A chill runs through the air only briefly before Clarke's gaze settles fully on Lexa's figure as it emerges from the trees, the flowing length of Lexa's coat swinging lazily behind her as she eyes the clearing just once before coming to a stop at the edge. Clarke thinks she senses Gustus lurking close by, hidden in the trees, Lexa's ever loyal guard a shadow to her movements. But Clarke finds her feet then, a small smile spreading across her lips as she calls out the other woman's name lightly, and her eyes find the dark of the night curving across Lexa's cheek as the moon sits in the sky for a long moment.
And it's only a small pause, only a quiet meeting of eyes before Lexa steps forward, before her feet take her into the clearing, before she comes to a stop in front of Clarke, fingers twitching by her side as her gaze wanders over the blonde's face for a moment.
"Long journey?" Clarke asks after a pause, the furs on her shoulder rustling gently.
"Yes," Lexa answers, her eyes dancing in the dark of the night. "I am sorry I am late," and she looks away for just a brief moment. "I was kept at Polis longer than I intended," she finishes, perhaps a quiet bashfulness finding its way across her face as she eyes Clarke's inquisitive gaze.
"The ambassador's giving you trouble?" and Clarke thinks she feels her lips twitch up at the corners at the way Lexa's eyes roll ever so slightly, before her brow furrows and a breath escapes her lips, full of exasperation and annoyance.
"Yes," Lexa answers once more. "They continue to ques—"
But Clarke leans forward, her eyes darting to Lexa's own for only a moment before her lips place a gentle kiss on the other woman's cheek. Clarke lets her lips linger for a heated breath before pulling away, and she finds herself smiling at the widening of Lexa's gaze and the way her lips part just barely, her fingers tugging at Lexa's wrist as she pulls them both down onto the grass.
And so they sit, they settle quietly as they share a small silence, Clarke's fingers wending their way between Lexa's own as their shoulders brush for a while, the quiet a comfort and the chill barely a thought in their minds.
"Let's just talk about something else for a while," Clarke says after a moment, her words a whisper in the shadows.
But she turns her head at the lack of response, her eyebrow raising as she finds Lexa's gaze to be a lazy, longing thing that lingers across her face for happy moments before meeting her eyes. But Clarke sees the green eyes narrow as they settle on the shadows under her own eyes, she sees Lexa ignore the strand of brown hair that brushes against her nose in the slight breeze of the night and she feels the tightening of Lexa's fingers against her own.
"You have not been sleeping well," and it comes out simple, it comes out firm, gentle enough for Clarke to avoid, tender enough for Clarke to know she is cared for. Strong enough to know she shouldn't flee.
"I manage," Clarke shrugs, her eyes turning from Lexa's gaze.
Lexa's eyes stare at the side of Clarke's face, they shift slowly and carefully as thoughts race through her mind, and Clarke thinks she can sense the way the green shifts, the way it bleeds into a quiet hazel, into speckles of lighter browns if she eyes them long enough in the moonlight. But Clarke thinks Lexa's mind finds a solution, finds an answer to the questions she must be thinking.
"The Mountain has changed," and Clarke knows Lexa hasn't voiced her thoughts. "You have led well in my absence," Lexa finishes.
"Yeah," and perhaps Clarke isn't quite so sure whether she feels relief at the avoided topic. "The clans here have worked together well enough," and she smiles briefly, "at least they aren't killing each other," and she thinks of the tents and small huts that have been erected at the base of the Mountain, at the dam and the path that has now become more permanent, a trade route that winds through the forests and the trees, that links the closer clans to the Mountain now. "Arkadia is making progress too," Clarke finishes.
"I will send more supplies to aid in opening the path," Lexa says in answer.
"Thank you."
They fall into another silence then, their words happy to live in their eyes, their conversations happy to flow through a gentle squeezing of fingers, of a quiet brushing of a shoulder and a shared gaze. And so Clarke looks up into the sky, her eyes tracing a cloud as it drifts, as it sails and fades into careful wisps before her vision. She follows the curve of the moon, the craters, greyed-blue blotches, that smudge the white of the surface, of the light that reflects from a slumbering sun.
"We walked there, once," and Clarke smiles sadly at the thoughts that wind through her mind. "Long ago," and she knows Lexa follows her gaze to the moon. "Before everything changed," and it comes out just a hint softer. "Do you ever wonder what life would be like?" and she turns to Lexa, "what it would have been like if things were different? If we had met in a different life?"
"No," and Lexa's voice comes quiet, gentle, firm in her convictions. "I do not, Clarke," and Lexa smiles at Clarke's sigh. "I do not wish for a different life," and she turns thoughtful for only a moment. "I serve my people. I serve the coalition, and one day the Spirit of the Commander will find another to serve in my stead when my fight is over," she says.
"But—"
"—But," and Lexa's eyebrow raises, a small mirth finding her eyes. "But for now, there is nothing more that I wish for," and her eyes remain steady as she holds Clarke's gaze for a long moment.
And so Clarke lets the silence settle once more, her heart strumming steadily within her chest, her furs happy to rustle in the breeze, her hair free to flow across her cheeks in errant strands that escape her braids. It's a firmer chill that seeps into her after a moment though, the wind picking up just a bit, just enough to bring a longing to her mind, and so she cranes her head up, her eyes peering up into the depths of the sky as she lets the wind curve against her throat, as she lets it seep into her flesh, and she breathes in deeply.
"You miss it," Lexa says, her eyes following Clarke's movements, "Azgeda, the ice and snow."
"Yes," Clarke answers, "it's too hot here," and she smiles at the rolling of Lexa's eyes. "I doubt your winters would even compare to Azgeda summers," she challenges, her eyes peering at Lexa.
"Perhaps your winters leave your thoughts too numb, Clarke," Lexa answers cooly.
"Did you just call me stupid?" Clarke laughs then, her lips curling around the sound as Lexa's face remains carefully blank.
"I would do no such thing," Lexa answers, her shoulder shrugging carefully.
And so Clarke smiles once more, her eyes trace the braids through Lexa's hair for a long time before she sighs once, her free hand coming to brush through the grass beneath her, thoughts turning to Azgeda, and she knows their time of talking of other things has come to an end.
"Not all Azgeda are bad," and Clarke turns her gaze out to the land that spreads out below them, her eyes moving to the north, the barely there peaks of far off mountains and the white of Azgeda snow fields merely a thought in her mind.
"No," Lexa says in answer. "Not all Azgeda are bad."
And Clarke feels a small regret begin to well in her chest, a regret that seems ever constant in these meetings held so late at night.
"The peace won't last, will it?" Clarke asks, her eyes still turned to the north.
"The ambassadors are angry, Clarke," and Lexa pauses, her own eyes turning north too. "Some do not like an Azgeda warrior having so much power outside of Azgeda borders."
"Can't they see that we just want peace?" Clarke says, but perhaps she already knows the answer.
"You are wanheda now, Clarke," Lexa says softly, her words careful, and so Clarke braces herself for what she knows will come next. "You defeated the Mountain when no one else could," and it's a truth. But she thinks it will always hurt. "Clans are angry that I allow Azgeda so much freedom outside their borders."
"Won't they listen to you?"
"It is more complicated," Lexa shrugs. "Without the Mountain to unify the clan's hatred of each other, their aggression turns inward. Old wrongs are surfacing that were once smothered by the Mountain's shadow."
Clarke thinks over the words Lexa says then, her mind turning to Echo, to how the assassin had tracked those who had sided with the Mountain, who had fled.
"Echo lost their tracks again," is all Clarke says after a moment, and she is sure Lexa knows who she speaks of, "near the Azgeda border."
"You think Nia aids them," Lexa says, her eyes still peering out over the trees that spread out below them.
"It makes sense, doesn't it?" Clarke says. "Nia hates you, she tried to use me to gain the power of the Mountain, but now she turns to those who sided with it," and Clarke pulls a blade of grass free, holds it up in front of her face for a moment before releasing it to the wind.
"She will use them to continue to destabilise the Coalition," Lexa answers. "I am sure she will use any tech they have, any knowledge they have, and she will attack one day. Perhaps not tomorrow, perhaps not next season, or even ten seasons from now. But one day," she finishes.
"But Roan must be doing something, right?" and Clarke thinks of the short few months she has lived at the Mountain without fear from Nia, without being recalled to Azgeda. "Nia would have done something if Roan wasn't keeping her in check," but as the words leave her lips, Clarke thinks a thought finds a light in her mind.
"Perhaps," Lexa shrugs in answer. "How long has it been since you heard from Roan?"
And perhaps Clarke can't quite recall the last time she had heard from him.
"Too long."
A path now links the Mountain to TonDC and to Arkadia, trees cleared from both sides, the rough dirt and mud and undergrowth of the forest stamped and beaten and well travelled. Though wide enough for perhaps five horses to ride side by side, the path stills seems oppressive, still seems much too small for the number of warriors that now travel through it, if only because the trees grow larger and larger, their branches reaching up into the sky overhead, that block the sun, that cause the light to flitter through the leaves and speckle against the rough of the bark and branches that litter the ground. And so Clarke rolls her shoulders, stretches her legs out awkwardly in her saddle and continues to eye the surrounding trees, the occasional animal skittering from hidden crook to concealed burrow.
Clarke smiles quietly at the sounds of Entani's voice as it carries over the wind, the other healer's exasperation at Ontari's reluctance to let her shoulder fully heal an ever constant battle. Though Clarke shares in Entani's annoyance, she can't help but let the smile spread more fully as she turns in her saddle to find Ontari peering off into the trees, her injured arm swinging lazily by her side in demonstration of lack of pain, all the while Entani gesturing angrily from where she rides besides her.
"I tell her to do her exercises," Clarke says as Torvun follows her gaze from where he rides besides her. "She doesn't really do them, but to be honest I think she's stubborn enough to almost force her shoulder into healing," Clarke finishes.
"She has made progress," Torvun says gruffly, fingers scratching through his beard briefly. "Her arm is not so weak as it was merely two moons ago."
"Still, getting it looked at by doctors in Arkadia will be good," and Clarke looks up into the canopy overhead, her eyes trying to discern the movement of the sun since they had set out earlier in the morning. "How long until we reach Ton DC?" she asks.
Torvun peers up too, his head bobbing briefly as he looks out past the branches.
"Not long," he shrugs. "Soon," he finishes as he turns back to her, a frown forming across her face at his less than exact answer. "The Commander may have reached Ton DC by now," he says, his voice lowering to a gentle rumble as he peers past Clarke and to the warriors that also ride with them, a few Azgeda and a larger number of Trikru.
The rest of the journey passes easily, trees bleeding into each other as the convoy moves along the path, a cart pulled in the centre full of supplies to be moved from the Mountain to either Ton DC or Arkadia. Clarke soon hears the first telltale sounds of life as the gates of Ton DC emerge from the trees, those who live on the ground and amongst the trees ever careful of the noise they make, and so she dismounts quickly, her eyes tracing the damage that still exists within Ton DC, the missile that had struck leaving behind a deep scar.
A number of warriors come to greet them, their usual weekly trip already expected, and so Clarke moves through the horses until she comes besides Entani, the other healer holding the reins of her own horse, as well as Ontari's as the injured warrior dismounts just slightly inelegantly, her arm still weaker than she would admit in public.
"We won't stay long," Clarke says as she reaches out to steady Ontari who comes to a rough stand, "long enough to pass along the supplies and talk to our friend," she finishes.
Clarke casts her gaze over the convoy once more before beginning the walk through Ton DC's large entrance, a number of Trikru eyes following her movements carefully, their gazes guarded, cautious, though a little less suspicious than months prior. She feels Ontari and Torvun step in besides her, Entani taking up the rear, the four Azgeda parting the crowd that has gathered at the main gates.
They only walk a few paces before Clarke finds Lincoln and Octavia walking their way, Octavia's hand raising only briefly in acknowledgement.
"You're here for the prisoner?" Octavia asks, her eyes flicking between the Azgeda.
"Yeah, O," Clarke answers.
"He won't say anything," Octavia says as she begins the walk to the dungeons, an underground warren of rooms and tunnels that Clarke is sure spread out over great distances underneath Ton DC and the surrounding forests.
"Can't help to try," Clarke says in answer. "Again."
And Octavia laughs bitterly at her words, Lincoln's own quiet exhale enough for Clarke to know that even Trikru and those of Skaikru have yet to succeed.
"They attacked another village near the border," Clarke says after a moment, her gaze careful as she eyes Octavia and Lincoln for response. "A Trikru one," she adds.
"We know," is all Octavia gives, her jaw clenching tightly. "No one died, but they asked for medicine and healers and supplies," she finishes.
They come to a stop before a large building, the stone weathered and covered in vines, a large metal door recessed into it, rusted a red brown. Lincoln holds up a hand as he steps forward, his fist banging against the metal twice before he steps back. It's only another short moment before Clarke hears a groaning and creaking of metal and then the metal door slides open, a large warrior's frame coming to push it aside as he squints in the sunlight that flashes against his face.
"You wish to see the prisoner?" the man asks as he eyes the Azgeda for a moment before stepping aside to let the newcomers in.
They descend a number of steps, the hollow thump of their feet echoing against the cool stone of the walls as they move deeper and deeper underground. Clarke finds leaves litter the ground too, clearly blown in from cracks in the ceiling that shines light in overhead and by the metal grating and cracked concrete decorating the walls. She hears a voice echo out quietly after a while though, and so she lets her ears focus on the sounds, on the deep cadence that she recognises to be Thelonious'.
They come to an intersection, the voice now echoing more loudly, and as Clarke approaches she finds a number of guards standing around the corner, hands on the hilts of blades as their ears listen to the sounds of Thelonious and his bored singing echo out.
"How long has this been going on for?" Clarke asks the guard that walked with them.
"He has been singing for days, Wanheda," the guard replies.
"Yeah," Octavia adds with a roll of her eyes. "We can't shut him up."
"Let me talk to him alone," Clarke says after a moment.
And so the guards step aside, Lincoln and Octavia coming to stand with them as Ontari and Entani move in closer to Torvun who continues to peer cautiously at those nearby. Clarke rounds the corner, her eyes quickly finding Thelonious who sits on the floor of a cell, his feet shackled and his face caked in a layer of dirt and sweat. As Clarke steps closer to him she feels the heat of a torch that burns brightly against the wall, the stone around it blackened and layered in dirtied soot that fills her nose with smoke and stings her eyes just enough to be annoying.
"Clarke," and Thelonious peers at her from where he remains seated. "So good of you to join me," he finishes, his arms spreading out from him in a gesture as he looks around the cell he is held in. Clarke continues to walk forward carefully before coming to a stop opposite Thelonious, the bars of his cell all that separate them. "You came alone?" he asks as he peers out behind her.
"No," Clarke answers, "they're waiting just outside," she says with a jerk of her chin as she comes to sit on the ground.
"You're going to question me again?" Thelonious says after a short pause, his beard now rough and unkempt.
"Nope," and Clarke watches as Thelonious' eyebrows raise slowly. "I'm not here to question you about that."
"And what are you here for?"
And so Clarke takes a moment to pause, to consider the man before her, to consider the actions, the choices he has taken.
"Why'd you side with the Mountain?"
Thelonious smiles wanly at her words, his eyes careful in their movements as he traces the scars that adorn her face and the braids that wind through her hair.
"Isn't it obvious?" Thelonious counters after a moment. "They were the most like us, and when the Grounders attacked, they came to our aid, they sheltered us and let us live as close to a life as we have always done."
"So all that outweighed what the Mountain did?" Clarke challenges. "Taking people, bleeding them, using them as blood bags? Turning people into monsters? You could look past that just so that you could live more comfortably?"
"They never killed our children. They never killed our people," Thelonious says. "The Grounders attacked as soon as we arrived. So yes, I sided with the Mountain. Because it was the right thing to do."
Clarke scoffs at his words though, her gaze hardening slightly in the torchlight before she continues, "you were misguided, Thelonious."
But he pauses again and leans forward, as far as the chain around his ankle will let him before holds Clarke's gaze for a long moment. "And you would understand misguided endeavours, wouldn't you?"
"What?" and it comes out a snap, a sharp bite.
"On the Ark," and he eyes her steadily. "You decided it was in everyone's best interests to know about the fault, you decided for everyone."
"Shut up," she hisses.
"You saw an opportunity to get what you wanted," he says, "you and your father saw the risk but you saw the reward, and you took it," and his eyes turn mournful for a moment as memories surface. "And one of you paid the price," he sighs. "I guess the gambit didn't play off, did it Clarke?"
"We were doing what was best for our people," Clarke hisses at him, her fists clenching tightly by her side.
"I guess what's best for our people is all perspective," Thelonious counters once more. "I thought what was best for our people was to work with those most like us," and he shrugs again. "And you? You thought what was best for our people was committing genocide. But it's all perspective, isn't it?"
Clarke knows his words anger her now, she knows herself foolish to have spoken to him, to have been led down this path and so she stands, her eyes glaring at Thelonious as she comes to tower over him.
"Enjoy your cell," Clarke says as she turns, her feet already taking her away from Thelonious as he continues to eye her retreating figure.
But as she nears the corner, as she nears the fresher air, Thelonious calls out once more from where he sits on the dirty floor.
"Wells wasn't the one who betrayed your father."
She feels her heart beating wildly in her chest, her lungs filling with air as she pushes through the undergrowth, her mind turning swiftly with each thought that rages in her mind. She thinks she can even hear Torvun moving through the trees as he tries to keep up with her movements, his bulk hindering his advance as he ploughs through the thicker forest that Clarke moves through.
She had stormed out of the dungeons only moments ago, her jaw clenched tightly and her fists squeezing by her sides as she brushed past Entani and Ontari, both women eyeing her carefully, her anger clear for any to see. Thelonious had touched a nerve, his words had stabbed cruelly into her mind and wrought out her anger.
And so Clarke pushes through a bush, her feet taking her through the forests that surround Ton DC and she continues to walk, Thelonious and the last of his words echoing in her mind. She kicks at a twig, her foot colliding with it and sending it bouncing along the ground before it disappears. Her nails dig into her palms, her eyes clenching shut tightly as she comes to heaving stop, her forehead pressed against the rough bark of a tree.
And she stills.
She knows her actions foolish, she knows she shouldn't risk being alone in a forest still unfamiliar to her. And so she breathes in deeply, her mind racing with images that she wishes to keep hidden, her thoughts drifting to the words Thelonious had said, and she thinks them just a means of causing her pain, of causing her anger. She thinks them a lie, something meant to cause hurt. But perhaps she believes them, perhaps she even considers them. If only because Thelonious had meant them, and she had felt the conviction in his voice, the same conviction that carries his words when he talks of doing what is right for his people.
But for now Clarke merely wishes to control her breathing and her anger, and so she turns, the bark of the tree digging into her back as she slides roughly onto the ground, her hair pulling against the cracks in the tree trunk as she kicks her legs out before her. A sigh leaves her lips then, her thoughts slowly stilling, her breaths coming just a bit less rapid and her heart beating more quietly in her chest as she looks out into the trees. She thinks she hears Torvun moving through the trees too, just a faint rustling in the direction she had come, and she knows he will find her soon. But for now she takes the moment she has to collect her thought, to sift through the things she now knows.
And she knows she will have to discuss things with Wells, will have to question things, will have to confront things. Perhaps even her mother, if her fears of who, of what, of—
She shakes her head to clear the quickly spiralling thoughts that ramble through her mind. She breathes in deeply, lets the cool air fill her lungs and she exhales. Her breath comes out rumbling, it comes out a vibration that tingles her spine and raises the hair on the back of her neck.
And it comes out not her own.
She feels her skin prickle, she feels her skin tingle and tense, and she feels it. She sees the shadow that drops over her quietly, she thinks she even feels the tension in the air. And she knows she is hunted. Her fingers close around the knife on her hip slowly, surely, quietly, and her eyes peer up into the tree above her.
Her eyes lock onto two eyes that are focused on her face, the pupils slits, black, the yellow of the eyes glowing silently in the dark of the tree. The predator, a large cat, peers down at her silently, its frame stilling in its movements.
And it happens in only a fraction of a second, but Clarke feels it last a lifetime. The animal, black and silent pounces, it hisses and it screams out from the tree where it sat perched. Clarke rolls forward with a shout, her knife slashing out behind her as she rolls and ducks a swipe of the beast's large paw and she curses her luck and her stupidity at having wandered off. She even hears Torvun shouting her name, her own shout alerting him to danger.
The beast rounds on her, its shoulder hunched and its tail swishing out behind it. They begin to circle each other then, its eyes focusing on the pointed tip of her knife as she moves it steadily through the air before her. And then it lunges. A paw swipes at her feet, its claws scraping against the furs of her boot before its other front paw swats her knife. Clarke grimaces as she feels the weight of the paw catch her in the forearm, the claws of the beast slashing across her flesh before she can pull her hand back. But her knife finds flesh too, she feels it tug at the beast's skin and she hears the roar of pain before she backs up quickly, her feet taking her away from the animal that continues to lunge forward with each step back she takes.
It pounces with a roar, it soars through the air and Clarke dives, she lands on the ground, the sticks and rocks that litter the ground giving way under her feet and she cries out in pain as she feels the sharp claws dig into her thigh, and her face contorts as it digs in and as it yanks her off her feet and drags her backwards.
She knows she hears Torvun's frantic voice carrying over the wind now, the roars of the animal ringing out through the forest. But she ignores it, she ignores the pain in her thigh and she ignores the blood now caking her face, a split on her forehead stinging and burning in pain.
She feels herself dragged back roughly, the animal's claws having found purchase in the flesh of her thigh and she feels herself rolled onto her back easily, and so she lashes out, her fist collides with the animals nose hard enough to give it pause before its jaw clamps down on her shoulder roughly, a scream falling from her lips. She feels the flesh in her shoulder give way, the furs and the leathers she wears helping to dampen the force of the bite just barely. But she brings her knife up, she smashes it forward and she drives it into the animals shoulder as hard as she can.
And then she is thrown through the air, the animal shaking her with a roar, its jaw lifting her by the shoulder before releasing her in an arc through the cold chilling bite of the air. She lands with a harsh thud, her breaths coming out ragged and full of pain, her hand losing the knife she had held.
She scrambles back, her eyes searching for the glint of her knife as she crawls low, the animal wincing only slightly at the wound in its shoulder. And then it focuses on her. Its eyes snap back to hers and it snarls a vicious thing, its teeth bared, the fangs deadly and sharp and eager to taste the blood that pumps through her veins and the already torn flesh of her body.
It pounces again, it's paw swiping into her shoulder and sending her reeling, but she rolls, she manages to duck another swipe of a paw just in time and she feels the ground under her for only a moment as she continues to roll before she finds her feet once more, her eyes snapping onto the glint of her knife that lies just out of reach.
It only lasts a moment, but Clarke looks back at the beast as it eyes her once more. And then it lunges. And Clarke lunges too. She lunges for her knife and she lunges for her life. Her fingers snare the handle of it and the last thing she sees before consciousness is shattered from her mind is the animal's teeth pressing against her face.