Her body creeps forward, inches forward. A gunshot echoes out through the trees and Clarke sees Bronat flinch at the too close noise. Clarke's hand raises carefully, and she feels Jenma and Leeton pause in their motions, eyes trained onto the backs of two Mountain Men in front of them.
Jenma sneaks forward first, her knife being drawn silently as she pauses for just long enough for Leeton to sync her movements. And then they strike. Jenma's blade sinks into the first Mountain Man's throat, Leeton's piercing the second's heart from behind.
"Go," Clarke hisses as she knocks an arrow to her bow, eyes trained on the third who continues to fire into the Trikru who cover the hilltop, some even dashing through the trees as they fire their own arrows towards the flashes of gunfire. And her arrow snaps forward, she sees it pierce the Mountain Man, a flash of pain spreading across a face before a shadowy figure drops from the trees overhead, knife slashing at the exposed throat.
And Anya comes to a low crouch over the dying man's body, her eyes snapping to where the arrow had been fired, and their eyes meet for only a moment before Anya nods once before ducking away, other shadows moving through the treetops as Trikru begin bleeding through the trees as they follow the sounds of the gunshots that continue to tear through the air.
Ontari comes to a crouch behind Clarke, her face a bruised and bloodied mess, a small splint the only thing keeping her nose secure. Clarke sees Ontari wipe her knife clean on the body of one of the dead Mountain Men before she slips it into place on her hip as she draws an arrow.
"Been busy?" Clarke asks.
"Yes," Ontari says simply as she turns to the sounds of a low bird call echoing out through the trees.
"They have found others," Torvun whispers as he slips from tree to tree, the moon barely giving light to the pale of their furs.
"What of Trikru, Wanheda?" Leeton asks, the woman's curly hair clinging to her face as she peers up into the branches overhead.
"They seem to be sticking to the tree line," Clarke answers as she peers into the direction Anya and the few Trikru who had made it through the wall of bullets had travelled. "We keep taking out any Mountain Men trying to flank us or set traps or ambushes," Clarke finishes.
And so the Azgeda around her nod before fanning out, their familiarity with the trees a product of their time at the Mountain since its fall. Clarke's hand flicks out behind her, the motion sending a few Azgeda in a wide arc as they peel off from the main group as they move to cut off any attempt at fleeing. Clarke hears the hoot echo out around them once more, and she feels the forest quieten even further, the gun shots booming through the trees less piercing now.
Clarke's hand raises slowly before she flattens her palm towards the ground, and so the Azgeda still as they slide onto their stomachs, some rolling behind trees and some freezing where they crouch by a bush. She sees the Mountain Men slinking forward, torches on their guns illuminating the forest before them, the beams moving in slow arcs. Clarke feels Ontari slip closer to her, the splint holding her nose comical in comparison to the ferocity in her eyes.
The Mountain Men pause though, and she knows they sense the Azgeda closeness, and so Clarke's breath stills for long moments, and she knows others with her shallow their breathing and temper their eagerness for the moment. And so Clarke waits. She waits for just a moment longer, for long enough that the Mountain Men's wary seems to lessen, and she waits until they begin to move once more, their backs slowly turning to the Azgeda that remain hidden in the trees.
And a second and an offered back is all that is needed and so an Azgeda warrior darts forward first, her hand clamping over a mouth as she drags the first of the Mountain Men onto her sword that slices through a back. Leeton springs forward, too, her foot kicking out a leg as she slides her blade across a throat with a splash of blood. But the gurgling death alerts the others, and Clarke sees them stiffen for just a second before recognition dawns on them as they begin to turn, their weapons rising to fire into the trees. But Clarke feels her fingers snatch an arrow from her quiver, and she feels the creak in her fingers as she knocks and draws and releases within moments.
Her arrow snaps forward in a flash, and others do so, too. She sees the white fletching of Azgeda arrows snake out from the bushes and pin cushion into the remaining Mountain Men who gasps out in pain and shock before toppling over backwards even before their guns finish rising before them.
And so Clarke rises, her eyes scanning around her at the bodies of the Mountain Men who lie dead at her feet.
"He is still not with them," Torvun says as he comes to a stand besides her.
"He is not," Ontari echoes quietly as she begins pulling arrows from the bodies as she hands them back to the Azgeda.
"We keep looking," Clarke answers as she meets the gazes of those who stand around her.
Clarke's ears pick up another low crack of gunfire that echoes throughout the trees and so she begins moving to it, her fur covered feet muffling the sounds as she steps over sticks and branches. The Azgeda with her fan out, their low numbers bleeding into the trees and the shadows, only the brief flashes of light that shines from above lighting their way.
Clarke hears another hoot, this one more shrill, more piercing and so she begins to move faster, her eyes scanning out around her for signs of movement. The hoot comes once more, this time closer, and gunshots sound out too, and she knows Mountain Men must be close by.
She ducks the swing of a rifle, the buttstock clipping her forehead harshly as it pulls a wince from her lips. She feels the kick that hits her in the shin and she curses out quietly as her leg lifts and as she feels the impact of the ground against her back, but she rolls backwards with the momentum, her feet planting on the ground as she leaps onto the man, his rifle beginning to point in her direction.
And Clarke feels the loud gunshot echo between them, the bullet kicking up dirt at her feet and so she brings her head forward sharply, her brow slamming into the man's nose and she feels the breaking of bone. Her foot kicks his leg out from under him with a harsh snap before she drives her knee into his ribs as she slips back. She forces a space between them, and she drops onto her back, and as she feels gravity take hold she knocks an arrow, she aims and she fires before she feels the hard bite of the ground once more.
Her arrow snaps forward and it punches into the man's forehead and jerks his head backwards with a geyser of blood that sprays the leaves overhead. But Clarke hardly spares him a glance as she comes to her feet quickly, eyes scanning around her, the blood dripping from her forehead only a small irritant that stings for a moment before she pushes it into the corners of her mind.
And she sees him. She sees his dark skin and his keen eyes. She knocks an arrow, and as she draws she sees him duck behind a tree as someone fires their own arrow only for it to miss its mark. But her eyes snap to Leeton who throws a Mountain Man over her shoulder before Bronat slides a blade into another's leg before Jenma cleaves his head off with a practiced slash of her sword. And Clarke sees Ontari duck a gunshot, her face wincing to the loud noise for only a moment before Torvun grips the man by the throat before pinning him to the ground, his blade impaling the man's chest.
And Clarke fires her arrow, she watches as it slips through the small space between Leeton and Bronat who hardly flinch at the arrow as it snaps past them before impaling the last Mountain Man in the chest with a low thump.
"Get him!" Clarke shouts over the dying noise of combat. And so the Azgeda run, and she knows Jaha knows. And so she dives behind a tree as he fires into the Azgeda, but his bullets miss, and she knows he must be low on bullets, his ammunition soon to run dry, and so she springs forward, and she feels an Azgeda climb a tree, the scout not unfamiliar with the trees now, and she feels the man begin to leap from branch to branch overhead as he tries to cut off Jaha's escape.
Jenma and Leeton break off from the main group as they slip into the trees to the left and right, their bodies bleeding into the distance as their feet take them faster and faster and wider and wider, the distance they cover enough to soon encircling Jaha's tiring escape.
Clarke sees an Azgeda warrior run up a fallen tree before leaping off its end, the time in the air enough for her to draw a blunted arrow as she sights down its length and fire before she lands on the ground and rolls to her feet. And she hears Jaha's pained curse as the arrow hits his leg causing him to stumble.
Ontari snarls forward with a leap, and Clarke watches as Ontari soars through the air and dives over a branch as her body smashes into Jaha's stumbling form. And Clarke watches as they roll for a moment, she watches as Ontari's elbow snakes out, snapping against Jaha's cheek. And she watches as Jaha and Ontari scramble on the ground frantically, and her eyes hone in as Jaha finds a grip on Ontari's furs, his hands gripping at them enough to twist their bodies until he comes to straddle her waist. Jaha's eyes flash to the knife strapped to Ontari's hip and he snatches it, and Clarke watches as Jaha drives it forward only for Ontari to twist easily, lazily with the motion, her right hand snatching Jaha's wrist and directing the stab into the ground by her head as her left punches up and into his throat, her hips raising off the ground as her body twists with the disarming motion.
And then Ontari jerks Jaha's hand from the blade as she twists his wrist with a sharp snap, the pain throwing off Jaha as he gurgles and splutters past the strike to his throat and his now broken wrist. And so Ontari plants her knees under her, grips Jaha by the collar and throws him over her shoulders with a brutal familiarity before she comes to straddle his chest, her knife snatched from where it was embedded in the ground, the blade now resting against Jaha's throat as the other Azgeda circling them, some eyes turned outwards into the trees, others eyeing Jaha carefully.
Clarke comes to a stop besides Ontari as she looks down at Jaha's pain filled face.
"You've lost," Clarke hisses, an arrow still knocked to her bow, and she sees Ontari dig her knife harshly into the skin under Jaha's neck.
And Clarke sees Jaha's mouth begin to open, words already forming on his lips, but as the sound only just begins to form Ontari smashes the pommel of her knife against the side of his head, and Clarke sees Jaha's eyes roll back before he slumps against the ground unconscious.
"For Entani," Ontari hisses into the silence as she stands, kicks harshly into his ribs and slides her knife back into its sheath.
And so Clarke sighs as she eyes Jaha's unconscious body.
"Let's get him back to Arkadia. We'll question him there."
The pyres burn into her eyes, the flames a sickening reddened orange that bleeds into the haze of smoke as it drifts upwards and into the pink of the sky overhead. Clarke feels the smoke breathe through her furs and she feels it cling to her skin and in her hair. But as her eyes begin to water, as her nose begins to smother from the heat, she keeps her gaze steady.
Not for the first time she finds herself counting the remnants of the pyres before her, eyes moving from one to the next to the next until she reaches the end before beginning to count once more, her eyes moving slowly in the opposite direction now, her gaze quiet, her thoughts seething and broken and furious to the truth of the charred and broken remains of the branches used for kindling, and the ash that remains, the only thing left of the Azgeda warriors that lost their fight.
Clarke's gaze moves from the pyres and to the Azgeda who stand by her side, many remain quietly in place, eyes fixated on the burning remains of a friend, of a brother, sister. Someone they had fought with, someone they had lived with and suffered and survived with. Clarke's gaze moves to the Trikru warriors who stand not far, their own pyres burning quietly, their losses larger than the Azgeda, the Trikru attack up the hill side a more brutal, more bloody endeavour. Her gaze moves to the Skaikru who stand quietly between the Azgeda and the Trikru, she finds Kane standing at the forefront, his return to Arkadia from Polis a result of the attack. And as she takes him in she sees his eyes downcast as the smoke lingers around him, she sees the years of weary that she is sure he carries within his mind and upon his shoulders.
Clarke's gaze turns back to the burning pyres, the people by her side enough to give a comfort, however slight it may feel.
"You should still be lying down," Clarke says quietly as she hears Entani whimper as a cough wracks through her lips.
Entani merely meets her gaze once before she shrugs, eyes turning back to the pyres that burn. Ontari shifts closer to Entani though, her hands subtle as they hover just past the other healer's hip as she wobbles slightly, her legs unsure and uneven beneath her.
But Clarke knows Entani will remain, and she knows the Azgeda will remain, too, she knows the warriors who stand by her side will do so until the pyres burn fully, until the smoke and the fires burn and die, until the embers that remain glow their last breath.
And so Clarke turns back to the pyres and she lets the fire burn into her eyes and bring forth memories that she thinks ever present in the corners of her waking mind and ever clear in her sleepless nights.
Clarke's step echo through the halls of Arkadia, the cold chill that she feels seeping through the metal enough to bring memories of her time as a prisoner to the forefront of her mind. But as she passes the warmth of a burning torch, the flame flickering slightly, she thinks it enough to hold back the moments she knows linger somewhere just past the edges of her vision.
She comes to the doors of the med bay, and as they slide open she eyes the many warriors who lie in beds, and the many more who lie on makeshift cots that cover the floor. And it still shocks Clarke to see the most severely wounded, Azgeda and Trikru alike, as they lie in a pain filled slumber, the drugs that she knows dull the pain not quite enough. Her eyes skim over bed and cot and wounded warrior until they fall onto the familiar dark braids of Ontari's head that rests against Entani's thigh, both women sleeping, one's rest drug addled, the other's worried and restless.
Clarke watches them quietly, and she feels the small smile that tugs at her lips as she sees Ontari squeeze Entani's hand in slumber, the healer's breathing still shallow and horse and broken to her ears.
"She shouldn't have gone outside," Abby says quietly as she comes to a stand by Clarke's side.
"You couldn't stop her, could you?" Clarke asks, her eyes meeting her mothers for a moment.
"No," Abby replies, eyes darting just once to a cough that comes from a sleeping warrior. "She's stubborn," Abby finishes.
"Yeah," and Clarke shrugs. "I guess we all are," and she worries her lip for a moment. "Can we talk?"
"Yeah," and Abby smiles briefly. "This way," and she gestures to her office that sits at the far end of the med bay.
Clarke follows Abby, the older woman picking her way between the wounded warriors, her medical coat swinging slightly with her steps, her eyes ever careful as she checks over those she passes. But they come to Abby's office, and as Clarke steps into it, the doors closing behind her, she feels the tension lift slightly from her shoulders, the sounds of pain and suffering cutting off with a quiet thud.
And maybe it's the days she has spent on the move, the sleepless nights, the anger and the frustration and the worry and the hurt. The shock and the time that has been stolen from her. Or maybe it's the death, the life she has taken, the life she thinks she will continue to take. But maybe it's Abby's presence, maybe it's her mothers worried gaze, her eyes taking in the shadows Clarke knows must linger under her eyes and the blood that must bloody her face and her furs.
And Clarke knows she feels it. She feels the shaking that starts, she feels the wetness that pools in her eyes and the anger and frustration that snaps.
And so Clarke feels herself shake, feels herself break. She feels the sob that wracks through her chest, the tears that stain down her cheeks. But most of all she feels Abby's arms that take her in a tight embrace, that squeeze her and hold her steady in the quiet that settles around them.
Clarke hears Abby's voice soothe her worries, she hears her mother's whispered words telling her it will be alright, that things are ok. That she's ok. And it takes Clarke long moments before she realises that she kneels on the ground, that she is cradled against her mother's chest, and that Abby runs a soothing hand over her hair, the gentle brushes the comfort of long lost memories.
"I'm sorry," Clarke whispers, and she knows it must sound ragged and broken and weak. "I'm sorry."
"It's ok, Clarke," Abby whispers in turn, her arms slowly beginning to rock Clarke against her once more. "It's ok."
It's an odd, familiar thing to be walking down the corridors of metal. Clarke's footsteps echo out around her, the steps of the Azgeda guards by her side meeting her steps with their own echoing steps. She passes a number of Skaikru who eye them cautiously, who eye the whites of the war paint and the fierceness with which they hold themselves. But Clarke spares them hardly a thought, her eyes staring ahead, her jaw clenched tightly and a scowl plastered across her face that pulls at her lips. She turns down a corridor to find a number of Skaikru guards standing in front of large windows doors, a control panel recessed into the wall that glows in the dimmed light.
The guards look up at the sound of her approach, she sees them stiffen slightly in stance and she sees a few drop their hands to the shock batons on their hips. Clarke's feet take her further though, and she comes to a stop in front of the guards, the black of their uniforms a stark contrast to the whites of the Azgeda who fan out behind her.
"Stand aside," Clarke says evenly as she looks up at the lead guard, his eyes careful as he takes in her demeanour, her stance, and the way a few of the Azgeda drop their hands to the knives strapped to their bodies, or as some shift ever so slightly as they eye the shock batons.
"Clarke," and she hears Kane's voice echo against the metal of the corridor, but Clarke keeps her gaze focused on the man before her, yet her ears focus on Kane's footsteps as they approach.
"Clarke," Kane says once more as he comes to a stand in front of her, his gaze careful, his hands coming up placatingly as he turns his attention to Torvun who growls out a quiet warning for a guard who moves too close.
"Stand aside, Kane," Clarke says evenly, and she makes sure her voice carries no bite, the warriors by her side a threat enough.
"Clarke," Kane says once more. "You gaze him to us," and Kane's voice softens slightly.
"I didn't give him to you," Clarke says. "Now please stand aside, Kane."
"I'm sorry, Clarke," and she sees Kane look briefly to an Azgeda warrior who slowly begins to draw his knife, the sound of it ringing out purposefully. "But as Chancellor of—"
"You might be the Chancellor," Clarke interrupts. "But I'm in charge," and Clarke steps forward, and she knows the Azgeda warriors shadow her steps. "I won't ask you again, Kane. Stand aside," and Clarke raises her chin slightly, an eyebrow lifting as she holds his gaze.
And she feels the tension begin to rise, she feels the Azgeda begin to inch forward and she begins to sense the shifting in the air.
"Let them through," Kane sighs quietly, his hand waving the Skaikru guards back as he steps aside.
And so Clarke steps forward, the heavy doors before her sliding open to reveal a large cell, empty except for a lone chair that sits in the middle, its legs bolted to the floor, its occupant eyeing her carefully, his gaze guarded and uncertain as the Azgeda warriors fill the space.
"Clarke," he says, his voice horse, ragged.
Clarke eyes him for a long moment, she eyes the cast around his wrist, she watches as he takes in the warriors, she sees a defiance begin to linger in his eyes once more, his jaw clenches and he readies himself for whatever he thinks must be soon to come.
Clarke looks to Torvun once before she glances past him and to the warriors that fan out around her.
"Make sure we aren't interrupted," Clarke says to them, and she sees them nod easily before stepping through the doors.
Clarke waits until the last of the warriors exit through the doors and until they slide shut. She glances over her shoulder just once to find the Azgeda warriors staring down the Skaikru guards, backs to the door.
"The only reason you aren't dead is because Wells deserves to say goodbye to his father," Clarke begins. "There's a few ways this plays out," and she gestures to Torvun who steps closer. "The first is that I have him beat you until you can't walk, and then we drag you back to Polis where we get the information out of you and then you die a painful death," and Torvun rolls his shoulders easily. "Or you tell me everything you know about Nia right now," and she gestures around her. "And then maybe I'll let you live," and Clarke eyes Jaha for a long moment, the silence heavy on his shoulders.
"That's it?" Jaha asks, his eyes following Torvun who slowly moves to circle him.
"You didn't leave yourself many ways out of this," Clarke counters. "You were given the option to work with us. To get the information we needed," and she pauses for a moment. "But then you attacked Arkadia. You attacked your own people."
"From where I'm standing you and the Commander aren't so different from Nia," Jaha says. "You all use people to get what you want."
"So you think that justifies murder? Killing people? Trying to start another war?"
"Haven't you done all those things?" Jaha retorts.
"Maybe," and Clarke shrugs, memories of the lives she has taken slowly drifting through her mind. "But the things I do? I do them to stop wars," and she steps forward slowly. "You don't. So yeah, I don't buy it. Maybe I've done things no one should do. But I'll live with the consequences," and Clarke lets her thoughts turn to the Mountain, to the sleepless nights and the anger that burns into her. "I'll live with the consequences," she repeats. "Just," and Clarke stops right before Jaha, "like you."
Jaha looks up at her for a long moment, his eyes taking in the white of the warpaint splashed across her face. But he sighs, and his voice comes ragged once more, tired and weary, and as Jaha peers just once over her shoulder she thinks she sees a decision made, she thinks she sees an acceptance of how his life has played out.
"I never spoke to Nia," he says. "Never met anyone, never saw anyone," and he holds Clarke's gaze. "Pike was the only one who ever seemed to have contact," Jaha finishes.
"Pike," Clarke voices, thoughts turning to the hatred she had seen in his eyes. "Why would he side with Nia?"
"He said that Nia told him that the Commander was the one who ran everything, that all the clans lived in fear of her," and Jaha snorts. "Nia wasn't far from the truth."
"How did you stay in contact?" Clarke asks.
"Bird," Jaha answers. "I only saw it twice but it would arrive in the morning, Pike would read what ever message was there, and then the bird would fly off."
Clarke lets his words sink in slowly, and she knows what he says is evidence, but perhaps not enough just yet to prove that Nia works with the Mountain Men. Clarke turns from Jaha then, Torvun quick to come to her side as she glances once through the doors at the Azgeda warriors who stand outside.
"It's not enough to prove that Nia worked with the Mountain Men," Clarke whispers quietly to Torvun.
"It is not," he agrees lowly. "What do you wish to do?" he asks.
"We need to tell Lexa about this," and Clarke scratches at the cut on her forehead, the wound already beginning to itch slightly. "We can't do much else until she knows everything we do," and Clarke nods to herself briefly. "Jaha is safest here," and Clarke looks up at Torvun, the unspoken threat of Nia understood.
"I agree," Torvun says evenly.
And so Clarke turns back to Jaha who eyes her cautiously, his gaze guarded once more as Torvun begins to step forward, his hands closing into fists.
"I told you what you wanted," Jaha says, his eyes widening only slightly as realisation dawns on him at what Torvun is about to do.
"You did," Clarke shrugs. "But this is for killing my friends," and she gestures to the Azgeda outside. "Be thankful it's Torvun and not them. At least he knows not to accidentally kill you."
Polis tower rears up through the trees, the burning flame at its peak a signal fire that draws the weary warriors forward. Many of the wounded had been dropped off at the Mountain, it's expanded medical facilities large enough to handle the scores of warriors that hadn't been able to be attended to at Arkadia. And so the warriors that ride with Clarke, Azgeda and Trikru alike, feel the aches in their bones, the days of travel and combat having worn many down.
Clarke urges her horse forward though, its gait lazy in its ministrations as it winds through the trees and along the path. Clarke spies Anya riding ahead, the Trikru warriors an ever constant presence whenever the Azgeda travel through Trikru lands. Clarke glances behind her briefly to find Ontari hovering close by Entani's side, the wounded healer having insisted on not being left behind, the only concession that she must wear a brace that wraps her torso stiffly to ensure her ribs remain steady and stitches not come loose. And Clarke thinks she feels the lifting of her lips as she sees Ontari reach out to steady Entani, only for the healer to snap at her grumpily.
The war party arrives at the base of Polis tower to find guards and servants waiting to take the horses to the stables, others ready to help unpack supplies. Clarke dismounts swiftly, her feet landing on the ground heavily as she runs a hand down her horse's neck, the beast neighing quietly as it huffs at her hair for a moment before being guided away by a young servant, the girl chatting quietly to it as she leads it to the stables.
"Wanheda," and Clarke turns to find Shana walking to her, eyes gazing once past Clarke and to Torvun who eyes the handmaiden carefully. "You are needed at the ambassador meeting," Shana says.
"It can't wait?" Clarke asks tiredly, and though the sun still hangs high in the sky, she knows she could find sleep at a moment's notice.
"I apologise, Wanheda," Shana says quietly, her head bowing. "Kwin Nia requested your presence as soon as you arrived."
And so Clarke lets a sigh leave her lips, her gaze falling to Ontari who helps Entani off her horse, the healer content to glare harshly at any who look too long. Torvun follows her though, his large body casting a shadow across the ground as they begin to move through Polis Tower's open doors.
Clarke follows Shana to the elevator, the handmaiden opening the doors to reveal the elevator waits for them, and so Clarke steps inside, Torvun besides her as Shana follows them in as she slides the doors shut. Clarke stifles a yawn as the elevator begins to ascend, the creaking of the ropes a constant thrumming through her mind.
"The ambassadors are angry," Shana says into the quiet.
"Thanks for the warning," Clarke says, her eyes rolling, the headache she is sure to face already beginning to form.
The elevator comes to a stop after long moments, and Clarke watches as Shana slides open the doors before exiting, her hand extending as she gestures down the hallway for Clarke to take the lead.
And so Clarke begins the short walk from the elevators and to the main throne room, and as she eyes the large double doors that stand before her, she thinks she hears the shouts of anger, of retorts and accusations that fly from angry ambassador to angry ambassador.
"They are angry," Shana says once more, an apologetic smile falling from her lips.
Guards open the doors for Clarke, and as she steps through them she finds herself confronted by ambassadors standing, some siting, some quietly taking in what transpires before them, others more eager to voice their thoughts.
"You accuse us of doing nothing?" the Trikru ambassador asks, his gaze aflame as he eyes the Lake Clan ambassador. "What have you done?"
"You can not accuse Trikru when even you have not done anything yourself," a Broadleaf warrior shouts as she defends the Trikru who sit close by.
"We can and we will," the Lake Clan ambassador retorts, a finger jabbing in the direction of the Broadleaf delegation.
And as conversation continues to flow between the forest clans and the others, Clarke feels the tension building. But her gaze lands on Lexa quickly, the woman leaning back in her chair as she watches who takes whose side before her, her eyes snapping from person to person as they stand and as they continue to shout. But Clarke thinks she senses it moments before she hears it.
Lexa sighs, her gaze once meeting Clarke's, a barely there smiling gracing her lips, and then she stands, her eyes hardening, her back straightening.
"Enough," Lexa's voice echoes out through the halls, her gaze snapping to those who still stand. "Wanheda has returned," and Lexa jerks her chin towards Clarke. "We will hear from Wanheda," and Lexa returns to her throne.
Clarke nods her head once before her eyes land on Nia who sits quietly at the head of the Azgeda delegation, Teril ever present by her side. And so Clarke begins to move forward, her eyes meeting the ambassadors and warriors from the clans, some more cautious as they take in her weary body, her bloodied clothes and the cut on her forehead.
"Tell me, Clarke," Nia says evenly. "Did you find the Mountain Men?"
"Yes, Kwin Nia," Clarke answers as their eyes meet, Nia's own gaze hiding a hidden mirth that Clarke thinks not quite so warm. "We were ambushed," she says as she takes her seat besides Nia.
"You were able to defeat them?" a warrior asks.
"Yes," Clarke calls out, her voice slowly taking a hardened edge as she begins to recall what has happened in the last few days. "We were ambushed, we lost warriors. But we defeated that group of Mountain Men," and Clarke feels a few clans nod their heads at her words.
"They ambushed you?" someone asks.
"Yes," Clarke answers.
"Whose territory were you in?" another asks.
"Trikru," and Clarke thinks she knows where the questions turn.
"How were the Mountain Men able to set an ambush for Azgeda and Trikru warriors in Trikru lands?"
"I do not know," Clarke answers, but she knows she does.
"Trikru does not defend its own borders," an Azgeda warrior sneers.
"And what of Arkadia, Clarke?" Nia asks, her gaze moving from person to person who sits in the room. "How were the Mountain Men able to move through Trikru lands and attack Skaikru?"
"I don't know," Clarke answers, her gaze trying to meet Lexa's, the other woman merely staring harshly at Nia, her fingers gripping the armrests of her throne.
"I do," Nia sneers loudly, her eyes moving from warrior to warrior, ambassador to ambassador that sits around her. "Trikru does nothing to protect members of the Coalition," and Nia meets Lexa's gaze harshly. "The Commander does nothing to protect the Coalition," and Nia sweeps her hand towards Clarke. "Wanheda has fought for the Coalition. She fought the Mountain Men, she defeated the Mountain. And she has continued to do so," and Nia stands. "You are weak, Heda Lexa," and Clarke thinks she knows what comes next. "You are a fool," Nia spits.
Titus steps forward, but Clarke sees Lexa's hand rise in warning, her gaze not wavering from Nia's.
"Today is judgement day," Nia says, her voice unwavering now, her eyes sweeping the room as she eyes the many who are present. "The Commander does nothing to protect her own people. You expect other clans to be safe? To rely on the aid of the Coalition if even her own Clan is not safe?" and Nia stands now, her lips pulling up into a sneer, the scars on her face glinting in the light of the torches that burn and flicker. "I call for a vote of no confidence."
Clarke's ears take in the subtle agreement from some of the clans, she feels the ripple of anger that burns ever quietly within them, the Mountain Men's last attack opening old wounds, old angers and hatreds. And Clarke hears some agree, she sees an ambassador stand, his eyes only once moving from between Nia to Lexa before he steels himself.
"Commander no longer," he says.
And others rise too, Clarke hears his words echoed slowly as more ambassadors take a stand, as more find agreement with the words Nia was woven through their minds.
Titus leans into Lexa quickly, quiet words hissed to her, but Clarke watches as Lexa merely takes them in before waving him away, her eyes never leaving Nia's.
And as Clarke's eyes bore into the side of Lexa's head, she feels the last of the ambassadors rise, their words repeated until all clans comes to a stand, even the Trikru ambassador rises reluctantly, his eyes downcast as he clenches his fists.
"None of us want war," Nia sneers. "But Azgeda will defend itself from enemies if it must," and she raises her chin in defiance. "Commander no longer."
"We both know what you want, Nia," Lexa answers, and she pauses for only a moment before she rises, her feet taking her down the few steps before she comes to a pause before Nia. "If you think me unfit to command, issue the challenge and let's get on with it," she finishes with a hiss.
"Very well," and Nia meets Lexa's hardened gaze with her own. "You are challenged."
"I accept your challenge," and Lexa's words come lowly, they come quietly. But they ring out into the silence as the ambassadors quiet and as they stare at the two women who now stand in the centre of the room.
Titus moves then, his eyes narrowed, his brows furrowed and his gaze hardened.
"So be it," he says into the silence. "Single combat. Warrior against warrior. To the death," and Titus looks between Nia and Lexa for a moment, and Clarke sees the strumming of the pulse that beats against his neck and the strain in his shoulders. "Heda Lexa. Who will fight for you?" he questions.
"I am the Commander," Lexa says, her chin rising defiantly once more. "No one fights for me."
And as Lexa's words leave her lips, Clarke sees Titus deflate slightly, her words clearly not tempering the worry that must weave through his mind. She even sees Gustus grinding his teeth from where he stands by her throne, his fist clenched around the knife at his belt as he stares down Teril who begins to slowly move forward and towards Nia's side.
"Kwin Nia," and Titus looks to Nia, the woman smiling more freely now. "Who do you choose to be your champion?"
The room deadens, and Clarke feels the beating of her heart, the strumming of her pulse and the aches and pains that litter her body. She sees Teril come to a stop besides Nia, his eyes tracking every movement Lexa makes, the hand she favours, the foot she leads with and the way her balance shifts ever so slightly as she takes in the large man and the knife strapped to his ribs and the scar that peeks out from the collar of his furs.
And so Nia smiles, she shifts her stance ever so slightly, her eyes moving to Teril as she takes him in. And as her lips part, and as words form, Clarke feels her heart freeze.
"Wanheda," Nia smiles. "Clarke Kom Azgeda."