It's a quiet exhale that whispers past her lips and a soft moment's pause as she holds herself steady. And it's strange, unfamiliar, something she never really thought she'd experience again. But perhaps she's missed it, perhaps she's envied the years she once lived. And so she breathes in deeply, her mind a quiet thing that settles and bends and shifts listlessly, that lingers on moment's too cruel for her tired mind.
And so her fingers twist in her hair, her fingers pull at her braids and card through the rough knots she finds, a small grimace falling upon her lips. And it surprises her when she looks forward, when her eyes focus in front of her. Clarke finds shadows now live under her eyes, dark smudges that laugh in the quiet that she finds herself in.
And maybe she deserves the sleepless nights, maybe she looks forward to the hours spent awake, when the stars shine dutifully in the sky, when the sun sleeps quietly below the horizon, when the moon smiles upon the trees and the grass and the birds that flitter in the dark of the night. If only because her mind slumbers and her thoughts are held back.
Her fingers pull at the furs around her shoulders then, a small shiver running down her spine as the cool air bites into her flesh. The furs drop to the floor, a small thud all she hears. Her chest binding comes next, a gentle sigh leaving her lips as it too falls to the ground to meet her furs. And it's just another moment's struggle before her pants and underclothes join her discarded furs and leathers.
Her eyes wander for a moment, her eyes gaze upon the lines of her flesh, the muscles that slope and curve and gentle across her body. And it's odd, it's strange, it's painful, and so she turns her gaze elsewhere, her eyes lingering somewhere in the dark of the room.
And it's only a short moment, her fingers curling around the handle as she turns, as she lets the sound of the water fill the room and as she lets it heat and steam and cloud her tired mind. She lets her hand linger under the stream for a moment, for too long, for long enough that she knows the water burns, that it stings and reddens her palm, and she knows it hot enough.
And so it's just a quiet curse, just a quiet gasp that leaves her lips as she steps under the steaming water, and she lets it burn her shoulders, scold her back and soothe her aching mind. And it's an odd ritual, a strange habit she finds herself developing now, when it's still dark, when only those on watch linger in waking moments, but she likes it, she enjoys the silence. If only because she can rest quietly, if only because she can linger lonesomely. If only…
If only what?
Her fist clenches tightly, her hand coming to press against her lips as a sound chokes in her throat, as her mind screams out and as her flesh burns and scolds under the searing heat.
And she hates it.
She wakes with a start, her heart a frantic rhythm within her chest and her eyes wild as they stare out into the dark of the room. Her eyes find the sleeping woman next to her, the exposed shoulder shining quietly in the candle light that flickers on the table. And it's a quiet sigh, a gentle breath that burns against her lips and so she runs a hand over her face, her knuckles digging into her eyes painfully as her vision swims for a moment before settling.
"Sorry," and it's a whispered breath she hears from the other end of the small room.
"It's ok," and Clarke shrugs for a moment as she slips from the furs, as she pulls her legs over the side of the bed and lets the quiet chill of a too early morning greet her. "Need a hand?" she asks as she meets Ontari's eyes, the other woman's shoulder still slung, her arm weaker, less toned.
And perhaps Clarke doesn't need Ontari's answer, if only because she knows her well enough after the years spent together and so she comes to a quiet stand, her gaze turning to Entani's still sleeping figure before she pads her way over to Ontari, the other woman's hand coming to clumsily tie her shoelaces.
"Stop," and Clarke's hands close around Ontari's fingers for a moment, "let me."
And so it's a small smile they share as Clarke kneels before Ontari, her fingers quick and sure as she ties the laces.
"I still don't really like you going out with the hunting parties, Ontari," and Clarke looks up, her eyes stern in the flickering of the candle light.
"All must provide," Ontari shrugs in response, a wince falling onto her lips briefly. "If I can not fight well then I must hunt or track or fish," and a dark shadow falls across her face, her eyes peering at the weakened arm held close to her chest.
"Keep doing those exercises," and Clarke eyes the frown that graces Ontari's lips at her words. "It will help," and Clarke squeezes her knee.
It's only another short moment before Ontari's laces are finished and then she stands, Clarke already slinging a bow and quiver of arrows over Ontari's uninjured shoulder.
"Be safe," Clarke says quietly to Ontari as the woman gives a small wave before she ducks out the room, the door sliding shut with a quiet thud as Ontari's footsteps fade into the quiet hum that seems constant within the Mountains depths.
Her feet take her through the twisting turns of the Mountain, her eyes peering up at the ceiling and the lights that glow quietly, her fingers trace the rough of the walls and the small cracks that find themselves lost upon the concrete that spreads around her.
Burning candles hang on the walls, their scents a rich softness that helps to ease the smothering of the Mountain and so Clarke pauses for a moment, for long enough for her tired mind to settle, for her eyes to ease the burn and her thoughts to drift to more pleasant times. And it's only a short pause, only a quiet time that she spends leaning against the cool of the concrete wall, only enough time for her heart to ease.
She pushes off the wall then, her mind just a bit clearer as she follows the path forwards until she comes to an intersection, her eyes peering left and right briefly before she turns down the right hallway, her eyes lazy in their movements as she traces the wood branches that have been attached to the ceiling, that hang above her head and the furs that are draped over segments of the flooring, all in the name of making the Mountain more natural, more like the ground.
It doesn't take her long until she passes another few warriors, these from Shallow Valley, their clothes a soft green, speckled with yellows that breathe easily around them. And it's a small nod of their heads and a soft murmured greeting they send her as she passes, their eyes careful as they gaze upon the scars that cling to her cheeks, two diagonal lines that slash from her temples to the corner of her mouth, and the large v cut into her forehead, its point coming to rest between her eyebrows.
And their eyes linger for a moment, for long enough that they take in her scars, that they take in the shade of her furs and the cut of the leathers. And she knows they recognise the marks that show her as Azgeda — Ice nation. She knows that the position of her scars mark her as coming from Ronto, one of the most southern villages that lies within Azgeda lands. But she knows they mark her as more, as more than just another scarred Azgeda warrior. She knows that despite the similarities to Ontari's scars, to the slashes upon her friend's cheeks, to the cuts in her chin and the diamond on her forehead, that her scars are different. She knows that despite the difference between her scars and Entani's, the other healer's scars slashed from her temples in an arc ending on her cheeks, small thorns cut into it that mark her as a healer, that hers are different. If only because they are hers. If only because she is Clarke Kom Azgeda, Wanheda, The Commander of Death. The Mountain Slayer. The one who destroyed a civilisation with a single motion, the one who defeated an eternal enemy.
And maybe she's proud of it. Maybe she's disgusted by it.
But perhaps she doesn't really know what to think.
But shouldn't it be more than a hollow ache? More than a quiet laugh in the corners of her mind? More than the always lingering shadows that drift in the corners of her vision? That recede and fade and bend just a bit too far as her eyes chase their fleeting movements? Shouldn't it be more than the sleepless nights and the searing heat of a too long heat, and a too short shower?
But maybe not.
And so she smiles grimly at the Shallow Valley warriors, a quick nod sent their way as she passes, her eyes locking onto the light that sits at the other end of the long hallway.
It doesn't take her long until she steps outside the Mountain, the main doors open wide, tents flanking a path to the entrance on either side, torches burning brightly along the path's edges as it fades into the trees that spread out before her.
She finds who she searches for quickly, their eyes meeting for only a moment as Echo dismounts her horse, the tired beast's breath billowing out from its nostrils in flames of cold.
"Long journey?" Clarke asks as she approaches the assassin, Echo's eyes sharp in the rising of the sun, her features eagle like and cunning, her face scarless as dictated by her role as spy and assassin.
"Yes," Echo shrugs, a hand coming to tuck an errant braid behind her ear, the furs that line her shoulders rustling in the quiet breeze for a moment as she pulls her leather jacket tighter around her body. "I lost the trail again," she finishes with a quiet sigh, her eyes peering up into the clouds overhead.
"That's the fourth time," and Clarke eyes the quiver of arrows on Echo's back.
"Yes," and Echo grits her teeth for a moment. "I do not know how they mask their tracks so effectively," and she pauses, her eyes moving to a number of Trikru hunters that break through the tree line, a deer carried between them. "They stay close to the Azgeda and Trikru border, they disappear across one or the other and then their trail vanishes," and her voice trails off quietly.
"You think someone is helping them?" and Clarke eyes the few warriors that move about the clearing, who move between the many tents that have been erected at the base of the Mountain that rises up into the clouds.
"Perhaps," and Echo shrugs once. "It would explain how their tracks vanish."
"Who do you think it is?" Clarke asks, but she thinks she already knows.
"The same person you do," and Echo shrugs again. "I do not know though. Prince Roan would know of such a thing and I haven't heard from him since last we spoke a moon ago. He would have sent word if he thought our Kwin was acting dangerously."
"What about another clan? Someone not happy about the Mountain? About Azgeda having such a large force outside their borders?"
"There are many clans not happy with the Mountain's use," Echo replies. "Lake Clan, Rock Line, Plains Riders," she finishes cooly.
"They were never hit as hard by the Mountain," Clarke counters, her mind turning quickly. "Not like Trikru, not like us and the other forest clans."
"Those who escaped will find it harder to cause destruction in the coming days," Echo sighs, her hands coming to rest on her hips as she peers down at the ground, her foot scuffing a lonely stick. "Not with Azgeda moving across the border to replace those here."
"What villages are they from?" Clarke asks, her lip worried between her teeth,
"From the northern parts of Azgeda."
And at that Clarke's eyes narrow, her mouth grimacing.
"That won't play well with the other clans," and she sees Echo nod her head.
"It is a message from our Kwin, I am sure," and Echo scowls for a moment. "She sends our most fierce warriors to the Mountain."
"They won't cause trouble," Clarke says, but as the words leave her lips she can't help but to feel a small clenching in her stomach.
"Do not trust them," Echo says more quietly, her eyes finding a small number of Azgeda returning to the Mountain, their hands rising in greeting as they notice Clarke and Echo, "I am sure Nia has her own people within those arriving."
"Yeah," and Clarke lets a shadow fall across her face as she thinks over the next few days and the turmoil she is sure she will soon find herself in the midst of. "At least the weather is getting colder," she finishes with a smile, her thoughts turning to the much welcomed winter that will soon set in.
"I'm going to be straight up, Clarke, it's going to take a while," Raven finishes, her eyes falling to the generators before them. "First one's working fine, but the others got hit the worst," she finishes, a shrug sent to Clarke before her eyes fall to the report in her hand.
"How long?" Clarke asks, her eyes following a number of Skaikru engineers as they continue to pull apart the broken remains of a generator, the twisted metal a charred, melted mess of wires and steel.
"The first one took almost a month," Raven says, her finger tapping her lips briefly. "We probably won't even need all of them anymore, not with how things are playing out," and she turns to eye a number of Trikru as they move pass them. "We don't need power for the air filters, we don't need power for the doors, and heating isn't so much of an issue with all the open fires — regardless of how unsafe that is," she finishes.
"Can we use anything from Arkadia?"
"We can," and Raven pauses once more, her mind wandering for a moment as she considers a problem. "We could, but I wouldn't recommend it. We shouldn't cannibalise Arkadia just to get the Mountain working again, it'd be the same as just moving Arkadia here," Raven shrugs.
"Yeah," and Clarke agrees, her teeth worrying her lip for a moment. "How are the missiles going?"
"Good," and Raven sighs just once. "Well, we know what to do. But it's complicated, as I'm sure you can understand. We can probably use them for the repairs too, but I'd rather not rush anything."
"Yeah," and again Clarke agrees with Raven. "Thanks, Raven," she finishes before turning to exit, her mind already beginning to drift to the next task she is sure awaits her.
It only takes Clarke a moment before her feet take her outside, her eyes squinting briefly as the sun's rays shine brightly upon her. She pauses then, for long enough that a lungful of air can live deeply in her chest, and for the sounds of the cascading water to settle within her ears and then she moves forward, her gaze meeting a small number of Trikru who have made camp at the dam's entrance, small tents and cooking fires spread out in the small open space.
She offers a small nod as she passes, her mind ever surprised at how quickly the clans have appropriated what was once the Mountain's territory in the last month and a half since it fell. She thinks it appropriate though, she thinks it right that the Mountain, in its death, is now forced to provide for the clans it had taken from, that it had stolen from and had killed. Many of the nearby clans have begun sending their more seriously wounded to the Mountain and to Arkadia, the medical skills and equipment that both places have a boon for the clans. But despite the benefits, the Mountain still weighs heavily upon Clarke, her mind still often drifts to darker times, to times when she finds herself angry, hurt and frustrated. Even some of the other clans, ones further from the Mountain's reach, have begun to voice their concerns, their anger at the Mountain so openly used, so openly flaunted in death. But for now Clarke has a mission, she has a purpose. Keep Azgeda in line, keep them from antagonising Trikru and the other clans present, and to aid in Skaikru's integration with the clans.
But she thinks those tasks not so easy.
And so Clarke scoffs, her foot kicking at a loose pebble, her eyes following it as it skips across the ground. Torvun strides up to her then, his body casting a long shadow in front of him as he comes to an easy, quiet step besides her, his eyes ever careful as he watches the few that move past them.
"Torvun," and Clarke looks to her side to see the man tilt his head in answer, the sun shining against the bald of his head, his beard a fierce, flowing mane that covers his broad chest, the two horizontal scars on his forehead glinting quietly as they bring two slivered shadows across his face.
"Clarke," he answers gruffly, his eyes meeting hers for a moment.
"Echo says the Azgeda replacements are from the Northern parts of Azgeda," and she raises an eyebrow slightly, her gaze moving to those around them briefly.
"Yes," and he shrugs a shoulder once. "They are the most fierce of Azgeda," and he pauses, his mind working through Clarke's hidden question. "You think Kwin Nia has sent them?"
"It crossed my mind."
"You do not trust them to remain peaceful?" and Torvun scratches his chin briefly in thought.
"I don't really know," and Clarke sighs again.
"They will fall in line," Torvun shrugs though, "you are wanheda, all warriors will heed your words."
Clarke falls silent then, the title bestowed upon her something that she feels wriggle in the corners of her mind, that she thinks an ever constant taunt in her waking moments and a monster that crashes through her resting conscience, if only because she thinks herself disliking the title of Commander of Death. But perhaps she thinks it fitting.
Clarke shakes her thoughts free though, a scowl forming across her lips as she sighs. "To be honest, I thought Kwin Nia would have sent word, would have done something by now," and Clarke feels the tension in her shoulders as she pulls her gaze to the sky, her eyes following an errant cloud as it drifts overhead.
"Perhaps Prince Roan's return has given Kwin Nia pause," Torvun says lowly.
And so Clarke turns her attention back to Torvun, his gaze ever constant as he looks to those that move around them.
"Maybe," Clarke says after a moment. "I guess we'll find out soon."
Moving through the forest is a quiet affair, her breaths coming evenly, her feet brushing softly against the leaves underfoot. Her ears pick up the telltale sound ahead and so Clarke pauses, her fingers brushing against her knife for only a moment as her eyes meet Torvun's. They both hear the sound again, a quiet snapping of a twig and the rustling of leaves and so they creep forward, their eyes straining through the trees that group around them until they see movement.
Torvun draws his bow first, his eyes already sighted down the arrow as he takes a steadying breath. He holds it for a moment and Clarke readies her own bow, eyes focusing forward, her hair swaying gently in the breeze that flows around them.
And then they both release. Clarke's arrow whistles through the air, it snaps forward and it punches into the deer's chest. Torvun's arrow finds its mark, the arrow head breaking through the deer's neck with a spray of blood before it wobbles, lets out a strained groan and then collapses with a heavy thud.
Clarke rises, a smile forming across her lips as she eyes the other Azgeda that rise with her, their own bows still drawn, their own eyes flitting through the trees around them.
Tying the deer is a quick action, Torvun passing her a line of rope as he slips a branch through the deer's legs before hoisting his end onto his shoulders, another Azgeda warrior stepping in to take the other end, Clarke's own height far too short for keeping the deer level.
The walk through the trees passes easily, the tunnels that once connected the dam to the Mountain still open, but Clarke finds herself and many other warriors avoiding them, the reaper's old sanctuary still leaving many warriors uncomfortable. Moving through the trees this close to the Mountain seems almost strange too, she finds the lack of growling reapers to be a relief, but perhaps she still feels on edge, still hasn't fully let the defeat of the Mountain settle, if only because her ears strain for the slightest sound, her eyes ever constant as she moves through the trees, and she is sure the other warriors with her must feel the same, their own eyes moving constantly.
It only takes them until the sun sits just a small bit lower in the sky, but they break through the trees, the Mountain coming to loom up in front of them, and the bustle of a quickly becoming permanent camp meeting their ears. The Azgeda warriors with them break off, some taking the animals they had hunted to be prepared, others moving to the training ground, some even heading to the Mountain's entrance, torches burning quietly by the sides of the ever open front door.
Clarke follows Torvun and the other warrior as they move through the tents that have spread out, the sounds of game being butchered ringing out through the air as they near their destination. She finds Ontari then, the other warrior resting easily on a log, her knife in hand as she runs a whetstone over it, the sun glinting off its edge.
"You hunted, too?" Ontari asks, her eyes falling onto the deer that drops by Torvun's feet as the other warrior walks off, a quick wave sent over his shoulder.
"We came across it and thought it wouldn't hurt to have extra," Clarke answers, her eyes falling to Ontari's shoulder, the other woman's arm held just a slight bit closer to her chest. "How's your arm?"
"Good," Ontari says, but from the stiffness Clarke sees and the quick glance sideways of Ontari's eyes, Clarke thinks it must be paining her.
"Let me look at that," she says, a sigh falling from her lips as Torvun begins untying the deer.
"It is fine," and Ontari grumbles quietly under her breath as Clarke kneels before her, fingers settling over her hand as it continues to sharpen her knife.
"If it was fine then you wouldn't be holding it like you are. Don't be stupid, Ontari," Clarke says, her eyes peering steadily into the other woman's brown gaze.
Ontari accepts her words with a quiet grumble, her eyes falling somewhere to the side as Clarke begins to peel back the furs around her shoulder.
"It's still a bit swollen," Clarke begins, her eyes finding the bullet wound, the jagged red of the flesh just a small bit calmer in appearance than days prior. "You pushed yourself too much this morning, didn't you?" and Clarke turns her gaze up to Ontari, the other woman meeting her eyes briefly before looking away again.
"Yes," she hisses out as Clarke begins to prod carefully at the muscles in her neck and shoulder.
"It's still tight, Ontari," and Clarke sighs, her eyes rolling. "You need to rest it. And do the stretches. Every morning."
"It takes time," Ontari retorts.
"Do it," and Clarke pins her with a stern look, a frown coming to sit across her face as she holds Ontari's gaze for a long moment, the sun shining brightly against her back and into Ontari's eyes.
It's a short silence, a tense second, but Ontari nods her head, her eyes softening with a gentle smile.
"Ok," Ontari says.
Clarke smiles too, "It'll be worth it, Ontari. Trust me," and she squeezes Ontari's knee briefly, before pulling the furs back around Ontari's shoulders and coming to a stand, her hand held out for the other woman to take.
And so Ontari takes her hand, her knife quickly sheathed against her thigh as they begin moving back towards the Mountain, Torvun's shadow quickly joining there's as they pass tents, large and bustling, and more permanent structures of wood, large benches and tables and camp fires that have spread out at the Mountain's base.
Sleep doesn't seem to bring a comfort to Clarke's tired mind. Perhaps it's the ever constant warmth that lives inside the Mountain now, the many torches that burn down the hallways that keeps the cold of the concrete away. Maybe it's the mere presence of the flames, of the ever burning, ever melting wax, that brings forth memories, actions, senses and smells and tastes to the forefront of her mind.
Or maybe it's the arm that holds her waist comfortably, maybe it's the breath against the back of her neck, the warmth of Ontari who sleeps besides her, and the annoyance of Entani who moves just a bit too much in her sleep, whose elbow always digs into her ribs, whose hair tickles her nose.
But maybe it's just her life. And so Clarke sits carefully, the dark of the room sheltering her gaze for a long moment as she lets her rising chest settle and her beating heart ease. Her eyes fall to Ontari's face then, the sleeping woman peaceful in slumber, her naked torso gleaming quietly in the faint dark of the room, all she wears a simple chest binding and sleep shorts in the warmth of their shared room. Entani wears much the same, but her leg sticks out from the furs and an arm hangs over the bed's edge as she breaths in and out fully in her sleep. The images bring a smile to Clarke's lips though, if only because she thinks herself grateful that they still live, if only because she, herself, still breathes. Or perhaps it is merely because she doesn't sleep, doesn't let the dreams take hold for another night.
And so she rises, she slips from the furs of the bed and she pads her way over to the lonely table in the room's corner, supplies and furs and clothes hanging over the edge, some piled on the table top, a domestic, simple thing that she thinks brings a small sliver of amusement to her nights.
It doesn't take her long until she slips out of the door, Torvun's resting figure waking to the sounds of the door clicking shut behind her and so he rises, his eyes scanning up and down the hallway before settling on Clarke's face with a nod and a small moment's worry tinting his eyes.
She knows the route well by now, she knows the paths she takes, the quiet of the hallways and the flickering of the torches. It only takes her a few minutes before she turns down another hallway, her footsteps muffled, her eyes adjusting to the quiet ambience of the torches that burn lower in the late of the hour. She comes to another intersection, the new path leading her further through the Mountain until she comes to a door.
She slips through it to find the chill of the stairwell clinging to her skin and so she lets a breath fill her lungs and wake her mind. And then she begins the steady rise. Her feet take her further and further up the winding stairs, the slight echo of her feet against the metal ringing out as she continues to move higher and higher.
She comes to an end after long moments, her legs just a moment less steady beneath her, and her chest rising rapidly, the exertion of the rise still a battle for her, despite the times she has traversed it. Torvun steps besides her easily though, their eyes meeting quickly, and a smirk upon his face as Clarke's eyes roll. And then she pushes forward, her palm pressing against the cool of the metal door and then she steps out into the open, the small clearing that finds her gaze a simple, quiet, thing that rest on the side of the Mountain, that looks out over the treetops and that reaches up into the skies.
The wind this high up seems to whistle through the air with just a small bite, with enough to tell her that she is high enough to feel isolated, high enough to feel content, free of others, and so she walks forward, her feet coming to brush against the soft grass of the clearing, her eyes flickering over the trees that lingers at the clearings edges. Torvun rests by the door, his body leaning against the cool of the metal as his eyes move over the clearing, his gaze ever careful of the night. But Clarke knows the routine by know and so she steps further into the clearing, her eyes gazing down into the forest that sprawls out far below and she smiles. She smiles when she sees the faint fire in the distance, the burns quietly in the dark of the night, that signals the approaching of warriors from the west, from Polis. And she knows it will be soon.
Her feet take her into the centre of the clearing then, her eyes turning up into the cloudless sky, the stars dotting the dark depths as they shine and flicker before her gaze, and so she kneels easily, she lets herself sprawl into the grass and her mind settle as she feels the quiet prickly of grass against her neck. It's a deep inhale then, something that calms her mind and soothes her thoughts.
And she waits.
She waits for a short moment. She watches the sky, she sees the lonely bird that soars overhead, that drifts on the wind. And she waits.
She waits for a moment longer. She plays with the grass between her finger tips and she lets the cool of the wind rustle her furs and sweep her hair easily. And she waits.
And she hears it.
She hears the careful footfalls that approach, she hears the steady rustle of leathers, the creak of boots and the slight puffs of deep breaths that battle up the side of the Mountain. And she knows who it is.
And so she sits up, her eyes peering to the edge of the clearing, the rustling of branches soon becoming apparent as a figure bleeds into her vision.
And she smiles.
She eyes the swaying of the long coat, the braids that weave intricately through the woman's hair, and the smile that spreads quietly, softly, barely there, across the woman's lips.
And she smiles once more as she hears the woman call out her name gently.
And so Clarke replies.
"Lexa."