AN: Thanks for the comments!

Jo Hamel- Thank you for sticking around!

When the Night is Over

- Lord Huron

Chapter 12

Polis, Barracks Behind Commander's Tower

The windowless room, seventh from the front entrance, was his for now. There she was waiting when Lincoln stalked in. Dim candlelight illuminated his dark face. Displeasure simmered upon it. He panted harshly.

"What's wrong?" asked Octavia, rolling onto her side to stare at him.

Lincoln looked anywhere but her.

"What's wrong?" she repeated, growing louder, and sitting up stiffly, holding the blanket in tight fists.

Not easy in a room so tiny that in mornings, he could barely stretch for the day in it. The sky girl in his bed looked so helpless, though he knew she truly wasn't. Short beside him, face scrubbed nearly clean, stripped down to just thin, black underthings, and hair loosened for sleep around her shoulders. Young, and so new to the ground. He knew she was stronger than she looked, but he still couldn't do this.

Another hard breathe expelled as he tried to decide. Splita to his people, he might be, for defying a direct order. His only hope was that it had not come from heda, nor Indra. Quint would have said if it did. If it only came from Anya...

"My people-" he broke off. Splita.

"Trikru would seal the alliance between they and Skaikru. Tied together by marriage. With Wanheda being courted by every other clan, Trikru would join with you. My people want me to court you, to convince you, to marry you. With all haste. Before Wanheda weds, and more eyes turn upon you as the next eldest nitblida of the Sky people. It will. Once the princess has chosen. "

In his admittance, shame mixed heavily with anger. Despite this, Lincoln forced himself to look her in the eyes anyway. Looking at her darkening face, he couldn't know what she was thinking. A skyborn, a nitblida, an ambassador, a girl whom was shaping into a warrior faster than anyone ever ought to be able, a girl whose smiles were rare, but could be brighter than the stars she fell from...

Being drawn to her was inevitable. Understanding her, impossible.

"Indra?" Lexa?" demanded Octavia sharply, her shoulders tightening, and her arms locking around her bent knees.

Lincoln shook his head roughly, wildly.

"Trikru's war chiefs, beneath Indra-" he cut himself off. Splita.

"I would not coerce you," he croaked.

She sat there, still, silent, tightly holding herself, watching him, face unreadable.

"Marriage is rare," he continued when she offered no reply, "the only people who enter into such commitments are people of your status, not mine-"

"My status?" asked Octavia lowly. She stood up, in one long unfolding. Bare except a singlet and plain black panties, still looking fierce now, with her shoulders squared and fists clenched. Her voice rising as she went on...

"My status, me? I was a second child. Illegal. Selfish. My mother had to hide me under the floor to protect me, and when I was found... they killed her. Humiliated my brother. Punished him for hiding me. For protecting our mother. My people locked me up as a criminal among rapists and murderers. My status?"

When she finished, she scoffed, and looked away from his softened eyes. As hers had rose, his temper had fell, in balance.

"My people only see that you are strong. What was done to you in the Sky only makes you stronger on the ground. Your blood runs black, you take to the ways of the ground as if you were born for it, and you bear the mantle of the first ambassador from the sky. You are known as Wanheda's most trusted," he countered slowly.

"What about you?" she snapped, looking back and nearly snarling at the soft look on his face.

He eyed her carefully, and began taking off his outer things. Laid down the sword he'd left on till now.

"I see the woman I would never wish to hurt. Much less betray. Not push into wedding before you've even spent a year in this land. A woman I would not bind to me just to keep her from being wooed by other clans,"

"And what about what I want?" she demanded, her face flickering, as she edged backwards, and to the side, avoiding him as he moved towards the bed slowly.

"What do you want? Sacrificing your position as ambassador would be required if you married outside of Skaikru," warned Lincoln.

Sitting down upon the floor bed, Lincoln now looked up to her. In the dark room, her eyes were fathomless, but her sharp features told him of her anger.

"So, what, Clarke can marry anyone she wants, and stay leader, but unless I marry Skaikru, which has like sixty guys total my age, I can't be ambassador?" she grumbled bitterly.

He nodded solemnly.

"It doesn't matter." she shook it off. "I'll still be an adviser."

"Only if your leader, and the new ambassador agree," corrected Lincoln.

"Clarke wouldn't get rid of me," blurted out Octavia immediately.

She paused. Once the words were out of her mouth, Lincoln's head titled thoughtfully, not disagreeing. Merely curious about how sure she was of it. Shadows gathered in her eyes, and her face darkened as she flushed hotly.

"We have the same goals. She needs me, and she knows it," she corrected, low, and cold. She crossed the tiny room in two steps to stand over him.

Her shoulders hunched, and he pulled her down to him comfortingly. Octavia wrapped herself around him. Inhaled the scent of him- musky, he'd been in Polis too long to smell of trees, but there was still something sharp- the harsh, lye soap the warriors cleaned with in the shared washrooms, she knew. That smell she'd known even before.

"You have a long history with the princess," observed the Trikru warrior as he held her close.

She nodded against him.

"Not all of it good," he continued, his voice ending questioningly.

"She's not really a princess," grumbled Octavia.

He nodded gravely, as if he hadn't heard that same line dozens of times.

"But you trust her?"

Octavia grunted.

Her arms tightened around him, almost painfully, constricting him as if he might slip from her arms.

"She'll do anything for people she cares about. I mean, shit. I would to, I guess... but Clarke... everyone's always looking to her, and she's always coming up plans... then more, when the others fall through... and she just... I would have cut my way through the mountain, and taken my friends out of there no matter what. I would have killed as many of the mountain men as I had to. No doubt. I wouldn't have minded,"

Frustrated, Octavia pulled out of Lincoln's arms restlessly. Rising to her feet, she paced the tiny rectangle room, feeling caged. Her chest ached. It hardly took four steps to cross it length-wise, and she turned sharply on a heel to do it again. Her breathe quickened. Still laying still on the pallet, Lincoln watched her.

This room was even smaller than their quarters on the Ark, but at least it was larger than her space in the floor. With a sharp pant, she kept from screaming barely. Throat tight, she choked on her words. Then tried again.

"But Clarke... she's not a warrior. She doesn't trust her weapon and her body to make her way. No, that's not enough for her. She's always got to have some big grand plot," ranted the dark haired girl, low, and bitter, unwilling to let any of the commander's guards in the rooms surrounding them hear her words.

Growling out in frustration, she turned to stare at him pleadingly, and he simply held an arm up, offering the space beside him. With a cry, somewhere between anger and sorrow, Octavia threw herself down onto the pallet. Home. He was her home. Lincoln pressed a firm, steady kiss onto her aching lips and shifted beside her to relax. It was still nearly an hour before she could sink into sleep. Not even Lincoln's arms could erase all that happened in her memory.

Sometimes his eyes were so familiar that Octavia could almost convince herself that he remembered their life together. He wasn't her Lincoln in the same way though. This man had never even considered the weight of his loyalties. In this life, he could at her side with pride, because here she was not vermin to be scorned, not in Polis, not when even the commander who'd nearly killed her so many times in the last life showed her courtesy. Octavia knew the depth of his heart, but he did not.

And he didn't have any idea why she was so angry.

Her Lincoln had. He hadn't liked lit, had tried to show her how to let it go, but when it hadn't worked, he'd still loved her.

This one doesn't even know how angry she really is.

It didn't feel like she'd been sleeping long when a pounding rumble upon the wood doors, and yelling came from the entrance of the barracks, and Lincoln was rising to his feet before he even opened his eyes. As Octavia woke, she realized she was hearing bells. Huge bells, from the sounds of it. Like the bells on the bottom, open air floor of the commander's tower.

"Call to action, it means everyone, now," he told Octavia, and she jumped up, pulling her clothes back on. "Something's wrong," muttered Octavia, and Lincoln looked at her, hard. He nodded curtly.

Wetlands downriver from Mount Weather

There was something about the features that hinted that she should know the face, but the shadows upon them all, and the people between them blocked too much. Clarke's hopes rose... could it be?

Terse, low exchanges continued, but Clarke shouldered her way though the front line of Trikru to step into the dividing empty space. Her eyes shot to the man's face. When Yulian kom Trikru stepped closer, raising his torch high, the flames gleamed upon blond hair that was far too light. Crushing disappointment hit, and Clarke bit her lip to hold it in.

The leader of the arrivals met her with a smirk, and Clarke could see the exhaustion upon his face, and the few faces she could see of the huddle behind him.

"Wanheda, I am glad to see you arrived in good health,"

"Ulrin kom Delfikru," greeted Clarke grimly, her shoulders tight despite the smile she gave him.

Anya's eyes left Ulrin to turn towards the sky princess with a glare, but Ulrin ignored the less than welcoming air.

"I have brought something with me for a day's travel, to present to Wanheda, and Trikru, in absence of Heda," announced Ulrin, and at his words, the huddle behind him broke.

Anya's warriors raised their weapons, spears, and swords, and whatever they'd had in hand, but froze with them at ready.

Two men, both of the glowing forest clan if the lines of perfect dots marking their faces were to go by, hauled a third between them. Wrists bound tight behind his back, and ankles tied without an inch of give, gagged, but his face uncovered, the captive struggled and snarled. A third guard, a woman with the narrow, angled lines of Broadleaf, hovered behind, a spear in hand, which she jabbed into the captive's side once he was dumped at Clarke's feet. Yulian crowded closer with his torch to offer light. Anya pounced. Her bare foot pinning the prisoner to the swamp floor by his exposed throat. Clarke bent over as he choked, gasping for breath, and trying to shake off Anya. She took the damp cloth, someone's shirt, that was offered from behind her. Without gentleness, his face was scrubbed. Snorting, Anya removed the slight, offending appendage, as they'd already seen what they needed.

Thin, curved scars covered his face beneath the black soot and grim.

"Azgeda," roared Anya, for the entire camp to hear, and know what had been discovered.

Ulrin nodded when Clarke stood and looked to him.

"Delayed my party, and halved our number by separation in our riding from Polis. Drawing lines of fire, and feeding it." explained Ulrin.

Another woman, whose black war paint was nearly worn away, but remained evidence of Trikru, came from the darkness behind Ulrin.

"Anya, he speaks the truth." As she spoke, she pulled a heavy pack from her shoulders, and crossed the divide, kicking the captive as she went, to hand it directly to Anya. The young second at her side raised his torch up high again, as his leader dumped the contents upon the ground.

Anya snarled.

"Beeswax, seed oils, kindling, uncut spools of fuse, char cloths, tallow, and pine sap," recited the weary Trikru woman, pointing at the various containers now at Anya's feet as she listed off their contents.

"Fire starters," murmured Clarke, catching on.

"With this array, he could build fires even in the cold, and damp, hundreds of them," Yulian elaborated.

"He has not spoken much, but he did boast he is only one of a fifty men," revealed Ulrin, and his gaze returned to Clarke at her cry of horror.

"We sent back two of our party to Heda when we found him. This means war," added the Broadleaf woman, still hovering over the captive, who'd gone to silent to them all.

"Heda woke the tower once you had departed, to talk of Azgeda's treachery. All she needed was proof," finished Ulrin, his blue eyes locked upon Clarke's. She nodded.

Now they were openly at war.

And Roan was on the other side.

At a look from Anya, Caliban reached down. The Azgeda boy was not petite by any means, but looked insubstantial in Caliban's hands as the hefted the boy up. Clarke shivered. There went her chance of saving Azeda's spots in the bunker. As Caliban draed the boy farther into camp, Clarke followed. Though she knew the others followed, no one walked beside her, or stepped past.

As the crowd moved behind Wanheda, Anya let herself fall to the back. Ulrin kom Delfikru was her quarry now, and she positioned herself to walk at his side. Tight murmurs between them went hidden beneath the sloppy sounds of footsteps ahead.

As the talk behind them turned into how to deal with the captive, Caliban dropped him with a muffled splash into frigid mud. Leaned over to tighten the bindings of ropes, and then tie his wrists to his ankles behind his back. Flowing to either side of Clarke, the newcomers, and the Trikru refugees swarmed around, encircling the captive, leering down upon him.

With the prisoner cursing them all, with many words Clarke hadn't heard before, but could understand the jist of, Caliban stepped just far enough back to stand at her side.

"I am sorry, Wanheda," he rumbled quietly.

"For what?" asked Clarke.

The Azgeda arsonist's eyes found hers, and she stared down at him.

"I know you did not wish for war with Azgeda and it's prince,"

Clarke clenched her jaw, and barred her teeth, feeling a dark flush of satisfaction of the prisoner braced himself.

"My war will be with Nia, and she will not get away with this," she grit out, thinking of Sterling, icy cold, nearly blue. Of the search parties' returning with dead. Of the Trikru children crying now, terrified, and cold. Of 52 missing.

The circle around the prisoner fell silent to listen to Wanheda's quiet, deathly words.

"This will not stand, not while I live," swore Clarke, her eyes boring into the captive's.

Caliban nodded approvingly.

"Make him talk," ordered Clarke, looking up from the prisoner, to find that Ulrin kom Delfikru and Anya kom Trikru had come around the circle, to stand over the Azgeda, about opposite her. Both were watching her, but with very different looks, half-visible in the dark, on their faces.

A flash before her eyes, Lincoln, cross tied in the dropship, and Bellamy seeking her approval.

Of her mother wearing a noose, and stepping over the edge.

The penetration of a scalpel into her own chest.

Clarke straightened her back, and stared straight back at Anya's glare.

"Make him talk," she repeated.

Anya flashed a sharp glance at Clarke, before she turned away to bark at those crowding behind her. A few of the older seconds came forwards, a gap in the circle having opened at Anya's word, and within seconds, they had the captive stripped down to his pants.

Wrists tied again behind his back, ankles left free for now. They set him up on his knees, and stepped away. The first blow came from Anya's hand, a leather strap, wet and thin, across his face with a resounding snap.

Clarke didn't let herself look away. This wasn't Lincoln in the hands of angry criminal kids. Not her mother lost to ALIE. Not herself staying silent to save the world.

And the Trikru, the Delfikru, and the few others from Polis... she could feel their eyes upon her. So she watched, stiff, at Caliban's side, watching for any hint of breaking.

After the prisoner had bitten his tongue, opening up his mouth to release a flood of blood he spat at his captors, Anya forced a thick cloth gag into his mouth. Once she had it tied behind him, tight, and forcing his mouth to remain open, she stood looming over him.

"Keep him awake," Anya orders were short, but effective.

Sleep deprivation, by tomorrow night, he'd be more liable to talk.

Would that be soon enough to keep anymore of their numbers from dying?

The arsonist, his front all soaked in slowly drying blood, lay on his side, eyes swelling. He'd been pulled up to his knees again after being retied, but had fallen over when everyone stepped away. The ground was too soft to erect a pole to bind him for the night, and so, after much hissed discourse, ropes were cross tied, taunt, to scraggly trees with the captive between them.

With the screams silenced, and the interrogation at an end for now, the camp crept back into sleep warily. Trikru now had twenty sentinels around the perimeter, and Bellamy, and Miller had joined them, though Clarke knew everyone needed sleep, soon. With an ease Clarke had not anticipated, the Delfikru leader, his men, and the handful of other clans people had fallen into the temporary camp's ranks. Rolling out bedrolls that were soon damp as the rest, they had spread out, taking up spots wherever there was room. Sunrise wasn't far off by now. Even Anya finally lay down, on her back, with her sheathed sword across her chest, and her other hand resting upon the grip of a sword tied to her thigh.

In the Skaikru section, among the pitiful few of her people who'd made it here, Clarke lay on her right side, with her left hand curled defensively around her sword in it's sheath. The Trikru were grimly convinced Azgeda remained somewhere in their land, watching the devastation, and Clarke wasn't sure that wasn't just paranoia... but she wasn't convinced it was, either. When the conversations had broken up, Charlotte had followed Clarke, to lay down with her instead of rejoining the Trikru girl's tent. Despite the weathered bedroll of animal hide, Clarke could still feel the cold, soft muck that passed for ground here in this swamp. Overnight moistness seeped through the layers of leather into her furs, and straight to her skin. The dew that settled over top them all by dawn helped matters not at all. Not even when Roan had half-drowned her, and then dragged her onwards without a moment's pause, had Clarke ever felt so sodden. Not even when Roan had half-drowned her, and then dragged her onwards without a moment's pause, had Clarke ever felt so sodden. Thinking of the ice prince made her wonder just where he was now. And what did he know of the horror that plagued the south of his home?

"Where are you, Roan kom Azgeda,"wondered Clarke as she drifted off, settled again between Charlotte and Miller, finally, into the brief respite of sleep.

For days they watched the inferno rage in each direction. It hardly seemed that the fire could continue so long, for surely everything had been consumed by now, but the fire managed to feed on every last scrap of fuel made up of the dry leaves, trees, and moss. The captive had not lasted two nights in the hands of people who'd lost their home to him, and he'd died with one last taunting confession- that there had not been fifty with him, but two hundred. Whether the dying man spoke the truth or not was now irrelevant because they must assume the worst. Clarke didn't see much of Caliban, or Gaia, but Yulian was left behind in the temp camp more often than not, hovering near a pretty, young pregnant Trikru girl who'd gotten fed up with her matted, mud dried braids, and chopped them off unevenly at the base of her neck on day 2. The girl ignored Yulian with a sullen grudge, and the pair of them were ignored by the rest of Trikru.

The land beneath the flames blackened and shriveled, but the fire just wouldn't die. Only move on, leaving flickering embers covering the scorched ground.

At the river, Gaia prayed on her knees for rain.

Search parties went out.

Returned singed, and choking.

Except the one group of nearly a dozen that did not return at all. Two of the few Skaikru to make it to the wetlands are lost.

They carried in more bodies to lay beside Sterling at the river's edge, near frozen beneath icy, wet furs, than they did survivors. Another Azgeda boy. This one with crude, simple scars along his cheeks is dragged in- drowned in the river, his half-burnt, water soaked pack still strapped to his side. Another arsonist's supply. Four more Azgeda are found- one whom guts herself to avoid being taken in, bleeding out at the feet of Bellamy, two more dead of what Clarke can only assume was smoke inhalation, and the fourth is beaten to death on the riverbank.

The camp retreated half a days walk southwest, further into the marsh. Then another day's. The dead left behind at the first base camp.

The children, the old, the weak... began to die. Mary, too thin, anxious, pregnant Mary, was huddled in one of the few earth-walled shelters the Trikru had been able to set up in the wetlands with others, were at least the frigid wind couldn't reach, and their body heat could be contained. Clarke knew Mount Weather could save many of them, but the mountain was surrounded by flames that refused to die.

Seared skin and sopping clothes, stragglers appeared, struck mute by blistered throats.

Died gasping for air with burned lungs. Not all, but too many.

Nyko had a dozen pairs of hands at ceaseless work brewing nettle teas and preparing elderberry tinctures. The marsh was plentiful with plant life, at least, much of it strange, but at least some familiar. Useful. The river water needed purifying, and the camp was going through jug by jug faster than the lot of them could work. There were thick, foul smelling greenish brown pastes to lay thickly onto clammy chests.

The food carried with them was hardly enough to keep them fed through the first day, and the small, scarce mammals being hunted in the marsh, and the odd, skimpy fish from the rivers were carefully shared through the camp. It wasn't enough. Winter meant living off the land would have been hard enough on familiar ground. Here, it was taking every man, woman, and child who could stand on their feet to provide enough to keep the hunger at bay. The fire was driving many hibernating animals from their winter sleep, creating more prey, but they were fleeing the area as swiftly as they could.

As Clarke worked with Nyko, trying to care for the ill, whom had all been gathered close together, she saw little of those she'd traveled with, or the healthy members of Skaikru. Gaia, stripped of her devotee robes, was a frequent sight though, at work purifying water for the camp, set up not far from the sick.

Clarke had lost count of days.

She was trying to ignore this. Had it been three days, or four since she arrived? Five? It was blurring together with too few, too scattered rests. She slept on a soggy bedroll when she could. Had even snatched a nap alone at mid-day while the camp came to a halt for a late breakfast. Miller had woken her eventually with a handful of nuts, and two strips of hastily dried jerky. It might have been beaver meat, or worse, so Clarke chewed it without a question. He came with the news that Mary Eng now had a fever. Groaning as she straightened up, Clarke then headed for the tents.

The sky grew gry, and the clouds thickened as the afternoon wore on. They gathered low and obscured the sun for night to come hours early. The cold deepened. The hunters, and the search parties returned on quick feet. Lastly, the sentries drew in closer to camp.

Ducking out of a tee-pee style shelter made up of dozens of small mammal pelts, Clarke followed Nyko. He stood only steps outside. His tattooed face upturned to the grim sky.

"Rain?" Clarke voiced the hope of the entire area. Nyko turned in a slow circle, his eyes on clouds.

When he came to face Clarke, she noticed just how dark the shadows beneath his eyes had grown.

"If we are very lucky... snow,"

Leaning her head back, Clarke looked up as well.

It seemed Anya had already come to same conclusion. In awe, Clarke watched spindly limps and vines being twisted into shelter frames. They had little to cover the shelters with except the cast off, half-dried clothing the refugees had come in. For days, the children had been collecting soaked clothes from the river as it washed close to the bank.

But this, too, Trikru was hardly dealing with. More than a dozen people, mostly women, with a few boys, and some of the older men, sat cross legged on the least sodden spots of earth they'd been able to find at work, weaving. Their hands were flexing and twisting faster than Clarke could watch. Somehow the damp, tall grass strands were taking shapes into mats. Trikru children stood, fidgeting and watching the sky, holding up torches to light the work. Clarke recognized Tris. Anya's young second had shorn off her hair at her neck at some point, and had her head completely thrown back. A few feet away, Clarke realized that it was not some other Trikru girl, but Charlotte. Her own second had obviously followed Tris' example. Her bright blonde hair now ended somewhere around her jaw in uneven chunks.

Others were drawing in water, hastily boiling in over tiny campfires, and tucking the few jugs and bowls into the handful of shelters already erected. Would the river freeze, Clarke wondered. She meant to ask someone.

By the time, Anya bellowed for a cease in the day's work, night has long since fallen.

There were now enough shelters that the older children were being urged to crowd into the last couple. Some were so low that they must be crawled into. Clarke, despite the exhaustion of the entire camp, as Charlotte allowed Tris to tug her into a waist high, long sleeping shelter. Six or seven girls huddled inside together there, easing Clarke's worries for the night at least a little. Charlotte would be warm enough with the combined body heat in such tight confines.

Only the healthier adults and youth are left to sleep out in the open. Clarke nodded good-night to Caliban as she passed him setting up his bedroll defensively near the close-set grass huts. Nyko had explained that by setting them nearly on top of each other, and layering the frames and mats, they would hopefully stand up to the wind, and potential weight of snowfall. Their sloping sides would allow the snow to slide off, but the clans people were still concerned about the hasty shelters collapsing.

The camp falls into slumber with Anya stalking it's pathways reminding Clarke of the great panther who'd left it's mark upon her in another lifetime. Only the dim glow of the fires not far enough away, bordering the wetlands, lights her way.

Back to back with Miller, Clarke falls asleep staring towards those earthen shelters. Within them, the kids, the elderly, the ill, the pregnant mothers, would hopefully have an easier time tonight.

Bellamy lays directly beside the bulky flap made of a partially tied grass weaving. He was using his body to block the entrance for whatever good it would do. Monroe lay within with a phlegmy cough she'd developed, pale and clammy. Most of Skaikru lays behind Miller, though, who falls asleep watching the mass settle down. The intertwined Skaikru lay so close that they resemble one great lump.

Those sleeping outside are woken first.

Icy snowflakes are drifting down upon their faces. The mumbles and rustling begins as the camp revives. A shout comes, and with it, Anya slinks into view from the marsh ahead. She's grinning with feral twist, not minding the white flurries coating her hair and shoulders.

By some mutual decision, the awake quiet down again. In circles of families, and for the Skaikru, friends, they huddle. All is still, and waiting. Bellamy lets Clarke settle down at his side.

Gaia, carrying a torch for herself, wanders through the huddles. At each group, she murmurs a plea for prayers to be offered for the storm to grow. Most remain silent, but some do offer quick, mouthed words to the Flame. Skaikru sits in silence, but Clarke lowers her eyes respectfully, as does Miller at her other side.

Together, the gathered Trikru and Skaikru sit vigil.

They wait, they hope, they watch...

First the flurries blossom in size, and then they multiply. Everyone tightens their circles. Bellamy's stiff frame loosens. With a sudden jerk, he wraps an arm around Clarke to draw her nearer. Subtly shifting, Miller waits but one freezing moment to reclaim his position pressed into her other side, even as he averts his face from her and Bellamy.

"The answer to our prayers!" Gaia praised, huddled a few feet away, with a trio who'd invited her to pray with them earlier, and welcomed her to stay in their small circle afterwards.

The torches fail as the snow begins to fall in earnest, and hope bursts alive into the dark camp. With it come whispered exclamations.

"Here we go," Miller rumbled.

"All the gods that may be, please let it be enough," murmured Bellamy.

"If it'll just keep coming..." Clarke pleaded.

They squeezed together, and in the freezing darkness, relief finally came.