She sighs quietly, just a gentle exhale of breath that lingers against her lips. She lets her fingers dance against the handle of the knife as her mind wanders for a moment as thoughts drift and flow and meander their way through her head. And she knows this will be a problem, she knows it will cause a headache and that it will be a thorn in her side in times to come. But for now she must face the options she has been given and so she raises a hand, and she quirks her fingers just a bit.
"Leave us," and so her eyes follow the few guards throughout her tent, their heads bowing slightly before they duck out through the entrance.
"She disrespects you, Heda," her eyes turn to Indra, still standing by her side, fingers still white knuckled around the hilt of her sword, and perhaps she's not sure whether Indra refers to Ontari, a sneer ever present on her face or whether Indra refers to Clarke, blonde hair braided back fiercely and faced scarred, blue eyes radiant, defiance aflame within her gaze.
"All of Azgeda are the same," Anya responds, "they did not show respect when they travelled with us."
And Gustus merely grunts, his lip twitching momentarily.
And so she ignores their words of frustration for a moment.
"You are sure of what Octavia says?" she says then, her eyes turning to meet Anya's.
"She did not hear enough to be certain, Heda," Anya answers, her head inclining slightly, "she watched her though, but saw no other indication that she is not from Azgeda. She talks like Azgeda, sounds like Azgeda. Has the scars of Azgeda."
"Disrespects us like Azgeda," Indra once again snarls out.
"Her scars looked new," Gustus adds.
"She has a guard, Heda," Anya continues, pushing through the interruption, "I am sure of it," and she pauses for a moment in thought, "I confronted her at night, and that Azgeda warrior, Torvun, was with her."
"He carries himself like a guard," Gustus says, "he is experienced, perhaps he even served Nia."
And so Lexa lets a moment stretch out, the silence a comfortable embrace for the thoughts that she contemplates, the things she has seen of Clarke Kom Azgeda, and perhaps the young Azgeda woman who stood before her matches the description of Clarke Griffin.
"Only someone of importance would be given their own guard," she says after a moment, her eyes meeting the nods of agreement from the three who stand by her, "Nia would not risk sending a member of the royal family," she pauses, her thoughts turning to Roan briefly, "and she would not send an important member of Azgeda unless she thought it would give her an advantage in our fight against the Mountain," Lexa says then.
She casts her eyes across the room, and she finds Indra, scowl in place still glaring at the entrance of the tent, and so she turns to gustus, his eyes thoughtful as he no doubt considers the events of the meeting. And she meets Anya's eyes, the older warrior lost in thought for only a moment before she lifts her chin, her eyes meeting the Commander's once more before she voices her thoughts.
"So she is the lost girl of the sky?"
Yes.
"We will soon know more. I have summoned Kane," she says as she reclines back into the throne, her eyes turning to the entrance of the tent.
She hears the approaching footfalls and the familiar crunch of feet against dirt. She hears a guard outside call out a greeting before he ducks through the entrance.
"Kane Kom Skaikru is here, Heda."
"Send him in," she says, her hands coming to rest upon the armrests of her throne.
Kane ducks in then, his eyes squinting for a moment as they adjust to the darker shadows that linger within her tent, and he smiles briefly when his eyes find hers, and he nods just once to Indra before walking forward, coming to a stop a few body lengths from her throne.
"Heda, you wanted to see me?"
"Yes," she answers, her eyes taking in the man that stands before her, "Anya, Indra, leave us," she finishes, already knowing that Gustus will not leave.
And so the two other women duck out, whispered Heda's reaching Lexa's ear.
"Kane," she begins, "tell me, Abby had a daughter, yes?"
And she sees his eyes widen momentarily, her question throwing him.
"Yes—" he starts, his brows furrowing for a moment, "Clarke. We sent her down two years ago. To see if see the ground was survivable," he pauses once more, "I thought you knew that, Heda."
"Yes," she answers, "I did."
"Forgive me, Heda, but why do you want to know?"
"What does she look like?" she asks, leaning forward just a bit as her eyebrow quirks up, already recalling the image of Clarke Kom Azgeda that she has in her mind.
"She's blonde, Heda — light hair," he adds quickly, "blue eyes—" and he pauses suddenly, his eyes narrowing. "Why do you want to know what she looks like?" he asks, taking an involuntary step forward, and so she holds up a finger pausing Gustus as he takes his own step forward in warning.
"Azgeda forces arrived today," she says instead, "more than half a thousand warriors," and she leans further forward, her gaze steady, "and healers," Like Abby she need not add.
"Heda—" he begins once more, but she holds her hand up, quickly silencing his interjection.
"Is it possible that she arrived in another place?" she asks, and Kane's brows twitch for a moment in thought.
"It's possible, Heda," and she can see his fingers twitching forward, his thoughts living in eyes.
"I met with the leader of the Azgeda forces," she continues, "she was accompanied by another. Whose name was Clarke," and now she is sure Kane must be trying to contain the questions and the thoughts that run through his mind, if only by the way his eyes still remain widen, if only by the way his mouth opens and closes momentarily and the way his fingers clench painfully together.
"Please, Heda," he says, eyes beseeching, tone quiet, "can we see her? To make sure? Abby would want to know."
Kane.
Her feet take her forward, and she is sure Ontari must be saying something, must be muttering words of hate and anger, yet all she can comprehend is the face she just walked past. And so her head turns and she looks back over her shoulder as she eyes the back of the man that retreats from her. And she knows she recognises the clothes he wears, the dark black of the guard jacket, the hard outer shell of its armour, and she knows.
She knows.
The man's hair is longer, a beard covering his face, yet she is sure. She is certain. And so she goes to turn around, to chase after him, to ye—
"Clarke, let's go. I do not want to spend another moment near these Trikru," Ontari grabs her by the arm, already dragging her towards the Azgeda camp, Torvun still close behind.
And so Clarke follows dumbly, her mind still a jumble, thoughts crashing into each other as she considers what Kane being on the ground means.
And she is sure others must be here, others must have come to the ground, others must be close. Right? That has to be the reason why the Commander in all her pretentiousness now thinks she can destroy the Mountain. The Ark is on the ground. It's here. It's close. How did she not know? Where's her mother? Where's Wells? Are they alive?
"Clarke."
Her arm is jerked harshly, Ontari looking at her, eyes narrowed a fraction.
"I'm ok," she whispers, her tongue licking her lips briefly, "I'm ok."
But she's not.
"Do not let the Commander intimidate you," Ontari says, her eyes softening for a moment, her fingers squeezing gently. "She will use it to her advantage. Be strong. You are Azgeda."
And Ontari's hand lingers for just a moment longer before she nods once more, already moving away, and so Clarke follows, her eyes unfocused, her thoughts breaking and splintering.
They make their way through the Azgeda war camp, gentle nods of greeting being sent their way by the many they pass, yet Clarke's thoughts are still turned to the man she saw, and so she doesn't realise they stop, she doesn't realise they arrive at their tent until Ontari turns around.
"I am going to the training grounds. I need to break something," and then she turns, walking away, her gait angry and swift.
Torvun eyes her carefully before he takes a seat on a stool, already pulling out his sword as he rummages in a pack for a whetstone, and so the quiet grinding of a sharpening blade takes Clarke's ears as she ducks into the tent.
She finds Entani still seated, healer's packs around her, bandages in hand, some folded, some still waiting to be prepared. And so the woman looks up, her eyes thoughtful for just a moment as she takes in, what Clarke must think is a worried, confused and desperate appearance that clings to her face.
"Are you ok?" Entani asks.
And really, what's she to say?
That her people might be alive. On the ground?
That they're close. Perhaps even in this same war camp?
And so her mouth opens once before she closes it, and as she brushes away a loose strand of hair she is sure her fingers come away unsure, shaking and weak, a small smear of white paint clinging against her fingertip.
And Entani stops her motions then, her fingers stilling on a bandage, her gaze holding steady. Clarke looks behind herself briefly, if only to make sure the tent flap is closed, before she leans forward and wets her lips for a moment.
"I saw someone," she begins, a quiet tremor in her voice, "I recognised him," and Entani eyes her careful, a small confusion lingering within her gaze. "He was one of my people," Clarke finishes.
And maybe the widening of her eyes, maybe the way her mouth falls open would be funny to Clarke if her own thoughts weren't so scattered.
"You are sure?" comes the hissed response, and so she nods once, a braid falling across her face, "have you told Ontari?"
"No. Not yet," and so the other healer's eyebrow raises in question, "how do you think she'd react?" Clarke asks, the rhetorical question hanging in the space before both women, and so Entani shrugs once more, acceptance colouring the motion.
"I—" Clarke closes her eyes, shuts them tight as her thoughts drift too far from her reach, "I just—" she brings her hands up, balling them into fists as she drives them into her eyes painfully, rubbing them harshly across her face for a moment. "I need to know. I need to. I have to know," she finishes, her head shaking.
Entani reaches out then, the gesture tentative and unsure, but Clarke pulls her arm away.
"I'll be back," she says then, an idea burning through her mind, her legs already scrambling underneath her, pulling her out of the tent.
And as she ducks out she finds Torvun still sitting by the entrance, only catching his eyes briefly before she is moving towards Ton DC, the short walk not far enough for her thoughts to solidify and reconsider what she plans to do. She hears Torvun stand quickly, and she hears the gentle swish of the sword being sheathed before his shadow joins hers as they make the quick walk to where her idea beckons her.
Her feet take her further and further through the camp, her eyes moving from face to face she passes, all in the hope of recognising a smile, of recognising the colour of a person's hair, or the way they walk, the way they carry themselves. She bumps into a warrior, a diamond etched scar across her chin, and so Clarke offers quiet apology before she's pushing past, moving from the edges of the war camp.
Trees sprout out around her, just a few, most large, wide and looming, but enough to block out the sounds of the war camp, enough to keep the quiet. And so she pushes forward, warriors of other clans moving through the trees too, their own destinations in mind, yet she spares them no thought, no place in her mind.
The sun beats down heavy and harsh across her back, the afternoon giving the day one last push of heat, and she feels the trail that drips down her forehead, the sweat that lingers against her skin.
The trees part for her quickly, the green of the moss and the brown of the branches giving way to the cool, roughened metal and stone of the walls of Ton DC and so she pushes forward, bumping into a pair of Trikru warriors who linger outside the gates, and she is sure they curse her, go to push her back, but she feels the growl Torvun must give, and she is sure she hears the curses they send his way before backing off.
She moves through the gates, a gentle breeze picking her hair up, blowing it across her face as she moves forward. And her eyes continue to look at the faces she passes, and she hopes, and she prays, and she feels the want that lingers within her. And as she passes yet another group of Trikru they follow her movements with a careful, guarded look, one that speaks of distrust, but for now her mind is elsewhere and so she ignores them, her feet taking her further into the village. She takes a turn, a sharp right that hooks her around, and she passes a large fire pit, one she is sure is used for gatherings. Her feet kick at a stick that lies in her path and she ignores the bouncing and the clattering of it as it skims against the smoothed stone of a building wall.
She comes to a stop before a building, the wooden structure a long, weathered thing that stretches out to her left and right. And so she brushes her hair from her eyes once more, tucking the braids back into place, and she is sure her paint is smeared now, she is sure the white of it must cling to her hair. And she is sure she shakes, she is sure her chest still heaves and she is sure her breathing must come laboured and pathetic. And so she wets her lips just once, casting her eyes to the building.
She feels a hand on her shoulder then, just a gentle press of fingers, rough and weathered from years of use. And so she turns around, just for a moment.
"I heard you talk to Entani," Torvun says, his eyes gazing steadily, the sun shining fiercely against the top of his head, the paint still clinging to his scalp. And at Clarke's expression he shrugs broadly, "guards must have good hearing."
And maybe she smiles for a moment.
And so he squeezes her shoulder just once before he lets his hand fall.
"I will wait outside."
And so Clarke smiles up at him, just for a moment, just for long enough that she feels the strumming of her heart within her chest. And then she takes a steadying breath.
She turns back to the building, takes a few small steps forward and she reaches for the door, her fingers splaying out against the rough of the wood.
And she knows. She knows if what she searches for exists on the ground, if it is near, it would be here. In this building.
And so she pushes it forward, lets the creaking of the door bring a steadying to her mind and she steps inside.
She's greeted by the low burning flames of torches that rest in sconces along the wall, the smoke a gentle, spiced scent that soothes her frayed mind. And as her eyes adjust to the darker shadows that fall across the floor she finds rows of beds that rest along both walls that stretch out either side of her. And so she casts her gaze left, sees the beds that rest quietly, some with warriors lying in them, wounds from training sessions or from attacks from reapers lying there, some with bandages across forearms, across foreheads, some with stitches being attended to by young seconds. At the far end she finds a curtain, figures moving about behind it.
She turns her head right, more beds stretching out this way too, these also occupied by a few warriors, some from Trikru, some from other clans.
A healer approaches her then, his eyes just a bit guarded, yet she thinks a kindness lives within them, something careful, something just a bit less threatening. Her eyes trace the tattoo that sits on his forehead, and the one that rests comfortably against his cheek, and she sees the braided beard he wears, and the roughness of his hair.
"I am Nyko," he says then, the gruffness of his voice bringing a soothing lull to her mind. "Do you need a healer?" he asks, his eyes quickly scanning over her as he searches for a wound.
"No," she answers, her voice just a slight tremble. "Is—" she licks her lip quietly, a silent hope burning within her heart. "Is Abby here?" and she sees his brows twitch for just a moment, his gaze turning thoughtful.
And so he shrugs, just once, and the movement lasts just long enough that perhaps Clarke thinks she is on a fool's errand.
"Over there," he points.
And she follows his eyes towards the far end, where the curtain is that must provide some privacy for those more seriously injured. And so Clarke nods just once, sure that her voice would fail her, and so she begins moving forward, her legs a weak, unsteady gait beneath her that takes her further and further into the healer's building. She passes an Azgeda warrior, her arm in a sling, and she nods once when their eyes meet.
It's only a few body lengths from the curtain then, the sounds of grunted pain coming out from behind it. And so Clarke pauses, just for a moment, just long enough that she can run a hand over her braids, just to make sure. And then she reaches out carefully, her fingers trembling.
And so she scrapes her fingers over the fabric, enough to signal her presence. And maybe she smiles, maybe she grimaces, maybe she breaks and maybe her eyes water for just a moment when she hears a woman call out.
"Give me a moment."
And she knows that voice. She knows the way it breathes out just a bit, she knows the way it inflects at the end of her words and she knows the way it sits within her mind.
And so she closes her eyes tight, holds them shut for a long moment, for long enough that she sees patterns dance and twirl behind her eyelids, long enough that she thinks the world spins and turns without her.
And then she hears the curtain pulling away.
She hears the pause.
She hears the gasp.
She hears the silence that follows.
"Clarke?" it's a whispered, shocked, broken sound that reaches her ears. "Clarke?" it's a prayer and a hope and a love that graces her mind.
And so her eyes open.
And she smiles.
"Hi."
Abby's eyes widen. She sees them flick from her eyes to her face. And she thinks she sees just a moment's grimace as she sees the scars that stand out, a stark reminder of the clan she has called home for years.
And then Abby lunges forward, her arms snapping out, embracing Clarke in a hold, a tight, desperate thing that squeezes her body, that crushes her heart and breaks her mind.
And she knows they both cry. She knows her shoulders shudder and her chest heaves and she knows Abby's own tears and quiet sobs echo out in the silence that hangs around them.
"Cl—" she hears her name and it comes broken, and desperate, "—arke"
"It's me," she says, her head still crushed against Abby's shoulder, "It's me."
And she thinks it feels nice to be held in her mother's arms once more.
She thinks she's missed it.
She thinks she's wanted it.
It takes them a long moment before they separate, Abby holding tightly to her daughter, quiet sobs still echoing around them.
But Clarke finds herself ushered into a far corner, Abby's hand gripping hers tightly, her eyes never wavering from the gaze they share, a desperation and a disbelief lingering clear for Clarke to see. And Abby sits Clarke down in front of her, and her hands come up, and so Clarke leans into the touch as Abby cradles her face, her thumbs brushing over her cheeks.
"Clarke—" Abby chokes on her words, tears once more wetting her cheeks, "Oh, baby. Clarke."
And Clarke knows she breaks, knows she sounds grotesque and ruined.
"I'm here, Clarke," she leans further into her mothers hands, "I'm here."
Long moments, broken only by quiet whispers prayers, and strong embraces, pass before they speak again.
"We thought you died, Clarke," the words come out broken, shattered, "I—" Abby looks away, her eyes shutting painfully, "I thought you died."
"I didn't," Clarke chokes out an answer, her vision a blurry mess of tears.
Abby's hands come to rest on her shoulders then, her fingers squeezing, speaking of a want to keep want sits before her present. If only to reassure herself.
"Where were you?" she asks, her voice a rough whisper, "where'd you stay? How'd you survive?" her questions come rapid fire, one after the other, barely a breath between them. And her eyes must trace the scars across her cheeks, the scar on her forehead. "What did they do to you?" her eyes widen, and maybe Clarke sees a disgust, a shock and a quiet anger that begins to burn. "What did they do to you, Clarke?"
"I landed further north," she begins, her mind turning back the years, "in Azgeda — Ice Nation," she adds. "I thought I was dead," she closes her eyes once more, "the radio, it broke. I was lost," Abby's hands run over her shoulders once more. "They saved me. They found me. Gave me a place to stay," she continues, "this is how they mark themselves," she waves a hand over her face. "warriors have marks, healers have ones too. Almost everyone," she finishes, but she thinks as Abby's eyes hold her own, that there is an anger and a shock at what has happened to her face. But for now Abby remains silent. "It's ok," she says, "they don't hurt much anymore," and she sees Abby grimace.
"We searched for you," Abby's lip trembles, "we did. We searched. I—" she looks away, "I hoped. I did. I hoped so, so much," tears come anew, staining her cheeks, and so she brings a finger up, brushes it away forcefully, "I thought you were dead. I thought I killed you, Clarke," and she takes her in another strong embrace, her arms shaking terribly.
"I'm ok," Clarke whispers once more.
But she feels Abby shake her head.
"I thought I killed you."
Silence stretches out once more, Abby still holding Clarke in her arms, the quiet tears they share bleeding into each other. But eventually Clarke pulls herself from Abby's arms, wiping away the tears with the back of her hand, and she smiles for just a moment as her hand comes away, the back covered in a mess of white paint.
"Sorry," she whispers then as her eyes catch the white of the paint that clings to Abby's shirt.
But as Abby looks down, she merely shrugs, a watery smile all she gives, "it's ok."
"How?" Clarke whispers, her thoughts slowly stilling, slowly coalescing into coherence. "How'd you know it was safe? How'd you come down? Where is everyone?"
Abby smiles again, a thumb running over her cheek, just a careful brush against the scars.
"We sent down a hundred kids first," and she looks away for a moment, a grimace falling across her lips. "From Prison Station," she breathes out quietly.
"They were like me, weren't they? A test."
"Yes," Abby answers, "your life signs told us you didn't die from radiation. That the ground was liveable…" and she trails off.
"But they told you I died some other way," Clarke finishes, and Abby nods her head mutely.
"They told us your body temperature dropped," and her voice breaks again, "then we lost your signal."
"It's ok," Clarke whispers again.
"The hundred we sent down," Abby continues, "the grounders," and confusion must flash across Clarke's face for a moment, "—it's what we call the people who live on the ground, and they call us Skaikru— the hundred and the grounders fought. They thought we were invading," she pauses, her thoughts catching up to her in pieces. "And then we sent the rest of the Ark down. And things got worse," and again Abby pauses for a moment, "a lot of the hundred died, Clarke, the grounders killed them, and then we arrived and we killed a lot of them," and Abby once more closes her eyes, her lips trembling slightly, her chin quivering just a bit at the pain the memories must be conjuring. "A lot of people died on both sides," she finishes quietly.
"Are you prisoners?" Clarke asks.
"No," Abby smiles gently, but perhaps it's a bittersweet thing, full of pain, "we aren't prisoners. We're working with the Commander now."
"Why?"
And Abby pauses for a moment, and perhaps Clarke sees a sadness live within her eyes, and maybe she feels a defeat and a loss that sits upon her mother's shoulders. And so Abby's eyes turn watery once more before she speaks.
"We're fighting a civil war, Clarke."