Hello to the fans of The 100! This is my first story for the fandom even though I've been practically inhaling the stories written by others. Thought I'd give it a go.
I wrote this a while ago and just read over it. Yeah, well, it isn't the best but I can't think of another way to start it off. That being said, since it's been a while, improved writing is a near guarantee. Especially since the school year is coming to a close and I can focus more on writing.
So... for a bit of context... Clarke has left Arkadia to contend with the ghosts of those she killed at Mount Weather and the ones who came before. This is my insane idea of what her life could've looked like had she never been captured by Roan.
It would be extremely helpful if you let me know what you think. That way, I can get a good grasp on what you guys wanna see and insert that into my list of ideas.
Also, this first bit is more than a little chaotic and unorganized. But, unorganized chaos is my specialty, I should think.
Disclaimer: Credit belongs where credit is due. And that is not with me.
The woods were a haven.
To anyone who didn't know how to navigate them, maybe not, but it was her haven. Her safe place, her territory. Hers.
Mount Weather fell only three months ago but what a glorious three months it had been. For once, no one could turn her into a scapegoat or make her their punching bag. No longer did she hold the title of leader, daughter, friend, princess. Most importantly, she was no one's murderer. Not one person had lost their life at her hand since the Mountain. She had already killed enough in the name of her so-called 'people'.
There laid the crux of her problems.
If she went back, she knew she would kill for them again. Without a doubt. Whether by accident or with intent. During her months in the wilderness, one singular question festered and she so desperately craved the answer: Would they kill for her? She would kill for them, had killed, but would they?
She had too much trust, too much faith in her people. Always wanting and willing to do what was best even for them if they didn't want it themselves. Always believing that in the end they would see the purpose and the intention behind her actions. But everything she did for them, to get them towards peace, always, always, blew up in her face. And the people she tried to save were always the ones to set off the explosion.
She would kill for them if need be. They always looked to her, knowing she'd do what needed to be done when no one else was willing to. Going back to her people would, without a doubt, mean putting herself in a position to kill again.
The plain truth, though, the truth it took months for her to admit, even to herself, was simple. She just didn't want to.
She was tired. Tired of the war and the bloodshed and the loss. Tired of twelve-year-olds dying in bridge explosions. Tired of half-allies being shot by her own people. Tired of watching her friends be drained of blood. Tired of patching people up only for them to die anyway. Absolutely tired of carrying the weight of the living and dead on her shoulders.
In not even a year, Clarke Griffin, the great Wanheda, had managed to kill roughly five-hundred people. All in the name of her own. But what did she receive in return rather than thanks? Hatred, threats. Being called monster, murderer, kyongedon ripa–which, in the eyes of her people, was somewhat of a compliment. Grounder Killer, it meant, and to some she was a savior and to others a fiend.
Clarke was all of these things and then some, but the rather overlooked fact was that she was still simply a teenager. Nothing more, nothing less. She didn't care what people thought of her, grounder or sky person, she was just so tired of saving people who refused to be saved.
She looked at the gloomy gray sky and began scaling a tree.
Well, she silently mused to herself. If they don't want to be saved then fine by me. See how long they last without someone to blame for their mistakes.
Clarke climbed the tree and hoisted herself up onto a branch ten feet from the ground. At that height, another person would see her, but the prowling panther wouldn't. The animal wouldn't smell her scent either. She pulled out her knife, which she noticed was slightly dull and took note to sharpen it later on, and tracked the panther as it grew closer.
She positioned the knife in her hand, waiting for it to traipse forward. Just a few more feet and she would drop and–
Snap!
Clarke froze, taking in the smallest breath. She'd learned much in the last few months. Part of her acquired knowledge was the ability to differentiate between human and animal sounds and tracks.
The snap had been resounding and sharp, meaning either a very large animal or human had broken the branch.
Quickly and without disturbing the air, she sheathed her dagger and slung her pack over her shoulder. She looked up, moved a strand of dark red hair out of her eyes, and weighed how high she could climb before the branches snapped under her weight. Five, ten feet at most. Not enough to completely conceal herself from view, but a few feet was better than none at all.
Once she settled herself on her perch, Clarke scanned the forest for the meal-snatcher. She didn't want to kill whatever it was, but she would if she had to. Clarke told herself she wouldn't kill for her people anymore but never set terms for the sake of herself. After all, she gave and gave and gave– wasn't she allowed to be selfish at some point?
Yes, of course she was, but she wouldn't throw away her morals. If the person didn't do anything to her, she wouldn't do anything to them.
A blurry form burst through the bramble and pounced on the panther in a flurry of motion. A low, keening wail sounded from the panther. The man crouched and quietly slipped his knife into its neck.
"Yu gonplei ste odon," he said in a deep, gravelly voice. He pulled his dagger from the panther's flesh, using a cloth to wipe off the blood before putting it back into its sheath.
The man was completely clad in grounder clothing. He had a bow slung over his shoulder as well as a quiver half-filled with arrows. She couldn't see his face, but she didn't think it mattered. Clarke knew few grounders. Out of the hundreds of thousands who lived, she had met only a few dozen.
She watched in fascination as he tied the panther's legs together and put it on a board-like surface. What a good idea; she hadn't thought about that. The animals she killed were usually around the panther's size and therefore incredibly heavy, but she was always forced to carry them no matter their weight.
She felt unable to let the man go, though she knew not why. As he began to drag the panther away, Clarke scanned the trees and noted that they were closer together than those in other clans. Close enough that she could just barely move from one another without having to go to the ground and climb back up the other tree. She didn't want to risk announcing her presence to the man.
Clarke stretched her arms to the point of pain. She was able to wrap her fingers around the branch of a neighboring tree.
After hopping the first tree, the rest became fairly simple. She developed a pattern: watch, search, hop, repeat. As he walked, she surveyed him. His clothes were tattered but layered. A few of his kill scars were displayed just above the neckline. A warrior, then. He had curly dark brown hair, almost black, reminding her of Bellamy.
Her heart ached at the thought of her best friend. They had come to the ground as strangers, then rivals, and then friends through their leadership and mutual enemies. They cared for and relied on one another. Bellamy had gone into the mountain solely on the basis of her orders. And then, together, they both caused the fall of the Maunon. Finally, like the coward she was, Clarke left at the entrance of the camp.
Together they grieved over the lives they took, the lives lost, despite the vast distance between them. Even hundreds of miles apart, she knew what he felt. Angry, betrayed, heart-broken. She knew the feelings well, for they were also her own.
Bellamy, no matter what happened between them, was one of the few people Clarke was sure of. She knew he would do whatever it took to protect the ones he cared for: Octavia, Jasper, Monty, herself. He was one of the few people she knew would kill for her if needed.
Besides Bellamy, there existed only one other person who she felt sure of. That other person killed for her, loved her, and died for her. At that moment she never missed Finn Collins more.
The faces and names–if she knew them–of everyone she killed rushed back to her all at once. Finn, Atom, Dante. Charlotte and Anya–though she hadn't killed them directly she might as well have. The children of the mountain, the innocents, the ones who had helped her and her people, the charred bodies of the warriors she had so ruthlessly burned alive.
The funniest thought struck her. Wasn't it comical for how many people she saved, thrice as many had died? Laughable, really. Out of the 47 of the 100 that had gone into the mountain, only 39 had come out. She had killed three-hundred people to save forty.
And she had done that twice.
Clarke killed six-hundred people, in total, for that same group. Once when she burned Anya's warriors and again when she killed the mountain men.
Now that she thought about it, she asked herself: Are forty to fifty lives worth six-hundred? Clarke checked her morals. The answer presented itself clearly.
She remembered Dante and Jaha's sayings.
'Sacrifice the few to save the many,' Jaha's voice echoed in her head. He'd said that to both her father and Kane once on the Ark.
'I bear it so they don't have to.' Dante had said that to her face on more than one occasion.
The bastards were both right.
Clarke certainly bore the burden while the rest of her people lived without the weight of the world on their shoulders. And she began to wonder if she should've listened to Jaha, if she should've just let the mountain take the hundred. Even before, when Anya's army invaded their camp. But no, that still wasn't right. It couldn't be considered an invasion since their camp had been in Triku territory.
Skaikru were the invaders. They had landed in Triku lands and it didn't matter whether they had the choice. She began to wish that she and the 100 had died on impact. Six-hundred people would be alive, even if they'd been her enemies, and everyone on the Ark would be dead.
She frowned. The Ark. Thousands once lived on that space station. A few hundred survived the trip down. Clarke shook her head. It didn't matter how many Skaikru lived, they would all soon be dead anyway with an adversary as great as the United Clans.
Clarke gripped the tree and chastised herself. She was not only losing faith in her people, but in everyone.
That's to be expected, a voice Clarke considered a nuisance whispered in her head. When you've been betrayed, lied to, and treated no better than a science experiment.
Closing her eyes to clear her head, Clarke loosened her grip on the poor tree. When she opened her eyes and looked down, she was surprised–and slightly horrified–to see the man staring up at her.
"Chit yu dula op dei? Ona trigeda?" he asked. A few months ago, Clarke would've only understood 'op' as up. However, she could thank a few run-ins with her favorite trader for her newfound fluency in Trigedasleng. The man had asked what she was doing, or more specifically: 'What are you doing up there? In the trees?'
"A saden sinnes," she said dryly. An enjoyable view. She nearly scoffed at herself. As if that was the reason she unskillfully climbed the tree. Even after adjusting to life on her own, Clarke still preferred the ground.
"Ai laik Kori kom Flokru."
"The boat people?" Clarke exclaimed with raised eyebrows, easily forgetting to speak in Trig.
"Sha," Kori nodded and stepped back as Clarke slowly picked her way down the tree. She knew to be cautious, but if the rumors were to be believed, then the members of Floukru were a peaceful people. Dangerous, but preferring to live a life of peace.
Clarke landed on firm feet, dying leaves crunching underfoot. Winter fast approached and she'd have to make a shelter or find one before too long. If she couldn't, she could always backtrack to that cave she discovered a few weeks prior. She had no earthly clue whose territory the cave stood, but she didn't care so long as it was far away from Skaikru.
She'd left camp with the intention of returning. She hadn't had an idea on how long it would take to make peace with the ghosts, but she had known–or thought she'd known–she would eventually return to the camp.
Yet after the day's epiphanies, she wanted to get as far as she could and never think twice about her people. They could live without her just as they had before. Everywhere she went, Clarke only brought death and destruction. Wasn't it the best thing for all involved if she removed herself from their lives? They'd live and thrive without her devastating aura of death.
If she planned to separate herself from her people and find a new place to settle, then she would have to move forward with a new name as well. She could not hide out in a cave as she was. Clarke Griffin smiled through her pain and took verbal lashings as the inevitable. She both accepted and indulged death. Clarke Griffin was not a quitter or coward. Clarke Griffin didn't leave her people–in fact, she would never have left.
Evidently, she hadn't been that person for a long time.
She had little clue as to who she was, but becoming her own person meant inheriting the time to figure it out.
A name circled in her brain like water swirling around a drain. It felt strong and powerful. It felt like compassion for the dead and sorrow for the living. It felt like the representation of who she wanted to become.
She gripped that name and held it tight.
Inhale. Count to three.
The leader who always tried to do right by her people disappeared. The daughter who secretly wanted to please her mother vanished. The girl who would do anything for her friends faded into oblivion.
Exhale.
Clarke Griffin was a ghost.
She stood straight, stood tall, and lifted her head to look into Kori's brown eyes. Her words flowed smoothly up her throat and off her tongue, "Ai laik Wanheda. En ai laik Nokru."
The man's eyes widened. He took the slightest of steps backward in shock before steeling himself. Kori fell to one knee and bowed his head.
"Wanheda," he said, his voice slightly raised. She assumed it was the consequence of shock. "En's koma hit op yu."
"It's an honor to meet you as well, Kori of the boat people." She clasped her hands behind her back and nodded to him. "Rise."
He scrambled to his feet, grabbing his bow as it began to slide off his shoulder. Once it was secure, Kori looked at her calculatingly. "What is Wanheda doing in Triku territory?"
She chuckled. "I could ask the same of you."
He shook his head, a smile on his face. "There is a bounty on your head, Wanheda. I was just on my way to Polis, as all the ambassadors are. Heda called a meeting solely to discuss the matters of a search for you."
Just the mention of the Commander had Clarke incensed. Her hackles raised. "I can assume you aren't stupid enough to try and take me." A rise in her voice spoke of a clear challenge.
"No, Wanheda. I am not a fool, unlike the others who wish to take your head. Many clans, Azgeda specifically, believe they shall receive your power if they kill you." He shook his head. "Your power dies with you and you alone."
She relaxed, if only slightly. Clarke didn't trust his word, as she trusted no one but herself. She had wasted too much of her trust on people who didn't deserve it. She'd be careful from now on, even if it meant she'd be guarding herself until her last breath.
There was a question on her mind, but she wouldn't believe the answer even if it appealed to her. Still, the question burned on her tongue, begging to be asked. Will you tell them you came across me? By some extraordinary means, she managed to hold her tongue, biting down on it as she felt the words bubble on her lips. It rolled around in her brain, rewording itself. Will you tell Lexa you saw me? She cursed herself for her vulnerability.
She closed her eyes and reminded herself that Clarke Griffin had loved the Commander. Wanheda didn't. If she had anything to say about it, she wouldn't, either.
Clarke Griffin had been weak to care for the woman despite her betrayal. Because she hadn't betrayed Skaikru, she'd betrayed Clarke. Clarke might have given in to her heart's whims if she set her eyes upon the Commander, but Wanheda would never. Love was a forgotten echo in the face of her anger.
How dare she? Backing out of the deal, one which an alliance rode on the back of, proved her dishonor. A weak, unreliable, dishonorable leader. For the Commander's sake, she hoped she wouldn't see Heda anytime soon.
The second she parted with Kori, she would move on. Perchance reroute to the cave, which she now knew to be along the coast in a less-violent clan's territory. She'd collect the meat from her last kill, say her farewells to Niylah, then continue on her way. She would not risk the Commander, her allies, or Skaikru finding her.
That day would come only when she allowed it.
She once again looked into Kori's eyes. "You will not mention this meeting to anyone. Not your family, not your fellow ambassadors. Not your Commander." Force usually brought positive responses, even if it wrought fear.
He nodded his head frantically, already fearful of her merely from the rumors of what she had done. But her legacy would only work for so long, and she would have to live up to it. Prove her legitimacy. "Sha, Wanheda."
Kori bowed again and she could barely restrain from rolling her eyes. She wasn't a deity or a god. No one should bow to her.
He bent down and hefted one end of the board that held his kill. He nodded to her and began to head off. She watched him retreat until his figure disappeared down the hill.
Once he was gone, she let out a breath. Kori could have very well been a bounty hunter, which wouldn't have been good for her. She may have taken the Mountain, but she was no warrior.
She supposed she'd have to become one. Somehow. She could find a mentor, like Indra had been to Octavia. But it was an honor to be one's seken, an honor which had nothing to do with how many people she killed. She'd have to find a way to earn it.
Shaking her head, she organized her priorities. Shelter before anything. She turned and retrieved her bag forgotten in the tree and headed towards Niylah's trading post.
The walk would be a few hours, so she made sure to take her time to gather her thoughts and figure out how to explain that she was leaving.
Niylah's trading post was something she had literally stumbled upon only two weeks after she left the camp. She'd spent most of her time with Niylah. The older woman taught her the grounder language and how to properly hunt. Her birthday, which had been in October–the birth of Wanheda would take precedence now–had been spent with her. The two grew close and she found herself regretting the decision to leave, but it had to be done. For Niylah's safety and for her own.
She walked through the woods, maintaining her blissful silence. A few months was more than enough time for her to learn to walk silently. She remembered Anya's insults after they escaped the mountain and became each other's prisoners. You can't even walk in the woods. She could almost feel the fear clench her heart as she recalled the memory. Heavy footfalls, broken branches… You even smell like them.
She looked up at the dark sky. If only you could see me now, she mused fondly.
While her time with Anya had been as a prisoner or vice versa, and the woman had been decidedly hostile, she had nothing but respect and admiration for the General. The memories always called a smirk to her lips.
She walked. While she walked she thought, and while she thought she remembered. Landing on Earth. The struggle between her and Bellamy to get on equal ground. The fear of the Grounders. The threat of war. The battle for their camp. The Reapers. The alliance and betrayal of the Commander. Mount Weather.
Each had become tainted with death. That last thought made her pause, and she swallowed the sudden lump in her throat.
Not once since she fled the camp had she truly thought of the Mountain. She remembered the faces of those she killed after pulling the lever, but she never lingered long. The dead flashed in her mind, haunting her like ghosts, which, she supposed, was exactly what they were. Her ghosts, her demons, her tormentors.
A part of her hoped they would chase after the ghost of Clarke Griffin. A silly thought. The dead were bound to her soul.
The whole reason she had isolated herself in the wilderness was to make peace with them, yet she hadn't made any true effort. She'd never forget them, but maybe making peace or some semblance of it was what was needed to move on. To live. Because all she did now was survive.
She herself said that life should be about more than just surviving.
As she went over the memories, almost as if she were in a debriefing, she became aware of the numerous options that had presented themselves. Over a dozen other ways out. She hadn't noticed them because she had felt secure in her alliance with the Commander. She had been so sure of their plan, thought it to be airtight, but then Heda was given a deal to save her people in exchange for the Grounders' retreat and took it.
If she hadn't been so enamored with and distracted by the Commander, then maybe, just maybe, her only option wouldn't have been to wipe out an entire civilization. Though, despite her actions, the people of the Mountain weren't lost to the world entirely.
Three people escaped. Only just. Two remained alive.
Cage. He escaped but she caught and followed his tracks. She kept an eye on him for days on end, never resting for fear he would discover her and kill her as she slept. When she first saw him, her genuine shock had contained her rage. He had ordered Skaikru drilled, tortured, and killed. Drained of their blood as if the Maunon were vampires. She had been on his trail for nearly a week before he had been shot in the head while stoking a fire. She never saw who shot him, but she knew it had to be Skaikru. No grounder dared to touch a gun.
Emerson. He had helped kill Skaikru, and in return, she had killed his kids. It was the kids that she couldn't move past. The kids. The innocents who had nothing to do with what their leaders had done. Yet she killed them anyway. She didn't know where he disappeared to, but she knew he would come back in the future.
And then there was Maya. When she met Octavia in the tunnels, the girl was predictably and righteously furious with her, as it had been the first time they'd seen each other since TonDC. She'd forced the brunette to put her feelings aside to save their people. With their focus on the task at hand, she told Octavia that no matter what happened, she had to save Maya.
For Jasper. Jasper who had already lost so much. His parents, his friends, nearly his own life. She owed it to him. Not to mention he would've been absolutely enraged had she let Maya slip through.
She didn't exactly know how Octavia had saved her, but she watched as the trio marched into camp, Maya without a suit and not a single radiation burn. At least the bone marrow hadn't been a complete waste.
She shook her head again, feeling the familiar burn in her heart. It hurt to think of them and they were still alive. She had no clue what she was going to do once she faced the dead.
As the sun set, the temperature dropped, and the cold, biting wind hit her like a slap to the face. Despite the layers of clothes and pelts on her back, Wanheda's teeth chattered and a chill ran through her body.
Winter is coming.
15 - Written: 2021
Posted - 5/16/22
16 - Edited: 4/5/2023
Posted - 4/5/2023
:)