Clarke hates the cold of the Ark. She hates the crisp, cool, too chilling hug that seems to spread and wind its way into her skin and into her clothes and into her mind. She hates the steady, constant buzzing of the air that breathes through the Ark, that gives life to those that live within its cold walls. And she hates that she is used to it. She hates that she can ignore the humming, can ignore the bite of the cold.
But she thinks in this moment, as her mind wanders restlessly, as her muscles protest angrily and her breaths come stuttering and heavy, that she hates the feeling that descends on her. She thinks that the cold of the air seeps into her flesh and muscles, that it is damp and wet and moist and clammy as it grasps at her skin. She knows she hates the way the air rushes against her flesh, she hates the way the air crashes against her body and she hates her mind as it continues to live and taunt and laugh in her face.
Her eyes open slowly, they open painfully, a heavy stillness clinging to them. And it takes her a short while, just a few long moments for her to realise that she isn't dead, that she isn't dreaming, that she isn't buried beneath layers of snow. And she knows she is alive.
She finds the room she lies in a dark, still space, the air a heavy chill that weighs her shoulders down and steals the breath from her lungs. And as she sits slowly, as her back scrapes against the harsh of the rock wall behind her, there are three truths that creep into her mind. The first is that she lives. She hasn't died, she isn't dreaming, and that her heart stills beat within her chest, still pumps blood through her veins and her lungs still breathe life into her tired body. The second truth dawns on her slowly, and it's a terrifying realisation, her mind screaming out, trying to sift through the thoughts that race and scramble over themselves in their confusion. People still live on the ground. The bombs didn't wipe out all of humanity. She isn't alone. And as that thought winds its way through her mind she realises that her hands are bound behind her back, that her feet are shackled to the floor, a rusted, heavy chain holding them steady and surely in a cool grasp. And as her eyes trace the dark of the room, as her eyes follow the stone of the floor she rests on, the cracks that race up the walls, and the rusted, heavy door that sits recessed into the far wall, she knows she is trapped. She knows she is held in a dungeon, in a prison, something not meant for escape. She knows she is a prisoner.
And it's funny. Or maybe it isn't, but as Clarke stares at her ankles, as she eyes the raw of her skin, as she eyes the door that sits too far out of reach, and the walls in all their cold company, she thinks a laugh escapes her lips yet again. And it's ironic she thinks, it's pathetic, it's a sick, cruel joke that she now finds herself a prisoner once more. But perhaps this is worse, if only because she knows not whether the people who hold her prisoner, who keep her captive are friend or foe.
And so she sits. Her fingers pushed painfully against the wall, her back a tired, bruised pain that burns dully and her shoulders a steady ache. And she can't help but let her imagination run free, can't help but to let the images of a grotesque people, of mutated faces that lurk in the recesses of her mind. For surely, after all this time, after the exposure to the radiation, the people who have survived must be more than human. Must be less than human. Right?
She doesn't know.
She doesn't know how long she sits, how long she waits in the chill of the dungeon. But she counts out the careful dripping she can hear, of what she assumes to be water leaking from a crack somewhere above her. And she counts out the beats of her heart, the constant ache of her battered body the sole company she has. But she hears it quietly, she hears the faint thumping as feet touch stone, she hears the careful creaking of clothing, of the clang of metal scraping against metal. And she hears the voices. And she feels the beat of her heart, she feels it clench and thump erratic and frantic, a thudding echoing through her ears.
She is sure her breathing comes laboured, comes pained and ragged when she hears the scraping against the door. She is sure that as the door creeps open, as the shadows of her captors fall across the floor, that her mind retreats, that her eyes close and her body trembles.
she feels the heavy thud of feet approaching, she feels the air before her brush against her cold body. And now, as she sits before her fate, she realises her state of undress, she realises all she wears is her shirt, torn and tattered, her pants ripped, caked in blood and sweat and mud and ice.
And she thinks.
She knows she will die.
She holds her eyes closed, her face pulled to her shoulder, anything to calm her frantic heart. But she feels it. She feels the closing of a presence, she hears the scraping of something that nears. And it stops. There's a quiet pause, a still moment where all Clarke hears is the raging of the blood through her veins and the ragged, broken breathing that escapes her lips.
It's a faint, quiet sigh, a gentle exhale and a whispered thought. And so she lets her eyes open slowly, lets the presence that sits close to her catch in the corner of her eyes, and then she turns her face, turns her head so that she looks at who sits before her. And maybe it's surprise, maybe it's shock, maybe it's a strange arrogance. But the face that looks to her isn't grotesque, isn't monstrous and isn't twisted from radiation. But still, despite the humanness, it scares her. The face that stares at her is scarred, raised ridges slashed across her cheeks. Two horizontal sliced across her chin and a cruel, diamond edged cut on her forehead.
But, despite the harshness that lives across her face, despite the hard edge to her eyes, Clarke thinks she still sees a youthfulness cling to the woman's face, if only from the careful roundness of her cheeks, the gentle slope of her nose and the slight quirking of her lips as the woman's eyes trace over her slowly.
And so, albeit slowly, painfully, Clarke forces herself to sit more fully, forces her knees underneath her, if only so that they are level, if only so that the person who sits on a stool before her doesn't do so towering over her.
"Who are you?" the woman says it quietly, and Clarke's eyes must widen for a moment, fear must flicker across her face, shock must linger for a moment too long because the person's lips twitch once more, her eyes holding the gaze both girl's share.
"Who are you?" the question comes once more. But, despite the question in her words, Clarke can't help but feel it as a demand, as an order and not as a question that the words conjure.
"Cl—" Clarke chokes and coughs on the name she tries to voice, her throat a scratchy, rough cage for the sounds she tries to make. And so she splutters for a moment, swallows harshly, "water— please… water…" and she knows her eyes water, she knows her voice breaks and her lips crack and bleed. And maybe if she wasn't so scared, wasn't so caged she'd consider what it would mean for these people to speak English. To understand English. But for now, all she needs is water, all she wants is to soothe the burning of her throat and all she considers is the pain of her body, is the ache of her limbs and the burn in her throat.
The woman smiles for just a moment, a shadow falling across her face as she leans back, her arm disappearing from view. And as she moves, as she turns for just a short instant, Clarke can't help but trace the clothes the woman wears, can't help but let her eyes skate over the furs that line her collar, the leather that straps her arms and legs and the braces that hold her steady. The woman brings her hand forward then, a water skin offered. And so Clarke leans forward, her hands still tied behind her, and as her lips meet the water skin the woman tips it back, enough that the liquid can pour easily, and so Clarke drinks as much as she can, uncaring of the water that drips down her chin, that spills past her lips.
"What is your name?" the woman asks after a slight pause, enough for Clarke to swallow a mouthful of water.
"Clarke," it's just a bit less hoarse and broken than before.
"Clarke," the woman repeats as her eyes flicker over Clarke once more.
And as Clarke lets her eyes take in the woman once more, as her eyes trace the fur and the leather that clings to the woman before her, and as her gaze falls onto the knife that sits comfortably against her thigh, she thinks her stomach clenches just a bit, she thinks her mind flashes a warning and she thinks her throat tightens just enough for her to feel the tremble and the unsteady beating of her heart once more.
"Where am I?" it's a quiet whisper that breaks the careful silence that hangs between them.
"That is not important," and the woman leans forward, lets her face approach Clarke's and lets her eyes stare quietly..
"Please," Clarke pauses, licks her lips and grimaces at the blood she tastes, "please… I'm lost. I— I just…" her voice trails off, uncertain and broken, "please," it's a pathetic whisper by the time it reaches the other woman's ears.
The silence stretches out for a long while, the quiet drip of water echoing in the distance, the steady chill of the dungeon creeping into her bones.
"Where do you come from?" Clarke looks back to the woman then, lets her eyes hold the searching gaze. And she knows she can't answer truthfully, she knows from the clothes this woman wears, from the way her hands are tied, from the way the water skin is stitched that these people do not use technology, that these survivors are vastly different to those that live on the Ark. She knows that her truths won't be believed.
"I—" she pauses, her mind searching for an answer, "I come from across the sea," she finishes, and she is sure she saw the ocean when she fell, she is sure these people must know of it.
"You arrived in a flame."
The drop pod
She knows how it must look, she knows how it must seem to this woman. To who ever this woman answers to.
"My ship," she says after just a moment's pause, "it caught fire," she finishes.
Clarke sees the woman nod for a moment, see's her eyes narrow for just a second before she leans back, before she lets a space breathe between the both of them, and perhaps Clarke can't help but let out a relieved sigh, if only because the intense stare the woman held her with had unnerved her, had made her stomach twist in knots.
"You fell from the sky," she says then, her eyes again holding Clarke's for a long moment.
And maybe it's in the following moments of silence, maybe it's in the posture of the woman, in the glint of her eyes or the tightening of her hand around Clarke's throat as it races forward.
Clarke knows her survival is in peril.
"I do not believe that you come from across the sea," it's a hissed, quiet utterance, her hand squeezing tightly, clutching Clarke around the throat, "you are of the Mountain," her fingers tighten further, a spluttering mess coughing from Clarke's throat, "we will not let you survive."
The woman leaves Clarke a whirlwind of frenzied thoughts and bruised muscles. And as the dungeon door slams shut, as the emptiness echoes around her, and as she is once again left alone, Clarke can't help but to feel the shuddering of her breath as it breaks against her chest.
She isn't sure how long they leave her alone, but if only by the three meals she is given, if only by the steps that echo outside the dungeon door, she thinks that perhaps she is kept for three days in solitude, the burn of her throat, the constant aching of her bones and the pain in her wrists all that keeps her tired mind company, all that keeps her too cold body warm.
Clarke finds herself sleeping most of her days, though she is sure her sense of time, of when it is day and night is skewed. But she lets her eyes close when she feels sleep pull at her and she wakes when the door bangs open, a tray of food pushed her way. And perhaps, if only because it was the first piece of real food she has ever eaten, she savours it, she savours the texture of what she thinks is meat, and she knows that it must be what is considered the scraps of a meal. But as the flavours burst within her mouth she can't help but to groan, can't help but to whimper at the cold slop she feeds into her mouth.
And she can't help but to cry.
If only because she is once again a prisoner.
If only because she thinks she is a fool to expect to survive.
Sleep digs coldly into her mind, a soft whimper escaping her lips, a furrow spreading across her brow. And she turns into the wall, tucks her head against it and tries to forget the pain that still tears into her shoulders and that scrapes against her ankles. But she wakes with a start, her forehead banging painfully with the wall before her.
And as she curses, as she splutters on the blood dripping down her brow she turns at the noise, she rolls over to face the door that clangs open. Light floods into the room then, torches carried by figures blurred by her tired eyes. But she thinks she sees a figure move forward, she thinks she sees the swaying of clothes and the careful gait of a predator that approaches. And as the flames near, as her eyes squint she thinks the figure becomes just a moment clearer, just a bit more focused.
Feet end just short of Clarke's vision, and so she looks up, tries to bring her knees beneath her. She sees the grey furs first, the soft swaying and the heavy set that wraps themselves around the figure. And it's a woman, Clarke sees the angle of her nose and the white of the scars that adorn her face.
Clarke is sure she shrinks back for a moment as the woman kneels before her, as her face edges closer. And Clarke is sure her lip trembles and her eyes water for just a second as the woman reaches out, as she brushes a careful finger across her forehead, swiping a loose strand of matted, knotted hair that clings bloodily to her face.
"Shhh…" it's a quiet breath that lingers between them, and Clarke is sure her eyes must be watering now, tears must be falling, "…don't cry,"
"Please… I'm lost," she whispers it out quietly, "I'm not dangerous, I don't want to hurt anyone."
And maybe pleading would be pathetic, maybe it would be desperate. But Clarke thinks she has nothing left.
"Clarke," it comes gently, firmly, fingers holding her cheek for a moment, "don't be afraid, Clarke."
It must take her a long time but the shaking of her shoulders and the tears that flow come to a steady pause, and so Clarke turns her face briefly, bringing her shoulder up in an attempt to wipe away the tears that cling to her cheeks.
But she feels it then, the rough hands that hold her for a moment, that pull her away from the wall. And then she feels the tugging at her wrists the cold sting of a blade sliding against the ropes that tie her hands behind her back and then who she thinks must be guards are stepping back, are fading into the darkness that clings to the shadows of the walls that surround her.
"I'm sorry, Clarke," the woman says, her voice just a bit softer, just a bit kinder, "we didn't know if you were an enemy," she finishes quietly, a small smile gracing her lips.
"I'm lost," it's all Clarke can think to say, all she can hope to say.
"I apologise for Ontari's behaviour," there's just a slight pause, just a slight flashing in the woman's eyes, "I apologise for how she treated you," her hand reaches out once more, a gentle stroking of Clarke's cheek before it retreats, "she was afraid of you."
"I'm not dangerous," Clarke repeats it, if only to convince the woman, if only to show her that she means no harm, that she can do no harm, "I'm lost," and so she looks the woman in her eyes, holds her gaze for a steady moment, for as long as it takes for the woman to see the truth of her words.
Clarke isn't sure how long the woman sits on the stool before her, but in the time she waits, in the time that the woman takes to look at her, to assess her, guards bring in more food, fruits this time, fruits that she hasn't seen before, hasn't tasted before, and as she bites into the flesh, as the juices spill past her lips Clarke thinks she groans, she thinks she wolfs the pieces down and she thinks her stomach growls and rumbles painfully.
"My name is Nia," the woman says after a quiet moment, and so Clarke wipes her hand across her mouth briefly. And the woman, Nia, follows the movement with her eyes gently, "you fell into my lands, Clarke."
Clarke looks up then, and she is sure she feels a gentle twisting of her stomach.
"Tell me," she leans forward, a shadow falling over her face just briefly, the scars that adorn her temples shining softly in the faint light of the dancing flame, "how did you do that?"
And what can Clarke do in this moment? She thinks of the Ark. She thinks of her mother, who must now think her dead. She thinks of the oxygen that is wasting away, she thinks of all those that live in the station, whose days are numbered and whose lives she had been entrusted to guide to safety.
And so she breathes for a moment, holds it just long enough for it to burn.
"I lived in the sky," she steals herself, straightens her back, holds Nia's eyes, "I was sent down to the ground. To see if my people could survive."
There's a gentle intake of breath, just enough for Clarke to feel the worry begin to creep in slowly, just enough for her pulse to thrum just a bit stronger in her veins.
"I see."
And maybe Clarke grimaces, maybe she thinks she over spoke, said too much, was too literal in her words. For surely what she has said is too bizarre, too far fetched, too alien for such a people.
But Nia stands then, a gentle casting of her eyes over Clarke's beaten, bloodied state.
"I apologise again, Clarke," she smiles for a moment, and it's a kind thing, a soft thing that traces the edge of her eyes, "I have had Ontari punished for her actions," and perhaps Clarke gulps slightly at the words, at the threat and the treatment she thinks the other girl must have faced. And maybe she tries not to linger on the punishment, on what a people who scar themselves must be capable of.
Nia walks back to the door then, Clarke still on her knees, the juices of the fruit a sticky mess clinging to her finger tips.
"I will have furs and new clothes sent for you, Clarke."
And as the door closes behind Nia, as her footsteps echo and recede from ear shot, Clarke thinks her mind numb, her wrists aching and burning in the air, the scrapes of the ropes now exposed to the chill air.
But above all?
She knows not how her life will proceed.
True to her word, furs are brought to Clarke swiftly, pelts from animals, from beasts far larger than Clarke could ever have imagined. And as the furs are laid out on the ground she can't help but revel in the softness of them, in the foreign textures that brush against the rough of her skin. And the clothes she is given bring a smile to her tired eyes, if only slight, if only because they aren't caked in dirt and blood. If only because they are clean.
The guards unshackle her feet too, leaving her able to pace back and forth in her cell, and so she waits until they leave. And as the door shuts with a gentle thud she strips her clothes, dresses in the gentle brown of the tunic she has been given, pulling on the fur lined pants, and the boots, one too large, one too small that dwarf and crowd her feet.
She sits then, her hand splayed out through the furs that she sits on, and as her mind begins to settle, as her thoughts focus and her head aches just a little less, she thinks over the actions of her days, she thinks over the events that have led her to where she finds herself.
And she knows the Ark sent her down too far north, off course. She knows that people still live, still survive in the harshness of the ground. And she knows she fears them, she knows she fears the brutal scars, the weapons that she eyes strapped to the guards. She knows she landed in Nia's territory. But the one thing that wriggles in the corners of her mind, that moves when she wishes to lay still, and that screams out at her when all she wishes is for a quiet moment. That one thing is the way Ontari reacted in her assumption of Clarke coming from the Mountain, and maybe it's her mind, maybe it's the shock of being exposed to such a revelation, but she can't help but wonder, if only for just a moment, that the Mountain is important.
A doctor or a healer, from what Clarke can assume, is shown to her the following day. And as the woman, older, face weathered walks in she smiles warmly at Clarke before ushering her back down where she sits on the furs. She checks over Clarke's wrists, her ankles and the still healing cuts that litter her body.
Clarke blushes for a moment when the woman pulls her shirt up slowly, only to eye her visible ribs and the thinness that still clings to her body, and she flinches for a moment as the healer prods her ribs carefully, a soft sorry spoken to her, before she continues.
It's a relief when she can pull her shirt back down, a barrier to the outside chill returned to its place. And the healer begins searching through a satchel she carries, her fingers deftly, nimbly pulling vials and jars out before spreading them before her. And perhaps it's the work Abby did on the Ark, perhaps it's the medical training Clarke already has, or maybe it's just the newness of what she sees, but Clarke follows her actions carefully, her eyes straining to pick out each movement, each step as the healer mixes pastes and liquids, as she brings a brush through them and as she coats bandages with the soft grey blue paste that remains.
"Thank you," Clarke says as the woman wraps her wrists and ankles in the bandages, a soft stinging pulling at the corners of her mind. The healer looks up then, a gentle incline of her head all the recognition she provides before she continues her work.
The woman leaves soon, a foul tasting potion pushed Clarke's way and a soft goodbye and a gentle squeeze of a shoulder left behind before she exits the room, the door thudding shut behind her followed by the scraping of the lock.
And maybe it's an ironic thing, maybe it's a cruel twisted sense of fate that Clarke finds herself once again trapped in a cell, once again at the mercy of others. But at least she has real air to breathe. At least she has real food to eat.
But maybe as her eyes close, as her mind begins to still, she wonders of Mount Weather, she wonders of her mission.
She wonders of her fate.