AN: Thanks for all the comments and support! 3
Chapter 11
Guiding Light
(Mumford and Sons)
* 84 days till the end *
"Wetlands," Gaia called it.
The name certainly fit. Even as they avoided the actual shallow ponds, and massive, murky puddles their boots squished into ground with a squelching whine. Moss hung thickly from the otherwise bare trees, and Clarke would have called it a swamp, if she'd been asked. The horses shied, and pranced, flinching and quivering as their hooves sank into the thick mud floor, then had to be yanked up forcefully from the thick mud. Again, they were forced to dismount, as the horses would go no farther carrying them. Throwing her leg over, Clarke began to slid down, and halfway there, felt a yank around her neck. Groaning, she untangled the tiny star pendant of her necklace from her horse's mane to free herself. With a sigh, she stepped backwards, and went sliding.
Something slippery beneath her feet gave way, and Clarke found herself sitting down into the muck hard. The little mare sidestepped nervously away. Now even her underwear was wet. Mucky, and wet, even.
"Blughhhh," she groaned out, making no effort to get up.
Her horse looked over at her, and Clarke just stared back. Exhausted, and rather humbled by the indignity. Rolling his eyes, Miller came over, ignoring the restlessly shifting mare, and scooped Clarke up from the mud.
Which had been nice, Clarke figured, until he threw her over his shoulder in a fireman's carry.
It just made her dripping leggings ride up. With a whine, she claw at his arm and shoulder till he let her wiggle down to her feet. When she squirmed uncomfortably, but was at least steady, she looked up into his dark eyes. Whether the glint in them was pity, or amusement, she couldn't tell. Sighing, she turned away. Her clothes made a wet, sliding squeak. Behind her still, Miller snorted softly. Traveling on earth was an undignified, weary experience at best. This was just a rash waiting to happen. Putting aside her own flith, Clarke shook her head, and tied back her now muddy braids into one large clump. Wiping off, and patting down her clothes would have to do.
How long they wandered, they measured by the sun. In the thick, soggy ground, they walked on foot, leading their horses on. At least no one else looked any happier about this environment, even Caliban was scowling disapprovingly about him. His second, Yulian kom Trikru, was positively stomping about- flinging bits of mud all around. Gaia was creeping along with a cautious grace, bothering disturbing the squishy ground, and Charlotte was obviously attempting to imitate her, but her face showed none of the serene tolerance that Gaia's did. Instead, her tongue was caught between her teeth, and her brow furrowed in disgust. Clarke understood.
Caliban halted, bringing their sloppy line to a stop, Clarke's head jerked up, trying to look around her horse at him. The mare's eyes were covered by a thick strip of blanket tied tightly, and she leaned against her handler fearfully. When she couldn't meet his eyes for the horse in between them, she followed his gaze. Somewhat north of where they stood. It was the same as everywhere west and north- graying smoke rising above the trees. In the sunlight, it was hard to tell the orange-yellowish light from this far off, but they were getting closer. Now that they all were mostly still, she could hear it. A sound of something sloshing. Coming closer. Too loud, too heavy to be any of the small species of animals they'd seen since entering the wetlands.
A pair of bedraggled warriors appeared, mud up to their thighs, and gloomy, but Miller recognized them quickly as part of the commander's forces. They had lost their horses in the marsh, and the rest of their riding party hours before that. Winds had changed on the other side of the river, and fire had abruptly separated them. They explained, wearily, that they had left Polis with a dozen of heda's soldiers, doubled up saddlebags of supplies, and a pair of healers, before sunrise, having hoped to catch up to Wanheda's riding party.
"Well, you have," offered Charlotte awkwardly.
The pair was so downtrodden that Clarke felt bad about asking if they had any idea where the rest of their crew might have ended up.
It took hours longer than it ought to, Clarke knew, though no one said. Their route circled around from the mountain, ending up on the far side of the land they'd known, at least four hours further from Polis in a straight path, and double that on the circuitous, hesitant method they'd been forced to use.
The sounds of horns drew them in- to a sodden camp, bordered on two sides by water, one the great river they'd already crossed, and the other a little brown stream. The ground here was mushy with wet leaves, and slick with mud. The trees were small, and few. In spring, it was probably a pretty little clearing. Right now, though, desolate and barren in the January chill, it would have been a pitiful spot to camp- if it's very damp, blighted space hadn't offered them sanctuary. Fire wasn't going to follow them here. Gaia murmured to Clarke and Charlotte that the land here lay low, flooding high in heavy rains, and dank, and moist even in the driest summers.
"We could never build here," agreed Caliban.
"But perhaps it's given to us to be our haven," whispered Gaia, her face looking up, towards the burning sky.
"Our people have dealt with fires many times before. Only in summer, and the beginnings of fall, when the land is dry. I do not know how it could have gotten so bad they abandoned the village so soon," offered Caliban, as he saw the Skaikru eyeing the work.
Clarke walked between Caliban and Nathan, Charlotte rushing behind them.
So many were hustling about the murky open ground behind the trench lines that, Clarke suspected people from other villages had come to help already. The hasty shelters in creation were tents of large animal bones and skins. They found more than a dozen women and children digging trenches, and crossed the lines towards the dozens of people behind. Even smaller children were carrying jugs of water, slowly, and tiredly, from the river and stream, pouring into the trenches once those digging had moved on. Every ten feet or so, a large torch was held carefully to provide light for the work.
"Make way for Wanheda, and the envoy of our heda!"
Clarke walked between Caliban, and Nathan, Charlotte rushing behind them, into the refugee camp. Croaking and sniveling, the lot of them, mucky from wading in the bleak river, Trikru and Skaikru alike. The same water that stood as their barricade against the conflagration dribbled from their hair and clothes, chilling them deep into their bones with twinges and woe. Trembling with the remembrance of the broiling they'd undergone. The children of Ton DC mewling, those apart from their families kneeing, the desolation stews greater with every lonely hour. The rising sun alit the ground they wallowed upon, covered in viscous moss, hardly better than the glacial river itself, with nothing dry, and nothing warm to soothe their grousing.
With a deep nod at Clarke waving him off, Caliban had strode straight off in search of Anya. Gaia had trailed behind him, as had Yulian. Charlotte had spotted Tris, and run off after a pleading look at Clarke had meet with a brief, strained smile. Only Miller stayed at her side, silent, but his eyes frankly scanning the site.
"Clarke!" came a shout from somewhere in the midst of the teeming camp.
The crowd parted, and stilled.
And there was Bellamy, finally. Clarke hurtled across the distance towards him. Faltering at the last moment, she rocked back onto her heels to keep from the impact. The purple shadows beneath his eyes were so deep, so wide, she wasn't sure whether they were from lack of sleep, or hits. More than a day's worth of scruff lined his grimy cheeks, and his hair was slicked back messily, glinting with slime.
"There are," Bellamy paused, trying to get the coughing, and pressed on, devastated, "52 missing, and Sterling is dead,"
Clarke's face crumbled.
Bellamy still had her wrapped tight in his arms, but she could tell he was looking around her. Behind her. When he stiffened, she pulled back almost in time. The arms that had been encasing her pushed her away. Brushing against Miller's shoulder, she regained her balance. Miller didn't flinch. He also didn't look at her. Both of them kept their eyes on Bellamy, waiting.
"Where's Octavia?" he demanded.
Miller remained stiff, but Clarke folded her arms in front of her. The wet clothes stuck uncomfortably to her skin.
"Bellamy," she implored, then bit her lip.
"Where is my sister?"
"You want Octavia safe. Polis thinks this is arson, it's hardly the safest place to be," deflected Clarke quietly.
He sneered at her, angry, suspicious, and worse... Bellamy crowded her, opposite Miller. Leaned down.
"If that was the real reason, your kid wouldn't be here either,"
His shoulder bumped hers hard as he stalked off, and Clarke let her slump. Heavy footsteps of his sodden boots moved away. She didn't look back.
Closing her eyes, Clarke swallowed all the rebuttals she wanted to make.
"Stand up straight," grunted Miller.
Her eyes opened, and she shifted to face him more, finding he'd done the same. The words hadn't processed through her brain.
He frowned as he looked over his shoulder towards where Bellamy was still stomping away. Hundred Camp's leader was blatantly putting as much distance between himself and the princess as possible. Making a scene had never bothered Blake.
Miller looked back to where Clarke stood, now directly in front of him, and close enough for them to whisper. Waiting with wary eyes. The political princess of the Ark understood discretion at least.
"Back on the Ark, you had a real thing for taking everybody's shit-" he held up a hand to stop her words when her mouth flew open. Shifted a bit to square up his shoulders. Clarke screwed up her face, wanting to interrupt, but his glare paused her.
"Yea. It made sense there. You put up with some name calling, and hair pulling, and idiot kids with anger issues didn't go to the Skybox for harassing a councilor's daughter. But this isn't the Ark, and Blake's not some dumb kid. Your martyr bullshit needs to die. You wanna be in charge? Stand up straight. Stop taking bullshit because people can't handle their anger issues,"
"Bellamy blames me for his relationship with Octavia, and I can't fix any of it,"
He nodded, curt, and unconcerned, his face blank.
"Not your job. Your job is to keep them from ruining things for the rest of us,"
His demand rubbed her the wrong way, and she fidgeted, her lower lip pouting as she fought her initial urge to argue about this too. Miller leaned closer, and bit out his words grimly.
"You can't fix everything, and you can't control how people feel. We all got our personal crap to handle," he added, hard, but low, his dark eyes boring into hers.
Exhaling her pent up breathe, Clarke closed her eyes again. Squared up her shoulders like her adviser, and clenched her jaw. When she opened them again, she met Miller's for another long moment as she breathed deeper, slower. Let herself drawn strength from him.
"Right. First things first. We need to know who made it here, but before that..."
His smirk in answer was a quick thing, and he waited for her to stalk on before he fell into step at her side.
First, she goes to Sterling. Nyko wrapped Sterling in soggy furs. There was no place to bury him here. Not near enough dry wood to build a pyre in the marsh, if they'd even dared tempt mother nature in such a way. Nothing to do, but wait.
Kneels down, knowing without having to look that Miller is standing just behind her. The young gunner lays under still-damp blankets near the riverbank. With numb hands, Clarke drew them away to see him. She hears a choked sob not even realizing it came from herself. She had forgotten. Last time, he had died when she wasn't around. Before she'd ever made it to Arkadia. The last time she'd seen had been during the grounder attack, and she hadn't known he'd survived it until after he'd already died. Fell off a cliff trying to save a friend. His body hadn't been recovered. Never been buried.
Monroe came and knelt down at Clarke's side, staring down at Sterling too.
"He passed out from the smoke, right when it all started. Jones was supposed to help him. I mean, Jones' is twice his size. I could barely drag him even with Cade's help. Kid's not exactly huge, much less me,"
"What happened with Jones?" whispered Clarke.
Monroe shrugged. Clarke couldn't see it with her gaze on Sterling, but she felt it against her own shoulder.
"Dunno. Jones isn't here, but barely half of us are..."
"I'm sorry,"
"Are we even gonna make it to Praimfaya," whispered Monroe.
Clarke shuddered.
"Who didn't... who hasn't made it here yet?" asked Clarke.
Monroe sniffed hard.
"Mischa, Troy, Bree, Atom, Collette, Jasper..."
The names kept coming, though eventually Monroe faltered, and Miller and Clarke tried to remember all the names, all the kids, they'd come down with.
Night had fallen fully, but the temporary base camp was lit only by the painstakingly tended torches held by only a few. Beyond those, only the threatening glare emitting across the waterways offered any guiding light.
Though nearly two dozen more Trikru had trickled into the wetlands, in pairs and trios, and one group of half a dozen older kids, drenched in blackened scraps, there had been no arrivals of Skaikru since Clarke's party had shown up. Most of those who'd made it at least seemed stable. They all were at risk for smoke inhalation complications, but otherwise, seemed alright. A few had superficial burns where their skin had been exposed, and Mary Eng had cut her calf on something in the river. It wasn't awful, but it was deep at one end.
Anya, stripped down to a thin band around her breasts, and shorts tied with a drawstring that passed for both underwear and bedclothes, barefoot, stalked through the camp. A restless panther, trapped. Her hair was still wet, and hung limply, with only a braid to either side to keep it from her face. At her side, scurried a revolving shift of young seconds, bearing a torch.
Most of the Trikru were similarly bared to the elements. The shed garments were spread out across rocks, hanging from taller bushes, and a few puny clotheslines erected from the sparse, crooked trees. The overflow lay in heaps upon the riverbank. Clarke had followed their example hours ago, first freezing as the air hit her skin, but then relaxing into the relief of having the damp clothes on her.
One of the younger Skaikru boys lay beside her, and she sat quietly, petting his hair. A nightmare, that he hadn't had to explain, had woken him, and Clarke had gotten to him first. Now she waited for him to find sleep again.
A call went up from the watch to the south, their side of the river, and Anya went still. Only a dozen paces from where Clarke sat beside Cade, the Ton DC chief tensed up, like a hunting dog pointing.
Another call came, and a half dozen whistles, before they began to hear the shouting.
Making no effort at silence, the squelching noise of numerous feet hustling through the muck grew.
Miraculously dry from their knees up, a thick group appeared.
Anya shot forwards to meet them. A boy who couldn't be more than eight carrying a torch scurried behind her.
As Clarke jumped to her feet, sliding a little on the slippery ground, Cade, sleep forgotten, scrambled to his feet. The kid bumped into her feet, and nearly sending them both down. After retying her sword's sheath to her hip, Clarke let her hand drift down to the gun strapped high on her thigh.
The new arrivals trod closer.
As Anya, and several others converged, Caliban emerged from the darkness.
They met the newcomers, but Clarke couldn't hear the greetings. As more of the Ton DC refugees gathered behind Anya, Clarke realized this was not another group of Trikru. She moved closer, and the crowd behind Anya parted enough for her to see when the man leading the arrivals shoved back his cloak.
