28
Wolves, Bears, and Pacifists Breaking Teeth
CLARKE
"Good evening, King Arlen of Azgeda. Nice of you to join us." Clarke said as the man's glassy eyes finally rolled open. The man looked nothing like his older brother. He was smaller than Clarke had imagined, lean, almost scrawny. His thin, lank, shoulder-length hair was so blond it was almost white and his eyes were the translucent light blue of a frozen lake that shined in stark contrast to the sheer darkness of his black pupils. He wore a gray-white cloak elegantly trimmed in furs that was so thick Clarke got the impression he was trying to compensate for his small stature. And the glistening golden crown perched on his head was askew from his recent collision with the floor.
The man pushed himself into a seated position, struggling against the zipties around his wrists and ankles, so tight that the plastic cut into his flesh and made little crimson rings in his skin. His icy eyes darted around the chamber, taking in his bound and gagged guards, lighting on Bellamy, and then finally narrowing on Clarke.
"Ai laik Clarke kom Skaikru." She said coldly, as the man glared. "And I need you to do us ALL a favor... And call off your attack... before you kill us all. If Skaikru falls, Azgeda falls with it. If sky burns... Ice will burn with it."
"Call off the attack." Clarke repeated.
"And why exactly would I do that, Sky-Rat?" The king snarled in reply. His voice was cold and greasy, limp and salty, like day-old french fries.
"Because we have a gun to your head?" Bellamy suggested, releasing the safety on his rifle and pointing its tip at the narrow space between Arlen's icy eyes.
"Do I look like I am afraid of death, boy?" Arlen asked. And his voice was full of anger, contempt, and aggression, but Clarke could not detect any notes of fear in it.
"If you are not afraid of death, why are you sitting like a coward here, while your army marches without you? Why are you not leading your people into battle?" Bellamy asked.
"A leader with TRUE power does not have to be present to inspire loyalty in his people. His subjects are obedient. And his words alone are enough to spur them on to victory or to death. My people kill for me. Or they die for me."
"Call off the attack." Clarke repeated impatiently.
"The butchers' knives have already been sharpened." Arlen growled. "The cook fire has been lit. Killing me will not save your people from the slaughter that has been prepared for them. Arkadia will roast and not a single rat will escape the spit."
"If Skaikru burns, so does Azgeda." Clarke repeated.
"So you said." Arlen replied lazily. "And yet, we both know that is a lie. The only reason you rats have snuck into my chambers is because your people have no chance of standing against my forces. You think that nibbling at my toes will frighten me into calling off the exterminator. But my crew will not pull back until Arkadia is nought but ash and blood and twisted metal. And every rat will die in the rubble. Only then will my fist pull back. Only then will the might of Arkadia relent."
"You're right," Admitted Clarke. "Unless you call your people back, they will eliminate all of Skaikru. Then they will return to ice and snow and the cold will become their tomb. There is a sickness coming... A sickness for which only Skaikru has a remedy. If you eliminate Skaikru, you eliminate the cure and every man, woman, and child in Azgeda will die, along with every other Grounder in every other clan. No one will be able to escape the sickness. But it will come for Azgeda first."
King Arlen narrowed his eyes further at her words, suspicion and disbelief etched in the lines between his furrowed brows. "A sickness for which only Skaikru has the remedy?" He let out a cold, mirthless laugh. "Tell me, girl... Have you ever chipped a man's teeth out one-by-one with an ice-pick?"
Clarke frowned in confusion at the ridiculous question as Arlen continued. "That man will say anything to end the pain. Lie after lie until every last tooth is gone and the only sound that escapes his mouth is the gurgling of him choking on his own blood."
"It is not a lie." Clarke spat. "Nuclear power plants are failing and radiation levels are rising. Three of the largest failing plants are in Azgeda territory... The sickness is coming, and Azgeda will have the worst of it. It will start with the weak... The children and the elderly... vomiting and diarrhea, headache and fever, dizziness and fatigue, hair loss... And it will only end in death. Perhaps some of your crew are already showing symptoms?"
The man's eyes flashed at her words. It was subtle. It was quick. But Clarke had seen it. The radiation poisoning was already beginning in Azgeda, and King Arlen had seen the signs even if he had not understood them. But the scowl on his face remained as fierce as ever.
"Why should I believe you?" He questioned. "A wolf cornered, even when hopelessly surrounded and outnumbered, will still snarl and bare its teeth. You are nothing but a wild animal issuing empty threats in the face of your destruction."
Clarke pulled the sword from her hip. Arlen eyed it but still gave no signs of fear. He feared neither steel nor bullet. But the blade was not meant for him. Clarke ran her blistered, raw palm across its edge, letting it tear the tender skin apart. Then she raised her hand over Arlen's face just as Queen Nia had once done to her with Ontari's hand, and let the blackness drip from her to paint his skin the color of Trikru.
"You are a Nightblood?" The man asked. And for just one moment, the surprise and confusion in his voice almost overpowered the contempt.
"It's the cure." Clarke answered. "Nightblood is the cure. Only those with the night running through their veins will survive the long night that is to come. And only Skaikru knows how to create the darkness." She paused to lean into the man, her face drawing nearly as close to his as the tip of Bellamy's gun. "Call off the attack."
The king watched the darkness drip like ink from Clarke's hand as if she were clutching a busted pen in her fist.
"No." He answered.
"No?" Clarke echoed in surprise.
"No."
"You would doom your own people?"
"I do not believe you, Sky-Rat." He answered flatly. "I'll admit, the blood was a fine trick. Borrow some from little Luna, did you? But I will not fall for your lies. There is no sickness. No cure. Only empty threats, the snarls of a wild creature backed into a corner... Even if there WERE a sickness. Even if Skaikru HAD the cure... Why should I believe Skaikru will ever share the remedy with Azgeda?"
"I give you my word." Clarke answered. "If you call off the attack, Skaikru will provide every citizen of Azgeda with the serum... Life in exchange for the promise of peace."
"Promises are rarely honored between enemies." Arlen countered.
"I give you my word." Clarke repeated, her frustration growing. Every wasted minute was one her friends and family spent struggling to keep the snapping jaws of Death at bay.
"Your word?" He curled his lip. "What is that? The empty promises and pathetic pleas of a man with a pick to his teeth."
"You are wrong!" Clarke shouted. "I speak only truth. Call off the attack or you doom your people!"
"I doom YOUR people."
"You doom YOURSELF." Bellamy cut in, now fully pressing the tip of his rifle's barrel against the flat of Arlen's forehead.
"I am not afraid of you, boy." The king spat. And Clarke knew he spoke the truth.
"No, maybe not." Bellamy conceded. "But THEY are." He added, nodding in the direction of the bound and gagged guards scattered throughout the room.
"Tell us how to call off the attack," Bellamy bellowed. "Or we execute your king."
Clarke scanned the faces of the room. A few wide eyes. A few wriggling jaws. But no one struggled against their bindings. No one tried to cry out through their gags.
"My men are obedient." The king growled.
"Or perhaps they just have no love for their king." Bellamy countered.
"No one in this room will tell you how to call off the attack." The king spat. "All of your people will die tonight. You cannot stop it. And outside of these chambers, my guards wait for you. YOU will die tonight."
"YOU will die tonight." Clarke corrected him. "You have one final shot... Tell us how to call off the attack."
"No." The king answered. "I will not tell you, and neither will they."
Bellamy fixed his eyes on Clarke's, and though not a word was spoken, the exchange was fully understood.
"Oh... I think they will." Clarke answered through clenched teeth as she gave Bellamy the smallest of nods. "Once we start breaking teeth."
...
OCTAVIA
There is a sharp stinging running like fire down the length of my shin. Another strip of pain flares across my opposite thigh. And I know I am bleeding. But it doesn't matter, because I am still alive, alive, alive.
My eyes focus on the next warrior standing her ground before me and suddenly the strange patches of fire I saw in the trees makes sense. She is not holding a torch. She is clutching a long, slender whip. Its tightly woven fibers are fashioned from some kind of synthetic material that glistens almost like glossy plastic. And apparently it's non-flammable because the last foot of the rope dangling from her fist is dipped in some kind of pith and swirling yellow-orange flames climb up and down its length. The woman's face is painted in soft yellows and burnt oranges that make me think of sun and sand. But the black centers of her eyes are filled with nothing but fire.
She cracks her flaming whip mere inches from Helios's nose and suddenly I feel him rear up beneath me. His terrified whinny pierces my ears and rings right through me. My knees gripping his sides cannot hold. And just like that, I am falling backwards through air and nothingness.
The ground slams into me from behind and the air rushes from my chest in a "humph," as if to say, 'well, these lungs are doomed... Let's go find another pair.' My breath has abandoned me and so has Helios. He bolts into the trees, leaving me on the ground behind him... The big shit.
The woman smiles sickly as she looms over me, slowly stepping towards me as I frantically scramble backwards on my ass. I am still struggling to catch my breath, scuttling like a crayfish out of the water. I reach for my sword lying in the dead leaves beside me, but before I can wrap my fingers around the steel, the whip wraps around my wrist. A serpent of fire curls itself around my forearm, eating its way through my sleeve so that it can lick at my flesh. I cannot pull myself free of the serpent's hold and I roll onto my side, desperately reaching for my blade with my free arm so I can behead this serpent, sever the rope.
But the woman gives a sharp tug on the rope and I'm yanked forward so violently that I'm sure my flaming arm will be ripped right from its socket. Flames licking at my flesh. Flames in my shoulder, deeper than my flesh... Down in the sinew and the tendons and the bones. I am burning, burning, burning alive. And I feel every ounce of the pain because I am still alive, alive, alive.
The woman drags me forwards again and she is still smiling as she pulls a long blade from her hip with her free hand. And I am unarmed, sprawled on my belly in the dirt and leaves and pebbles. And I am struggling to push myself up with my good arm because I am stubborn and there is still fight left in me. And I am not afraid, even as I can think of no way out of this situation. And I wonder if maybe this woman will stab me through the eye, because death would be a mercy. But judging by her smile, I'm thinking she wants to have some fun.
The woman stands directly over me now and she raises her arm and I brace myself for the bite of the blade. And then I blink in utter confusion because the woman is stumbling backwards, a shaft of steel protruding from the depths of her stomach. And it was not a spear that skewered her. It was a trident.
The woman doubles over and falls to the ground as I desperately pry the flaming whip from my melting flesh. The rope peels entire layers of my skin with it and I fight the urge to vomit. But now is not the time to fall apart. So I pull my eyes from my ruined flesh and search for the warrior who just saved my life.
The woman now standing over me doesn't have black or green or silver or browns painted across her face, but rather streaks of blue and gray like seafoam, like the color of the ocean on a cloudy day. And her bushy dark hair is almost as wild as her eyes.
"Luna?" I stutter, lost in complete shock at her sudden appearance. And it is not the first time I've wondered to myself where the fuck this woman just came from. She extends a hand and I grasp it in my good arm and allow her to help me to my feet.
"Am I too late?" She asks with a wild laugh. "Have I missed all the fun?"
I'm still too shocked to speak it, but the thought runs through my mind, 'nope... Not late at all... Right on time... Right the fuck on time.'
Luna releases my arm and pulls a knife from some pocket so quickly it is like she plucked it right out of the chilly night air. She spins on the spot, and the blade nearly grazes my cheek as it flies past me to lodge into the Adam's apple of an Azgeda warrior charging behind me. Then she pushes right past me, now brandishing a sword, to finish the job she started. She delves the blade into the man's core even as I retrieve my own from the forest floor, grateful that Lincoln was able to resist my sexy wiles and forced me to focus the day he taught me how to fight left-handed.
I stand beside Luna, half expecting to see her pull a mace or a fucking javelin from the folds of her cloak next. And though she pretends to be a pacifist, by the wild glint in her eyes I can tell that, like me and Malika, and the woman with the goddamn whip... Luna is ENJOYING this. And I know in this moment that though this woman left the forest for the sea, she was born and raised Trikru. And her black blood is still the blood of Trikru... The blood of a warrior. Because you can chop a tree down at its trunk, but its roots will long remain buried deep in the earth.
And Luna and I stand back to back... Two Trikru warriors with steel in our hands... Two bears surrounded by wolves.
...
CLARKE
The sharp "pop" of a single round from Bellamy's rifle rang through the room, echoing off the stone as Arlen's body lurched sideways onto the floor and went limp. And Clarke watched the blood drain from his forehead and collect in a puddle on the stone floor. And she forced herself to memorize its sharp shade of scarlet, because even though Bellamy pulled the trigger, this blood would leave another stain on her hands, another stain she could never wash herself clean of.
"So..." Bellamy stood and began to pace the perimeter of the chambers. "Who is going to be the one who tells us how to call off Azgeda's attack?"
"Everything I told your king was absolutely true." Clarke spoke out, hoping SOMEONE in this room had the courage to listen to reason. "Azgeda needs the serum Skaikru has developed. Your brothers and sisters... Your mothers and fathers... Your children... Eveyone you love... will die without the serum. Tell us how to stop the attack and I promise you we will provide all of Azgeda with the remedy. Enough blood has been spilled. Skaikru blood... Azgeda blood... Blood has answered blood on both sides. It's time to stop the senseless slaughtering of each other and to work together to save lives."
Clarke looked from one face to another, from one pair of eyes to the next, searching for the glint of compassion or understanding. She pulled a pistol from the insides of her jacket and picked a random forehead. She cocked the chamber and called out to the room. "Enough blood has already been spilled." She repeated, her voice pleading, shaky. "Enough lives have been wasted. Please don't make me take another."
Clarke stared into the defiant brown eyes of a man she did not know. A man she neither loved nor hated. A man with a heart and a soul and a life that was not hers to take, and yet rested in her hands, nevertheless. And she hated the feel of the gun in her hand, the tension of the trigger against her fingertip. If she had her way, she would never fire a gun again. But if she had to, she would execute every person in this room one-by-one until someone spoke up.
"Three." Clarke called through the room... Waiting.
"Two." Waiting, waiting.
"One." She gripped the trigger, waiting... Waiting... Wai-
"Hhhmmmm." A muffled murmur, a garbled plea, and Clarke released her finger and lowered the gun with a deep breath.
She turned to see Bellamy pulling the rags from a woman's mouth across the chamber. "Wait!" The woman gasped. "This sickness that you speak of... You're sure you have a cure? You're sure it works?"
"I tested it on myself." Clarke answered. "I have put my faith in it. If it fails, I die. We ALL die, together. My crew is working right now on multiplying the serum, but we could work a whole lot more efficiently without the threat of immediate extinction by slaughter competing with the threat of approaching extinction by sickness."
"My daughter fell ill four days ago and our healer could not explain why. You promise you will share your serum with Azgeda... With my daughter?"
"You have my word." Clarke answered, staring into the woman's eyes, hoping the woman could see the sincerity in her own. "I seek to save lives. I only want peace. Peace for my people and yours."
"Three blasts of the horn." The woman said, nodding towards a man glaring at her from the corner of the room. "Long and slow."
Bellamy crossed the room and kicked the man from his knees onto his side, rolling him over, searching him. Finally he pulled a curved horn from the man's he pulled a knife from his own hip, cut the ziptie securing the woman's ankles, and pulled her to her feet. He led her out onto the balcony and held the horn to the woman's slips.
"Do it." He commanded.
The woman breathed in and so did Clarke. And the deep blaring of the horn echoed in the chambers and in her chest and out into the night. One blast. Two blasts. Three.
And from somewhere out in the distant forest she heard another horn echo the first. One blast. Two blasts. Three.
And Clarke breathed in and out. One breath. Two breaths. Three.
...
OCTAVIA
I lose track of my injuries. I lose track of the number of men I've killed. I'm soaked in sweat and in blood. My own blood... The blood of my enemies... It is all just a red stain on my clothes, just crimson dripping down my skin. I'm sweating and I'm bleeding and I'm breathing. I am alive, alive, alive.
I just barely dodge the stone and instead of smashing into my nose, it grazes my cheek, taking a slice of me with it as I lunge forward and sideways, cutting my sword diagonally through the air. And I'm pulling the blade from the crevice of the Rockslinger's neck and shoulder when it sounds through the night... A horn... Deep, loud, low, and long.
The Boudalan warrior crumples to the ground and I pry the serrated jaws of his climbing pick from the flesh of my thigh as the horn cuts through the night a second time, blaring a deep, deep baritone note that drowns out the music of the battle. All around me warriors pause to turn their heads to the sky, listening. Their blades drop to their sides in their limp arms. Everyone seems as confused as I am. Someone has hit the pause button again. And for one moment we all just breathe as the horn blares a third time.
One breath. Two breaths. Three.
Then the moment passes and I watch in utter confusion as all around us the faces are disappearing back into the shadows of the trees from which they came, like a wave being pulled back into the ocean. Here and there warriors finish the personal battles they are engaged in, but as soon as one drops to the ground, the other either joins the receding tide or stands on the shore, blinking stupidly like me.
Azgeda is retreating. Azgeda is retreating. Azgeda is retreating.
And I'm still alive, alive, alive.