It's a warm, comfortable embrace that pulls Clarke into a state of quiet wakefulness. She feels the press of an arm around her waist and the tickle of her against her face. And so she lets her mind catch up to her wandering thoughts for just a small while, for just long enough that she can focus her ears to the outside of the tent, to the sounds of Azgeda warriors on watch moving quietly through the night and the soft calls of animals that live in the moments when the sun sleeps.
And so her eyes open to the dark braids of Entani snaking their way across the furs they share and Ontari, arm wrapped around her waist, face snuggled into her shoulders, and so she sits up, just a quiet movement, the dark of the night still clinging to the trees. The tent she sleeps in drapes lowly over the three women, a small thing, homely, comfortable and quickly erected. And so she stands, just a small stoop to her back before she treads her way across the small space to the tent flap, and as she ducks out she meets the eyes of Torvun who sits near the entrance, a pile of arrows at his feet, feathers being prepared for use as fletching in his lap.
"I'm just going for a walk," Clarke says, her eyes looking around briefly and so Torvun stands, a quiet nod to Clarke before they begin making their way through the camp.
They wend their way between the tents, the occasional head of those still awake nodding in greeting as they pass. The trees this far south of Azgeda lands are wide, their bark a rich brown with a gentle blanket of moss that shines just a bit in the moonlight that passes through the clouds overhead, and as Clarke scans the treetops she can't help but enjoy the way the light dapples through the leaves and how the branches seem to hold the swaying of the trees in the wind and the air that breathes around her.
She walks not far from the the camp, just far enough that the trees begin to obscure the fires that burn around the perimeter and so she pauses, casts her gaze around for a place to rest and she catches Torvun's eye for a moment before she sits, her back to tree that reaches up into the night's sky.
As she gazes out around her she thinks she can feel the swaying of the branches that spread out through the forest and she feels Torvun stand close by, his gaze, she is sure, moving around them, ever careful, ever watchful and ever mindful of their surrounding.
And it's peaceful, she thinks. It's a quiet moment, where others rest, some wander and the weary let their thoughts drift to times less fraught with danger. But for now she finds herself content to just be. If only because she knows not what will happen tomorrow when they arrive at Ton DC.
And so she casts her gaze skyward, and maybe she wonders what it would be like to still be floating through space, another lonely star that moves against the dark of the night.
A comfortable quiet rests around Clarke, her mind happy to wander aimlessly as thoughts flit in and out of existence. She pulls out her knife then, a soft glint from the moon shining in her eyes as she gazes upon the blade, the length a gentle curve that comes to a sharp point. And she thinks she spies her reflection as she twists the knife just enough to more fully capture the moon, and maybe she thinks herself aged, more lived, more careful. If only because the eyes that look back seem tired, seem just a bit more careful, just a bit more different. And she runs a finger over the scar that graces her forehead then, the shape etched into her skin a careful reminder of the life she now lives and the one she was forced to leave behind, but as her fingers trace down her cheeks, as they follow the ridges that line her face maybe she can't help but to feel a comfort sit warmly within her. If only because she doesn't float, lifeless and cold and broken through the vastness of space.
She runs her hand over the ground beneath her, clearing a space large enough for what she intends to do. And so she smiles softly as she drags her knife through the dirt, a gentle arc that stretches out before her. Her eyes trace the structure she paints with the cold bite of her brush. She traces the turning segments of the Ark, she draws the windows that shine, stars to the outside world that was her life, and she colours the sun as it flashes against the metal of what once was her home. And maybe she smiles. Maybe she cries, and maybe she feels a sadness that clings somewhere further back in her mind than she can reach.
She isn't sure how long she sits, she isn't sure how long she looks at what she has drawn. But she thinks it long enough, and so she returns her knife to her thigh and she kicks the image away, lets the dirt and the leaves and the sticks steal the image from her mind and from her gaze.
And then she leans back, her head resting against the tree, the moss a cold pillow for her tired mind.
And she lets her gaze turn upwards.
"Trikru approach," Torvun murmurs, his body moving to stand by her side and so she rises, her hand falling to the knife strapped to her thigh.
She hears the careful approach, steps not intended to be hidden, and so she relaxes for just a bit. She sees two figures emerge from the shadows then, their eyes reflecting the moon light that breaks through the thick branches that hang overhead.
The figures stop a short distance from them, their eyes meeting for a long, short pause.
"Did you want something?" Clarke asks, her eyes narrowing as she recognises Octavia, habitual scowl in place.
There's a moment's silence as the Trikru let her words hang between them.
"It is dangerous to be out in the forest at night," the Trikru leader says then, her eyes focusing upon Torvun who stands close to Clarke. "Especially for those less familiar to the trees," she finishes.
And so Clarke's eyebrow quirks up briefly, her feet planting just a moment more firmly beneath her.
"It's only dangerous if enemies are close," she snarks back, her eyes snapping to the woman who stands before her, "and we're friends here, aren't we? Azgeda and Trikru, the other clans, too."
And so the women tilts her head briefly in thought, her eyes raking over Clarke's figure, and she is sure the woman's gaze focuses on the hand she still has resting upon her knife. And Torvun moves to stand more fully by her side then, his feet subtle as he shifts a branch that lies close to their feet, his own hand coming to rest by the knife on his hip.
"Perhaps it would be best if you leave," Torvun says then, his eyes shifting between Octavia who stands back further in the shadows, and the leader before them.
"We are allies," the leader holds her hands up slowly, palms facing both of them before she crosses her arms. "I am Anya," she adds, her eyes moving to Clarke's.
"How about your friend over there comes out of the shadows then, Anya," and his words come out low and gruff, his gaze focusing on Octavia who merely shrugs before stepping forward, her eyes still trained on Clarke.
"It's ok, Torvun," Clarke says, her arm coming to rest upon his briefly, "we're allies after all," she finishes, yet she is sure she feels her heart beat a moment more firmly in her chest as Octavia continues to hold her gaze.
"You speak the truth," Anya says, a smirk lifting her lips as she turns her attention back to Torvun, a scowl spreading across his face, his eyes careful in their movements. And so Anya lets the silence once again spread out between them before she looks back to Clarke. "Octavia says you killed a reaper that was about to attack her," Anya continues, "I thank you."
Clarke's eyes narrow then, and she is sure there is more to this conversation, more to this meeting than just a shared sleepless night and of giving thanks.
"Speaking of truth and reapers," she says then, "we're in Trikru territory now," she pauses, her chin lifting as she meets Anya's gaze, "did you let them through? To test us?"
"Would it matter if we did?" comes the reply, a shoulder lifting as a smirk spreads across her lips. "No one died. And now there are less reapers that roam these lands."
"We're supposed to be allies fighting together," she retorts, a slow burn of indignation building within her mind, "not hiding things from each other. Not trying to get the other killed," yet she adds silently.
"Then I would guess," Anya pins her with a fierce look, her eyes shining in the moon light as Octavia takes a measured step closer, "that you and I both are hiding things from the other."
"And what's that supposed to mean?" Clarke says, her tone a biting cold, and as her fingers close around the handle of her knife, she feels Torvun's body edging closer to her.
And so Anya's own gaze follows the movements for just a moment before she shrugs just once.
"It would seem that we both have secrets, Clarke."
The walk back to camp is a tense, quiet affair, Torvun's eyes continuously moving as he peers into the dark that hangs around them, Clarke's own hand resting against her knife, the words that were exchanged filling her mind.
It's a slight relief then, as they break out of the tree line, the fires of the camp shedding away the dark of the night, and so Clarke nods to a sentry she passes, already heading back to her tent.
Morning comes swiftly, the sun a warmer companion than days prior. And so the Azgeda forces break camp quickly, their tents being packed with a familiar practiced ease. Clarke finds herself sitting on a small stool, her fingers dipping into a jar of white war paint once more, and so she closes her eyes as the cool bite of the paint spreads across her cheeks first, the raised lines of the scars that slice across her face a familiar presence. She smears the paint across her forehead, and her face is covered quickly before she opens her eyes to see Ontari doing the same, and when their eyes meet a smile is shared between them before they both stand, slinging bows and quivers over shoulders, strapping supplies to their horses.
They ride more swiftly now, the proximity to Ton DC spurring on the Azgeda forces, and so they push their horses just a bit harder than before. And perhaps Clarke shouldn't be surprised when she feels the trees become even larger, the land flashing past her more greens and yellows than the dark browns, greys and cool whites that she is familiar with.
And the war party comes to a gentle incline then, the horses slowing in pace as they begin a careful trot further into Trikru lands. She notices the trees begin to spread out for a moment too, their trunks keeping a distance between them greater than usual, and so, as her horse breaks through the tree line, she can't help but to let a small gasp escape her lips at the view that spreads out before her.
She finds the Azgeda forces moving out along the ridgeline, a small valley spreading out before her gaze. Ontari comes to a stop besides her, their horses neighing quietly in the warmth of the sun that brushes against the ground.
"The Mountain," Ontari says, her hand pointing out into the distance, and so Clarke follows the outstretched hand, and in the distance she sees the careful rising of the Mountain in the distance, a soft haze blurring it just a bit. "We are close to Ton DC now," Ontari finishes, already nudging her horse down the slope, the Azgeda warriors quickly following her lead.
They rest for midday, the sun sitting high in the sky. And Clarke finds that many Azgeda begin to remove their furs, the leather of their tops enough for the wind that breathes a bit warmer in these lands.
And so she smiles when Entani flops down by her side, the other healer's furs already removed, her arms bare to the elements.
"I do not like this weather," she grumbles then, "it is hot," she continues as she lies back in the grass, her eyes closed to the sun.
"It's not that bad," Clarke laughs, and perhaps she can't blame Entani for complaining, but yet… "at least we aren't freezing."
"True," Entani replies as she sits up, her eyes gazing around her, "I am hungry I hope the hunters return soon."
"Yeah, me too," Clarke finishes, and so she turns her eyes upwards, the sky just a bit more blue, the clouds just a bit less grey this far south, and so she lets a smile grace her lips as she enjoys the change in scenery for a while.
"That Trikru woman watches you again," Entani says, her voice pulling Clarke back to the present, and so she follows Entani's gaze to where Octavia sits besides the other dark skinned, bald Trikru warrior, his eyes ever careful as he takes in what surrounds him.
"Yeah," she pauses for a moment as the previous night's conversation bleeds into her mind, "she's been watching me," she turns back to Entani, "I don't like it," and Entani snorts once.
"Perhaps she fancies you," and Entani laughs for a moment, "perhaps Trikru can not even satisfy themselves."
And Clarke is sure a small smile finds its way across her face.
"I don't think that's it…" she again pauses as she thinks of their interactions. "I don't know," she shrugs lamely, "I'm pretty sure Torvun has a plan to kill her though," she laughs, the noise dancing with the sound Entani also lets loose.
"I would not be surprised."
A quiet silence hangs around the Azgeda, their numbers pulling together as they near the village. And Clarke is sure she sees, or perhaps only feels the presence of Trikru that move through the trees, that follow them and shadow their every move. And so she lets a glare live across her face, her fingers tightening their hold upon the reins she has in her grasp.
Ontari raises her hand then, the Trikru with them quickly racing ahead before disappearing into the trees.
"We arrive at Ton DC now," she calls out as she turns her horse to face the Azgeda behind her. "We make no trouble." she continues, holding the gaze of those before her, "but if you are attacked by reaper, or other, you may kill them," and again a gentle ripple of acknowledgment passes through the ranks of Azgeda.
Ontari lowers her hand and it's swiftly followed by the low echo of a horn to signal Azgeda's presence.
The Azgeda force begins a slow approach, their horses moving four abreast through the trail that begins to appear before them. And Clarke finds herself near the front, her eyes following Ontari's back as she leads them quietly forward, and she thinks she begins to hear the sounds of life.
The trees part for them, and she lets her gaze settle upon the large walls, green from moss, trees spreading their branches out and over the gates before her. And she can hear the sound of metal on metal, the thudding of bodies crashing together and of training warriors that fight and spar and bruise themselves. She hears the voices of children that yell and play and live a life yet to be marred by the harshness of survival and she hears the voices of adults that rise above the careful din, enough to tell her that a people live well.
Her head turns quickly to the side when she hears a branch breaking underfoot, and she sees a hunting party emerge from the trees, the muddy red-browns of their clothing a stark contrast to the greens and browns that surround them.
"Another clan," Entani says, her own attention drawn to the newcomers.
The gates to Ton DC open with a low groan then and so the Azgeda forces move forward. And as Clarke enters through the gates she finds a village square that spreads out before them, warriors moving about, their furs and clothes and leathers of different colours, flags and banners of the different clans already unfurls and breathing in the wind. She sees a woman standing before them, her back straight, her skin dark and her face tattooed. And so Ontari dismounts her horse, handing the reins to another Azgeda before she walks forward.
And Clarke is sure she sees a tension in the woman's body as she raises her chin in greeting, Ontari's own body tense. And they share quick words before the woman points away from the square before bowing her head just enough to be polite.
Clarke finds the village to sprawl out around her, the trees and the buildings blending together. Some of the buildings are made from sheets of metal, from stone and wood, some she even thinks must be relics of before, constructed of brickwork that survived the years. She finds larger buildings too, communal ones she thinks must be for gatherings, and she finds small huts dotting the village, wooden structures that house the inhabitants of Ton DC and she even sees a number of tents, some large, some small, all temporary structures for the Trikru warriors that have gathered.
"Other clans won't be housed in Ton DC, only trikru get that honour," Ontari scoffs as she follows Clarke's gaze, "the other clans will make camp in the surrounding forests," she finishes.
They come to a clearing, large enough to house a vast number of warriors and their supplies, and so the Azgeda spread out quickly, staking a claim to most of the unoccupied lands, other clans already taking up the far end of the clearing before it rises up to a hilltop where a lone tent sits, large and dominant that dwarfs those near it. And so Clarke dismounts her horse, supplies already being spread out as Torvun and Entani unfurl their shared tent, clearing the ground beneath them of branches.
"Who's tent is that?" she asks, her eyes gazing up the hill, and maybe she already knows the answer, but Ontari looks up at her question, a roll of furs in her arms.
"The Commander's," she grumbles.
And as Clarke's eyes trace the burning torches that run from the entrance down the hill, as she traces the Coalition flags that dance in the wind, and the guards she thinks stand by the entrance she can't help but to snort at the whole spectacle.
What a princess.
The Azgeda forces settle into the campsite quickly, and so, with little to do, Clarke finds herself at the training grounds.
And she smiles at the familiar stretch in her muscles as she draws the bow string, the quiet creak of it a soothing sound to her ears. And so she waits until the wind picks up, she waits until it blows a braid loose and then she shifts her aim, just slightly to the left, and then she releases. And she smiles as the arrow springs forward, her hand already reaching for another, and as she draws back once more she hears the thud of her first arrow hitting its mark, and so she breathes in once more, the next arrow sailing through the air.
She repeats the process until all her arrows are embedded in the target, the white of the feathers a stark contrast to the darker ones of the Trikru arrows in targets next to hers, and so she waits for just a moment before the other archers have finished before she walks forward, her gaze flicking to the Trikru by her side. And as she reaches the target, her hands already pulling arrows loose she sees Ontari in the sparring pit, her furs tied around her waist, her collar opened, and her arms bare to the warmth of the sun as she attacks an opponent.
Clarke watches as the younger Azgeda warrior lunges at Ontari, his hand snaking out to grip her around the throat, and Clarke smirks as Ontari ducks quickly, her body twisting as her leg comes up before she lashes out with her foot, a satisfying thump of it echoing across the training grounds. But he rolls with it, already spinning to charge at Ontari again. She side steps his movement, her eyes shining fiercely in the sun light and then she's on him, her elbow smashing into his jaw before she throws a leg behind his, her hip rolling around with the momentum as she lifts him over her shoulder. And Clarke lets a smile linger across her lips as the warrior goes flying. And so Ontari smirks, her chest heaving as she stands over the winded warrior, her arms raised in triumph. And maybe Clarke can be forgiven for eyeing the trail of sweat that rolls down the dip of Ontari's throat before it beads across her chest.
Clarke sees the same Trikru woman from earlier walk up to Ontari then, a scowl firmly in place, and Clarke recognises the same look that she is sure she often sees across Octavia's own face. The woman says something to Ontari then, before she's turning and walking back the way she came, and so Ontari looks around until her eyes find Clarke, and then she gestures quickly for her to approach.
"The village chief, Indra," Ontari begins, wiping a hand across her sweaty brow, "says the Commander wishes to see us," and Clarke smiles as Ontari rolls her eyes, "Come, Clarke."
Clarke follows Ontari out of the training grounds, Torvun quickly joining them from where he had been throwing his knife into a target nearby.
"Where's Entani?" Clarke asks, her eyes skimming over the Azgeda faces she sees at the training ground.
"At camp," Torvun replies, "some already injured themselves," he finishes as he sheaths the knife on his hip.
The walk to the camp is a tense thing, Ontari, Clarke is sure, already resenting being at the beck and call of the Commander and so Clarke follows her quietly, her own thoughts drifting to what she knows of the Commander. And she's arrogant, Clarke knows that much. And from the tent that overlooks the camp, its large size and the torches that mark the path to the entrance Clarke is sure the Commander thinks highly of herself, and so she scoffs out loud, her eyes rolling as she sees that the torches remain lit, burning despite the sun that lingers high in the sky.
They stop at their tent, Entani sitting on the ground, carefully folding bandages.
"We're going to see the Commander," Clarke tells her, "coming?"
"No," Entani snorts, "I do not wish to waste my time with her."
And so Clarke smiles, a shrug lifting her shoulders as Ontari begins rummaging through their supplies until she finds the warpaint, and so she hands a jar to Clarke and Torvun.
It opens with a quiet pop, and so Clarke dips her fingers into the cool paint before she brings her fingers to her cheeks. And it's quick and practiced swipes of her hand that brings her face to a deathly white that shines in the sunlight. And so she smiles briefly at Ontari as their eyes meet and then Ontari brings her own fingers up to Clarke's chin, quickly covering a spot against her jaw she missed before both women stand, quicks nod to Torvun, his own face and beard covered in large streaks of white.
"What does the Commander want?" Clarke asks as they make their way through the camp, the Azgeda they pass nodding in greeting.
"I do not know. Probably to send us hunting," Ontari says, her shoulders shrugging broadly.
"She wishes to see who commands the Azgeda forces," Torvun sighs, his body casting a long shadow behind the two women.
"She will already know," Ontari retorts, "That Trikru leader or Indra will have already told her."
"It's a power play," Clarke adds, her thoughts turning to the many times Jaha had summoned her mother on the Ark.
And so Clarke smiles once more as she hears Ontari muttering under her breath, words of which she is sure would have her head removed if the Commander were to hear.
The walk up the the hill is perhaps the second most infuriating thing Clarke has ever done, second only to having to try and survive Ontari's teaching methods. The path up the hill winds and bends back on itself multiple times, tents having been set up as to block a direct approach, and so, as they pass even more torches that bring the ambient temperature up more than needed Ontari's mood begins to worsen further.
"Breathe," Clarke whispers to Ontari, her own neck prickling at the eyes that follow them, sneers upon the Trikru faces that they pass.
"They watch us, look at us like scum," Ontari hisses back, her eyes glaring at a Trikru warrior that moves past her.
"Peace, Ontari," Torvun adds, "you do us no good antagonising Trikru at this moment."
The rest of the walk passes in silence, Ontari's breathing somewhat more controlled and so, just before they reach the Commander's tent she pauses, takes in just one more deep breath before continuing forward. And as they approach the entrance Clarke eyes the guard that stands outside. And he's large, she thinks, his head shaved along the sides, a large tattoo winding it's way across his cheek and a large beard unfurling down his chest. And she thinks she sees his eyes flick over Ontari and her before settling upon Torvun behind them, and she is sure he gauges the danger Torvun presents.
The guard steps forward then, his eyes once more flicking to Ontari.
"If you so much as look at her the wrong way I will slit your throat," he intones, his eyes narrowing as he stares at Ontari.
But Ontari merely sneers once.
"Move Trikru, the Commander wishes to see us," and then she's pushing past him, Clarke and Torvun following closely behind, the guard shadowing their movements.
Entering the tent is a strange, tense and quiet moment, the sound of the outside camp falling away, replaced by a quiet stillness. There's more guards too, their hands on the swords by their hips, their eyes ever watchful as they follow the three Azgeda who move into the tent. And as Clarke enters she finds the interior awash with the soft dappling of light that filters in through the sheer fabric overhead, enough to illuminate the interior, yet still cast long, foreboding shadows across the floor. She finds a table on either side of the tent, both covered in maps of the surrounding area. Furs line the floor too, the rich browns and reds of the animal they came from bleeding together. And as her eyes follow the furs deeper into the tent she finds them resting against the foot of a throne backed by antlers and wood that stretches and twists and bends upwards, framing the woman who lounges in it, her legs crossed a careless lean to her body as a knife is deftly danced between her fingers. She finds that the village chief, Indra stands to the Commander's left, her eyes glaring sharply at them, the guard who confronted them at the entrance present too, his body standing close to the Commander's. And Clarke's eyes narrow for a moment as her gaze settles on Anya who stands close to the guard, her hand resting comfortably on the hilt of her sword strapped to her hip, a smirk resting across her lips.
And Clarke takes the time to assess what she sees sitting before her. And she thinks her first assessment was correct, and she sees the warpaint that spreads across the woman's cheeks, that drips from her eyes, as if an animal had clawed at the black that sits heavily around her gaze. She sees the red of a sash that hangs from a pauldron atop her left shoulder and she finds her hair to be braided intricately, enough to keep it out of her eyes in times of motion, enough to show that she is perhaps a capable warrior, if not also one for theatrics. And Clarke sees that the woman's eyes stare, focused and calm at the three Azgeda who come to a stop before her.
"Did I not ask for you to come alone, Ontari?" she says then, breaking the tense silence that lives within the tent, her knife coming to rest, point first, into the arm of her chair with a quiet thud.
"Clarke is my second," Ontari answers sharply, "she goes where I go, and Torvun," she gestures behind her, "speaks for himself," she finishes.
The Commander's eyes flash to Clarke's then, her chin lifting for a moment in thought, the green of her eyes a fierce beast that lives within her gaze.
"You're the one Anya says saved Octavia's life," the Commander voices, her words dripping with contempt.
"You're the one who let the reapers attack," Clarke snarks back, her jaw clenching and her eyes burning as she holds the Commander's gaze.
Indra snarls then, her hand moving to draw her sword and the guard also moves forward as Torvun growls out a threat, his hand coming to rest on his own knife.
"You will speak to the Commander with respect," Indra growls, her eyes staring sharply into Clarke's.
"Indra, Gustus," the commander holds her hand up lazily, "enough."
The Commander stands from her throne then, Gustus shadowing her movements as she approaches the three Azgeda, and she comes to a stop before Clarke, the green of her eyes drilling into the blue of Clarke's.
"We have come together to fight the Mountain," the Commander says, her chin lifting slightly, "Not each other," she finishes, her eyes flicking over to Ontari and then up to Torvun, "you may leave us now, Azgeda," she finishes, already turning back to her throne, the red of her sash flowing behind her.
And it's all the dismissal Clarke needs, and so she turns with Ontari, Torvun taking up the rear as they leave the tent, and as they exit into the air Ontari spits on the ground, her eyes aflame, words of anger muttered under her breath.
And so they make the walk back through the winding trail towards the war camp. And as they move further away Clarke sees a man walking their way, his eyes focused on the Commander's tent, and as she takes in the clothes she wears, the hard shell off the armour and the black of the fabric she finds it oddly familiar. And so, as she nears, as her eyes trace over his face, she thinks she stares, she thinks she gapes and she thinks her mind screams out to her. And she knows she recognises the lines of his face, the furrow of his brow and the angle of his nose.
And she knows she recognises Kane.
What.
The.
Fuck.