It must be a week before her bag is returned, and Clarke doesn't miss the fact that the map and technology she had is missing. But she thinks she can be happy with the fact that her father's watch still remains, and as she straps it to her wrist she is sure a tear falls down her cheek slowly, and she is sure her shoulders shake and that quiet sobs escape her lips. And she is thankful that she is alone in her room, and that it is late, and that servants and warriors alike are absent to the sounds of her quiet heartbreak.
But as she dries her eyes, as she packs away the bag, she can't help but to think that this is her life now. That she must make of her life what she has been dealt. And perhaps escaping, perhaps making her way to the Mountain or Mount Weather is a doomed task. Was always a doomed task.
But still, as she looks out her window, as she traces the stars that sit quietly in the night sky, she thinks she can mourn the loss of a life not her own anymore.
She thinks she stays by the window for a long while. Long enough that the stars burn a quiet trail against her eyes, long enough that she thinks if she squints hard enough, if she imagines just enough, that she can see the Ark as it races through the sky. But a laugh escapes her lips then, not a happy thing, not a carefree thing. It's a sad, bittersweet, broken thing that sounds more a choking sob as it sits somewhere in her throat.
She turns from the window then, pulls her clothes off, the small sleep clothes granted to her already laid out on the bed, and so she pulls them on, blows out the small candle that lights the room a gentle orange-red, and she pretends that the tears that fall from her eyes don't exist, and that the shaking of her shoulders are from the cold, and that the clenching of her heart is just a cruel, imagined thought that dances quietly in the recesses of her mind.
She wakes to the banging on her door again, her mind still unused to the early mornings that she must now live, and so she quickly dresses, thankful that Ontari now waits by the door, rather than walking straight in. And so, as she rises, as she brushes a hand through her hair she lets a careful smile grace her lips, ever tentative in her interactions with the other girl. If only because she would prefer not to be choked once more.
"Kwin Nia says I am to train you," it comes out crisp, just a hint of annoyance that sits comfortably in the words Ontari utters.
Clarke shrugs then, her hands trying to braid her hair in the style she sees the women of Ronto wear. But as she winces at a particular knot that has formed she can't help but notice the exasperation that creeps onto Ontari's face, and she doesn't miss the sigh that falls from her lips nor does she miss the tapping of an impatient foot.
"If you want to me to hurry you could help," she growls it out, her fingers pulling the knot free, but perhaps by the look Ontari flashes her way, she isn't sure whether Ontari is more likely to punch her or to help her.
It surprises her then when Ontari holds up a hand briefly, before pushing her down onto the chair.
"Do not move," and so Clarke sits still while she feels Ontari move behind her, and she grimaces when her hair is pulled painfully and she winces when the knots are removed sharply. And it isn't long before her hair is braided, Ontari muttering quietly to herself, words of which Clarke is sure are not so pleasant. But she feels the fingers till in her hair and so she stands, running a quick hand over the simple braids Ontari has formed.
"Thanks," she says to the retreating back of Ontari.
The walk outside is a fast, quick pace, Ontari barely casting a glance behind her and so Clarke follows steadily, a careful nod to the servants and guards she passes. And as they exit the building she follows Ontari through the open field, the morning sun still hanging lowly in the blue sky.
She watches as warriors race past, their feet strumming steadily beneath them as they run a circular pattern around the field, and not for the first time she thinks life on the ground must be harsh and brutal when all she sees are warriors who train, who injure themselves and who scar themselves. And she knows life on the ground is harsh and dangerous when even servants, when even those who didn't choose to be warriors can be seen carrying a knife strapped to their thighs, or who can be seen training amidst the warriors in the early of a too cold morning.
"Where's Kwin Nia?" Clarke asks then, her thoughts drifting to the woman who controls so much of her life now.
"She has returned to the capital."
And Clarke merely shrugs at the finality of the statement, fast becoming accustomed to Ontari's habit of not providing more than enough in her answers.
"Look," she says then, wiping a strand of hair from her eyes, "we have to get along now. And I'm guessing Kwin Nia told you to behave," and Clarke lets her mind wander for just a moment to when she had seen Ontari, face bruised and lip cracked. "We should at least try and get along."
And Clarke is sure if she hadn't been slowed down by her still ill-fitting boots she would have walked into the back of Ontari, but she comes up short and Ontari rounds on her.
"I do not trust you," and perhaps Clarke steps back for just a moment as Ontari nears her, as her face leans in closer, the scars on her cheeks twitching just a bit, her lip curling into a snarl.
And Clarke is sure a scowl forms on her own face, she is sure her jaw clenches for a moment, "you don't have to be so rude."
Ontari eyes her for a long pause, her gaze steady, the furs around her shoulders ruffling in the wind for just a moment. And when she speaks her voice comes out a low, crisp breath of cold.
"Perhaps Kwin Nia will kill you when she realises she has no use for you."
Clarke thinks that Ontari must enjoy violence, must enjoy pain and even take pleasure in it. If only because she smiles once more down at her from where she stands, the sun a halo that crowns her head a blazing light. And so Clarke winces, squints her eyes and struggles back to her feet.
She moves to stand before Ontari again, her feet spreading apart, her gaze eying Ontari as she moves to stand before her.
"You are weak, Clarke," she begins once more, "you are not strong," and maybe Clarke's eyes roll, maybe she huffs out an exasperated growl. "You must use what you have to your advantage."
"Maybe it'd help if you showed me. Instead of just beating me up," she retorts and she is sure from the wicked smile that spreads across Ontari's face that she won't enjoy the next lesson Ontari has planned.
"You are small, so you must use it to your advantage," Ontari begins circling slowly, "avoid allowing a larger opponent to grasp you, to take hold of you," she lunges forward, her hand snaking out, striking Clarke across the face and tripping her up once again before retreating back a few paces.
And as Clarke rises to her feet once more, she thinks she really dislikes Ontari's way of teaching.
Float you.
That night Clarke falls into bed, her bones aching, her arms bruised and tired. But at least she can smile at the fact she managed to kick Ontari in the shin.
I hope it hurt.
She is sure time flies by, a blur of pain, of bruised bones and tired arms. Some days she spends her time with Entani, still helping the wounded that seem a steady occurrence each day, sometimes she spends it with Ontari, often resulting in more bruises, more aches and more pains to add to her still frail body.
It isn't until she slaps Ontari across the face one morning's training session, if only by luck, that she is shown how to handle a weapon. And as Ontari passes her a knife, the blade the length of her forearm, she can't help but feel the dread that seeps into her stomach, and she is sure her heart clenches and her palms sweat when she eyes the deadly blade, and she is sure she swallows painfully when her eyes catch the smirk playing across Ontari's lips.
She finds that the knife isn't so bad. And perhaps she smiles at the careful way Ontari eyes her as she swings it in a careful arc, the length a comfortable thing that balances in the palm of her hand and that brings forth memories of painting, of sweeping brush strokes and of careful guidance as she stitches and sutures wounds on those unlucky enough to find themselves in the Ark's med bay.
And maybe she feels just a moment more sure, just a bit stronger than the days past as she feels her fingers grip the handle of the blade and as she hears it sing through the chill of the morning air.
There's two things Clarke hates the most. The first is to way Ontari's eyes light up when she is about to strike, when she is about to land a too hard, too enthused blow upon Clarke's tired body. And the second is the mornings after, when her legs ache, her cheeks bruise and her body protests each movement.
But she thinks she has found a new foe, a new enemy to despise the most. And as the horse gives an ungainly lurch, its head rearing up quickly, she thinks she really, really hates riding.
"Sit straight, Clarke!" Entani yells out across the field, a smile falling across her face as she squints up at Clarke. "Do not squeeze too tight with your legs," she continues, "or I will see you amongst the wounded!" and maybe Clarke can be forgiven for holding her breath, for hoping she isn't trampled to death.
But perhaps as the horse slows just a bit, as it steadies just enough underneath her, Clarke thinks that maybe, just for a little while, horses aren't so bad. And so she smiles, turns her face towards Entani where she stands, a smile falling across her feet, and perhaps Clarke scoffs at the way Ontari eyes the horse beneath her, as if urging it to misbehave through sheer thought alone.
You aren't so bad, are you?
She pats the horse briefly, her fingers tugging gently into the mane of dark brown before her.
But she's wrong, and the horse rears back, it's front legs kicking wildly, and she is sure a scream much to loud to be dignified escapes her mouth as she falls backwards, tumbling, her limbs sprawling out wildly and so she groans a broken, bruised sound as she lands in the snow. And as she lies there winded, the sun shining brightly into her eyes, she thinks she hears the distant laughter of Ontari, no doubt enjoying another moment of her pain, and she thinks she hears her name being called, Entani running to her.
But she's thankful the horse doesn't trample her.
And perhaps the ground isn't so bad.
At least it isn't the Ark.
Right?
She hears the words, but slowly, dully, if only because it isn't in English anymore and so it takes her just a moment for her mind to translate what she is sure is an insult or a threat.
"If we do not eat tonight it is your fault," and it's a whispered breath against the shell of her ear, and she can't help but to scoff, if only just slightly at the venom she is sure she doesn't imagine in Ontari's voice.
"Shh…" it's a quiet hush that Entani breathes, her eyes still glued to the deer-like animal that grazes on the frozen roots not far from where the three of them lie.
Clarke rises slowly then, her knees spreading apart as she balances on the icy snow beneath her, and her eyes roll for just a moment as she hears the creak of Ontari's own bowstring that she pulls back.
"I have it," she growls quietly, and as she draws her bow she breathes out steadily, her heart beat slowing for just a moment.
"Raise your elbow, Clarke," Entani encourages, a spear in her hand that she readies, her own body braced for the lunge forward.
She pauses for just a moment, for just long enough for her to picture the arrow that will fly through the air, that will pierce the animals heart.
And she releases.
The arrow sings through the air, a gentle whistle, and as it nears the animal she sees it look up, she sees its legs tense and its body begin to bound. But she hears the pained sound it releases, she hears the thump as the arrow embeds firmly into its side and she sees it wobble for just a moment before a second arrow silences the animal, the end quivering in the animal's head.
"You missed," is all she hears before Ontari is up, her bow being slung over her shoulder.
"Whatever."
Skinning the animal isn't so bad she finds. She's seen her fair share of blood from her time on the ground, from her time stitching wounds that warriors bring to her attention. And she has seen injuries from the Ark too.
And so, as the knife slices through a tendon she grimaces for only a moment before continuing to make cuts where Ontari indicates.
The night is spent huddled around a small fire, the three women had set out two days earlier, all in the name of teaching Clarke how to better survive the harshness that is the ground. And as Clarke brings her hands to the flame she smiles for a moment at the warmth that breathes life into her fingers and that warms her chilled face.
"What was it like?" Entani asks then, herself lying back on the furs beneath her, her eyes searching the stars shining quietly in the night sky.
And so Clarke leans back too, her eyes flickering over to Ontari as she stokes the flame for a moment. And she pauses for only a short while as she thinks over the question. As she thinks of her Mother, of Wells and all those still on the Ark. And maybe she hopes that they still live. Maybe she hopes that they found a way to fix the lack of air that would leave them to suffocate.
"It was cold," she looks over to Entani, her eyes still shining softly against the flame, "not like here," and she hears Ontari shift besides her, and she feels her lie down too, the warmth of their three bodies bleeding together quietly.
"It was never warm enough. Always too cold. Enough for you to feel it, and we couldn't do anything about it," and perhaps from her tone, perhaps from the way her eyes must shine, a dampness to them in the orange light, Entani must sense that a pain still lingers. And so she lets the silence hangs over them, and it's just a gentle blanket, just a quiet calm that lingers between the three women, their eyes gazing up at the stars.
She wakes to the quiet chill of a still early morning. The air that clings to them still too biting, still too cold for her tired body. And she's happy to rest for a short while, just long enough for her tired mind to waken. And so she buries her face into the fur that brushes against her, happy to share in the warmth of the bodies pressed to her sides, all in the name of staving off the too cold bite of the ground. And so she lets her mind wander back into a gentle slumber, the sound of Ontari's breathing calming her thoughts, and the beat of Entani's heart echoing against her head.
"You look Azgeda, Clarke," Entani says, her eyes flicking over the grey-white and blue furs she wears, the leather that clings to her frame and the knife that sits comfortably across her thigh.
And Clarke smiles for just a moment before grimacing, Ontari's hands pulling painfully at her hair as she braids it quickly.
"She has no Azgeda marks yet," Ontari says, and maybe, just for a little moment, she can't help but wonder what it would be like to be Azgeda, to belong somewhere once more.
Her feet strum steadily beneath her, and maybe, if only because the snow still clings to her boots and the air she breathes is fresh, and wind brushes against her face, she can enjoy the way the sun only just crests the horizon, only just warms the snow field that she runs through.
She passes a warrior then, her hair shaved, scars running along the top of her head, a quick nod all the acknowledgement that is needed, and she continues forward. Her lungs expand carefully, a measured, steady beat to her heart and her lungs breathe in smoothly. And if only by the warmth of the blood that races through her veins Clarke thinks she enjoys the way the snow crunches underfoot. She rounds a bend in the field, her path taking her along the far wall and she follows in the shadow as she continues through the morning routine until she comes to a tired stop by the main building.
She leans by the wall then, already reaching for the water skin tied to her belt, her hands fumbling with the knot for only a moment before she brings it to her mouth. And she smiles as the liquid runs down her throat, as it quenches her thirst and soothes her mind. And she coughs for just a second as she brings the back of her hand up to her forehead, wiping away the snow that clings, kicked up by her feet.
It's not far to the bathhouse, just a few moment's of stumbling over a foot of snow, but as Clarke reaches the main entrance she smiles, lets the heat of the steam welcome her and pull her forward.
She strips slowly, the morning air a chilling blanket that prickles her skin, that breathes life into the shivers that rake her body. And she grimaces as her toes touch the scolding water, as the steam twists its way up her legs slowly. But she continues to move forward, letting the water lap at her thighs and burn into her flesh until she stands waist deep. And perhaps, as she moves deeper, as she dips herself fully into the water, she is thankful that the ground has hot water, however rudimentary it is created. And so she smiles, lets it linger across her lips, as she breaks the surface.
She scrubs herself slowly then, having taken a wash cloth from the basket that sits by the entrance. She lets the coarse material bruise into her flesh, and as she scrubs away the sweat she thinks she feels the muscles that have grown, that have strengthened and formed since she came to the ground, and she is sure she is thankful of the time Entani has spent guiding her, the time Ontari has spent chasing after her, all in the name of survival.
She lets her mind wander as she rests comfortably against the side of the heat pool, the water a soothing warmth that steadies the thoughts that move gently through her mind. And she thinks her time on the ground has been harsh. Has been brutal, if only because she has helped stitch closed wounds, even burnt ones together that were too severe for sutures and stitching. She remembers the mornings of broken bones she has set, the concussions she diagnosed and the warriors she has healed, only for them to wander back into the healer's building days later. And despite the brutal training Ontari puts her through in the afternoons, the lessons on knife work, of how to disarm, of how to kill, there is perhaps a gentle twitching in the back of her mind that tells her that perhaps she is still a prisoner, still someone not fully trusted.
But it must be better than the Ark. Right?
If only because she has real air.
If only because she has real food.
If only because she is on the ground.
But what of the Ark?
She doesn't know.
It's strange. The pain burns and writhes against her skin. And she knows she should be horrified, knows she should be shocked and should recoil at what stares back. But maybe it isn't so bad. Maybe she can live with it.
What else can she do?
And so her eyes trace the cuts that sit comfortably across her cheeks. Two slashes across each cheek that bleed down diagonally from the corners of her eyes towards the corners of her mouth. And she follows the prominent 'V' cut that etches itself across her forehead, pointing down between her eyebrows.
Clarke Kom Azgeda.
Clarke Griffin.
She's not sure who she is now.
She's not even sure how old she is now.
Twenty?
But at least she has a place to belong.
The bow string rests comfortably between her fingers and she lets the steadying of her heart guide her thoughts and calm the pain that still lingers against her face.
She breathes in, hold it for just long enough for the burn of her lungs to pass into the discomfort, and then she releases. The arrow snakes forward, a gentle whistling in the morning air and she watches as it curves just a bit through the space between her and she smiles when it lands with a small thud, the arrow sticking into the target before her.
She reaches down, her fingers grasping another arrow, and she smiles as she feels the pull in her muscles, as she feels the stretch and the resistance through her arm. And so she lets her lips curve into a quiet laugh as she releases the next arrow, and she smiles as she reaches down, and she smiles as she notches the next. And she smiles knowing this one will once again hit its mark.
She smiles as she bends, as her back arches and her legs slide beneath her. And she smiles as she draws her blade. And she knows that she will strike once with her foot, a quick, powerful front kick that will either connect with the stomach of her opponent, allowing her to lunge forward, or it will be blocked with a broad swipe of an arm, forcing her to turn with the motion. And if it is blocked she knows she will spin with it, let herself drop to her knees and let the snow ice beneath her carry her away from a retaliatory strike.
And so she kicks, her foot snapping out quickly, and for just a moment she thinks it will connect, but her opponent sees it coming, and so her leg finds nothing but air, an arm slapping it away. And so she drops, she spins and she throws up snow before rising to her feet, her knife held out in front of her, her eyes searching for her next opening.
She blocks the return strike, the sword swinging for her throat, and she lunges once more, her fist colliding with a cheek and she grimaces at the thump she hears, but as the face snaps back, as she feels space being forced between them she lets the momentum of her punch bring her forward before snapping her elbow around, once more colliding with a jaw. And then she pounces forward, her knife aimed for the exposed throat and she smiles when she feels the body beneath her sag for just a moment and then she rolls on top, her legs straddling her victim, the momentum carrying them both down to the ground. And so she plunges her knife forward, and she smiles and she laughs as it buries into the snow besides the exposed neck and she knows she wins.
She rolls off Ontari then and she wipes off her blade, holding out a hand for Ontari to grasp.
"You are not so helpless after all," and Clarke knows she won't get much more than that. And so she shrugs, her arms falling back to her sides as she takes her place once more in front of Ontari, other warriors already moving about them, all engaged in their own sparring.
She sits before a warrior, his lip split open, blood dripping down his chin. And so Clarke whispers a quiet Sorry as she dabs it with a paste, and she is sure it stings from the slight grimace that flashes across his cheeks.
"The Commander has Roan prisoner, right?" she asks then, her voice carrying over to Entani as she splints a warriors broken arm.
"Yes," she pauses for a moment, brushing a braid back behind her ear, "Trikru and Azgeda fought before the Coalition formed."
And Clarke smiles when the warrior before her grunts his own opinion, "and we were winning."
"Yes," and she is sure she senses a pride behind Entani's words. "But as punishment for Azgeda aggression," a third warrior spits on the floor then, "Prince Roan was taken as assurance," Entani finishes.
"The Commander seems spiteful," Clarke muses then, a frown sitting across her face.
"Yes," Entani lets her thoughts catch up to her for a moment, "she speaks of trust, of peace, of fair trade. But she offers us no trust and treats Azgeda with suspicion and distain."
And Clarke looks around for a moment as she hears murmurs of agreement from the few warriors that rest in the healer's building.
"We should break from the Coalition," the one in front of Clarke says then.
"Don't move," she hisses quickly, holding his chin in her hands as she brings the needle to his lip. But as she pulls the stitching through, and as she closes his wound, Clarke can't help but to feel the agreement that rolls off those that surround her.
Her feet strum beneath her, and she feels the steadying of her breath and the quieting of her mind. And so she pauses for just a moment, already rolling into a mound of snow, her eyes gazing quietly before her. And she feels Ontari press next to her quickly, her bow readied and her eyes darting forward and back.
Clarke turns to her right, Entani crouched low, her own spear readied, another warrior by her side.
"What exactly do these reapers look like?" it's a quiet whisper, more exhale then speech.
"You will know a reaper when you see it."
Helpful.
She waits for long moments, her ears prickling and her fingers twitching. And it's a gentle hooting she hears first, a soft birdcall that carries on the wind. And so she signs just once with her finger, a quick hooking of her index finger and a raising of her thumb.
Trikru?
And Ontari answers with a shrug.
We'll find out.
And so Clarke rolls her eyes. And she is sure her heart must be beating just a bit faster.
She casts her eyes forward once more, and she scans the trees before her. And she knows that the trees mark the border between Azgeda and Trikru. And she knows that despite the Coalition, relations remain tense and ever dangerous. But for now she has a task of clearing reapers that have wandered much too close to Azgeda lands and so she focuses her mind, lets her eyes gaze towards the trees and waits for the reapers that the scouts found.
She thinks she hears them much sooner than she sees them. And she knows that they are more monster than man, more beast than human. And so she shrinks back, if only in shock when they emerge from the trees, their eyes bloodshot and their mouths frothing.
And maybe it should surprise her when she looks to Ontari for a moment only to see a roaring flame burning in her eyes, a wicked, carefree smile gracing her lips.
But maybe not.
She has beat me up more times than I can count.
And so Ontari bursts from the snow mound, the white of her fur shining in the sun, and so Clarke follows swiftly, an arrow already being let loose. Her feet crunch against the snow, and she casts her eyes sideways to see Entani already throwing her spear towards a reaper.
Clarke ducks then, the whistle of an axe singing overhead, and as she rises she releases another of her own arrows, and she turns, already knowing it will find its mark.
She finds Ontari already in the motion of beheading a reaper, hand already missing, and so Clarke lunges forward, intercepting another as reaper he makes a move towards Ontari's exposed back. And as she feels her blade plunge into his chest, as she feels the spurt of blood that splashes across her face she hears the rustling from the trees and the roaring of more reapers.
She turns then, her chest already heaving, ready to face the next. And she sees five more reapers running towards them, blades swinging maniacally in the air. And as she readies another arrow, as her eyes focus on her target she catches a motion from the trees and so she follows it, and she hears Ontari spit out an angry Trikru before she sees seven figures drop down, five landing on the backs of the reapers catching them unawares and another two circling forward. And if only because it was impressive, she smiles just for a moment as all five reapers are quickly beheaded.
It's an awkward, tense pause then as both parties come to an uneasy calm. Clarke's eyes dart to the seven Trikru before her, and she takes in who she thinks is the leader, her hair bronzed, the tips a dirty blonde her eyes a careful squint, and her cheek bones a sharp contrast. Her gaze flickers to the man besides her, muscled and bald, eyes careful as they move from person to person before him and then Clarke's gaze falls to the younger warrior by his side, her hair braided back, her eyes fiery and angry in the morning sun.
"What is Azgeda doing close to the border?" the leader says then, her hand resting comfortably against the sword at her hip, and Clarke is sure she feels Ontari bristle besides her, she is sure she feels her own feet widen beneath her and her fingers twitch.
"What is Trikru doing close to Azgeda borders?" Ontari replies then, a sneer lifting her lips.
And Clarke watches as a smirk lifts the woman's mouth.
"There are reapers," she shrugs once, her gaze falling to the dead reapers by her feet, "we wouldn't want to mistake Azgeda for them."
And Clarke's eyes narrow, she feels the insult sting across her face and she feels her fingers twitch towards her knife that sits against her thigh.
What a bitch.
And she is sure she senses the others in her party tense, their eyes narrowing as they prepare for the next exchange of words.
"Perhaps you are blind, Trikru, if you would mistake Azgeda clothing for the filth you and the reapers wear," and Entani steps forward, her spear lifting for just a moment, a snarl gracing her own lips.
"Lower the spear, or I will remove your hand," and Clarke's eyes dart to the younger Trikru warrior, her sword already raising before her.
"Muzzle your dog," Ontari hisses, her eyes meeting the Trikru leader's, and Clarke sees the younger warrior step forward, her lips turning into a snarl, her eyes glaring at Ontari.
But the leader shrugs just once more before raising her hand, "stand down, Octavia, we have no quarrel with Azgeda scum. For now."