Disclaimer: Credit belongs where credit is due. And that is not with me.

The first few weeks of winter were not as harsh as Wanheda expected them to be. The days were still quite warm and the current of the river she followed flowed at its normal, roaring pace.

On the Ark, when Pike informed her of Earth's aspects, she'd retained it all. Since the council wouldn't risk her and their dirty little secret, her lessons had been one-on-one. The council had obviously roped him in as he was clearly in the know. She'd taken extra care to commit his teachings to memory since she was well aware of their purpose.

Not only did she memorize Earth skills, she could recite every piece of information regarding the planet's history. After the bombs went off, the radiation forever changed Earth's atmosphere.

It was for that reason that she truly didn't have to worry about the cold. Not unless she ventured into Azgeda territory. A world (mostly) aflame was unlikely to completely recover.

Wanheda hiked her way through the barren trees, relying on a hefty stick to get her through the dense patch of trunks. The rocky and uneven ground was unpredictable. Not to mention the energy she had exerted during her nighttime trek.

Wanheda had no need to continue on through the night, but being so close to Grounder territory made her nervous. Because while she traveled on one side of the river, many a kyondegon goufa played on the other.

On the Ark, children were collectively deemed harmless. Unless they were sentenced to the Sky Box, of course. On the ground, even the most innocent face could be that of a warrior.

It was something she hadn't quite understood when she first crashed onto this planet. Now, she knew what it took to survive. She was even beginning to accept their ways.

Wanheda did not know what clan the children belonged to, but she steered clear of them nonetheless, sticking to the trees whenever her noise attracted attention. Walking silently in the woods was still a work in progress.

She continued her way along, her stick slowly sinking into the ground as she eventually waded her way into a marsh. Without realizing it, the river had peeled off to the left while she marched straight ahead. The trees had dispersed and Wanheda stood in a field, ankle-deep in water.

The grass surrounding her was tall and dead yellow. She quickly realized with a jolt that the grass was not thick. It might as well not have existed for the use it served. She was plainly visible, and as such quickly threw herself to the muddy ground. A droplet of murky water splashed in her eye and she resisted the urge to rub at it.

Grounders tended to follow her wherever she went. Perhaps it was paranoia or an overloaded sense of self-worth, but she knew bounty hunters would gladly take her head. Her name was associated with great power, and she knew many coveted it.

As soon as the arrow whizzed over her head, the fragile wall of security she had created over the last few months collapsed. Wandering aimlessly without a purpose could no longer work.

She pulled herself to her feet, crouching in the water. The natural color of her hair had begun to shine through, which was now only in her favor due to the color of the grass. Her hand strayed to her boot and she pulled her knife from its sleeve.

Wanheda may not have the same years of training that even a child Grounder had, but she wasn't the Commander of Death for nothing.

She adjusted the knife in her hand, feeling its weight. Light, easily able to sail through the air. However, it would not do much damage if thrown. It was a dagger that required a more personal, upfront touch.

So she waited.

The arrow laid uselessly a few feet away and she resisted the urge to snatch it up and investigate it. Wanheda could not afford distractions.

Another arrow flew by. Further off the mark but shot from a closer vantage point. She peered through the blades of grass and searched the trees. Predictably, she found nothing. Any warrior worth their salt was skilled in the art of 'see but not be seen'.

Fortunately, that meant they would not venture close enough to pinpoint exactly where she was. Logic told her to crawl in the opposite direction, but she quickly worked out that she'd immediately be seen. Her hair provided some camouflage but her clothing was certainly the opposite of light. Plus, the person attempting to shoot her could be trying to push her into an ambush on the other side.

As Wanheda tightened her grip on the knife, a third arrow came directly toward her. This time from both accounts; it had been shot from a spot even closer to her, from her left, and had just barely missed her head.

The Grounder found her at last. Two pieces of information flooded into her brain simultaneously. The first was that she had been found out. The second was that if the shooter hadn't known her location, the probability of a second shooter waiting in accordance to trap her was less than slim.

Her legs sore from crouching, Wanheda slid her pack onto her back. She counted backwards from three, taking in a deep breath between each number. Once she reached one, she jumped to her feet and bolted to the right.

A fourth arrow immediately flew through the air, close enough to whistle in her ear. She had second thoughts about ditching her stick, even though she knew it would've been of little use. It was strong enough to support her weight but it couldn't have possibly sustained a fight.

Her knife would have to suffice.

Wanheda raised her feet higher to get through the marsh quicker. The small spaces of land between the ponds were soft and made purely of mud. Not even halfway to the trees and she was already exhausted.

Running would not work.

She wasn't a coward. She was Wanheda, the Commander of Death. And she was not going to fall victim to a measly, greedy Grounder.

Wanheda stopped and closed her eyes. The deadly grip she held on her knife relaxed into a natural hold. It was an extension of herself, and as she threw it she felt as if she was the knife, making herself at home in the archer's chest.

What had she said about a personal touch?

Her eyes flew open as the connection abruptly severed and she staggered back, rubbing her head. Instinct told her she didn't have time to ponder the event, so she let her body take control and she bolted for the fallen bounty hunter, barely stopping to grab her knife before disappearing into the forest.

A voice told her–she reasoned it was her survivor's instinct finally manifesting–that the marksman was unlikely to be alone. So, now she flew through the forest the first shooter had originated from, chasing the second.

She knew not how she was tracking him, or how she was aware he was a him. But the voice again spoke to her, telling her he could not be allowed to live. He was allied with a clan that supported the Commander, and he would waste no time in reporting to his Heda on the whereabouts of Wanheda.

The facts came to her as naturally as if she had read about it in a file. She still did not have time to question how she knew the information, but she was simply glad she had it.

The voice in her head, which seemed more apart from her and more its own being each time she heard it, was insistent. It directed her on a clear path through the trees as she chased the never-before-seen menace.

Wanheda shot through the forest, the wind whipping at her face, and dead leaves and naked branches skimming at her bare arms. Her boots, though well-worn, held up in the rough terrain. They were not made for running, as the space to do so did not exist on the Ark. Not to mention they didn't want their citizens to make excessive use of the air. No wonder no one had strong muscles.

She glided over the ground, and it seemed the longer she ran, the faster she went. Wanheda did not grow tired nor did she slow. It was a strange phenomena. But finally her target came into view.

He was indeed a Grounder, though he was not as fast as the others she had encountered. There was no bow strapped to his back but rather a sword in its scabbard, similar to the one Octavia cherished. His hair was long and free and his build was large.

Though he was completely clad in armor, there was no doubt in Wanheda's mind that he was made of pure muscle. Yet, she pursued him. She was faster and a whizz with her knife. Meanwhile, he was too occupied with fleeing to think of grabbing his sword.

Wanheda gained on him and eventually, when she was only two or three feet behind him, she pounced on his back. Had she weighed more, her weight combined with his speed would have knocked him down, but instead he continued running, unperturbed.

He never slowed, not even when she managed to get her knife around his neck. She barely heard his voice over the roaring wind.

"Put that thing away before you hurt yourself, Mountain Slayer."

Confused as to his insouciance, she removed her knife from his neck. At that point, she clung to his back like a koala because he suddenly moved much faster. She leaned in so she could better hold a conversation. "Who are you?"

She felt his entire body shake as he chuckled. "Who am I?" he repeated. "Why, I'm no one in the face of the Great Wanheda." She narrowed her eyes at his mocking tone and raised the knife to his neck again, this time with the addition of pressure. "My name is Roan."

"Well, Roan, on whose orders were you and your friend sent to kill me?"

"No one's," he answered gruffly.

"Really?" Wanheda increased the pressure. He made no indication of it, but she knew she broke the skin. "I find that hard to believe."

"No one sent me to kill you. My friend-" The emphasis on the word told her he was anything but. "-on the other hand…"

Almost as if his body were her own, he slowed down so she could more easily wrap her mind around that tidbit of information. It didn't take her long to process, and she immediately raised her guard. "Why were you there, then?"

"Local barkeep doesn't know how to keep his mouth shut."

"You're here because of a rumor?" she asked dubiously.

"I wanted to see if Wanheda would live up to her name." Then he paused and looked at her over his shoulder. His face was gruff yet youthful and there was a large crescent scar arching over his right eye. Azgeda. "You're not bad," he said appraisingly. "But you have a lot to learn if you want to take the mantle of the Great Wanheda."

She noticed the lack of mocking in his voice this time. "Who said I ever wanted to be her?"

She was well aware of the irony. The name had come to her, so if she'd known that it had a deeper meaning attached to it, she wouldn't have chosen it to be her new one. Now, though, she wondered what the history was behind the title.

Roan slowed to a complete stop and easily removed her from his back. He turned to her as he set her on her feet and surveyed her. Fading red hair, dirty face, torn clothes, near-empty pack. Yet, despite all that, there was a defensiveness in her stance and a spark in her eyes. "You left your people," he stated. "If you didn't want to be Wanheda, then you would've given in to the spirits months ago."

Wanheda remained silent as she wondered what this man wanted. They could've killed each other a few times over by that point. But, neither of them did. She wondered why a member of Azgeda, the clan who wanted her head most, was not making a single move toward her death.

"Why are you talking to me when your Queen wants me dead?"

His face darkened considerably. "The mark I bear is neither aligned with my head nor my heart. Azgeda is not my clan, and Nia is not my haiplana."

She battled to keep her face neutral. The so-called Roan was an enigma. He had the scars that warriors of Azgeda bore, yet he claimed to have no such alliance. "What do you want, Roan not of Azgeda?"

"I grow tired of the nomadic life." His tone was monotonous, yet Wanheda sensed a hint of a smirk in his words. "Having something to do is an adventure."

She raised an eyebrow. "Finding me was your entertainment?" She rolled her eyes at his silence. "Remind me never to join Azgeda. It sounds terribly boring."

Roan smirked and she turned away from him, heading in the opposite direction of her cave, which was where she'd been headed. Clearly, he had no intention of killing her but she wouldn't risk exposing her only shelter.

From behind, he remarked, "It's a miracle you're still alive." Slowing, she looked over her shoulder. The question abstractly painted on her face. "You turn your back to the enemy. Aren't you worried I'll kill you where you stand?"

At this, Wanheda came to a complete stop, turning fully to face him. "As far as I can see, you're party to no clan. None but yourself. That makes you a threat, yes, but not an enemy." She kept walking. "If you intended to kill me, I would be dead already."

"That's true." Roan chuckled again. "But I am curious, Clarke."

She froze. Not because he knew the name of her ghost, but because of the way he'd said it. Such tenderness and lovingness. There was depth, a history that he couldn't possibly have built with her. That reason made it simple for her to decipher how he'd learned it; only one person had ever spoken to her in that way.

Still facing the trees, she stated with an imperceptible huff of irritation, "The Commander sent you."

His silence confirmed her words.

"Why?"

"Skaikru needs their leader."

Wanheda shook her head. Skaikru had enough leaders, and she didn't bother telling him the leader he searched for, Clarke Griffin, was dead. "Why?" she repeated.

Roan sighed. "Lexa wanted you found and brought to Polis. 'To share in the victory of the Maunon's fall.' Even a fool could see she wants you for a different reason."

Finally, Wanheda faced him once again. "What did she offer you?"

"The promise to lift my banishment. Quite conniving of her. I must admit I was tempted."

"If it was so tempting, then why am I not your prisoner?" The swords and knives tucked in various places across his body made it evident that he was perfectly capable. The fact that the Commander was willing to send an exiled member of Azgeda instead of a trustworthy warrior stuck with her the most. For whatever reason, Heda was desperate to have Wanheda in her clutches.

Over my dead body.

"Curiosity is a powerful thing. I saw as you do: Lexa is desperate. Once I wondered why, there was no going back." When she remained silent, he said, "News travels fast. Is there any truth to the stories about the Commander siding with the Mountain Men?"

Perhaps, if her mind hadn't been clouded with anger, she would've thought out her response. However, that was not the case. Wanheda clenched her jaw and gritted her teeth. "Yes."

"Then that makes Leksa kom Triku a traitor to the clans. It also puts her in grave danger." At the last statement, he crossed his arms and deftly raised an eyebrow. He was testing her, clearly. Though she kept her expression an iron mask, it didn't stop her heart from racing or the twinge of panic that settled in her gut. The idea of the Commander in danger sickened her.

Wanheda was angry with herself for caring. She couldn't care about the woman who betrayed her. The Commander had delivered Skaikru and the 100 to the Mountain Men on a silver platter, all the while securing her own people's safety.

She was so unbelievably furious. The once-prisoners of the Ark were kids and the Commander left them to die. She didn't care that it was what she would've done. She didn't care that it was the only logical choice the Commander had.

The betrayal cut deeper than anything else and had ignited a guttural, primal hatred that she'd never felt before. Not when Jaha floated her father. Not even when her mother had been the one to get him killed.

Knowing the Commander was in danger made her sick, but she was also sickened by the fact that she cared whether the Commander lived through the clans' anger.

But Roan didn't know that. She wouldn't let him.

So, instead of saying or showing any sign of her thoughts and feelings, Wanheda shrugged.

Whatever test he had in mind, she assumed she passed. He nodded and produced a bag from his many layers of clothing. She opened it once he tossed it to her, and she couldn't stop her face from brightening at the vibrant fruits inside.

She pulled out a shiny red apple. "Where did you get these?"

Roan smirked. "Trishanakru has vast farms. Rows upon rows of apple trees. They won't miss a few."

Though she was aware of the danger of eating food from a stranger, Wanheda took a bite and barely held in a groan of delight as the juice flowed down her throat. After living off of dry, bland meat for months, she welcomed such vibrant flavor.

She fastened the bag closed, walking up and handing it back to him, still munching on her apple. Wanheda continued into the trees, feeling the confusion the man radiated from behind her.

"Where are you going?" he shouted. She had gotten far enough ahead that she could tell he hadn't moved.

"Home," she said simply, trekking up a slight hill. "You're welcome to tag along, if you'd like."

His emotions were plain as day as he spoke, but at least he was closer, "You really have no care for the danger I might bring you?"

She smirked over her shoulder. "Commanding death starts with accepting your own."

"With that philosophy, it's a miracle you're–"

"Still alive, I get it."

His footsteps seemed to echo throughout the forest as he caught up with her, making her realize just how far she had come in the art moving silently. "You're fearless."

"And you're loud. We're gonna have to work on that."

Now that, my friends, is the beginning of a taxing acquaintanceship between Wanheda and the Prince of Azgeda.

15/16 - Written: 6/21/22-8/27/22

Posted - 8/27/22

16 - Edited: 4/7/23

Posted - 4/7/23

:)