Chapter 23 – For the Throne

Polis

38 days till the end

Outside the temple of the Order of the Flame, the main square of the capital basked in a pink glow.

The city had fallen to a hush in witness.

"I, Octavia kom Skaikru, born in the Sky, daughter of Aurora, renounce my position as Ambassador for the Clan of those Sky born," Octavia's voice rang out clear and sharp over the square.

Lincoln joined her on his knees.

"I, Lincoln kom Trikru, born in Ton DC, son of Meera, renounce my place serving under Anya kom Trikru, Chief of Ton DC,"

They knelt barefoot, unarmed. Lincoln was bare-chested, and Octavia stripped down to a short wrap around her abdomen. Both clad in unadorned soft trousers.

Together with the markings of their clan and other tattoos visible to all.

Titus loomed over them, with Gaia a silent shadow behind him, as Lexa watched, Anya and Indra at her sides. Wells stood to the other side, Sinclair and Monty flanking him as the sun rapidly sank lower.

"Who speaks for the Clan of the Skyborn?" demanded Titus.

"I do, Wells kom Skaikru, born in the Sky, son of Thelonious, Adviser to the Prisa kom Skaikru," Wells spoke clearly and stepped forwards.

"Who speaks for the Clan of the Woods?" the flame-keeper demanded.

"I do. Anya kom Trikru, born in Ton DC, daughter of Rayne, Chief of Ton DC," Anya stayed set at Lexa's left side.

"And who speaks for this ceremony?" the flame-keeper demanded again.

"I do," Gaia's voice was whisper soft as she stepped gingerly forwards.

She hovered over the kneeling petitioners, "Gaia kom Order of the Flame, novitiate priestess of the flame,".

"Adviser kom Skaikru, what say Wanheda?" Titus spoke again.

"Wanheda gave her permission, and blessing for this union moons ago as long as it was willing entered," Wells confirmed.

"Heda, what say you?" Titus cast a lingering look at Lexa.

The world stood still in wait.

The commander's expression did not change, but she gazed at the kneeling pair who looked up at her in turn.

"I bless this proceeding, and the binding it creates between two clans," she confirmed.

"Then here we stand tonight to watch two become one," boomed Titus.

Octavia's hand clutched Lincoln's, and their eyes stayed on each other. All of Polis could have crumbled to ashes around them.

Squishy pillows piled behind her, Clarke lay back reclined on the softest, draped lounge she could imagine. A small round table was before her holding sweets and mead. Her head swam fuzzily with her thoughts dristing off-course as she drank.

Throughout the night people had been coming before her to bow, to kneel, to whisper vows of faith, to boast of the greatness of the ice nation. The oddest thing, to ever dream of…

None had yet dared to come too close. Yet still, the guards who flanked her lounge held axes in both hands in wait.

Only the prince invaded her breathing room. With that disconcerting faux-intimacy, he leaned over her, to cup her face in one hand and murmur into her ear.

"We can leave, if you are ready," Roan offered quietly.

The healer's teas had lulled her into a floating sort of contentment before leaving the upstairs quarters. A bit of peace to bear her forwards, the same sort of kindness as covering a lamb's eyes before the slaughter. Even that was fading fast now with the prince's breath hot on her cheek, and the mead made her head swim differently. Anxiety was creeping back in underneath it.

"We'll be expected to appear on the balcony when we reach my chambers. After that we have no duties until tomorrow's feast at sunset," he explained.

Clarke nodded. Her stomach swooped, full of hot mead and half-formed objections.

With a smirk, Roan took hold of her and cradled her in his arms like a bride.

She was his bride, she recalled faintly. The bride of the king that will be, as too many voices had whispered tonight. Pushing away all thoughts, Clarke let her head droop to his shoulder. It was as broad and steady as she remembered. How often had she found herself upon it?

Out of the courtyard, to the stairs he carried her. Even avoiding the elevator on the way back towards his rooms. The first set of doors has a guard to either side, but one is a man Clarke finds familiar.

More than that, there is a way that he nods to Clarke when she meets his eyes, that tells her…

He is one of Roan's men.

Or he was, before.

And now again, it seemed, if she read their looks accurately. She's not sure of it, or anything. Not with her head and stomach sloshing so.

The other, though, has a spiteful cast to his bearing as he holds his side of the doors wide enough for their entrance. Clarke glared back, setting her jaw and stiffening in the prince's hold.

There is no one in the first room, though Clarke had half-expected Remy to be there. The inner set of double doors are held open by large, smooth river stones that allow Roan to carry her through.

"Ready to make our appearance, or do you need to rest first?" he asked, holding her against his chest still.

"Let's do it now," Clarke muttered.

In response, Roan carries her through the last set of wide-open doors.

Just short of the railing Roan halts, but lanterns are illuminating the length of the balcony.

It takes just a moment for the waiting crowd below to spot their appearance. Silence falls. The open-air feels colder now after the journey inside the palace. Clarke doesn't raise her head from his shoulder, and he doesn't set her down to her feet.

From below, Clarke thinks she hears the queen's voice raised to be heard across the crowd. Three floors above, she doesn't try to understand the words. It feels like all of Azgeda is gathered for this farce. Thousands upon thousands of warriors had poured into the capital and it's surrounding woodland. Now they believed they owned her.

Whatever the queen's words were, the courtyard roars their approval. Over this, the drums begin beating again.

"That's enough," Roan rumbled near her ear, and Clarke ignores that, too.

At least he turns back towards the bedroom.

She's had quite enough of eyes upon her.

Never on Earth had she ever been so far from Hundred Camp. Could she even find her way home, if she could run?

Roan steered her towards a seat, and then brought her mind jolting to alertness by kneeling down at her feet.

He took her hand, poorly wiped, and held it.

"Now, my wife, do you not remember any of our talks while you were unwell?"

Clarke's brow furrowed. There had been so many dreams. Nightmares, and the visions of what had been and what would be…

"I dreamed of you..." she said slowly.

"You asked about the hounds, and your second, and the war," he reminded.

That… that was true. Somewhere in her mind, she could hear those words, as if from far away. So Clarke waited.

He centered himself with a deep breathe.

"This is our second chance, Clarke. I will not waste it," he vowed with the solmenity of a priest.

She did not dare- Could it be? This was the second time in this life they'd made vows to each other, it was a second chance at working together…

"If I am wrong, you will think I am mad, but I do not believe I am wrong. It is a risk I must take," he murmured quietly… far too low to be overheard by the queen's spies outside his doors.

Madness. That's what they all feared.

"When I died, you were my last thought," Roan's confession shattered the last boundaries of Clarke's disassosciation.

There was no air in her lungs, and she could not breathe, as tears welled and fell without her consent.

"Your face, desperate and determined, always fighting. I prayed for your surival, and your triumph, as I fought that water demon of a nightblood, and when I woke again in my bed in the no man's lands, I woke still praying for you. Wanting to see you even one last time, and then... I waited for you. Dreamed of you. So long I began to wonder if you would come again,"

His wolf-like eyes fixed upon her, those rough hands that had saved her, and worked with her, more times than she could count...

Finn hadn't dared to tell her until he was dying.

Octavia hadn't risked it until Finn had lay dead between them, weeks too early.

Lexa had used her knowledge to maniplate.

Clarke kissed him.

"I should've told you in Polis," she whispered as she leaned back, "You should've told me before you left."

"Thought it'd hold more weight if I was in the position to be of use," Roan said wearily, leaning back as well and sighing deeply as he consideed their situation.

"Lexa suspected you from the beginning. I couldn't ever let go of... of..." she trailed off, looking down at their hands in her lap.

"She wasn't the only one. I believed it would be easy to come home, and take the throne, with everything I knew that the queen did not. Yet I miscalculated. From the moment I arrived, my mother suspected me. I saw her only three times before you were captured, and never without her guards. I didn't see Ontari at all, until after I moved you to these rooms. Much less the chance to act. She's kept me surrounded by her men, and it has taken time to slowly turn, or replace who I could. Then she sent me away again – on procession, to remind our people who I am, so she said. I'd guess she felt the changing balance here. It still wasn't enough to act- not until you," he explained slowly, his gaze focused on Clarke completely.

"Me?" she asked.

He nodded curtly. "People began fleeing the palace, and the city, from the moment rumors began of you being held in the dunegons. When you... when you began to scream, they left in droves. And then... when you ceased to scream... I met many people on the road. They all spoke of the commander of death, and the curses that would befall all who remained as you suffered. As you died," his voice broke on the last word.

"But you saved me. Again,"

Clarke leaned down to press another swift, soft kiss upon him, and he groaned, his hands tightening on hers, but otherwise remaining still beneath her attention.

"You owe me nothing," his raspy voice was exactly as she remembered, and she wondered how long ago had it been, in that first life, that she'd become so desperate to hear it again whenever they parted.

"As you owe me nothing," she returned, and leaned closer this time.. just out of reach.

She waited.

One short breathe, then another, and finally-

" Clarke," Roan said her name, just before he met her lips.

To the bed they eventually staggered, laying close, whispering in plots and secrets, regrets and hopes, as below them, the capital reveled. Dawn crept over them, and finally the celebrations fell quiet… they slept, close enough to touch yet not quite…

The ride to the battlelines had not taken as long as he had been told it would. The coalition had pressed farther inward than the queen knew, and Seiku wondered how it would all end… That was not his mission, not now. The girl… that was what Roan had entrusted him with.

Seiku eyed her contemplatively. Slight and small, and fair… she'd be his death, if the queen learned of his part in this. Her sunlight hair, just like Wanheda's, was clean and loose, but it was cut just under her chin- too short to count on being recongized in time.

"Do your people have any marks of their clan?" he asked her.

The girl nodded, jerking her head down curtly. She hestitated only a moment, then turrned her back, to pull off her tunic, and undershirt. Beneath those she wore a warrior's style wide band around her chest which left the inked large star and some of the falling star visible. It was Monty's work, forever etched onto her.

Seiku nodded understanding when she turned her head to look at him.

He'd first seen the inked markings on Wanheda's back, when he'd helped after they pulled her from the cell but only the very top piece had been recongizable as a star. The bottom of it was disfigured, but the top remained intact and clear beneath the bruises and swelling. The lower pieces were far too badly broken. Just bits of ink splatterred among the bloody stripes. Between the scars and the stitches, the swollen and bruised flesh, he had not been able to tell what it had been meant to be. Now he could see the scatterng of black falling stars. A fitting mark of the Skyborn clan.

Charlotte shivered. Dawn was not warming the land in the least.

"Better to be cold than assumed a spy. Put your cloak on, but leave the rest off. When you approach, you must remove the cloak too. Show them your marks, right away. I will stay close until you're among your own comrades," he vowed seriously.

When she marched into the war camp, Charlotte stood straight and tall to command the men before her as the Order of the Flame had instructed her was her duty. She would not flinch, could not lower her eyes, could not sniffle.

She was the second of Wanheda, and she would do her duty.

"Give me the radio."