Chapter 21 – East of Eden (Zella Day)
As Clarke rose to sweltering consciousness, her first thought was hypothermia. Her last memories were of frozen misery. Now finding herself in such warmth... hypothermia. It must be. It was a nice way to die. She'd thought that before... but she didn't remember when. It was, though. She kept her eyes closed and soon drifted away again.
It was the movement that woke her next. It pulled her from the depths of odd dreams. Clarke found hands upon her body shifting her in the bed. The scents of sharp mint, sweet lavender, and biting alcohol were so familiar. It could have been the healer's center in Polis, or her own, well-stocked drop-ship corner. She went limp again and let it happen to her.
Her back was healing, Clarke realized. She could feel it in the way her skin and muscle flexed, sluggish and sore, but not that searing blaze of before. The healers had tended to her gut wound, but still, she did not know why they would... Clarke could even forget it existed in the long, drowsy moments she lay still. Not her knee, though. Somewhere deep inside, there was a burning that did not cease. No matter how still she remained. No matter how the healer positioned her. Despite the bundles of ice that seemed to be changed night and day. When she rose far enough of the heavy void, Clarke considered the problems there. Tendons, her ACL, the meniscus... there was something torn. That... that could heal, on its own, well, without surgery at least. With rest and time, and it was... it was healing. Not necessarily well. Just because the body could heal itself with time didn't mean it'd do a good job of it.
The dark, bitter teas poured down her throat tempered the embers of that fire, at least. Clarke woke as a little red-haired girl tilted the cup, as others held her up. That was Roan, holding her up against his chest, Clarke knew the feel of him, she realized. Remembered it. In her dreams, she'd seen him. As he was before- her friend, her ally. The man who'd killed for her. Protected her. Comforted her, the best he could. Not this silent, treacherous enemy she did not understand.
By laying quietly, she learned that she lay in Roan's own bed, not a healer's center she'd thought. According to the scarf-wrapped healer's low words, it sounded as though the prince was sleeping on a pallet on the far side of the bed she lay on. That woman did accuse him of not sleeping enough, as well. Clarke couldn't see it as the bed was a vast island that she was kept near the side of, to be moved more easily, she guessed.
Once she choked down the medicines, her mind would dull along with the pain. Then they'd prop her up on piles of feather-stuffed cushions. The redhead would return bearing a small bowl of something soft. This time it was creamy potatoes drenched in meat drippings. Tiny flecks of roasted meat dotted it. Same as every other time Clarke remembered, it was Roan who was sitting at her bedside to offer small spoonfuls till she was pulled back under. It smelled so good and tasted even better that she tried to fight the pull.
He never spoke to her, and Clarke wondered why she missed his raspy voice. Yet at her side, she continued to find him. He sat there consistently, it seemed. Like the little redhead, an apprentice surely, sat cuddled up with the shaggy hounds by the fire. The older healer always with a thin, blue scarf around her neck, sat in a wood chair near the doors. Other faces flitted about. Too many to recollect. Sometimes it felt as those a hundred hands were on her. Lifting, twisting, prodding. Those did not seem to linger long enough to rest in the sickroom. If there was anything that could make her wish for the lonely slow death of that cell, then it was being poked and prodded by half of Azgeda.
The day the stitches came out of her back, Clarke cried choking sobs into the pillow beneath her face. Those were Roan's hands on her hands, large, and callused, and strong. Roan, who always seemed to be at her side whenever she woke. The same man who held her chin up for the healer to maneuver thick liquids into her mouth. The same man who conserved with the healers and servants, but not a word to her.
Days were passing, blearily for Clarke. In her dreams, she returned to every cell that had ever held her. To all the deaths she'd ever caused, and all the fear she'd ever known. Healing enough to fully wake did not bring relief from her nightmares.
The first time Clarke remained awake to finish an entire bowl of fragrant shredded meat and gravy, the healer with the scarf bowed to relay unwelcome news. It was now time for Clarke to receive another audience with her majesty Nia haiplana kom Azgeda. Since she'd recovered enough. Clarke did not reply. There was no reason to. Quickly, the healer had called for servants, and the room was swiftly cleaned, as was Clarke. They were all sent from the room, of course. Even Roan.
The guards came first. A burly pair of warriors, all but in full battle dress, missing only the bone masks, threw open the double doors of Roan's chambers. They moved aside to hold the doors open and were exactly as Clarke had expected. The queen was not. No leather, no lace, no war paint of white, and no sword either. The hand-spun, un-dyed wool dress looked like something a farmer's wife might wear. Thick, and plain. Nia looked almost like an ordinary woman. If not for the crown, and the scars.
"Give us more light," Nia ordered her men.
One obeyed swiftly marching across Roan's chambers to the covered windows that took up most of the far wall. The bed was as far as possible from the windows. To avoid drafts, Clarke guessed. Still, the windows were covered in layers. The dark, heavy curtains had already been tied back, but he opened the wooden shutters as well. There was another layer of curtains, Clarke was surprised to see, and these two were pulled then tied out of the way to allow in the sunlight.
Quickly averting her face, Clarke's eyes had cringed shut automatically. She'd become accustomed to the dim glow of the candles that were lit on each table, and the fire on the wall opposite the bed.
How long had it been since she'd seen the sun?
"Where is Charlotte?" Clarke croaked. The little redhead and Roan had made sure she drank a cup of water before they were sent away, but still, Clarke's throat felt cracked and dry.
"Safe, but waiting for you and me to come to an agreement," Nia purred. At her waved hand, one of the guards carried over the healer's cushioned wood chair from the corner. He placed it down, just out of arm's reach from Clarke. The queen swept down into it as gracefully as it if it were her throne. Then they too were sent away. The queen then returned to eyeing Clarke considerably. She tsked.
Clarke thought gratefully of the scarf-wrapped healer, whose name she knew Roan had used at times, but she couldn't quite grasp it, for ensuring Clarke sat propped up on the pillows. At least she was not forced to deal with Nia laying on her belly. When Clarke did not reply, the queen continued anyway.
"It is quite simple. There is a war in your name growing. So far, my army is merely holding the invaders back. Azgeda has not yet shown our true force. If the commander's warriors hear the news of your marriage... if they hear the sky princess has bound herself to the ice nation, they will be allowed to leave our land in peace," Nia explained. The queen's words were correct. It was simple. Clarke's jaw remained set. "Wanheda weds the crown prince of Azgeda, and the commander of death shall keep no loyalty higher than the ice nation. Or you shall die by my hand, Azgeda will annihilate all those who follow you," she continued.
This was Roan's betrayal, and Clarke and Lexa both were fools for not knowing the outcome of sending him back to his people. Back to his mother, and the crown that awaited him. Clarke's choices were to marry him or escape. While her body was undoubtedly recovering under the smothering care, Clarke knew she'd struggle to mount a horse without assistance. Much less hold herself on a horse long enough, or stay on her own feet. That was all even if her knee didn't collapse instantly under the strain of her weight.
With Praimfaya looming, the war itself did not matter. Most of the human race was doomed, after all. There was no way to save everyone. Clarke could simply let it play out. If only she knew that the bunkers were sealed with everyone need be already inside. The earth was trying yet again to wipe out the menace of humanity. The sins of their forefathers raining down on them, and no one had even learned from those old mistakes. Maybe Luna was right, in the end. Did any of them even deserve to survive?
Nia was still talking, and Clarke struggled to focus again. There was so little time left. Marrying Roan would buy some, perhaps. Despite the woven blankets and furs across her lap, Clarke shivered. The room was growing colder with the windows exposed, she thought. Or it was simply the result of dealing with the queen.
"With their leader married to my son, Skaikru will be untouchable," Nia vowed "They will be safe. No one will dare touch any under your protection for you shall be the queen that is coming. Your people will be able to settle into homes. Build families, and learn trades. Live. All of this for a single agreement." Her words were a twinkling cascade of reassurance. Nia did not know Clarke had no need of it. She had no way to know that all Clarke needed was time.
Clarke swallowed to clear her throat. "I will tie myself to the ice nation. I will marry the prince, to stop the war,' she announced, her words stark and cold.
Nia's smile gleamed with victory. "Now you are thinking like a leader," the queen praised warmly. "Once you are wed, when the marks of Azgeda proclaim your allegiance, you may try to end the war, with
my blessing," she promised.
"How long till then?" Clarke conceded. Nia smiled again, slow and smug. "We have been preparing ever since your arrival, my dear." Knowing that once-caught, Clarke would be forced to choose. If it was to submit or die, Clarke would die. On her feet. Fighting. It was not her own death on the altar here. The queen did know that, even if she did not know all the stakes of the game.
"I shall send the best of the maids to prepare you," the queen informed Clarke lazily.
"You didn't say when-" Clarke began to protest.
"Sunset, my dear." Clarke tensed so sharply the healing rows of her back stretched ominously.
"The celebrations will last till dawn. with first light, you may send riders to the front," the queen offered.
At one sharp call, the doors were flung open again. Nia's guards spilled inside, followed by several others. the scarf-wrapped healer, and Roan, and others in healer's robes Clarke vaguely recognized.
"Can she walk?" Nia demanded of the healers when they presented themselves silently. The scarf-wrapped healer hesitated. The others kept their faces downturned.
"Some, with care. Her leg will need different bindings. No stairs. She could be lame all the rest of her life if rest or care if withheld." the healer warned.
"She was carried up, she can be carried down just as easily," decided Roan. Clarke's glare turned on him, but she bit her tongue. Time. All she needed was time.
"Do what you must in order to get her on her feet," Nia directed the healers. She turned to one of the guards, a gray-bearded man nearer her own age than Roan's. "Then escort my daughter-in-law to the prepared chambers." At the answering nods, Nia smiled again. "The wedding will happen tonight with the last light. Make the announcements. I want all of Fron Tenac to witness." this last order directed at her son.
Bowing her head, Clarke struggled to keep her face from reflecting the bitterness that flared with the queen's obvious glee. With an affectionate sweep of her hand against Roan's cheek and a patronizing smile towards Clarke, the queen departed. Before the doors shut, she could hear calling for someone to find Ontari and send the nightblood to the queen's chambers.
One of the guards remained, as did Roan.
Free of Nia's watching eyes, Clarke could not prevent another glare in the direction of the man she was obligated to bind herself to in a matter of hours. She found him already gazing at her. Clarke wondered distantly what Roan thought of this impending farce of a marriage. He'd allowed his mother to send him away from his people, and his home rather than submit to a marriage with Ontari. Why would he now agree to marry Clarke instead?
The healer with the blue scarf stepped closer to Clarke's bedside.
"Prisa, I am Remy kom Azgeda, a healer of Fron Tenac," she introduced herself cautiously, then indicated the pair behind her. Remy explained shortly that the men were Wayne and Bron kom Azgeda. Each man bowed deeply. They murmured her supposed title reverently, and yet Clarke remembered how they couldn't even speak, or meet the queen's eyes. Mentally dismissing them, Clarke turned her focus back to the woman who seemed to be in charge, of the healers at least.
"Your guard, for the time being, is Vik," Remy nodded towards the queen's guard that still stood near the door, and did nothing to greet Clarke. Him, Clarke eyed carefully. There was a coldness in his eyes she perfectly well expected of Nia's men.
Having stayed near silent, as he had so far whenever Clarke let it be known she was awake, Roan now spoke up.
"You will have numerous guards, servants, and healers at your disposal, of course, should you need anything at any time," his voice husky and familiar.
Clarke eyed him. There were layers of implications contained in that announcement, but oddly, he was focused on the queen's guard at the door instead of her. With that severe look on his face, it was impossible to forget his last words to her, before. He'd been so angry. So betrayed. Now, it was her on the other side, and she didn't even understand why. Neither had he, then. Holding onto her anger was difficult, remembering his hurt eyes and furious words, but Clarke steeled herself.
The healer in the blue scarf, Remy, coughed pointedly.
"Nevertheless, she needs no guards within this room at this time. Prince Roan, please send for my daughter. Vic, please outside these doors until the prisa is ready." the healer directed.
