Cool wind drifted through the cabin. Outside, the birds cawed as they sang to each other about the events of the day. Clarke huddled up against the edge of a crate and wrapped herself in her blanket to keep warm. By the drop in temperature she thought it must be night. Sleep had become a sanctuary for her recently with many dreamless rests. The overabundance of it had made her wide awake and she did her best to keep entertained. The countless trinkets and pots had all been counted and looked through and Clarke's boredom quickly rose. Niylah had been gone for a long time, and Clarke began to wonder if the woman would ever return.
The lighting inside her dwelling had grown much dimmer. The candles in the room had lasted for quite some time, but now found themselves at the end of their life. Shadows were cast in almost every corner of the room and soon Clarke would be left alone in the darkness. The wood creaked and groaned with the blowing wind. She shivered and cuddled up into her blanket even more.
Noise outside the door made Clarke perk up a bit. Niylah must be back, she thought. Clarke hoped that she wouldn't be forced to eat again like the last time. The door slowly opened and to her surprise a man walked through the entry way. He was not Janos. "Hello?" she called out, curling up defensively as the man stepped inside.
"You're the girl Niylah pulled out of the Mountain," the man replied, a slight devilish accent in his voice. He stood tall and from the sound of his voice he must have been older. He wore a cape that drifted down to his ankles and had a hood pulled up, obscuring her view of his face. The door closed behind him but he made no move to advance further within the darkening room.
"Yes," Clarke stammered out. "Were you pulled from the Mountain as well?" She figured if he was here that he came from the refugee camp. Clarke doubted Niylah would let random Grounders wander into the hut without permission. She hoped.
The man chuckled. "No, girl. I am from no mountain." The air grew colder still and Clarke's teeth were chattering at this point. The man showed no such signs of duress. Instead, he removed his hooded garment. It fell to the floor and Clarke could see his face clearly. Poised would be the word she would describe his features. He stood tall and proud, white hair faintly reflected in the dim candlelight and she could barely make out some tattoos on his face. If she had to make a comparison, he would be the Grounder version of Dante. "You don't know who I am, do you?"
Clarke shook her head. "If you're not one of the refugees from the Mountain, why are you here?" Unease took hold of her and the hairs on the back of her neck stood tall.
A shrewd smile crept onto the man's face. "I should ask you the same," he stated, the words rolling off of his tongue. Shivers went down Clarke's spine. "Origins have this funny way of leaving their mark on people. Take, for instance, the Trikru. Peaceful in the trees and a warrior's stance are dead giveaways for their tribe." The man walked slowly towards the center of the room. "The Azgeda have a hardness and coarse beauty about them, the cold shaping them inside and out." He picked up some odd trinkets left laying around the room, feigning interest. "Even those born inside a mountain, never having seen the light of day, have their mark. A paleness comparable to no other and a lack of connection to the life around them."
He put down a small handmade doll and leaned in close to Clarke. "Last I checked, Skaikru don't come from mountains... Clarke," his voice growled.
Clarke jumped backwards and crawled to the side of a nearby barrel. A small gasp escaped her lips. "What?!" she stammered out. How does he know my name? Thoughts raced inside of Clarke's head as her heart began to quicken, thinking of ways she could fight back or escape. Panic set in as she realized she couldn't call for help, as it would likely end with her dead.
"Oh, don't act all surprised," he remarked, the words flowing off his tongue. "The legend of Clarke Griffin from the Skaikru has been growing amongst the people. You're very easy to recognize." He shifted and that's when Clarke saw the metallic glint at the side of his hip. The man paid it no mind and continued staring at Clarke. "You've become a very efficient killer in such a short amount of time. What's the body count at now?"
Clarke nearly hurled when the last statement came out. She couldn't deny the truth in it; she had become a proficient killer. Is that really how the Grounders see me? A murderer? She shook her head. "It was necessary!" she screamed at him, hands reaching up to cradle her head.
"Tsk, tsk tsk," the man retorted. "We both know not all of it was necessary, Clarke. You killed Dante in cold blood. You stabbed your lover at the risk of continuing a war his rightful death would have prevented." Clarke's heart dropped at the last statement and tears dropped from her eyes. The man unsheathed the knife at his side and examined it with amusement. "Such a funny thing how close all things in life are, separated only by the edge of a blade." He spun the blade slowly in his grasp, much like the Commander had the first time they met. "You call what happened at the Mountain necessity. You acted to save the lives of all your friends."
Clarke felt extremely uneasy, her palms sweating slightly. Her eyes never left the faint glimmer of the blade in his hands. Raven on the table, screaming in pain as they drilled into her leg. Her mother being dragged to the table to take her place. The images flashed across her mind and she slammed her eyes shut, desperately trying to forget. "They would have died," she burst out. "Every single one of them. I couldn't sit there and watch that happen to them!"
The man let out a satisfied hum. "A very valid point, Clarke," he observed, pointing his knife in Clarke's direction. "Yet was it not you who decided to kill Dante to ruin any chance of peace?" He didn't wait for Clarke to respond and resumed spinning his knife. "You justify what you did as necessary. I call it genocide!"
The man's snarl made Clarke crash into the barrel behind her as she scrambled away from his wrath. "I had to save them!" she screamed as she crawled away between two crates. The man followed her movements, still twirling the knife in his hands.
"No!" he bellowed. "You were too weak to sacrifice any of your precious people. You could have fought and killed Cage's soldiers." He stopped spinning the blade and wrapped his long, gnarled fingers around the hilt. "A few of your precious friends would have died in the process, yes, but you would have won. Instead, you murdered innocent people. Children!" He smacked the crates that were protecting Clarke out of the way and stood over her, finally having her cornered.
Clarke barely had any time to react when the man surged forward and sent a vicious stab towards her side. Instinct guided her and knocked the man's hand to the side and the knife flew out of his hands. He recovered quickly and dug his fingers into Clarke's arm. She screamed in pain as he scratched his way down her arm leaving trails of blood in their wake. She sunk her fingers into the man's wrist in retaliation and forced him to release his grip in pain. Blood dripped from her fingers when the man ripped his hand free with a howl.
She sent a desperate kick to his stomach and it connected strongly, doubling the man over and allowing Clarke to put some distance between them. She could hear commotion outside and the man cursed as he ran to the door. "This isn't over, Clarke!" he taunted as he slammed the door behind him. Her hands shook and her legs felt like jelly and collapsed to the ground. Her heart beat erratically and breathing came short and rapidly. Sobs escaped her as she examined the wounds on her left forearm. I am a murderer, she confessed, content to wallow in her sorrow and ignore the world around her.
Clarke barely noticed Niylah storming in through her despair, unaware of how long she had been sitting there. She felt herself being dragged into the center of the room and the heat of freshly lit candles washed over her. Casting her glance to the door she saw Janos standing solemnly, watching over the situation with a passive face. Warm hands gently grasped her jaw and Clarke snapped her attention back to Niylah.
"What happened, Helen?" Niylah asked in a firm tone.
Clarke tried to avert her eyes but Niylah wouldn't let her look away, forcing her to stare in the woman's deep green eyes. "I was attacked," Clarke admitted. "An older man walked straight through the door and attacked me with a knife. I barely was able to fight him off," she explained, emotion overwhelming her as the trauma she just experienced began to set in. She kept the whole story to herself, she still didn't trust Niylah with everything. The man knew who she was, she couldn't risk Niylah figuring it out as well.
Niylah simply raised an eyebrow and looked back at Janos. "Janos must have been off assisting with hunting. That was my mistake," she explained. Clarke felt a wetness on her arm and looked down to see Niylah spreading some ointments onto her battle wounds. "Janos will not leave the door again while I am away."
Clarke waited until her arm had been bandaged and retreated away from Niylah's grasp. She could feel the remnants of adrenaline leaving her system and her hands shook slightly. Everything had happened so fast, Clarke could barely process it. Worry that it would happen again entered the forefront of her mind and she immediately looked to Niylah and Janos. Would they attack me too if they knew who I am? She longed to be back underneath the waterfall, hidden away from the world and those who inhabited it.
Niylah motioned to Janos and she stepped out briefly and returned with a handful of clothes in his hands. "It's time to change your appearance, Helen." Niylah pulled out the pot of red dye and placed it in front of her. "Your looks have already drawn too much attention as it is." She grabbed the clothes from Janos and placed them on the ground next to her. "We will start with your hair. Turn around," she demanded.
Clarke did as she was bid and faced the opposite way. Her spirits lifted up a bit at the thought of truly leaving her old identity behind. Perhaps some time spent as Helen will let me heal. Silence existed between the two as Niylah worked through Clarke's hair, applying the dye meticulously to each strand of hair. Niylah's touch was decisive, yet oddly soft. So much confused her about the woman, from the way she acted to the way she talked. Every ounce of Clarke wanted to not trust her, but every time she entered the shack her will to maintain that suspicion eroded little by little.
Niylah shifted so she was now seated directly in front of Clarke and began working on the rest of her hair. At first, Clarke watched her hair slowly turn crimson. The process was long and tedious, but she could see the results clearly. She had always been fond of her blonde hair, but seeing red locks dangling past her shoulders made her forget about that for the moment.
Bored of watching the slow progress on her hair, she shifted her focus to Niylah's face. She couldn't help but notice the resemblance to the Commander again. It wasn't perfect, but it was there; the green eyes, long brown hair, and a youth about her masked by a tough outer shell. Niylah paid her stares no mind, as she diligently worked on her task at hand. She had a focus to her that Clarke envied, wishing she could apply that to block out all the hurt built up within herself.
Clarke tried to appreciate what the woman was trying to do for her, but part of her wondered if the effort wasn't being wasted. She had committed monstrous acts since being sent to Earth. She doubted Niylah knew of her hallucinations and just how bad off her state of mind was. She said she was a healer, but I don't know if I'm fixable. The way Niylah's hands glided through her hair allowed Clarke some measure of relaxation as she eased into the woman's touch. It seemed like ages since the last time she felt a loving touch from someone else. Memories of the Commander bubbled up and any sense of ease now fled her, her muscles tensing in response.
"You will stop," Niylah commanded, finally breaking the silence between them as she removed her hands from Clarke's hair. She dried her hands off on a nearby towel and placed them on Clarke's shoulders.
"Stop what?" she asked, barely even lifting her head to acknowledge the woman.
"Dwelling on the things that pain you," Niylah spoke softly. "The agony inside only holds power while we allow it. To heal is to learn." When she pulled her hands away, Clarke thought for an instant they were covered in blood, but then remembered the hair dye and calmed down.
Clarke shook her head. "I don't think this will heal." She doubted the amount of pain and resentment towards herself she kept inside would ever go away. Niylah's words sounded wise enough, but Clarke just couldn't let herself believe them. Hope was a dangerous emotion and she dared not reach for any.
A warm smile spread across Niylah's face as she packed up the pot of dye. "Time will tell, Helen." She called for Janos again and he brought in a fresh bowl of food and water for her. "Eat and change into these clothes," she said, motioning to the garments next to her. "When you are ready, join me outside. I wish to show you the camp." Before Clarke could reply, Niylah rose to her feet and strode out of the shack, closing the door behind her.
Clarke hesitated, her heart beating slightly faster. The prospect of leaving the confined space intrigued her, yet reality existed on the other side of that door. Millions of thoughts raced through her brain, going over every scenario she could think of. What if I'm attacked again? What if someone recognizes me? The others will ask me about the Mountain. As much as she feared the world outside the walls that surrounded her, she yearned for the fresh air and songs of the forest. She couldn't stay hidden forever.
Stripping out of her old, warn clothes she examined the outfit laid out before her. At first sight they looked much bulkier than Clarke's build, but after pulling on the pants they fit well enough, albeit a tad bit loose for her tastes. Next was a slightly worn undershirt that fell just beneath her waist, which she tucked it in to help the pants fit better. Then was the fur coat that fit almost perfectly for her, sporting the symbol of the Azgeda that adorned Niylah's. Wool socks were next and those slipped on easily enough, though Clarke kept her own boots instead of the ones provided. Finally, an icy blue bandana sat alone on the floor. She tied it loosely around her neck and let it hang from there.
Still feeling shaken up from her fight earlier, she found that she didn't have much of an appetite. She forced down a couple of bites and finished off the water, hoping that would satisfy Niylah. With nothing left for her in the cabin, Clarke turned towards the door to face her first challenge of the day; leaving her sanctuary.
Clarke exited the shelter to the clear night sky. The moon shone brightly over the refugee camp, illuminating much that the various torches didn't reach. Looking around, there weren't very many huts like the one she just exited from, but plenty of tents were pitched across a large area. There were many more people here than she anticipated. Anxiety began to take hold and she took a few steps back towards the door behind her when a hand reached out to stop her.
"Most of them are asleep, Helen," Niylah's voice said soothingly. Clarke relaxed slightly, though still felt extremely on edge. It was the first time being around a large group of people in what felt like an eternity. She had lost count of how long she had been away from Camp Jaha at this point.
"There's so many," Clarke remarked. "They all can't travel?" She found it hard to believe that survivors of the Mountain couldn't journey home to their clans after more than a week.
"Not all wounds are physical," Niylah commented with a frown. "You must have seen the horrors of the Mountain while you were down there. One does not forget that easily, though some better than others." Niylah began walking between tents and Clarke followed reluctantly. "They are allowed to stay here as long as they need, until they are ready to go back to their clans. To go back too early and to show suffering would be considered weakness, and they risk being cast out."
Clarke was dismayed at the thought. "Weakness? How is that weakness?" Much of the Grounder culture baffled Clarke. They had a way of over-complicating things.
"Heda ordered this camp to be made so those who were suffering from the Mountain could stay and fight off their demons," Niylah explained. She waved a hand across the open plain full of tents. "All of them are here because their Heda challenged them to get better. To leave is to disrespect the Heda's wishes and to bring weakness into the clan."
They probably praise her for this. She stabs me in the back to get them all free, sets them up a place to live and they probably love her for it. She had a hard time controlling the vitriol that coursed through her veins. "What about their families? Don't they want to see their loved ones?"
Niylah shook her head. "There is much you do not understand, Helen. In time, I will teach you."
Clarke smelled smoke and as they rounded a row of tents she gazed upon a giant bonfire blazing in the middle of the camp. Flashes of the dropship massacre came to her, though she was able to quiet them down for the time being. The last thing she needed was a hallucination in front of the entire encampment. Niylah stopped at a group of fallen logs and took up residence on one of them. Clarke decided on one opposite her and also sat down. "I had someone try to teach me once. It didn't go very well," she said with more venom than she intended, thinking of the woman who had cut her so deeply.
"I hope to be a better teacher then," Niylah smiled. Clarke let out a huff but was immediately silenced by a blaring horn. Blood drained from her face and her heart sank as she jumped up from her log and moved behind Niylah.
"What is that?" Clarke demanded to know. The horn sounded again and Clarke watched the expression on Niylah's grow solemn.
"The Heda," she said coldly. "Helen, the Heda is here to check on my patients. She is early," the woman said. "Be quiet and do not speak," Niylah said in a hushed voice.
Clarke barely registered what was being said to her. Her heart hammered in her chest, head spinning slightly from the anger building up inside of her. Why the fuck is she here? Clarke desperately wished she had her knife still, she wanted to present a gift to the Commander. Breathing heavy, Clarke scanned the horizon until her eyes landed on a group of horses traveling straight towards her, and at the front and center was the reason for Clarke's problems.
A/N: Thank you to all of you who have been supporting this story, it really means a lot to me! I'm glad you've been enjoying it and thank you to those kind enough to leave a review. Look for another chapter next week!