Warnings for murder, genocide, child death, manipulation and brainwashing.
Nyarlathotep has just entered the story.
Chapter 8: Korta, the commander of the twelve tribes
New Orleans, Louisiana:
It was a nearly sunken city, New Orleans. There were parts of that city where you weren't walking, but rowing boats along, to get through that city.
The at one time quirky and lively city, now was almost entirely below river level. Louisiana, Mississippi and other states close to any sort of water, were the first to be flooded as the years had gone by after the bombs and all that radiation.
No, the rivers hadn't risen thanks to the radiation. Or even because of the bombs.
But New Orleans and other parts of Louisiana, and parts of Mississippi and Florida, had been sinking for a long time before that.
Now that New Orleans was almost entirely beneath water level? There was a new way of getting around besides walking, bicycling or buses or cars.
It was using boats.
Rowboats and the occasional sailboat or speedboat.
There were also a few inflatable rafts that were used to get around, as long as the person aboard, had a paddle or long staff to steer with.
The mass number of potted plants in front of the many homes in New Orleans, were as one would probably imagine, no longer visible, but were either swept away in the tides, or were placed onboard the various boats, kept safe from being driven away by waves.
One Remy Lebeau, was busy steering his way by some of the many now sunken railroads, steering the inflatable raft he was on, with the pole he often used to fight with. It had many uses. Self-defense and steering his raft, were just the many amongst them.
The famous card shark of Louisiana and according to the many women and some men whom he'd had liaisons with, an absolute dog, knew that what he was about to do, was absolute idiocy.
For years, the two different sects; the thieves and the assassins, were at war.
But the warring stopped almost a decade ago, when a pact was made between the sides. The original pact, which predated the second pact by two years, was made between Remy and the daughter of one of the assassins. That daughter of the assassin, a woman named Bella Donna Boudreaux, was to be Remy's wife.
But he knew he couldn't saddle her with him. She deserved better. That was what he would always say.
And he meant it. He knew he wasn't good for women. Probably not for men, either.
After he had walked out on the soon to be bitter former bride, it was clear that that particular pact, was from then on null.
Then came the next pact. Which would be solidified from the birth of the child which was stolen a year later.
The child was born almost eleven years ago. A girl. In another sect in contact with the sects that Remy and Bella had been born in. This sect, however, were based in Venice, Italy. The child was stolen from the cult which were giving her the first rites within that cult, that being a brand on the back of her neck, signifying her as part of the cult.
But the child was stolen by a man.
The child hadn't been seen in years and years.
But the pact had held, because the man who had stolen the child, clearly hadn't been from any sect that the assassins or thieves were aware of. The man was a total stranger.
They knew that the child wasn't dead. Their contact, a man who referred to himself as the "messenger," kept telling them that the child was still alive.
But where was she? The messenger didn't say. Remy most certainly didn't trust the messenger. He couldn't think of a reason why he should.
But he didn't doubt that the messenger gained nothing by lying about the child still being alive.
Which ultimately meant that Remy believed it when the messenger claimed that the child was still alive.
The child would almost be eleven by now. Wherever she was.
The pact that had formed after Remy had left Bella Donna at the altar, was a pact between the two larger sects which the assassins and the thieves both answered to. If those two larger sects formed a sort of peace, then the assassins and thieves formed a sort of peace.
The two larger sects, had worshipped the beings whom the messenger had served, for centuries. Unlike the messenger, who Remy was certain, wasn't human and therefore, didn't age, the two different sects had gone through generation after generation serving those beings which the messenger had served, as well.
If you were a child of one of these sects? Then you served these gods that the sects served.
Remy reached the stretched out, wooden harbor that was built to accommodate the new boats that all went out onto the water.
Remy grabbed the pile of coiled up rope at his feet, tied one end around the plastic handles attached to the rubber raft, then tied the other end into a loop and tossed it over one of the wooden beams of the harbor and steered himself into the bay.
He parked the raft at the harbor, jumped off of the raft and began moving quickly across it, bearing his staff close to him.
This small community, which was built after New Orleans was flooded, and so, was above water, all the buildings built up on a floating platform, designed not to sink, and would be kept from disaster. For now.
Remy arrived at one of the nearer buildings. The building specifically, was a sort of mausoleum, built in tribute to the gods which the sects here worshipped. The sects that worshipped the gods that were worshipped here, had sects all over the world. Not just New Orleans. But Remy, nonetheless, had learned to feel honored to be a part of one of those sects.
His father, part of the thieves' guild, had worshipped these gods and had taught his son to do the same.
Remy reached the tall, narrow, dark building, with several spires, the building looking rather like a horned beast, with dangerous jaws ready to swallow any who entered.
Remy held his staff in his right hand and raised his left fist and knocked on the wooden doors.
The doors creaked and opened up.
Remy saw the faces of his companions in this sect, Antoine and Louisa, step forward, their faces smeared with red and bronze paint, the paint meant to help signify their worship of their gods.
"Remy," Antoine said, nodding to him, "You are late, brother."
"I know, I know," Remy said, "Remy be sorry, monsieur. Let me in. We shall start, no?"
Louisa looked like she wanted to send Remy off of the steps of the mausoleum and into the waters, but for the sake of her sister, Francesca, chose not to. Even if she knew that her sister deserved far better than the man who stood before her.
"Just come inside," Louisa spat instead, her and Antoine moving back and allowing Remy inside.
Remy thanked them both, which received him a dirty look from Louisa.
They went to the middle of the room, where several marks were drawn all over the walls and floor in blood.
Now, an ignorant outsider, most likely would assume that the marks or the most prominent marks drawn all over the interior of the room, would be pentagrams. This was an incorrect and foolish assumption.
None of these symbols were pentagrams or anything like them. These were legitimate symbols that could be found in any writings on the great Old Ones. Any who worshipped the Old Ones and knew what writings to look for? New what these symbols looked like and what they signified.
Remy looked over at the symbol in the far back corner of the room. He knew that symbol all too well. It was the symbol of the head god which they worshipped. And Remy deeply hoped as all his companions did, that the god which that symbol signified, did not wake.
For if he woke up? This world and any other world that existed, would be no more.
Remy joined Antoine, Louisa and the others in their circle, all of them kneeling down to their knees and the leader of the circle on this day, Carla, pulled out the small dagger from the scabbard, from where it was tied to her belt, held her right hand out and dragged the blade of the dagger along her palm. When she drew blood, only then did she hand the knife to the companion closest to her.
On and on the dagger went around, being passed to one, then the next. The palm of each person was cut and blood was drawn.
Remy took the dagger when it at last, reached him, and he sliced his own hand, trying to avoid the center of his palm, considering how useful his hands were. It didn't matter whether it was in battle, sex, playing cards or using the powers which he had kept secret from his companions for years now, he wanted his hands available to him. Both of his hands.
When he drew blood and handed the dagger back to Carla, he tipped his hand, as did everyone else, their droplets of blood filling the middle of the drawn circle between them.
Remy didn't have to ask, he knew who was being summoned at this moment.
They all at the same time, began chanting the words they had become so accustomed with over the years. Words from the books they had read. They were speaking in a language which likely any outsider, would not recognize.
But Remy knew exactly what was being said.
He chanted the words out with the others in the language of the Old Ones, "Join us now, appear before us! Messenger! Great Nyarlathotep! Join us! Stand before us! Bearer of over a thousand faces! Come to us! Grant us wisdom! We beg of you!"
Remy didn't have to look down to know that the blood was beginning to seep into the floor.
He knew that Nyarlathotep had heard them.
And was going to arrive very soon.
There was the shaking of structure all around them, Remy clenched his teeth to keep them rattling, as the structure moved about, signaling Nyarlathotep's arrival.
They could feel the air change around them. It was becoming tenser and more dangerous. As if a group of dangerous predators had just entered the room.
Suddenly, the door of the building flew open, slamming against the wall, and they heard footsteps enter the mausoleum.
Remy didn't have to turn around to know who had just joined them.
But he knew that he must face who had just entered the building.
He knew any sort of rudeness or disregard would end badly for any who committed such an act.
Remy turned, along with the rest of his companions and Remy tried to appear as enthused by the figure's arrival as everyone else with him, were.
Before them, stood a tall, slim man.
Remy eyed Nyarlathotep. It had been over twenty years since Remy had last seen the man. He had met Nyarlathotep when he had been only five years old. It might seem strange that Remy could remember everything about Nyarlathotep from that time, but the strange being had left an impression on Remy.
And the messenger looked the same as he did twenty years ago.
The black suit hugged the messenger's body as if he had created the suit to be part of his body. Grew the suit on his body, as it were.
Then again, considering what Nyarlathotep was? Maybe he really had made the suit be a part of his body.
There held in Nyarlathotep's hand, was a black, metal cane, topped with the golden head of one of those ancient pharaoh faces that were part of those mummy cases that used to be stolen from their resting places and put in museums, all in the name of "respect."
That perfectly round monacle adorned the man's face, over his right eye, as if it had never been moved in over twenty years. There was a tall, black top hat on his head, and Remy knew that there wasn't a single hair that was atop that scalp of the messenger's head. On the messenger's face, however, it was a different story. The messenger had completely black hair there; a long, thick beard, designed exactly to be in the shape of the beards of the ancient Egyptian pharaohs. His flesh was a dark copper and his eyes nearly black as they watched the circle in the room before him.
The man standing in front of them, was not a man. He just took the appearance of one. He was a creature which had more in common with the Old Ones, than with any human being.
But then, he didn't really fit in with the human beings either. Unless there was some human out there who was like Remy, but had different abilities, like shapeshifting? Then no one but Nyarlathotep, could change from one shape to the next, and become endless types of abominations which could terrorize someone.
And if they could? Nyarlathotep would still outshine them when it came to the fear that he was capable of inspiring in others.
There was a dangerous smile on the messenger's lips and Remy didn't have to know anything else than he did about Nyarlathotep, to know that that smile? Was not a good sign.
The messenger to the cosmic god which all hoped would not awake, Nyarlathotep, nodded to those who had called him forth and said, his voice smooth but deep, "My loyal subjects. How good to see that you all have grown strong over the years. You will serve the Old Ones well. Now, why have you summoned me?"
Remy had a feeling that Nyarlathotep already knew why. But was just asking for appearances sake.
Carla thankfully, answered for all of them.
She said, "Great Nyarlathotep, harbinger of the gods, we pray you, what news have you of this vessel which has come down from the heavens and landed on the ground?"
Word traveled fast. But faster with technology. The twelve tribes? They refused to use the slightest bit of tech.
But some of the more advanced communities, were happy to use technology. There was a video that was sent out not but an hour ago, of the huge ship that arrived from the sky and touching down on the ground.
That video was viral now. Any who had technology, most likely knew that this huge structure had just come down to the ground.
And it most likely hinted at changes that just might be cataclysmic.
Nyarlathotep chuckled. "Dear child," he said, "There is nothing to fear. That ship? That Ark? It is nothing. It is nothing more than an obstacle. The man who stole the child from our sects? He comes from that Ark. Which means, now that the Ark has come down? The child will be on the ground. We will be able to find her and bring her to where she belongs."
There were a series of gasps and Remy knew that all of those gasps were happy ones. He tried to stop himself from clenching his jaw.
The child? Didn't she get a say? Then again, probably not.
Nyarlathotep said, "And I know the child's name. After the man took her, he renamed her over the years. She now goes by the name which the man gave her. Her name now? Is Clarke. Clarke Griffin."
Remy's eyes widened.
Clarke?
As in the child that word had got out and spread throughout the web and many gossiped by mouth in the Trikru's land, had killed the Mountain Men?
If the rumors that went around were true, Clarke did not kill the Mountain Men with the abilities which she had inevitably inherited from her cosmic mother or her cosmic father. But by pulling a lever of some sort.
Remy didn't know anything about that, but the Mountain Men were dead, and that was the important part.
Nyarlathotep continued, "Do nothing. I will be the one to speak to Clarke. And I shall tell her of her great purpose. I shall bring her to her home and she will bring this world to its knees."
Many of those around Remy made crooning and sounds of wonder.
Remy tried to ignore his unease. Nothing good could come from this. He was sure.
Nyarlathotep's eyes found Remy and Remy forced a smile, though he was sure that Nyarlathotep knew what Remy was thinking.
"Now, goodbye for now," Nyarlathotep said, "I shall see you again when I have the child in my grasp. More crooning followed, as the shapeshifter walked out of the door and disappeared.
Remy had no doubt that by now, the messenger was airborne, flying away in one of his many other forms.
Remy swallowed as he heard Antoine and Louisa practically laugh together in triumph.
None of this was good. He was sure of that.
Annapolis/Polis, Maryland:
At last, Lincoln led Clarke by horseback, to Polis, the capital of the tribes' lands.
Clarke stopped her horse next to Lincoln. Clarke could not begin to say how grateful she was to Lincoln for teaching her how to ride a horse. He had instructed throughout the two hours they had gone from Mount Weather, to Polis. Explaining how to pull the reins and how to angle her feet so that the horse would stop instead of running off with her atop the beast, how to speak to the horse, how to pat the horse's behind when she was behind the horse, to keep the animal from accidentally kicking back with one of its hindlegs.
You most definitely did not want to get hit with the hindlegs of a horse. Lincoln easily could tell you right now.
Clarke looked over at the many small buildings where she saw movement; many people moving through the different houses.
In the middle of the city, was a tall tower, overlooking everything.
"That tower there?" Clarke asked, nodding to the tower, "I'm guessing that's the tower where your commander rules?"
"That would be it, yes," Lincoln said, "That is the place where the Fleimkeeper, Titus lives, as does the commander, herself. And so do the children who will contend for the place as the next commander."
Clarke considered what Lincoln just said.
"Contend?" She asked. She was sure she had heard that word before, but wasn't sure of what it meant.
"It means," Lincoln said, "To fight for something. To compete against someone for something."
"Oh, okay, thank you," Clarke said. She knew a lot of kids didn't like admitting that they didn't know certain words and those words' meanings. But Clarke thought of learning as not just a vital thing, but also fun.
"But how do they contend for the commander's place?" Clarke asked.
She almost felt Lincoln hesitate, before he sighed, "They fight for it. And the one who wins? They become the next commander, after the commander has died. And the only way that the next commander wins the fight? Is by killing all the others who are next in line."
Clarke gasped, almost falling off of her horse.
What? What?!
Clarke stared at Lincoln, horrified.
"They kill each other?" Clarke demanded, her voice weak.
"Yes," Lincoln nodded, sighing again, clearly aware of how terrible this was.
"Why?" Clarke asked, stunned, "There must be better ways of doing it than it ending with people dying."
"There must be," Lincoln confessed, "But Titus and none of the other commanders, would ever have allowed it. It is tradition, so it must be followed. Even if it ends with the blood of children being spilled."
Clarke this time, felt her heart become cold, and she clenched her hands around the reins.
The blood of children?
Clarke felt a thickness in her throat that she tried not to pay attention to. Images ran through her mind, mocking her.
Children from the mountain. All dead. Because of her.
Clarke swallowed hard. She said quietly, "I don't think I want to meet this commander anymore."
Lincoln smiled sadly, clearly not blaming Clarke one bit.
"I understand," he said, "But this is the best way to help your people not be treated as threats when they have emerged from their Ark."
Clarke tried not to wince. She'd been afraid of that.
If the commander was the leader of her people, then that meant she could decide what happened to Clarke's people, when they came down.
The commander easily could have Clarke's people killed horribly. Or have them become part of the tribes and be able to live peacefully.
"Alright," Clarke said, hating how things were going, "Lead the way, then."
Lincoln sighed and began to ride up ahead and Clarke angled her feet and steered the reins for the horse to move after Lincoln.
The two figures rode through the crowds and between the houses.
The many people walking by, getting food from street stands, occasionally greeted Lincoln and Clarke vocally, and Lincoln spoke to them through Trigedasleng.
As Lincoln and Clarke reached the tower, Lincoln got off of the horse and went over to Clarke, helping her down from her horse.
When Clarke was on the ground, and Clarke had grabbed the shield off of the horse and carried it over, and Lincoln tied both horses to the wooden poles nearby and led Clarke into the tower.
The guards eyed both Lincoln and Clarke and Lincoln quickly spoke to them in Trigedasleng, and whatever he said, got the guards to step aside and allow him and Clarke to go by.
They reached an elevator and Lincoln pressed the "up" button.
The doors slid open and both Lincoln and Clarke walked in.
Clarke looked around the elevator nervously, as the doors closed and as Lincoln pressed the button that went to the top floor.
She felt the elevator move up and watched as the red digital numbers kept going up.
Lincoln said, almost as if he felt like he needed to explain about his people further, "For the most part? Our people don't use tek. The few exceptions are elevators and plumbing. For the sake of convenience."
"That's good," Clarke said, feeling like she didn't know how to say anything else.
Not now that she knew that these people had children literally kill each other, to decide leadership.
Clarke wasn't the best student in her history classes, but she knew that people killed each other for power all the time throughout history.
Still, to use children to kill each other to decide who would be the next leader of these people?
Clarke heard a word that ran through her mind, and she knew she should never utter it out loud.
Savages.
That was the word that ran through her mind. But she pushed the thought aside. She knew she could never repeat what was on her mind.
Instead, she wondered if the reason why the tribes had literal children kill each other, was just a product of human nature.
Clarke remembered everything she had seen so far.
People being stuffed in cages, their blood being pulled out till they died, for the sake of another civilization of people.
These people? They were happy when an entire civilization, including the children, were wiped out. And they had literal children kill each other, in order to decide on who the next commander of their people would be.
People being put in the skyboxes and then floated for minor crimes, and a good man, Clarke's father, being threatened with execution, when all he had done, was try to save his people.
Again, that disturbing thought ran through Clarke's mind.
A question.
Was this all that human beings were? Was this all that human beings were capable of?
Murder? Genocide? Violence? Cruelty? Was that all?
Clarke tried to ignore how her stomach twisted uncomfortably as she thought of that.
Clarke had distracted herself so much with these troubling thoughts, that she only realized that the elevator had ascended to the top floor, when the metal doors of the elevator opened up again in front of her and Lincoln.
Clarke's eyes widened and when Lincoln walked out, she followed after him.
The two moved down the hall, passing guards armed with swords, spears, large knives and bows and arrows.
Clarke uneasily looked from one guard to the next and they also looked at her, clearly seeing her as a strange specimen. Most likely because of how she was dressed, Clarke reasoned.
Clarke indeed was dressed very differently from everyone else here. She likely was dressed like one of the Mountain Men. That was what she suspected they were thinking of her.
Or perhaps they were curious about the shield she was toting around.
When finally, Clarke and Lincoln reached what Clarke presumed to be the throne room, given that there was a large, elaborately carved wooden throne at the other side of the room, with curved and twisted spires on its back, arching up.
There was a woman seated there.
The woman had long, night black hair, tied in a braid, and the woman watched Lincoln and Clarke with cold blue eyes.
The woman watched Clarke suspiciously, then when she was sure that Clarke was not a threat, as far as she could observe, the woman's attention then went to Lincoln.
"Your name?" The woman said to Lincoln in Trigedasleng.
Clarke tried not to groan when she heard the familiar language which she could not understand.
It would be nice to be able to know what the people around her were saying.
But knowing that any reactions of displeasure here, likely would be taken as an act of disrespect, so, she kept quiet.
Lincoln answered to the commander, Korta, in Trigedasleng, "Linkin kom Trikru, Heda."
The woman nodded.
"Why are you here?" The commander asked.
Lincoln took a breath and explained, gesturing to Klark, "Heda, this is Klark kom Skaikru. Her people have arrived in that large ship that came down from above. As I am sure you have heard by now, Klark is Wanheda. She has destroyed the Mountain Men. We owe her everything. And she comes from the Skai People."
"I see," Korta said, considering what Linkin had just told her.
Linkin could see that Korta understood the implications. Klark was Wanheda. The girl that had ended all of the Mountain Men. The least that could be done for her? Was to make sure that her people were safe here on the ground and the chance to live out their lives the same as anyone in any of the tribes or in any of the other communities.
Korta's icy blue eyes traveled to Klark.
Both Korta and Linkin watched as Klark stiffened under the commander's gaze.
Korta asked Linkin in their native language, "Does she understand our language?"
"No, Heda," Linkin answered, "She does not. She knows none of the primary languages of the tribes."
Korta nodded.
She clearly had expected this, as the people from the Ark were not from here.
"Klark," Korta began, now speaking in Gonasleng, for the child's benefit, "Do you know who I am?"
Klark nodded, looking nervous, "Yes, ma'am. You're the leader of the twelve tribes."
Korta smiled. "Very good," she said, "Now, I have to protect all of the tribes. There are many people in all the tribes, girl. And that means that if anything happens to them, I must act accordingly. And I must be ruthless. Do you know what 'ruthless' means?"
Klark nodded again. "Yes, ma'am," she said, "It means that you won't give any mercy to your enemies."
"That's right," Korta said, a small smile on her lips, "Excellent. Now, I am grateful, utterly grateful to you, for ending the Mountain Men, Wanheda. All of our tribes owe you a tremendous debt."
Clarke tensed. She didn't like being called "Wanheda," since she knew what that word meant now. It meant "Commander of Death." But she needed to help her people be safe on the ground.
"That being said," the commander continued, "Because of what you have done for our people? You will be granted safety from all our tribes. For the rest of your life. You will be honored by all of us. But your people do not have such honor. They are outsiders. Because of what you have done for us? I will give them a chance to prove that they mean my people no danger. That they will simply live alongside our people and cause no harm to any of our people. If any of them do not adhere to this rule? The person or people responsible, will pay the price, understand, girl?"
Clarke nodded, trying not to shiver.
She didn't doubt this woman. Not for a second.
The commander then asked Clarke, "Why are you carrying that shield around? Did you bring it with you from your ship?"
"No, ma'am," Clarke said, shaking her head, "It was from the mountain. I took it with me, is all."
"Ah," the commander said, smiling, as if satisfied by this answered, "A spoil of war."
Clarke frowned. She wasn't sure what that meant. But from the way the commander said it, made her think it couldn't be anything good."
The commander then asked, "Klark, you call me 'ma'am,' why do you call me that? What does this word mean?"
Clarke's eyes widened. She hadn't thought that the term "ma'am" was no longer said on the ground.
"It's a way of talking to a woman respectfully," Clarke said, "That's how it's used on the Ark, anyway. And the word, 'sir' is used for men."
"I see," the commander said, nodding, "Thank you for informing me of this. Do either of you have any more questions?"
Clarke shook her head and Lincoln said, "No, Heda."
"Good," Korta said, "Now, Linkin, why don't you allow my guard, Gostos, to lead the two of you to your rooms?"
Clarke looked over at the guard that came over and almost stepped back.
The guard was huge. Extremely muscled. He towered over Lincoln practically. His hair was black and short, and he had the beginning of a dark beard on his face.
For all his size, Clarke was guessing that this "Gustus," probably couldn't be any older than in his late twenties or early thirties.
Gustus said gruffly to Lincoln, thankfully, speaking in English, "The both of you follow me," Gustus looked to Clarke and Clarke saw a strange look in his eyes, almost as if he respected her, but felt sorry for her, and feared her.
Then he turned and began to walk, and Lincoln and Clarke both followed him.
Clarke turned back to look at this Korta, and she tried not to feel unnerved as the icy eyed woman watched her and Lincoln leave the room with Gustus.
Clarke turned back to look at Lincoln's back.
She hoped she wouldn't run into any of the kids here. She didn't want to be able to picture any of them, when thinking about that awful conclave that was going to happen.
Gustus brought Lincoln and Clarke to their room, a room which was far down the hall from Korta's throne room.
He dropped the young man and the girl off at the room, telling them that there were two separate rooms within the room, where each of them could sleep.
Clarke and Lincoln both thanked him, and Gustus left.
When the door closed, Clarke looked at Lincoln and said, "Your people are…serious."
She wasn't sure of any other way to put it that wouldn't sound insulting.
The word "savage," was obviously out of the question. And "scary" even, sounded too insulting.
"We have our moments of humor," Lincoln assured her, smiling.
Clarke then thought of something, as she slowly pushed the shield that she had hefted up through the tower with her. She asked Lincoln, "Hey, Lincoln? I'm really grateful for all the help you've given me. But why are you helping me?"
Lincoln now suddenly looked very self-conscious. His back became straighter and his jaw clenched and his eyes then looked instantly to the floor.
Clarke narrowed her eyebrows.
What was wrong? Lincoln almost looked…ashamed.
"Lincoln?" Clarke asked, putting the shield down and leaning it against the table next to her, releasing the straps of it, and walked over to the young man, "Are you alright?"
Lincoln nodded and his face almost scrunched up, as if in pain.
He said, looking at Clarke, "There's something I have to tell you. You can choose to hate me or not trust me afterwards, but you need to hear it. This is why I'm helping you. It's…it's trying to make things right."
"Make things right?" Clarke repeated, "What do you mean?"
Lincoln began slowly, "Years ago, when I was just a boy? There was a man who was like you who came down. He came from the sky as well. He landed in one of our rivers, in a metal capsule."
"A pod," Clarke said quietly, her eyes widening.
Lincoln said, "Whatever you'd call it, he was inside it. And he was able to open up the capsule. But he was too weak to get out. He was wounded from the landing. I found him and brought him food and water. My father, he,…," Lincoln stopped and shuddered, as if he was telling Clarke something horrific, "He found out, and he took me to the man, gave me a knife and he…forced me to slice the man's throat open."
Clarke gasped, staring at Lincoln as if he had just told her that he was planning on slitting her own throat.
The words came out of Clarke's mouth, as a realization hit her, "Experiment one."
Lincoln looked at her, startled, obviously not expecting anything less except an accusation of him deceiving her.
"Lincoln," Clarke said, eyeing him somewhat cautiously now, "When was this? When did the man come and land in the river?"
"When I was a boy," Lincoln repeated, "About six. I'm twenty. So, fourteen years ago."
Clarke's eyes widened again. The man that had landed on the ground years ago and had died here, the man who had come from the Ark? That had been Experiment one.
And now, Clarke knew how the man had died.
He'd been killed by a boy, forced to by his own father, who let distrust and prejudice to rule his life.
"Boris Bianchi," Clarke said quietly, staring past Lincoln, feeling numb.
"What?" Lincoln asked.
Clarke chuckled sadly, feeling for Lincoln. Because it wasn't his fault that his father had forced him to be a killer.
She raised her head and stared at Lincoln. "Boris Bianchi," she repeated, "That was the man's name. My people sent him down fourteen years ago. We call him 'Experiment one,' because he was the first person to be sent down to see if Earth was survivable or not. Because my people were worried about the air not being breathable or the food or water being poisonous."
Clarke cast a cautious gaze at Lincoln and said, "We didn't even contemplate the possibility that there would be people down here."
Linkin watched Clarke, startled. Then he said the name, "Boris Bianchi." His eyes widened.
He now knew the name of the man his father had made him kill.
It felt strange to finally put a name to the man whose throat he had slit as a child.
The irony was not lost on Linkin, that as a boy, he had been forced to murder a Sky Person, now, years later, he had the chance to save a Sky Person. A child only a few years older than Linkin himself had been.
"I'm sorry," Linkin said, startling Klark, making her look at him, "For killing one of your people."
Klark shook her head, "It's not your fault," she answered, "You were six. You didn't have a choice. Your father made you do it."
Linkin was surprised by Klark's easily granted forgiveness.
He suspected he wouldn't have forgiven him, were he in her place.
"I killed one of your people," he pointed out, "Even if it was my father that made me do it, it was still my hand that held the knife."
"And who was the person that made you use the knife?" Klark asked, "Lincoln, no one made me pull that lever in the mountain. I could have let you do it. But I didn't. Instead, I did it. I chose to do it, because I didn't want Maya's death to be in vain. But I chose to do it. You didn't choose to kill that man."
Linkin almost laughed at Klark's ability to think in that way.
Klark was able to see things that way, and Linkin didn't know how. He didn't know what sort of culture Klark's people had on this Ark. But they clearly were very different from the culture of the tribes.
If anything, the Ark people sounded more like the other communities on the ground, that weren't of the tribes.
The other communities, the ones that had more tek than the tribes and happily used that tek, Linkin and his own people, kept away from.
That was the agreement between the tribes and the other communities. Those that preferred the life where technology did not have as much influence and stuck to stricter traditions? They remained within the tribes.
Those that didn't, stayed with the other communities.
It was rare when someone from one of the other communities joined the tribes, or when someone from the tribes joined one of the other communities.
But it happened sometimes.
Linkin took a breath as he said, "We should perhaps put some of our things away. The commander will likely call on us to speak with her again."
Klark nodded and pulled her backpack off. They began to put their things away and Clarke rolled the shield into her interior room.
Then Clarke emerged, as did Lincoln.
Clarke had put her backpack under her mattress. She didn't like the idea of the backpack, with that statuette inside it, being found so easily.
The shield would be way more difficult to be kept from being seen, but she just didn't want the statuette to found.
The fact that the statuette had been found with her? Made her very uncomfortable.
The creature that was the statue? That didn't seem to be a loving deity.
Sure, Clarke knew that the Egyptians had gods with heads that weren't the heads of humans. But that was besides the point.
Clarke almost felt a strange…malevolence from the statuette, that she couldn't quite pinpoint the reason for feeling.
She ignored the thought, as she followed Lincoln out of the room, and the two of them followed Gustus down the hall.
Sure enough, the commander was there, waiting for them. She now was standing up. And now that she was standing up, Clarke saw all of the woman's outfit.
Black outfit, with a long, red cape or something, clinging to the metal shoulder covering on the woman's right shoulder.
Interestingly, the commander had only one of these metal shoulder things.
"Klark," The commander greeted, "Linkin. Good of you both to join us."
Clarke thought to herself, "I have a feeling we didn't have a choice but to join you."
But she kept that one to herself.
The commander then said, gesturing to a doorway to Clarke's right, and a group of children and teenagers walked in, "These are the nightbloods. One of them will take my place, after my fight is over."
Clarke could surmise, from how Lincoln had explained what would happen after the commander died, that "after my fight is over," was another way of saying, "when I'm dead."
Clarke hesitantly turned her head to look at the children and teenagers that just entered the room.
There was a group of ten youths.
The oldest one, a girl, was probably about thirteen. She had short brown hair and green eyes. the younger ones were black-haired and brown-haired and one blonde-haired. Several of them had green eyes and blue eyes. Most of them had brown eyes. There were four girls and six boys.
The commander, Korta said, "These are Leksa, Taborko, Ilomor and Jumuru kom Trikru, Luna and Resko kom Floukru, Grolu and Listro kom Boudalan, Hanjorn kom Ingranronakru and Shorkorm kom Podakru."
Clarke nodded to the youths, wishing she hadn't seen them. She now knew what they looked like. So, when the time came and they killed each other, she'd be able to picture them being killed.
She hated that.
The commander said, "Klark, should your people be loyal and not threaten our people in any way, I will protect your people and my successor will protect your people, as well."
Clarke nodded, thankful.
Linkin listened to all this and was troubled. Not just by Korta's promises of protection, but because the commander had yet to mention the other communities. Linkin had assumed that Korta would bring up the other communities to Klark.
But she wasn't doing that.
As long as one was a part of the tribes? They lived under the laws those tribes lived.
But the other communities? They lived within different laws.
Linkin realized then, why Korta had not told Klark about the other communities.
Because she wanted Klark to feel like she and her people had no other choice but to be a part of the tribes, than with any other community.
Linkin cautiously gazed at Korta.
Was Korta trying to gain control of Klark? Of Wanheda?
Linkin decided to make a mental note. He would tell Klark later about the other communities as other options. But that would have to be when they were alone and no one else was around.
Linkin had heard stories from others within his tribe, that the commanders always had been corrupt. But he just hadn't wanted to believe that.
A commander, two commanders ago, a man, named Trar kom Luwoda, had deliberately made sure that the most nightbloods selected, were from Luwoda communities. He couldn't make all the nightbloods Luwoda, since not all the nightbloods that were found were from Luwoda. But Trar absolutely kept his warriors searching mainly Luwoda land.
Almost everyone knew what he was doing. Too bad for him, the commander after him was a Luwoda, so, everyone more or less knew what Trar had been up to.
But the corruption apparently continued.
A Trikru woman, Korta, the current commander, won the conclave, after the commander after Trar, died. And Korta was doing the same thing that Trar had done and as his successor had tried to do. She was trying to make sure there were only Trikru candidates likely to win.
For Trikru and only a few others from other tribes?
Lincoln knew that that wasn't normal in conclaves. Nightbloods weren't all over the place, no. But they were pretty common. The children were only summoned to Polis when they exhibited good battle reflexes. Those that had lived to adulthood, naturally, weren't good candidates, because their reflexes would only go into decline later, and weren't…easily influenced by the Flame Keeper.
And now this?
Lincoln's jaw tightened. He wasn't sure he wanted Klark around these parts of the tribe, if manipulation was all the commander was going to do.
Each of the candidates to potentially replace Korta after her death, promised Klark that if her people were loyal, they'd protect her people.
Klark thanked them, and Linkin didn't miss how Titus's eyes suspiciously watched her.
Linkin knew not much about the current Flame Keeper. He, like his predecessor who advised Trar, was someone fixated on tradition and the rules of the commanders and the tribes.
Linkin thought it best Titus never be alone with Klark.
Klark walked back over to Linkin.
Korta asked Klark, when the children and young teen walked out of the room, "Klark, I need to know, how did you get sent here on your own? Your mother and father must not have approved."
Klark stiffened and she looked to Korta hesitantly.
She answered, "Um…, well, my father? He discovered that there was something about the Ark that was failing. Part of the technology that controlled the Ark was failing. And if it failed, a lot of people would die. That's why he was going to warn everyone. But the leader of our Ark, the Chancellor, didn't want the people to panic. And he had my father locked up. He made a deal with me. He would let my father live, but only as long as I went down to the ground to see if we could survive on the ground."
Korta's eyes widened at this.
"And your mother allowed this?" Korta asked, "Your father, I assume, was put in a prison of some sort and kept him from helping you. But was your mother imprisoned too?"
Clarke chuckled, shaking her head, wincing as she remembered what that guard Bellamy Blake had said about her parents. About how her mother had betrayed her father to get what she wanted.
And Clarke wasn't sure that he hadn't been telling the truth. Even if he had only said those things to hurt her at the time.
"No, she wasn't locked up," Clarke said quietly, "She, like my father is part of the head council. My father was locked up. But my mother wasn't. And my mother? She was part of the reason why this happened. She was the one that sold my father out to the Chancellor, knowing what my father knew."
Korta started at Clarke, surprised. "Your mother betrayed your father?" Korta asked, "And you?"
Clarke nodded, fighting another cynical laugh. "Yeah," she said, "She betrayed us both."
Korta sat down on her throne, appearing startled. "I see," she said, appearing disturbed.
Linkin looked at Klark, troubled by all this.
Klark was left alone. Abandoned by her mother. She and her father betrayed. And now, Klark had to live with what she had done at the mountain for the rest of her life. Linkin's eyes traveled up to where Korta sat.
He resigned himself to what he had to do. Somehow, some way? He would have to protect Klark from the current Commander and current Flame Keeper. And every Commander and Flame Keeper that replaced them.
Miles and miles away, getting closer to Polis, flying through the sky, was an airborne, winged abomination.
A huge, dark shape flying through the air, boasting three large, burning red eyes, as it neared closer and closer to Polis, sensing the child that had been stolen from his sect, in that location.
Author's note:
Anyone who has read "The Haunter of the Dark," by Lovecraft, probably can picture what Nyarlathotep transformed into. The shape he took in that story, was what I was picturing, when I had him fly off to Polis.