Lexa's feet ached, her legs felt heavy, her arms liquid and weak. Sweat dripped from her brow and she cursed as she tripped over something she couldn't see, as she stumbled and tried to find her feet.
"Get up."
The woman's voice came from somewhere behind her and she felt the press of that same knife edge between her shoulder blades and she recognised the threat for what it was. Bellamy must have stumbled beside her too, for she heard him groan, she heard him curse and splutter past the gag forced into his mouth.
"Move."
Again the woman behind pushed her forward with the knife, and not for the first time Lexa resented the fact that she couldn't see where she walked.
"Stop."
The woman pulled her back with a sharp tug of the rope binding her hands behind her back.
"Try it," and this time Lexa was sure the woman spoke to Bellamy. "I would enjoy beating you again," and Lexa couldn't help but to recoil from the lightness in the woman's voice, in the pleasure she seemed to get from causing pain, from inflicting wounds and suffering.
But Bellamy must have submitted, must have backed down from whatever foolish endeavour he had thought of for she heard a chuckle, a laugh, something light, something disappointed.
"Perhaps next time."
Fabrics, furs and leathers rustled in front of Lexa, and from the sound, from the breeze of air she felt across her cheeks, she thought they must have arrived at their final destination.
"Ontari," a new voice said, this one male, deep, more rumbled growl than spoken word.
"Gustus," the woman behind her answered.
"These are the prisoners?"
"Yes."
"Heda is waiting."
Lexa didn't quite know who or what Heda was, all she knew was that they were important and that her heart began to beat more furiously in her chest, that her palms were sweating and that her skin felt clammy. She was sure that now, as she was ushered into what she thought to be a tent, that she had chosen wrong, that she had made the wrong decision, had done nothing but bring her death closer than it had been just days earlier. But Lexa stamped down those fears as quickly as they formed, if only because there was no turning back.
And so she squared her shoulders, ironed her resolve and promised herself not to regret whatever was to come next.
There was commotion though, something quick, rough and violent. Bellamy grunted and gasped out behind her, she heard the distinct thunk of something hard hitting flesh and then she felt Bellamy fall to the ground beside her as that woman — Ontari — laughed.
"Enough."
Another woman's voice cut into whatever commotion echoed out around her, it seemed to silence the noise, the wind, the rustle of air and cloth and weapon and armour. Lexa felt herself pushed forward again, she felt Bellamy's presence beside her and then a hand gripped her shoulder, squeezed and Lexa fell to the ground with a grunt of pain as her legs were kicked out from underneath.
"Heda," Ontari said, and Lexa heard deference in the woman's voice, she heard supplication and submission.
"This is the one who leads them?" the voice asked, and it came quiet, careful, slightly deeper than expected, terribly rich with a rasp and a careful timber that made Lexa's skin crawl.
"This one is, Heda," Ontari answered.
"And the man?" the question came out full of derision and Lexa felt Bellamy bristle, she felt him tense, and if she hadn't been in such a perilous situation, if she didn't think even making noise would end in her head being removed, she would try to tell him to calm down, to relax, to stop doing whatever it was that had caused him to be struck, pushed and hit.
"He refused to allow her to come alone," Ontari answered. "Even after I encouraged him to behave."
"I see," and the voice seemed to come out more intrigued. "Remove the blindfolds."
And so Lexa found herself wondering what this woman — what Heda — must have looked like. Lexa wondered if she was as tattooed and as scarred as all her warriors seemed to be, if she was old, young, or somewhere between.
But of all the things Lexa thought she would see, it wasn't what greeted her.
The blindfold was pulled from her face with little care or worry for her comfort, and Lexa winced through the gag as her hair was pulled with the motion. Light from the many candles and flames she saw flickering about inside the tent blinded her, and she couldn't help but to wonder if their presence and intensity was purposeful.
She saw a silhouette next, and it was something ferocious, something unfamiliar and all together terrifying.
As Lexa's vision cleared she saw that a woman sat atop a chair, a throne of twisted wood, of spears and weapons that seemed to all bend and wind and twist together into a nest of crazed disorder. A coat of thick leathers and armoured plating draped her body. A red sash, colour as vibrant and dazzling as the sun swept down from her left shoulder and to her feet before it pooled upon the ground.
The woman's hair was blonde, molten gold at times in the firelight. Her eyes were a piercing blue that was framed by black paint that writhed across her eyes, that dripped down her cheeks as if a shadow had sheared away her flesh.
But despite all those things, what stole Lexa's breath the most, what made her recoil, made her flinch and gasp, was the distinct grey-paleness and lack of colour to her skin. Where one would expect to see the hints of red, of pink beneath proud cheeks, Lexa saw nothing but grey, and if she looked just a little harder she thought she could see the black of veins that etched their path under the woman's skin. Even her lips were void of what could and should have been expected.
The woman leant forward in her throne and the grey of her lips parted just barely as she took in a deep breath to reveal teeth that almost seemed to glow in the candle light, and for only the briefest of moments Lexa was sure she spied the dark of her gums before her gaze snapped back to the woman's eyes. The woman smiled then, but the expression seemed void of kindness, it seemed void of warmth, void of depth.
Void of life.
