"Trikru are in the trees," Clarke looks to her left, Entani crouching low, wiping a hand over her face, smearing the white of Azgeda war paint across her cheeks and forehead.

"Do we kill these reapers?" Clarke asks, her eyes turning back before her, already counting the few reapers that move through the trees.

"Only if they cross into Azgeda lands," Ontari answers, her own face a deathly white, her eyes gazing towards the trees across the clearing.

And so Clarke lets herself relax for now, the many warriors by her side a steady reassurance, their breathing quiet, their weapons readied.

"Why do you think the reapers are so far out from the Mountain?" she voices, her eyes turning towards the sky as she traces a cloud that drifts by lazily.

"I do not know," Entani says before looking to Ontari, "perhaps the Mountain is desperate."

And Clarke smiles when she hears a warrior somewhere close by snort, a few others snickering quietly. And she thinks her heart settles and her mind clears as she lets her gaze fall upon those that lie in the snow by her side, their faces painted a deathly pale, the grey furs flowing gently with the morning breeze, and the white of the fabric woven into their braids blending into the snow that rests by their sides. And as she looks down at the furs that cover her shoulders, the leather that holds her firm and her own hair, white cloth braided through it, she can't help but to feel a slight stinging across her cheeks, the scars still fresh and reddened.

But maybe she thinks that it isn't so bad.

She hears the quiet birdcall then, and she feels those around her tense for a moment and then she sees the rustle from the tree tops before Trikru are dropping down, their weapons readied, quickly moving to cut down the reapers that lunge forward, and Clarke's eyes narrow for a moment as she sees the same young warrior from yesterday, her lips turned up into a snarl, her eyes glinting in the sun light.

"Should we help, Ontari?" a warrior voices quietly, an arrow slowly being drawn back.

"No. Let Trikru bleed."

"Bring them close, wait until they are in the deep snow before you retreat," and Clarke can't help but to feel her heart beat just a bit less steady in her chest.

"And why am I the one doing this?" she asks, her fingers twitching towards the knife that rests by her thigh, her eyes gazing towards the reapers that feast on a deer carcass, the cracking of bones and ripping of flesh carrying over the snow field, the few trees doing little to dampen the noises.

"I do not wish to be the reaper's next meal," is all she is given before Ontari slides away carefully into the snow.

She reaches back then, her fingers brushing against the arrows that sit in her quiver and she lets the familiar bristles of the feathers calm her mind. She slinks forward then, crouched low into the snow, her boots softening the crunch beneath her feet and her furs moving quietly over the snow that clings to her knees.

And there's four of them, all grotesque, all bloodied, covered in a filth she can smell even from the distance she leaves between them. She stays low, her bow extending out horizontally before her, and so she raises up on one knee, her other leg extending before her to steady herself.

And she smiles for a moment as she feels the quiet creak of the bowstring, she lets her lips curve up gently as she feels the bow bend in her hand. And she breathes in for just a moment as the arrow rests against her fingers.

She eyes the reaper turned to her, his eyes still down towards the carcass, his teeth sinking into the flesh repeatedly. And she knows she can hit the first one, she knows she can move to draw the next arrow before the first arrow even strikes her target. And she eyes the other three reapers, their backs to her, and she knows the one closest to her will be next, and she knows she can silence that one too. But perhaps the third arrow will not silence the next victim. And she knows she will only have time to fire at it without aiming before they are moving.

And so she breathes out once more.

The arrow flies forward whistling through the air, before punching into the reaper's throat with a splatter of blood. And as the sound of gurgling and choking reaches her ears, the second arrow already sings through the cold morning, she rises, the steady thump of the second arrow piercing the reaper's back echoing gently across the snow field, her feet already taking her back towards where the rest of the Azgeda warriors lie in wait, and she doesn't look as the third arrow snakes forward, she doesn't look as the fourth reaper springs to its feet and she doesn't look as she rushes through the snow, her feet kicking it up as she pushes through it, the depth clinging to her legs, slowing her movements.

But she does look, she does turn her head for just a moment in horror when she hears the roar and she sees more reapers springing through the trees, the snow flinging up around them, a frozen storm and a fierce mist of white that blurs the beasts that give chase.

And maybe she curses Ontari as she continues to run, maybe she curses the Mountain wherever it may be for creating such foul beasts and maybe she curses the snow in this moment as her lungs burn and her legs move frantically beneath her.

And as she runs, as the air stings against her face and as she reaches behind her for another arrow, she turns for just long enough to release it, and she smiles as she hears the thump and the groan of it finding its mark. And so she runs, her hair billowing out behind her, the boots she wears helping her stay above the deepest parts of the snow, the furs she wears keeping the cold bite from clinging to her and she squints as the sun flashes against her eyes and she grimaces as the glinting of steel shines fiercely before her and she smiles when she dives to the ground, when she twists in the air and when she fires yet another arrow before landing hard on her back. And she smiles when around her Azgeda warriors burst free from where they lay, the snow flinging from their bodies, arrows flying forward. And she smiles when she is pulled to her feet, a warrior lifting her up. And she smiles when she sees Ontari crashing against the lead reaper, her scars glowing in the morning sun, her lips curling into a snarl.

Entani throws her spear and Clarke follows it with her eyes for just long enough to see it smash against a reaper, the end pinning it to the ground.

And so Clarke joins the fight, her knife snaking out to strike and slash at the flesh of reapers, her arrows piercing the leathers that they wear.

And she smiles.

If only because she feels alive.

If only because in this moment, as she is surrounded by Azgeda, she feels like she belongs.

Her brow furrows for a moment as she pulls the furs from Ontari's shoulder, the red of blood causing her fingers to slip in their motions as she tries to wipe away what she can.

"You know," she says then, a needle being held to a flame for just a moment, "I don't think you're as good at fighting as you make everyone think," she finishes with a laugh, Ontari's lips curling into a gentle snarl.

"I will kill you," she says, her eyes following the needle as it pulls her flesh together.

But Clarke shrugs, a small smile gracing her lips for a moment, and she knows now that Ontari merely jokes. In her own, strange, often violent way.

"Sure," and she laughs as Ontari glares harder.

The small war party rests for the night, a rocky outcrop their camp for the dark that settles around them. And so Clarke lies back on the furs, her eyes tracing the stars that shine in the night's sky and the crackling of a warm flame soothing her tired body. And maybe it's this quiet moment, where others not on watch lose themselves to their own thoughts, when a quiet silence hangs around her, that she lets her mind wander, lets her thoughts turn to the past, turn to the years she lived in the sky. And maybe it hurts for just a bit.

And she wonders if the Ark still breathes, she wonders if her mother still lives. She wonders if Abby ever cried, ever broke down in their quarters at the loss of her daughter. And as her fingers trace the edge of her father's watch that rests quietly against her wrist, she can't help but to wonder if Abby would recognise her now, would recognise the scars that adorn her face, the braids that keep her hair from her eyes when she kills to survive and the furs and leathers that wrap her body and keep her steady in the cold that sits on her shoulders.

And maybe, if only for a moment, she thinks that Clarke Griffin never survived coming to the ground.

Maybe she thinks the girl who came to the ground had been a fool to think she could survive.

The horse moves smoothly beneath her, her eyes gazing towards the horizon, and as the wind picks up for a moment, as it blows her hair from her face and as the crisp bite of the cold wakes her mind she thinks she spies the hazy shape of the capital as it emerges out of the distance before her.

Snow rests ever constant to the ground this far north in Azgeda lands, and Clarke can't help but to think it beautiful as the snow shines softly in the sun and as it rolls over the curves and gentle rises of the land before her. And in the distance, as she squints just a bit, she can even make out the rising of mountains, their peaks white tipped and reaching far up into the sky and for a moment she wishes she had paints, she wishes she had the time and the space to bring a brush to canvas. But for now she feels content to watch as the horse she rides on brings her forward, and so she commits the view before her to memory.

She had set out with just twenty other warriors from Ronto, a message coming from the capital that Kwin Nia had summoned her, and so she had been accompanied by Ontari, ever present by her side, and Entani, always a steady presence herself, and maybe, just for a little moment, she thinks a smile lifts her lips as she thinks Entani may have only come so that she could heal any wounds Ontari would no doubt inflict upon Clarke in her often too enthusiastic lessons.

She smiles gently at the people she passes too, some warriors atop their own horses, their heads nodding in acknowledgment to their clansmen, and she passes villagers, traders and craftsmen, people who move in and out of the capital at a steady pace, and they make way for the horses, children staring wide eyed, their faces awed as the warriors pass.

It doesn't take too long for the horses to reach the main road, a path cleared of snow, wide enough for two, even three carts abreast to travel down, and so Clarke lets her eyes trace the lines of the capital as it sprawls out before her.

There's a wall that spreads out in front of her, Azgeda flags draped across it, the fabric swaying in the breeze. And as she eyes the tops of the walls she sees warriors who patrol, the white of their fur shining brilliantly in the sun and she eyes the gates that sit, recessed and strong in the centre of the wall, their doors open wide, a welcoming sign for the weary travellers that near it.

"How many people live here?" she asks out to those near her, her eyes still staring at the stone of the walls she nears.

"Many thousand," replies Entani, a smile living in her voice.

"Large numbers of warriors are stationed in the capital," Ontari adds, "it is in the centre of Azgeda lands, and so many stop for rest as they move from village to village, from outpost to outpost."

"And trade flows freely here," Entani continues, her head jerking towards the people they pass, "other clans too," she adds as she eyes a number of people, the furs they wear splashed with reds and rich browns.

"But most trade happens closer to the border. The cold is too much for the weaker clans," Ontari adds, just a hint of derision colouring her tone.

"It doesn't look too big," Clarke adds then, as she eyes the walls that spread out before her, yet she thinks the tops of buildings don't appear above the walls.

"We don't build tall structures," Entani replies, wiping an errant braid from her eyes, "most only have two or three levels, some five — if they are important. We build out, not up," she spreads her arms out then, "this wall is only part of the outer defence, more lies behind it."

True to her word, more walls lie behind the first, the roads between them smaller.

"To slow down invaders," Ontari had said.

And so, as they reach the final set of walls, these ones much larger, the stones weathered, ice clinging to them and the warriors that walk about fierce and eyes ever moving from person to person, and Clarke can't help but to feel awed, and perhaps just a little nervous as she hands the reins of her horse to a young girl, her hair a crimson, her cheeks reddened from the chill of the wind.

She follows Ontari then, pulling her furs around her shoulders, her hand coming to rest atop her knife for just a moment out of habit, and she returns the smiles the warriors that had travelled with them give, some already moving to where she is sure taverns must lie, and some to the markets in search of new clothing or repairs.

She follows Ontari into the main entrance, Entani close behind them. And she smiles when the warmth of a raging fire greets her, the cold quickly being replaced by a soft blanket of heat and so she loosens the furs around her neck just a bit and she eyes the large fire that blazes in the centre of what she assumes must be an atrium or main hall, she eyes the pillars lining the sides, torches already lit hanging from sconces and she smiles at the few children she sees wandering about, some staring awed at the warriors that stand guard by open doors, some moving in and out of rooms and some talking quietly by the fire. She smiles too at the servants she passes as Ontari takes her deeper into the building.

They come to a stop at the opposite end of the atrium, and as Clarke turns back briefly she can't help but admire the way the light shines in from the wooden slats that hang open above, that let the morning air breathe through the building, the occasional snow flake drifting in, despite the heat of the burning flame.

"Remember," Ontari whispers then, turning to face Clarke, "do not speak unless Kwin Nia asks you a question," and Ontari reaches out briefly, her hands coming to sit around Clarke's collar as she smoothes the furs, and then Ontari brings a hand up to the blonde braids that crown her face, and Clarke is sure she winces for a moment as Ontari forcefully tucks a strand behind an ear.

"She looks fine, Ontari," and Clarke is sure Entani roll her eyes by her tone.

"She is my responsibility," Ontari hisses, her eyes turning back to Clarke's hair as she eyes it carefully before nodding to herself once more.

Clarke turns to face the doors then, two guards flanking either side, their furs much more pristine, the whites of their scars shining prominently against the red of the light cast by the many burning flames.

The doors groan open then, and the guards nod briefly before stepping further aside.

Here we go.

The walk forward isn't far, but she is sure the distance, enough to feel just a moment awkward is purposeful, is a show of force if not also a defensive mechanism, if only because more guards line the walls, enough to intercept any that would try to rush the throne that sits at the far end of the room.

And perhaps Clarke had seen too many vids of evil villains on the Ark, because she finds it surprising as she moves forward that the throne room is lit brightly, fires burning along the walls. And she sees furs, thick and coloured warm greys and gentle whites, that rest against the walls, that keep a quiet blanket of warmth to the large room she walks in.

She sees Nia sitting on her throne then, the large chair backed by what Clarke thinks is a bear head, the white fur draping down across it, providing a gentle cushion for whoever occupies the throne. And her eyes meet Nia's gaze, and as she sees the small smile that lifts the Kwin's lips, Clarke can't help but feel her own return the gentle motion.

The three women come to a stop a few body lengths from the Kwin's throne, and as Ontari and Entani both drop to their knees Clarke follows the motion quickly, bowing her head as the other women do so.

"Rise," it's a quiet utterance, but it carries smoothly to them, and so the three women rise.

Nia lets the silence hang for a moment then, her eyes shifting carefully from face to face before her, and Clarke is sure her heart beats just a bit more frantic in her chest than moments prior.

"Tell me, Ontari," Nia pauses once more as her eyes snap to Ontari, "how has Clarke performed against the reapers?"

Ontari steps forward for a moment, and perhaps Clarke imagines it, but she thinks she feels the shifting of the guards closest to Nia, if only slightly.

"She has served well in the time under my care," Ontari answers, her chin lifting proudly.

"And Entani," Nia's eyes turn to Entani quickly. And so Entani steps forward.

"She is a capable healer, Kwin Nia."

Nia nods slowly then, her eyes shifting to Clarke.

"Leave us," she says then, her gaze still holding Clarke's. And so she swallows painfully for just a moment as Entani and Ontari both bow their heads before turning and leaving. And it's not that Clarke feels fear, but perhaps she feels a ten year old once more as her mother stares down at her for something she has broken.

"You may rest easy, Clarke," Nia smiles then, her gaze flickering over the furs she wears, "you look Azgeda," she adds, an approving glint to her eyes. "Your scars sit well," she finishes, a small smile once again finding her lips.

Nia pauses once more, her eyes turning thoughtful for a short while.

"Ontari has treated you well?"

"Yes, Kwin Nia," she wets her lips just for a moment as Nia raises an eyebrow, "well enough," Clarke adds nervously.

"Ontari can be harsh," Nia says in answer, a gentle smile finding its way into her voice. And Clarke is sure a smile must grace her own lips for a moment.

"Yes," is all she says.

"I was unsure of what to do with you, Clarke," she says then, her eyes steadying, "when you were found I knew not if I was to kill you or let you live," and maybe Clarke feels her heart once again beat just a bit more frantic than before, but despite the blood that pumps through her veins she lifts her chin, her eyes holding Nia's gaze.

"It would have been a waste," Nia adds, "you have served well."

"Thank you, Kwin Nia."

Nia looks to her left then, her hand raising for just a moment, and Clarke follows the motion with her eyes as a guard steps forward, passing a rolled up piece of paper to her.

"Tell me, Clarke," Nia unrolls the paper before holding it out for her to see, "why did you have a map to the Mountain?"

Perhaps Clarke knew this would come back to bite her, would come back to ruin what she has forged for herself. But in this moment she thinks all she has is the truth. And so she takes a breath, holds it for a gentle moment before releasing it in a steady exhale, her eyes holding firm to Nia's gaze.

"I was sent down to the ground," she sees Nia's eyebrow raise once more, "I was sent to see if my people could survive on the ground. We thought that the Mountain might have supplies we could use," and as she finishes she maintains her gaze, her nails digging painfully into her palms.

"You did not know that the Mountain takes my people?"

"No."

"You did not know the Mountain kills my people?"

"No."

"And what will you do now that you know the Mountain is evil?"

"I have killed reapers, Kwin Nia, I have fought for Azgeda," Clarke pauses, "my people abandoned me. They sent me here not knowing if I would live or die," she steels herself once more, her thoughts raging inside her mind. And maybe she isn't sure the truth she is next to say is a truth she wishes to face. But she thinks that in this moment it is all she has left, and she knows, deep in the recesses of her mind that what she will next say is a truth she accepted long ago.

But still after all this time, it hurts, it makes her heart clench and her mind cry out gently into the turmoil of her mind.

"I am no longer Clarke Griffin, Kwin Nia."

"And who are you?"

"Clarke Kom Azgeda."

Clarke paces back and forth in the room she is given for her stay at the capital, her mind racing as she thinks over the conversation she had with Nia. And she is sure Nia believes her, if only because what she said was a truth, and she had made sure her eyes never wavered, never faltered. But despite the time she has spent on the ground, despite the time she has spent bruised and battered and the time she has spent drenched in the blood of wounded warriors and the time she has spent freezing in the storms that rage through Azgeda lands, she still feels a longing for the Ark. For her friends, for her mother. For her father.

She feels the tears that form then, a gentle wetness that clings to the corner of her eyes and so she sits on the bed, her fingers tracing the curve of the watch that wraps around her wrist.

And she thinks it hurts, she thinks it's a cruel, whispered thought that winds its way through her mind when she thinks of her father, when she thinks of what he might think of her now, face scarred, hands bloodied from the lives she has taken in defence.

She turns to the window then, the blinds half shut, but she traces the flashes of the clouds that drift past, and she traces the rays of light that hang lower in the sky, the sun beginning to drop past the horizon.

And maybe she thinks her life has been tumultuous, has been unexpected and not what she had wished, not what she had wanted.

But at least she breathes real air.

At least she eats real food.

At least she isn't dead.

And what of the Ark?

What of the Ark.

Clarke wakes to the voices of children shouting outside, to the neighing of horses and the chatter of people who move about, and so she rolls over, buries her face into the warm furs of the bed and she tries to relax for a moment longer.

She rests for just a short while, enough for her tired mind to clear and her thoughts to settle and then she rises, the chill of the morning air a comfortable cold that prickles her exposed skin and that settles against her body.

She dresses in light leathers before exiting the room, her feet taking her to where she thinks the bathhouse must be. And she nods to a guard she passes, a smile of his own gracing his lips for just a moment before he jerks his head to the left, already assuming her destination.

She finds a servant carrying a basket further ahead, and so she follows quietly, the patter of her feet echoing around her and mixing with the sounds of a waking people.

She smiles when she feels the warmth of the steam and she smiles when she smells the soft scented soaps of the bathhouse. And so she enters quietly, reaching out to grasp a washcloth from the pile that lies by the door. She strips quickly, the warmth soothing her muscles, and she steps into the water, the scolding heat a welcome reprieve from the cold.

She dips her head under the water then, for long enough that her lungs burn painfully and then she breaks the surface, pulling her hair from her face as she begins to scrape away the sleep that still clings to her muscles. She lies back after a while, her head resting against the edge of the bath she occupies, the one besides her taken by an older man, his face scarred, his body littered by signs of battle.

She rests for a while, long enough that the water begins to cool just a bit, and so she rises, reaching for a towel that she wraps around herself as the cool of the bathhouse brushes against her naked body.

She lets her eyes follow the lines of baths then, many already occupied, some being refilled and she smiles for just a moment as she sees the scars that dance across faces, some old, some weathered and some young, full of life yet to be lived. And maybe, as she catches a glimpse of her own reflection in the water she thinks she feels a comfort that she fits in here, just another whose face is scarred. Just another who wakes to the chill of a too cold morning.

Just another of Azgeda.

She pads her way to the change rooms then, already drying her hair and she smiles when she sees Ontari, her hair still wet.

"You are still alive," Ontari says then, her eyes shining quietly in the orange light of a flame that sits by the wall.

And so Clarke laughs for just a moment before turning to face her.

"Yeah, Kwin Nia must like me."

Clarke's half way back to her room when a guard intercepts her.

"Kwin Nia wishes to see you in the throne room," she says holding an arm out to guide Clarke to her destination.

And so Clarke follows the guard, her thoughts wandering where they please until she is guided through the large double doors. And as she enters her eyes narrow for a moment as she sees a number of warriors gathered, Nia pacing back and forth before them as she reads from a piece of paper. And so she quietly takes her place next to Ontari and Entani as they both part for her.

"What's happening?" she whispers, her eyes following Nia's movements.

"A messenger came," Entani replies, her head nodding to a man who stands aside, his leathers dark browns and greens, a tattoo running down the side of his face, "and Kwin Nia called for the captains that were present in the capital."

"Trikru," Ontari adds quietly before turning back to Nia.

Nia stops pacing after a short while, her eyes flicking over to the messenger for a moment before she turns to the warriors that stand in front of her.

"The Commander," and Clarke doesn't miss the hint of mockery that laces Nia's tone, and she is sure she feels the quiet growling of the Azgeda warriors that surround her, "has summoned the clans to fight the Mountain."