It's a quiet thudding, a gentle scraping of metal and the soft caress of a hand upon her shoulder that brings her tired mind into a more wakeful state. Her eyes open then, the soft light of a flame dancing in the corner of her vision, the scarred face of the healer kneeling above her. And so Clarke sits up, her eyes falling across the woman's hair, braided and dark, as it falls across her back. And perhaps in the gentle light of a flame Clarke can appreciate the scars that run down her temples to her cheeks, gentle slashes, as if a stem of thorns grows from her hair.
"Come, Clarke," it's a gentle smile that pulls Clarke to her feet, that steadies her as she stands.
And as the healer guides Clarke to the door, as she holds her elbow gently, she can't help but to realise that she doesn't know the woman's name, and so she asks, "I don't even know your name," and she pauses for a moment as the healer looks back to her, a gentle smile gracing her lips.
"Entani," she say then, and so Clarke gives a smile of her own and ignores the stinging of her lip where it cracks open at the motion.
"Thank you, Entani," she voices as she is led towards the door, and she pauses for just a moment as she steps through the threshold, "where are we going?"
"You have been given quarters to stay," she answers, her voice echoing out through the dungeon Clarke is sure they both walk through.
Her eyes follow the torches that burn lowly in their place against the walls, her eyes follow the other doors she passes, locked, heavy set and imposing. And her ears still hear that faint echoing drip, the gentle rhythm of water that crawls over the walls and that winds its way into her mind. And she thinks she shivers for a moment, shivers at the too cold dampness of the air and the too cold chill that clings to her body.
She passes guards then, they nod quietly at Entani, their eyes following Clarke and she hears the whispered greeting in a tongue unfamiliar and rough to her ears. And the thought from times past call out to her then, and so she turns to Entani, lets her eyes wander over the leathers and furs she wears, the scars that adorn her face, even the handle of a knife she sees against her thigh.
"You speak english," it's a quiet question, a gentle observation that breaks the silence that hangs between them both.
"Gonasleng," Entani says, "the language of warriors," she continues, "but all who serve must speak it."
"Oh," what else can Clarke say?
Entani takes Clarke further and further through the dungeons, the stale air lessening with each tired step. And maybe Clarke wonders about who else must be locked in the cells she passes, what their crimes have been, what their punishments will be. But maybe she doesn't wish to intrude, doesn't wish to push her luck. And so she lets her eyes skate over the doors, lets her eyes gaze upon the guards, their faces scarred, their eyes narrowed and their bodies leather strapped. And she keeps her thoughts to herself.
They reach stairs after only a short while, yet Clarke's chest heaves, her lungs burn and her body aches and protest the motion. And she knows she must regain her strength, must try and show Nia, Ontari, even Entani, that she is not weak. If only because she thinks a weakness is not tolerated.
For surely a people who scar themselves are harsh. Are brutal. But maybe that is what it takes to survive on the ground.
Exiting the dungeons is an assault to her eyes, the harshness of the sun that glints off the snow a piercing flame that makes her squint and turn her face for a moment as her eyes adjust. But as her gaze steadies, as her vision clears Clarke can't help but to stare, to wonder and gape. Turning behind her she sees the entrance to the dungeons that fall down into the ground, a small wall adorning three sides of the drop that is the stairs she just climbed. But before her lies an open field, snow covered and wide. And as her gaze passes over the snow she can't help but to smile for a moment at the sun that shines and glints against the snow, that brings it to life and makes it dance before her eyes.
Her gaze is interrupted by a flashing of browns and blacks and she is sure she gasps, she is sure her eyes widen and her heart beat frantic in her chest when she sees horses ride past, leather wrapped around their massive bodies, the browns and greys and blacks of their hair shining smoothly in the morning light. And maybe Clarke feels a small sense of dread when she sees, what she can only assume, are warriors that sit atop the horses, that guide them with careful flicks of their wrists as they hold the reins, or a gentle prod of their heels.
Clarke feels Entani take her by the elbow once more before she is pulled in the direction of a large building that sits at the far end of the field, backed by a large wall that spreads out on either side until both ends of the walls touch the base of what Clarke realises are rocky outcrops that blend into the surrounding land, that rise up into what she can only assume to be a rocky wilderness beyond. And she can't help but to stare, can't help but to let her eyes linger too long on the people she passes, on the warriors, all scarred, all fur and leather strapped who pass her, and she is sure she stares at the people too, not warriors, but still hardened to the elements. She stares at some who lead horses, who carry bundles of furs, who carry baskets and other supplies she is sure they must use to survive. And she thinks she smiles for a moment at the life and the society that lives on the ground.
"What is this place?" Clarke voices, her mind still spinning, still trying to sort the images she sees.
"Ronto. It is only a small town," Entani answers, "close to the border of another clan."
"Does Nia rule over them too?" Clarke asks, and she smiles at a small child that stares openly at her, despite the harsh prod that he receives from another that stands by his side.
"No," and Clarke doesn't miss the tightening of Entani's voice, doesn't miss the lack of further detail, and so she lets the silence once again fall between them, once again lets the quiet comfort spread, and perhaps Clarke is merely content to watch the life that moves past her.
The walk to the building isn't far, and as she approaches she finds that it must be three stories tall, and she sees flags that sway and dance in the breeze, that hang from windows and that drape the walls of both the buildings and the larger walls that back it.
The doors open before her, guards bowing their heads for a moment as Clarke is ushered inside, and she lets her eyes wander from surface to surface, the stone of the building dancing in the light of fires that sit against the walls, and from light that pours in from the open windows that sit high in the walls.
Entani guides Clarke up a flight of stairs, their edges worn, smoothed from generations of use. They near a door then and Entani pauses, pushes it open before she steps aside. Clarke is left with a quiet Your room and then she is left standing in the doorway, Entani's footsteps fading back the way they had walked.
Clarke's eyes roam the room then, she gazes out the window that sits in the wall, the wooden blinds rustling gently in the breeze, and she follows the wall, her eyes taking in the chair and the desk that sits by the wall, before her eyes fall onto the fireplace, a small fire already crackling, already warming the space before her. But the bed draws her attention, and she can't help but to let her eyes widen, can't help but feel a giddy sense of excitement that courses through her, if only because beds do not come in such a size on the Ark, do not come with such lavish furs, despite what she expects is merely normal here on the ground.
She moves forward then, her feet treading awkwardly, the too small and too large sizes of the shoes she wears a small nuisance she is happy to bear, and she smiles just a bit more when she reaches out, when she brushes her fingers against the furs of the bed.
And maybe being a prisoner isn't so bad.
Perhaps it's habit, perhaps its the steadily increasing whisper in her mind, but as she paces back and forth, as she memorises the steps from one wall to the other, Clarke can't help but to worry about her pack she had, can't help but worry about the map she had, that would guide her to Mount Weather. And she knows she must bring it up with Nia, must tell her more of her mission. If only so that she can try and help the Ark, if only to tell her mother that she still lives.
She feels the steady building of her resolve then, the quiet thump of her heart, and she knows she can't back out, and so, as the thoughts begin to take hold in her mind, with a goal of finding Nia, Clarke turns to the door, takes a steadying breath and then she moves forward.
She reaches out for the door then, and as it swings open, she pauses, her eyes widening in surprise when she comes face to face with another. And she gulps. She takes a step back and eyes the woman who stands in the doorway.
"May I enter?" it's a careful question, a pained utterance and a guarded thought Clarke hears.
"Yes," Clarke is sure her voice must tremble for only a moment, but she pushes it aside, and her eyes follow Ontari as she walks into the room. She sits then, in the chair that rests alongside the desk, and if only because Clarke doesn't wish to offend she sits too, her hands steadying herself on the furs beneath her as she rests on the bed.
Clarke watches Ontari for a moment, and she can't help but to eye the purple of the bruise across her cheek, the swelling of an eye and the cracking of a lip that falls painfully and swollen across her face.
And Clarke is sure Ontari must do it on purpose, must let the silence hang for a too long moment, an awkward dance of laboured, worried breathing the only thing that lives between them both, but after a too long moment Ontari sighs, lets her eyes meet Clarke's.
"Sorry," it's a finality, a careful, measured sound that escapes her. And so Clarke shrugs once, bites her lip for just a moment in thought, only to curse quietly at the pain that still lingers.
"It's ok," but it isn't. She thinks she can hold a grudge. If only because Ontari did choke her.
But she stands then, her eyes casting a lingering look around Clarke's room, "you are expected in the dining room, Kwin Nia wishes to see you."
Clarke follows as Ontari leads her out of her room, she follows as Ontari paces down the stairs, her feet moving a rapid, quick step, the only sound between them both the pained curses that fall from Clarke's lips when she trips or stumbles over the poorly sized shoes she wears.
Clarke can't help but to take in more of the building she walks through, the flags that still adorn the walls, the guards she passes, some moving, their own destination in mind, some standing sentry by doors she assumes not welcoming of visitors, and she thinks she sees servants that move quietly in and out of rooms, their eyes curious as they fall upon Clarke.
She comes to a set of double doors then, and Ontari pauses for only a moment before she pushes them open, a glance over her shoulder all she needs before she is moving forward, Clarke still in tow. And her eyes must widen when she sees the table that sits before her, and she knows her mouth waters, her stomach growls and her fingers twitch when she sees the meats, the fruits and the breads and drink that sits comfortably before her. And she thinks she flushes when she catches Nia watching her carefully, their eyes meeting for a moment, and so Clarke lets a careful smile fall across her lips.
Ontari pushes her towards a chair then, on the opposite side of both Nia and Ontari, and perhaps Clarke feels a twisting in her stomach, and maybe she can't help but think this a test of some kind. But for now she is content to eat.
And so, as she eyes the food before her, Nia whispers gently to her "eat," and what more can Clarke ask for in this moment?
"So," Clarke looks up as Nia leans forward, "tell me, Clarke. What did you do in the sky?"
Clarke wipes her mouth then, swallows the mouthful of food she chews on and she looks up to see Nia and Ontari gazing at her steadily. And maybe for a short moment she thinks she should be wary of her thoughts, be wary of the words she will voice.
"It's where I lived," she starts, "my people live in the sky. In machines," and she pauses for a moment, unsure whether the ground knows of machines and technologies and so she adds, "boats, that float in the sky," and maybe the analogy is crude, is poor and too simple. But Nia's lips twitch for a moment.
"We might not use these machines," and Clarke is sure she hears a distain and a derision that seeps into her words, "but we know of them."
"Oh," Clarke is sure she swallows painfully, an obvious bobbing of her throat.
"Tell me, Clarke," again Nia holds a steady gaze, her eyes careful, "why were you sent down to the ground?"
"I—" she pauses, swallows just a moment, her heart beating just a bit stronger in her chest, "my people are running out of supplies," she thinks that simple truths must be the best thing to provide in this moment, "I was sent down to see if we could survive on the ground," she finishes.
"Why were you the only one?"
Perhaps it's the constant questions, perhaps it's the careful way Ontari's eyes follow her, or perhaps it's the fact that she still must be getting used to existing on the ground, but Clarke is sure her palms must sweat just a bit, she is sure her heart must still beat a moment too strong in her chest.
"We didn't know if the ground was safe," she thinks the truth is the easiest answer. Is the safest answer.
"And now that you know that it is safe will they come down?" and perhaps Clarke senses where this line of question must be going. For surely, if she were Nia, wouldn't she wish to know if a new people were soon to encroach on her own lands?
"No," Clarke holds her gaze steady as she looks at Nia.
"Why not?"
"I had a way to talk to them," she thinks of the broken radio, "but it doesn't work anymore. And they had a way of checking on me," she continues, holding up her wrists, "but I guess you had it removed when I was found."
"I see," and there's a gentle pause, long enough for Clarke to think that the questions have ended, and so, as she brings another mouthful of food up she again is interrupted by a careful prodding.
"Did you have a task to complete when you arrived?" she thinks of Mount Weather.
Clarke looks back to Nia, lets her eyes flick to Ontari for a moment.
"No."
The rest of the meal passes comfortably, the earlier tension fading away, replaced by a careful, quiet comfort that sits quietly between the three seated at the table. And perhaps Clarke should feel insulted, should feel slighted when Nia and Ontari begin to speak in their own language, but she's too tired, still too sore to really put too much effort into feeling anything other than the comfort of the food she eats.
But she looks up again when she feels the silence hang carefully over the table, when she feels her neck prickle for a moment. And she smiles awkwardly when she catches Nia eyeing her once again.
"Tell me, Clarke," it's a warm smile that graces her lips, "what did you do where you come from?"
It's a safe enough question to answer. She thinks.
"I was training to be a doctor," she says, her thoughts turning to Entani.
"A doctor?" Ontari asks then, her voice cutting into the conversation for the first time.
"Like Entani," Clarke offers.
"I see," Nia says, her smile reaching her eyes, "you will train with her. Healers are always needed."
And maybe Clarke can enjoy that.
At least until she can find a way to make it to Mount Weather.
It's a loud banging on her door that wakes her, that causes her to bolt up in the bed, the furs bundling around her waist, and she can't help but gasp and try to cover herself as Ontari pushes open the door, as she walks to Clarke, dropping a bag before her.
"You are late. Entani is waiting for you."
And as Ontari exits as swiftly as she came, Clarke can't help but feel stunned, too tired, too shocked at the interruption to do more than gape at the open door.
She finds herself still breathless as she exits out into the open field, the morning sun shining brightly, the night's cold chill still lingering too long on the warming snow. But Clarke sees Entani waiting for her, an extra bag at her feet and her foot tapping lightly on the ground, and so Clarke lets out a small apology as she nears and as she bends to pick up what must be her own bag.
"What are we doing?" she asks as she shoulders the it, the bundle resting heavily upon her shoulders.
"You will follow and learn," Entani says, already moving away. And so she follows, wrapping the fur coat tighter around her shivering body, the snow crunching underfoot and her steps still unsure and uncertain beneath her.
Clarke finds her days long, full of hours following blindly as Entani moves about the small village. And Clarke can't help but to stare, still awed, still amazed at the horses she sees riding in and out of the village, her eyes always following the warriors that sit proud and menacing above them. And she finds herself transfixed that people have survived on the ground.
She watches as Entani stitches a wound, her hands steady as she finishes wiping away the blood.
"So," Clarke says, already handing Entani fresh bandages, "I'm in Azgeda lands, right?" and she smiles just a bit when Entani hums a response, "and Nia—"
"Kwin Nia," Entani cuts in.
"Kwin Nia. She rules Azgeda?"
"Yes."
"But there is a coalition of clans?" and Clarke thinks of the bordering clan she has already heard of, "who rules them?"
And Entani looks up at the question, her eyes thoughtful for a moment.
"Heda, The Commander does. She is imperialistic. She demands others follow her. That we bow down to her will and follow her rule."
And Clarke thinks she grimaces for a moment, if only because she knows history, knows of the damage dictators and harsh rulers have caused. And maybe if just by the cruel circular cycle that history follows, she can't help but feel a remorse that despite what has happened on Earth, dictators and cruel leaders still survive.
"Is that why Kwin Nia doesn't like her?"
"Yes. Azgeda has survived and can survive without the other clans. We are strong. But the Commander forced us to join her coalition or suffer. We would not have survived a war with the other eleven clans."
"But doesn't the coalition stop conflict?"
"Only the strong survive on the ground," and Entani eyes Clarke for a moment, lets her gaze linger, a firmness taking place. She takes a breath then, "is it fair, Clarke, that Ice Nation — Azgeda, must share our supplies with the Desert clan? Share our food with the Valley clan, who can not provide for us? Or the Rock Line people, who can not give us supplies we need or want? What good is the sand the Desert clan trade? Or the stone of Rock Line? What good is trade when we already have what we need?" and perhaps it does sounds unfair.
"I guess... It's not the best?" and maybe she could have worded it better, could have provided a response less ignorant of the situation. But still, didn't she only just realise people still survive on the ground?
Clarke turns back to the bandages that still lie before her, and she eyes the other healers that move about the small building she is in. She lets her eyes wander from warrior to warrior, many with small cuts across forearms, bruises that adorn their scarred faces, bloodied noses, blackened eyes.
"Why are there so many warriors?" she voices, though perhaps she knows the answer, for what else would a person do if life was so harsh, if it took a coalition to stop bloodshed?
"All must provide for the clan," Entani says, her hands carefully sewing shut an open gash on another warrior's bicep, a small grimace falling across her lips for just a moment. "Some choose to be warriors. Some choose to be healers," she smiles up at Clarke then, "some are farmers, some are blacksmiths or builders. But everyone must provide for the clan."
"I see," Clarke says, again passing Entani another fresh bandage.
"And conflict still exists," Clarke looks up for a moment, "bandits are not uncommon."
"Bandits?" she asks.
"Those who are banished for crimes," Entani pauses again for a moment, "and we still fight the Mountain."
"The Mountain?"
"The Mountain. The clans have been at war with the Mountain for generations," she says, and perhaps Clarke can see a fire that burns quietly in Entani's eyes, perhaps she can see the clenching of her fingers.
And Clarke lets her gaze turn for a moment when the warrior before Entani and her curses, a gruff sneer escaping his lips at the mention of the Mountain.
"Is the Mountain another clan?"
"Perhaps," there's a brief pause as Entani looks to the warrior in question, perhaps unsure how best to answer.
"They live in the Mountain," the warrior answers, "they are cowards who bring acid fog down upon us. Who take our people, turn them into reapers."
"Oh," and maybe there's a small tightening of her stomach, maybe there's a small clenching of her heart at the thought that forms slowly in her mind. "Where is the Mountain?"
"Further south. In Trikru lands," comes the answer.
And isn't further south where Mount Weather must be?
And isn't it possible that a people survived in it?
Wasn't it a stronghold, designed to withstand the end of civilisation?
Perhaps, as the beating of her heart settles for a moment, as the clenching of her fingers lessens, Clarke thinks is better off staying here for now, in Azgeda.
But what of her people still on the Ark?
What of her mother?