Pain seems ever constant, and as she dips the cloth into the water Costia feels her ribs ache sharply, but after all these times she thinks, she knows they aren't broken. Not quite, at least. Costia's eyes follow the dripping of the blood that pools into the small water basin on her table, the water murky from the blood that still slips from her nose.
Her eyes trace the scar in her reflection, the face aged, weathered, beaten and unfamiliar to the youthful memories she wishes would replace her cold nights. Costia looks out the window then, and she watches the wind pick up a snow pile, as it floats the snowflakes through the air and as the sun glitters through it for a moment.
She's not even sure how long it has been, maybe six years, perhaps seven. But she knows it long enough for people to have moved on, to have mourned and felt the loss and the pain and the suffering her disappearance would have caused. She thinks of Clarke, too, the woman with the golden hair, the fire in her eyes, and she smiles because she thinks she can see why Lexa was drawn to the her, why Lexa would have been willing to open herself. Costia smiles slightly as she thinks of Lexa, of how much Lexa has achieved, how much she accomplished despite her set backs. But above all, Costia thinks she feels a sense of happiness, or maybe it's contentedness, that Lexa was able to move on, that she didn't lose herself to the pain of a lost love.
Costia smiles just once, wipes a finger across her eyes and steadies her mind, and she knows what she will do may be her last act of defiance. But a knock echoes through her small room and as she turns she eyes the shadow that slips under the doorframe.
She opens the door cautiously, her eyes taking in the man that stands before her, and she eyes the scarless face and the way his eyes move slightly over her features. The man looks behind himself just once before he steps into her room and closes the door behind him.
"I know who you are," he says simply as his hand falls to a knife she thinks well hidden in his furs.
And Costia takes in his angular features, the way his eyes shift over everything in her sparse room and the way she stands back and away from him, his own eyes careful as he takes her in.
"I know you do not talk," he continues as he shrugs off a bow that Costia only just notices was hidden discretely inside his long fur coat, and she watches as he places down a small bundle of arrows onto her bed. "My name is Silence," he says, as he steps away from the bow and arrows.
Costia's eyes turn guarded now, and she watches and listens and remains silent, for surely this must be a test, a game of Nia's.
"I knew your friend, Talanah," Silence continues, and Costia's eyes narrow at the name, and she feels an anger begin to build at the assassin who had made a fool of her, who had stolen her away, had been the cause of years of pain and suffering.
"What do you want?" Costia says, and she sees his eyes smile for a moment as she lets her voice whisper out to him.
"I have convinced Nia to execute the prisoners," he says.
Costia's eyes narrow, her mind trying to arrange his words and actions into the puzzle she know them to be.
"You will rescue them," he continues.
"I will not," she says, thoughts of a trap still lingering back in the recesses of her mind.
"You think this a ploy of Nia's?" he asks, his eyebrow raising.
Costia nods mutely, her eyes moving to the bow and arrows that lie on her bed. Silence smiles at her for a longer moment.
"You do not have to believe me," he shrugs. "Nia will throw Azgeda into war with the other clans. I do not want that. I do not want to see Azgeda turned into a relic of the past," and he gestures to the bow. "Do not be found with that," and he thinks for a moment. "I do not know when the execution will take place, but it will be in the rocks," and he shrugs at her narrowed eyes. "Nia believes that executing Wanheda quietly will be easier to control. She does not want her death to martyr her, to seed doubt or confusion amongst Azgeda," he says in answer to her silence. "But most of all?" and he leans closer. "It will give you an opportunity to intervene with few able to interfere or stop you."
"Why?" Costia says cautiously.
"I want what is best for Azgeda," he shrugs. "As do many others in positions to do something about it."
"Why do you not rescue Clarke?" Costia corrects. "Why do you want me to do it?"
"If you fail then I am still in a position to serve my King," he says simply. "Do not be found with that," he finishes before nodding to her and slipping out of her room.
The words don't quite sink in, and as she holds Roan's gaze she thinks she feels her skin begin to crawl and itch and burn in the chair. Ontari's eyes shift from Roan and to the table where she eyes markings of villages, and models that sit atop it, and as she takes them in she realises that they must be armies, groups of warriors ready to move and to take over at a moment's notice.
Ontari looks over her shoulder and to the tent's entrance, and she feels her fingers clench tightly, and she thinks of standing she thinks of leaving, of walking out of the tent, of even fighting her way to safety if it comes to it. All to warn Nia, to warn Azgeda of the coup, the traitors and the plotters.
"Sit," Roan says loudly, his voice ringing out through the small tent, and as Ontari turns back to him it surprises her to find that she has stood up, that her feet have taken her halfway to the tent's entrance. "Sit," Roan says, his voice hardening as he stares at her, his eyes gleaming brightly and his hand resting against the knife Ontari notices against his hip. "I will not repeat myself, Ontari," and he inclines his head to her vacant chair.
Ontari feels her fingers twitch though, and she turns from the chair to the tent's entrance and back, her mind not sure how to deal with what happens, what is occurring.
"Sit, Ontari," Entani whispers, her hands gripping her knees tightly as she sits in her own chair.
And Ontari does so, her feet dragging against the furs as she sits back in the chair. Ontari stares blankly at Roan for a long while, and her mouth opens once, twice, but she closes it, and she feels a muscle in her neck begin to twitch.
"You will not even ask what it is that we do?" and Ontari shakes her head mutely. "Not even why?" and Roan smirks at Ontari's awkward silence.
Entani shifts awkwardly though, her gaze moving from Ontari and then back to Roan. "Why?" she asks meekly.
Roan's attention shifts to Entani, and he pauses for a long moment.
"Kwin Nia works with the Mountain Men," he says simply.
And Ontari's eyes widen, she feels the doubt begin to rise once more and she feels her fingers dig painfully into her thighs.
"You do not believe me?" Roan says, his lips curling up slightly.
"Kwin Nia would not work with the Mountain Men," Ontari says. "She would not," and Ontari looks once at Entani before turning back to Roan who remains quiet in the chair. "She would not," Ontari finishes with a quiet whisper.
Roan's gaze moves to the tent entrance though, "bring him in," Roan calls out.
Both women turn to the entrance to see Echo walk in, her hands pushing a hooded figure into the tent before she forces them onto their knees. Two other figures follow Echo into the tent, too, and Ontari's eyes narrow as she recognises Anya, the Trikru general, scowl firmly in place as she eyes Entani and Ontari both. Ontari's gaze shifts to the second woman though, and she thinks she recognises the face, finds it familiar, finds it known, despite the difference in clothes, in the subtleness of colours and the muted tones of the leathers.
"You," Ontari hisses as their eyes lock, fury beginning to swell, beginning to boil, and she thinks she will regret her actions at a later time, when her knuckles are bloodied, when her anger is vented. "This is your fault. Clarke would not be in danger if it was not for you," she snarls as she takes a step forward. "You poison her mind. You twist her actions," and she steps forward, but as she approaches she sees the woman's eyebrow raise in challenge, her eyes smirking slightly.
And so Ontari lunges, she kicks the chair in distraction as she races forward and as she swings a fist at the woman's face.
"This is your fault," Ontari snarls as they crash together, "Clarke would no—"
But Ontari never finishes her words, she feels the woman tense for only a moment as their bodies collide, but then she feels the woman bend, she feels the woman lash out with an elbow, and she feels the strike smack against her jaw hard enough to stun and to disorientate, and then Ontari feels herself flipped over a shoulder, she feels herself slammed to the ground, and she feels the woman rest a knee against her throat as she grips her arm tightly, the twisting of her limb enough to immobilise her movements for the moment.
"I apologise," and Roan stands cautiously, the outburst sudden, but as Ontari's furious gaze shifts to the Prince she sees him smirk briefly, and she is sure her outburst was to be expected, even anticipated given her current predicament.
"Get off me," Ontari snarls at the woman, her hands now pushing against the knee pressed against her throat.
"You will not attack me again?" the woman asks, her eyes flashing in the torch light for a moment longer.
Ontari clenches her jaw, and she feels the knee press more firmly against her throat.
"I will not," Ontari snarls.
And so Lexa rises, her knee lingering only for a moment longer against Ontari's throat before she takes a stand besides Anya, the trikru general still watching the events unfold easily.
"You are lucky that you are friends with Clarke," Anya begins, her eyes drilling into Ontari now, "if not then your attack would be cause for punishment."
And Ontari glares harshly at the woman before her gaze shifts to Lexa who stands behind the hooded figure. She watches as the Commander removes the hood to reveal Jaha, his eyes blinking in the dark of the tent as his gaze moves from person to person he sees.
"Tell her," Roan begins once more as he sits back into his chair, his eyes now holding Jaha's.
Ontari watches as Jaha looks around briefly before his gaze meets hers, and she sees the signs of weariness and pain etched into his face.
"Nia helped us," he says simply, and Ontari's eyes burrow into his, she stares for a long while as his words swim through her mind, as he holds her gaze and as he shifts uncomfortably on his knees.
Ontari begins to feel the anger rise once more though, she feels her frustration and denial begin settle and she feels her fists clench tightly.
"It makes sense," Entani says quietly, her fingers squeezing Ontari's elbow carefully. "It makes sense, Ontari," she repeats.
"It does not," Ontari says, her eyes moving to Lexa's for a moment to see the woman staring at her blankly, her thoughts well guarded, her eyes steady.
"It does," Entani says. "How else have they evaded capture for so long?" and Ontari feels her tug on her elbow. "How else did they mask their tracks so effectively that not even Azgeda assassin's could not find them?"
"Kwin Nia would not betray Azgeda," Ontari says, and she feels her lip begin to tremble. "She would not."
"Onti," and she feels Entani squeeze her elbow once more before she comes to stand in front of her. "It makes sense."
"No," Ontari shakes her head and she knows her lip trembles more openly now.
"How did they ambush us?" Entani pushes quietly, "how did they know we were coming?"
"Scouts," Ontari says meekly.
"Who sent us to them?" Entani counters. "They knew which direction we were coming from. And the attack on Skaikru? How did they infiltrate so far into Trikru lands without being spotted?"
Ontari's eyes close tightly, and she knows she feels the tears that begin to slip from her eyes as Entani's words slowly sink in.
"She wouldn't," Ontari whispers, her head beginning to shake back and forth. "She wouldn't."
But she feels Entani take her in an embrace, she feels Entani ignore the pain of her ribs as she holds her close and as she presses her lips to the side of her head in comfort.
"It is ok, Onti. You will be ok," she says quietly.
But Ontari thinks that a lie.
Entani follows Ontari quietly, the other woman pushing through the shallow blanket of snow mutely, her thoughts clearly elsewhere. But Ontari stops after a moment, her eyes trained on the snow at her feet, her fists clenched tightly, and her breathing shallow and broken by an occasional sniffle.
"Do you wish to talk?" Entani asks as she comes to stop besides Ontari.
"No," Ontari says, her eyes not willing to meet Entani's gaze.
Entani sighs though, and she glances around them in search of a rock or a stone, but seeing nothing to use as a seat, she finds herself content lounging in the snow, her legs kicking out at the snow as she looks up into the blue sky overhead.
"Sit, at least," Entani says as she looks to Ontari who remains standing.
It takes a moment longer for Ontari to shake whatever thoughts run through her mind, but the woman sits carefully, her gaze not quite meeting Entani's.
"It makes sense," Entani repeats quietly, her eyes gazing at Ontari's profile for a moment.
Ontari nods numbly though, her eyes beginning to trace over the ripples of the snow they sit in.
Entani waits for her to voice her thoughts, to utter a sound or a curse or her usual bravado, but as Ontari remains silent Entani merely lets her mind wander, and she begins to think of where Clarke may be, what may be happening to her in this moment. She even thinks of what it must mean to have Prince Roan here, what must be about to happen within Azgeda. She even tries to consider what the Commander's presence means for her clan's future.
But Entani catches movement in the corner of her eye, and as she gazes carefully towards Ontari she sees her shoulders begin to shake, her eyes clenched tightly and her hands fisting on her knees as tears begin to trail down her cheeks.
"Onti," she whispers quietly as she shifts closer to her ignoring the ever constant ache in her ribs. "It will be ok," she says as she brings an arm around her friend's shoulders.
"It is my fault," Ontari whispers, her voice coming ragged, pained and broken. "If I had paid more attention. If I had been more loyal, a better warrior I could have seen what was happening," Ontari says, her voice breaking at the end of her words.
"No one could have known," Entani counter.
"I should have," and Ontari shakes her head forcefully, her eyes still closed. "It is my fault," and she wipes a hand across her cheek messily. "If I was not so weak I could have stopped it, I could have done more."
"No one could know," Entani stresses quietly.
"I did nothing," Ontari says, though, and Entani knows she hears the pain and the guilt. "You almost died and I did nothing."
"What do you talk of?" Entani says quietly, her arms beginning to rock Ontari against her gently.
"When—" and a hiccup interrupts Ontari's words briefly. "When we were captured. It was my fault," she whispers, her voice coming out wet and teary. "I should have done more."
"You did all you could," Entani says quietly, memories of when they were captured drifting through her mind for a moment.
"It was not enough," Ontari says simply.
"I am still alive," Entani counters though.
Ontari looks to her then, her eyes puffy and red, her cheeks wet, and her lip trembling slightly.
"I love you," Ontari says simply, and Entani smiles, shrugs and squeezes a little harder before she lets her arm fall from around her friend's shoulders, the small smile she sees on the other woman's lips enough to soothe her worries for now.
"As I you," Entani answers easily. "We will find answers, Ontari," she continues. "We will rescue Clarke, and we will find the truth."
Ontari nods, her eyes slowly focusing, and she watches as Ontari wipes a hand across her face, as she sniffles quietly and as she takes in a steady breath before standing, her hand held out for Entani to take.
And so Entani takes a hold, the help welcomed. They begin the short walk back to the camp, the snow crunching lightly underfoot, but Entani's gaze is drawn to Roan's tent where she sees Lexa and Anya duck out of it, and she senses Ontari's gaze hone in on the Trikru women.
Lexa's gaze follows Ontari as she is escorted out of the tent, Entani holding her close, whispered words falling from her lips.
"I do not think I have ever seen an Azgeda warrior cry," Anya says simply, her own gaze following both Azgeda women as they exit.
"All she has known is being challenged," Roan says simply. "She will need time," and he shrugs.
"She does not have time," Lexa says. "She will either need to join your warriors, or I will have her imprisoned."
"She will see reason," Roan says.
"Very well," and Lexa inclines her head once before turning her attention back to Jaha who remains kneeled on the floor, hands bound, eyes looking around him cautiously.
"I've done my part," Jaha begins cautiously. "Are you going to let me go?"
"No," Lexa says simply. "You will be punished in accordance to your people's customs," she continues, and she sees his eyes narrow and his lip begin to curl in frustration. "Be thankful you will not see Coalition punishment, you would not survive it," she says simply.
"Take him," Roan says to Echo, and Lexa watches as the assassin steps forward, their gazes not quite meeting as Echo moves forward and begins to march Jaha out of the tent. And Lexa doesn't miss the way Anya's eyes remain locked on the ground, her body tensing as Echo moves through the tent.
Roan watches for a moment longer, too, and Lexa knows he considers the things that have occurred between all that were present.
"We will rescue Clarke," he says.
"Your forces are ready?" she asks.
"Yes," he says simply. "There are a few near Clarke at this moment. They will free her and meet us here," and he pauses in thought for a moment. "I wish to avoid conflict for now," and Roan looks pointedly at her. "Many do not know of my mother's treachery, and I believe many would not stand by her side once it is known."
"I wish to avoid unnecessary violence, too, Prince Roan," Lexa says.
"Then we must move quickly once Clarke and my forces arrive here."
"I have warriors at the border who wait for our signal," Lexa continues. "They will cross into Azgeda lands to reinforce us if we are attacked," and Lexa pats the small radio tucked into her pocket.
"That may cause open conflict," Roan cautions.
"It may," Lexa agrees. "But you will be present. I believe that would be enough to give any Azgeda who give chase pause."
Lexa breathes in deeply, the cold winds this far north leaving her uncomfortable and slightly aching in the cold. Anya steps besides her though, and she feels Anya's tension linger as the woman eyes the few northern Azgeda that mill about quietly.
"Gustus knew you were going to Azgeda?" Anya asks quietly.
"He did not," Lexa answers, her eyes gazing out past the rocks and into the snow field that spreads out around the small camp. "Shana will have informed him by now, though," she finishes.
"He will be angry," Anya answers. "As Titus will be, too."
"They know their place," Lexa says simply.
"They do," but she knows Anya turns thoughtful, turns apprehensive, perhaps even angry, as she sees Echo walk past in the distance, the assassin keeping her distance, her eyes trained elsewhere.
"I hate her for what she did," Anya says, her voice coming detached, distant, and Lexa knows she talks of the assassin, of her role in Costia's death.
"All wrongs have been wiped clean," but Lexa doesn't quite think her words a truth as she sees Echo duck into Roan's tent, an anger slowly simmering in the corners of her mind.
"It does not mean I will forgive her," Anya says simply.
"Perhaps not," and Lexa sighs forcefully, her mind turning away from thoughts of Costia and to Clarke, wherever she may be.
"Ontari cares for Clarke," Anya says.
"She does," Lexa agrees.
"Is that not a problem?" Anya says cautiously.
"I do not believe so," Lexa shrugs. "Clarke cares for her, too. But not in that way," Lexa finishes confidently.
"You believe that?" Anya asks, and Lexa knows she merely questions because she cares.
"I do," and Lexa nods to herself.
But both women hear the approaching steps and so they turn to find Ontari marching towards them purposefully, and Lexa doesn't miss the slight wetness that tinges her cheeks, or the rawness of eyes. Entani follows more mutedly though, and Lexa's gaze shifts to the Azgeda healer as she pauses some distance away, her feet scuffing at a pebble underfoot.
Ontari stops in front fo them, her hands on her hips as she glares once at Anya before turning her attention to Lexa.
"I do not care that you are the Commander," Ontari begins. "I do not care that you rule the Coalition and that you dictate what everyone must do."
Lexa's eyebrow raises, and her head inclines, but she remains silent, Ontari's words not yet finished.
"I do this to rescue Clarke, not for you, not for your Coalition, not because you are the Commander," and Ontari pauses. "I do this to find answers and the truth. I do this for my own clan, I do it because it is best for my people."
"All that matters is that you do it," Lexa says simply, her eyes steady as she holds Ontari's gaze.
Ontari meets her gaze with an ice stare though, and Lexa thinks Ontari considers her next words carefully.
"If Clarke dies," and Ontari lifts her chin as she straightens her back, and as her shoulders square. "I will seek vengeance," she finishes.
Trying to eat with a bloodied nose and an aching jaw is something Clarke finds an incredible nuisance. Her fingers shiver slightly as she spoons a sloppy mouthful of food past her lips and she tries not to spill the little food she has been granted. She feels her hair clinging to her, the little she wears hardly enough to keep the cold chill from freezing the water that clings to her body.
Her door scrapes open though, the sound ringing out through the stone and as she looks up she finds Teril standing before her, his body silhouetted by a torch that burns too far for the heat to be any comfort.
"Stand," he says.
Clarke stands, a wince falling from her lips as she feels her muscles protest the exertion, her joints aching and her body shivering in the cold.
"Your friends are gone," he says simply as he continues to look at her for a long moment.
"Who?" Clarke asks, but she thinks he talks of Entani and Ontari.
"You know who," and he eyes her cautiously, his gaze moving over the cuts and bruises that litter her body. "They escaped, never arrived where they were supposed to," and he steps forward. "Raise your arms."
Clarke looks at him for a moment before she raises her arms up, and she feels her ribs protest the stretch, her last beating leaving them sore and bruised.
"You are to be executed soon," Teril says as he continues to look at her. "Turn," he finishes.
And Clarke turns awkwardly, the chain around her ankle clinking, and as she lets the words sink in, she finds herself not quite sure how to react. If only because she had expected the torture at Teril's hands to be more brutal, more severe, filled with pain and discomfort.
"Where's Nia?" Clarke asks.
"She is returning to the capital," Teril says easily. "Your betrayal has meant Kwin Nia must now reassure many at the capital that Azgeda is not a pawn to the Commander's wishes," and Teril pushes Clarke towards the wall, her palms pressed against it as he kicks her legs wide. "Do not move," he says simply, and Clarke feels him kneel down behind her, and she feels his fingers begin to pull on the shackle around her ankle.
"Where are you taking me?" she asks.
"You will find out soon," he says simply. "Move," he finishes as he steps back, hand already pulling Clarke from the wall and towards the door.
Clarke grunts out a quiet curse as her feet begin to pad across the rough stone, and her eyes trace the cells she passes, the light of torches burning in sconces all that illuminates her way. Teril stands close behind her, too, his hand firm as it grips her shoulder as he guides her down the dark corridor. She even hears the constant dripping of water as it slaps against the stone, the sound travelling through the stone and winding its way through her mind.
"I'm being executed," Clarke says into the quiet.
"Yes," Teril answers.
"Why?" and Clarke tries to think past the constant ache in her bones and the constant thirst and hunger that claws at her mind.
"Kwin Nia has decided that you are no use to her alive," and Teril directs her down a bend in the corridor.
"Why are you even telling me all this?" Clarke questions.
"You will be dead soon," and she thinks she hears his voice tighten slightly.
And so Clarke takes his words for what they are and she lets herself fall quiet. But they come to another cell, the door similar to the one Clarke has stared at for the last few days.
Teril opens the door to reveal another cell, this one, much like the door, looks identical to the one Clarke had just come from, and as Teril pushes her forward and as her eyes adjust to the dark she recognises the figure that remains seated on the ground, his face bloodied and his body covered in bruises, his own ankle shackled by a rusted chain.
"Torvun," she whispers, her eyes tracing the swollen eye that peers up at her.
Teril pushes her forward before he steps out of the cell, and Clarke turns to see him staring at them both for a long moment.
"Perhaps seeing the pain you have caused others will make you reconsider your actions," he says before the door closes.
Clarke waits until the doors close and until she is sure Teril's presence has faded and then she rushes to Torvun's side, his quiet not lost on her.
"Torvun," she whispers as she kneels by his side, and she sees him look up at her painfully.
"Clarke," he says, his voice coming out ragged, his breathing laboured and wheezed.
"Are you ok?" she asks, her hands hovering over his body.
"I have been better," he says as he sits up more fully, and Clarke can't help but to eye the bruises that cover his own body, that litter his chest and arms and that colour his flesh a deep purple.
"I'm sorry," she whispers as she steadies him, her hands holding his shoulders steady as he grunts and as he leans back against the wall, his legs crossed and his chest heaving slightly from the pain.
"It is not your fault," Torvun answers simply.
"That's not true," Clarke counters as she eyes him for one more moment before she moves besides him, their shoulders brushing. "You've had it worse than me," she says as she gestures up and down his body.
"I am not as important as you are," Torvun says simply.
"You are to me," Clarke counters.
And she winces as Torvun coughs and as he brings a hand up to his mouth to wipe away a trail of blood that slips past his lips.
"At least we can share body warmth," Clarke tries to joke, but as she eyes their shared state of undress she thinks it would do little to keep them both warm in the dungeons they find themselves in. "Apparently Entani and Ontari managed to get away," she says quietly, her eyes tracing a bruise that spreads across Torvun's cheek.
"That is good," he says as he rubs a hand over his head.
"We're going to be executed," Clarke says awkwardly, and she sees Torvun raise an eyebrow.
"I am not surprised," he says with a wry smile.
"I don't know when," and Clarke worries her lip, her thoughts turning to Nia's servant and the conversation they had spoken before the guard had interrupted. And Clarke thinks of telling Torvun, of letting him know of the potential for the woman to help, to aid in their escape. But perhaps she won't, if only because a false sense of hope would merely frustrate, would merely leave a bitter aftertaste.
"Do not be afraid," Torvun says quietly, his eyes finding Clarke's, and she thinks she sees a comfort, an acceptance, or perhaps a tiredness in his eyes.
"Don't give up yet, Torvun," she says. "We still have time."
Hanging upside down sucks, and as Clarke swings back and forth she at least feels thankful that the food she eats barely fills her stomach, barely gives her a chance to throw up what food she is allowed to eat. But as she listens to the creaking of the chain that holds her up, and as she feels the stretching in her ankles and her legs, she knows her body will protest the pain when she next wakes.
And so, for now, she tries to lose herself to the rhythm, to the beat that her body swings in the emptiness of whatever dungeon she finds herself in.
They take Torvun away at night, and she only catches his eyes once before the door slams shut with a loud clang before their steps fade and she no longer feels his presence and warmth by her side.
Regret fills her though, and it's not a regret for the actions she has taken, for the things she has done, for the situation she finds herself in. But she thinks it a regret that her actions have caused others pain, have caused Torvun to return in the morning with fresh cuts, fresh bruises, fresh pains and aches and wounds.
Maybe she regrets not taking advantage of the short amount of time she had spent without the chain clamped around her ankle, the weight now returned, now ever clinking with every movement she makes.
But Clarke laughs a ragged thing as she hears the wind rustle through the dungeons, through the cell and against the stone. She laughs because it reminds her of the Ark, it reminds her of being a prisoner, of being locked in a cell, where the cold had been constant, where the food had been scarce and where comfort had been the imagined embrace of her father's arms.
But for now Clarke closes her eyes, wraps her arms around her shivering body and she tries to lose herself to happier memories. At least until the sun rises.
Clarke thinks it must be the fifth day now, and as her eyes crack open to the sounds of the door being closed she finds Torvun sliding down the wall besides her, his breathing ragged once more and his face ever bloodied and bruised.
Clarke struggles to her knees and shuffles to him, her hands helping ease him down into a more comfortable position. She doesn't miss the way he holds his right arm to his ribs carefully, and she doesn't miss the deep purple bruise that already begins to spread.
"Let me look," she croaks out, her voice rough from lack of water.
And so Torvun moves his arm slowly, and as she carefully brings her hands to his ribs she applies the slightest amount of pressure.
"Sorry," Clarke whispers as Torvun grunts out. "I don't think they're broken though," and she finishes running her fingers over his ribs before helping him ease his arm back down.
"Are you ok?" Torvun asks, his own voice coming out weary.
"They aren't beating me," Clarke whispers as she eyes a fresh cut on his cheek.
"They wish to break you," he says simply. "I am being punished," and he pauses mid shrug to curse his ribs and the cough that escapes his lips. "Death will come soon," Torvun finishes morosely.
"Hey," and Clarke reaches out and squeezes his hand slightly. "We've got to stay positive," and she glares at him softly. "No giving up yet."
"I merely speak the truth, Clarke," Torvun answers tiredly, his eyes already beginning to close.
"Hey," and Clarke stares at Torvun worriedly, "Torvun," and she shakes his shoulder just once. "Don't fall asleep," and she curses quietly as he merely grunts, his breathing already beginning to shallow and slow. "Torvun," she hisses, and she shuffles closer on her knees as she kneels in front of him, her hands now gripping the sides of his face as she leans in closer. "Torvun."
But his eyes open, and he stares at her for a moment.
"I am not dying," he says simply.
"Oh," and Clarke bites her lip as she looks away. "Sorry," she says as she moves off him.
"I am going to sleep," Torvun says with a pained lifting of his lip. "I did not sleep last night," and he gestures to the fresh cut on his cheek as his eyes close once again.
And so Clarke sighs heavily, but as Torvun begins to drift into a not so peaceful slumber, Clarke lets her eyes close, she lets her body lean into his and she lets the little warmth they share fight the cold that is ever constant around them.
Clarke's eyes open to a searing heat held close to her face and to the burning stench of smoke that fills her lungs.
"Wake up," a voice says, and as she recoils from the heat she eyes a guard who stands in front of her, others by his side, hands on the hilts of swords and knives as they eye both her and Torvun. Clarke takes a moment to look past the closest guards though, and she sees a number of others close by, their eyes guarded and their bodies tensed, and she even spots the assassin, Silence with them, his arms crossed and his fingers tapping against his forearm as he takes in Clarke and Torvun's wounded and weary states. "Stand," the first guard says, his eyes harsh in the flickering of the torch light.
And so Clarke struggles to her feet, her arms wrapped around herself for warmth and her limbs tired and aching. She eyes Torvun who struggles to his feet, too, and she goes to reach for him, to help him up, but the guard merely pushes her firmly so that she feels stone press into her back. But Torvun finds his feet and as he comes to stand besides her she feels his shoulders square and his back straighten as much as possible despite the bruising of his ribs.
"Turn," the guard says simply and so Clarke and Torvun turn to face the wall, and as their eyes meet Clarke think she sees Torvun smile at her sadly, and she thinks she knows what will soon happen. "Hands," the guard says once more.
And so Clarke holds her hands behind her back, and she feels the sharp burn of rope that ties around her wrists and that pulls at her skin. And she knows Torvun feels the same from the quiet curse he mutters as his arms are jostled and as strain is put on his ribs.
And then Clarke feels the blindfold settle over her eyes and that steals her vision.
And it's dark, the cloth rough, the weight uncomfortable, the smell of it sweaty and musky.
Clarke feels strong hands grip her by the upper arm and turn her from the wall, and she knows she hears Torvun whisper quietly to her before his own voice is muffled by whatever blindfold or hood that is place over his head.
Clarke feels herself pulled from the wall, and she feels herself be marched out of the cell. Her ears pick up the sounds of guards and warriors who move with her, and she knows she hears the creaking of leathers, the rustling of furs and the clinking of metal against metal as they move through the cold dungeons.
"What's happening?" Clarke ventures, but she thinks she already knows.
"Kwin Nia has no more use for you, Wanheda," one guard says simply, and she thinks she hears a detachment in his voice.
"You are to be executed for your crimes," the one leading her says, and she knows she hears the anger and betrayal that he must feel as it laces his voice.
She hears Torvun curse out quietly as he trips though, his body too pained and beaten to effectively walk forward blindly, and she hears guards grip him, and she hears him curse as his ribs protest the strain as she thinks some guards hold him up. But she keeps walking.
They pause for a moment and Clarke hears the sounds of a bolt sliding, she hears the sounds of a metal door swinging open and then she feels the harsh bite of the Azgeda winds as they buffet her exposed flesh, and she feels her skin pimple and prickle in the cold, and she feels the snow that stings into her bruises, that causes her to shiver, to shake and tremble.
"We can't get some clothes can we?" Clarke asks, and perhaps in this moment she can't help but to let a rebellious streak take hold, take root, if only because she doesn't quite wish to be executed half naked in the freezing snow.
But Clarke hears a whispered conversation take place, and she thinks she hears an anger in some voices, caution in others. But she hears someone step away, she hears their feet fade into the distance and so she waits. It doesn't take long, but Clarke hears the returning crunch of boots against snow and then she feels a person return and step in front of her.
Clarke can't help but to yelp slightly as she feels hands lift one of her legs before forcing it into warm furs, and then she feels the hands grip her other leg before lifting them into the other leg of what she assumes to be pants.
And it's awkward, whoever it is in front of her struggles to pull her pants up given her predicament, and she is sure she hears Torvun cursing out whoever does the same for him. And Clarke is sure she blushes as she feels hands awkwardly try to settle the pants around her waist, and as fingers try to awkwardly button her fly.
"Sorry, Wanheda," a voice whispers to her before the presence steps back only for warm furs to be draped over her shoulders.
But Clarke nods once, at least now thankful that her last moments won't be quite so cold.
And so Clarke feels hands guide her forward once more and she feels the cold crunch of snow underfoot but as she continues to walk blindly forward she thinks she feels the snow begin to give way to iced rock, and she knows she hears the sounds of the wind as it whistles against the sharp of the rocks that circle the small village, and she can't help but to laugh quietly as she realises that her death won't even be seen by many, won't even be held in the village square. She realises that her death will be small, will hardly cause a ripple, will hardly be noticed for days, for weeks even, perhaps months. And she knows that is what Nia wants, for her death to go unnoticed for as long as possible, for as long as Nia needs to address whatever plans she has concocted, has set in motion to wage war against the coalition.
Clarke feels the snow give way completely though, she feels it slip and harden underfoot and she knows that she now must be hidden from view of the village, the rocks that she is sure spring up around her enough to hide whatever happens from view.
Her thoughts turn to her friends though, she thinks of Ontari, ever stubborn, ever loyal and brash and quick to violence, she thinks of how she had first met her, of how they had grown close over the years, of how they had fought side by side. And she thinks of Entani, the healer who had been the first to show her kindness, to not meet her foreignness with distain and distrust. She thinks of the Skaikru, of Wells, of conversations she had always expected to still have, to ask for forgiveness and to settle the score. And she thinks of her mother, she wonders if she even knows her daughter is about to be executed, she wonders if she even knows she has been captured, has been missing for days now.
And she thinks of her time in Polis, of the things she has experienced, and she thinks of Lexa. And it's odd. She knows they haven't quite discussed what exists between them, what it could grow into, what it may be. But she thinks of Lexa's smile, of her infuriating smirk and the secrets she keeps and the way she merely raises her chin in defiance when she knows she has caused frustration and anger and annoyance.
And Clarke stumbles. Her foot drags on the icy ground beneath her, and she curses the pain in her knees from hours spent kneeling on the stone, she curses how her hands are tied behind her back, unable to break her fall should she find her footing slip. But Clarke laughs, too, she laughs because she thinks this so very familiar, she thinks the cold the same, she thinks her shackled hands the same, and she thinks her actions and her punishment and her fate the same. For surely, it must be ironic that she now finds herself about to be executed for doing what she thinks was best for her people. For disagreeing with the leadership of her people and the decisions those in power make.
But she knows she doesn't quite care for the next few moments that are soon to pass.
She feels Torvun's body press against hers briefly though, she feels him stumble and trip and she hears him curse out and groan as his ribs protest the movements.
And it's only another few short steps, a few simple paces, and then strong hands grip her shoulders as a foot trips her and sends her to her knees. She feels hands tug at her blindfold then, and her eyes blink in the harsh light of the morning light.
And Clarke thinks she only just now starts to feel the worry begin to settle in once more, she thinks she only now begins to feel the fear and the pumping of her heart and the clamminess of her fingers.
And she knows she hates this.
"It has been an honour to serve you, Clarke."
And her head turns to face Torvun, and she finds him smiling at her kindly, his eyes already beginning to close as acceptance settles over his bloodied face as he rests his cheek against the cutting block laid out in front of them.