries to fight for a moment longer.
He feels his jagged broken leg, his only leg snare on a rock, and he doesn't care as he reaches down, as he yanks it over the rock. He doesn't care that his foot somehow hits him in the back of the head and he doesn't care that he sees it settle somewhere to his side, detached and broken from his body as he continues to crawl, continues to scrape himself forward with what little strength he has.
He's so close. So close to freedom, so close to fresh air. He can taste the sky. He can taste the forest. He can taste blood and bile and acid in his mouth.
And then Torvun falls.
he falls
he falls
he falls.