A/N: I know, it has been a whille. Real life was busy, but the story is not abandoned. Updates will be slow and irregulars, though.
WARNING: There is torture is this chapter
Chapter 22: Prisoner
Clarke blinked, confused. She felt the rope around her wrists and tried to remember what had happened for her to end up in this situation. She looked around. She could not recognize her surroundings. It was a forest, but she had no idea how long she had been unconscious.
She recalled hearing screams outside of her tent and rushing out, thinking a warrior in need of immediate help was being brought to her.
Instead, she had seen dozens of warriors slitting the throats of the wood workers that had been so helpful in all the preparations against the Mountain. Ryder had tried to push her back inside her tent, but she had side-stepped him. The attackers were too many, returning inside this tent would only delay the inevitable.
She had shakily but resolutely taken out her dagger, berating herself for leaving her bow inside the tent. Not that it mattered much since the damn thing was not even stringed.
It was not a fair fight, and Clarke doubted she had ever managed to struck her opponent. She vaguely remembered Ryder falling to his knees with a spear embedded in his front, then someone had used her distraction to punch her in the face and knock her out.
Given how exhausted she was from all the healing, it was likely her body would have gone from unconsciousness to sleep to recover.
Basically, she had no idea how far she was from the clearing. Nor even in what direction it would be.
Information she would need if she managed to escape.
''She is awake.'' A gruff voice said in Trigedasleng.
She felt a heavy blow on the back of her head, and darkness surrounded her once more.
The next time, she was careful to keep her eyes closed and her breathing slow. She was on a horse, she realized, held by someone sat behind her. The horse was not going at a very fast pace at the moment.
She listened to what her captors were saying, but they were not very talkative, only exchanging one-word instructions like 'hurry', 'there', and so on. They spoke Trigedasleng, but so did almost half of the clans. And she was not attuned enough to the particular accents of each clans to identify where they were from.
All she could tell was that they were not from Polis – she was confident she would have recognized that accent.
She tried to only open her eyes half-way to see her surroundings but not alert her captors. She felt her stomach drop when she saw that they were in some sort of great plain of long grass. No trees.
Even Polis was surrounded by the forest. She had studied many maps with Lexa. She knew she must have been unconscious for quite some time, because even the closest plain to Polis and Mount Weather was a few days ride away.
Well, shit.
And she still had no idea in which direction they were going.
She let her head loll to the side, as if still asleep, to try and locate the sun. It would at least give her some rough direction – assuming they traveled in a mostly straight line, but they were on a damn plain, so what would be the point in zig-zaging?
She failed to find the sun on her right side, but noticed the shadows on the ground.
She would have kicked herself if her legs were not on either side of a horse. And if it would not have alerted the captors, of course.
The shadows were thin, and extended in front of them, which meant the sun was behind them. And judging from the amount of light, it must be close to the middle of the day.
They were going North.
Azgeda.
Fucking Azgeda. How had they known where she would be? Was she even the target, or had they expected to find Lexa and kill her, and taken her instead when they were disappointed not to find the Commander?
Still controlling her breathing, she tried to count the shadows. She could see two on her right, as well as the rear of a horse ahead of her own. That meant that there was at least five or six warriors in total, perhaps more – there had been more than that during the attack.
Were there other prisoners? Or was she the only one?
She hesitated. Alone, she had no hope to escape. Her arms were bound, those people were better riders than herself, and she had no weapons – not that they would be much helpful. Lexa had been right to tell her to train more. She should have listened.
No use for regrets now. If she managed to get back to Polis, she promised herself she would never complain again about training, and apply herself to it more seriously. But right now, she needed information about her situation, and she would not get it by remaining still on top of the horse.
She was pressed against the front of the warrior holding her, so it was easy to aim a swift kick of her heel to the side of his tibia. There was a nerve in that area, barely protected by thin muscles.
The man yelped in surprised pain and she used his distraction to throw herself to the side. The landing was slightly soften by the grass, but still very uncomfortable as she yanked on her tied wrists in a reflexive attempt to catch herself. She rolled over onto her back, taking in the scene. She knew she only had seconds.
First, she was reassured to see the forest on the horizon behind them – they might not be that far, after all. But then she realized that she was indeed the only prisoner. Within this group, at least.
Because there were only eight riders. The rest of the attackers had to be somewhere. Escorting other prisoners? Or leaving false trails so that no one could follow to rescue her? Those warriors were unmarked, and she could remember Lexa explaining the meanings of tattoos and other markings in the main clans. She had been insisting that Clarke should design one for herself.
Azgeda warriors used thin scars to distinguish themselves from the rest of the population. So why didn't they have some? Or was it like the killing marks of Trikru, and the scars were only given once you had completed your first mission? But then there should at least be one experienced, marked warrior to supervise the mission, right?
Lexa had said that the Fall of Mount Weather would have many repercussions in the Coalition. The Commander had never planned to take down the Mountain so soon. She had only done so because the news of the Mountain men finding a cure meant that they would start the war. Lexa could no longer afford to wait a few years for the Coalition to grow more stable before organizing a siege, as Hedas before her had envisioned.
Though she still disliked the title bestowed upon her by the grounders, she had seen how her support had solidified Lexa's power to some extent. The ambassadors had been less virulent than during that first meeting she had attended, and she had been thanked by many citizens of Polis for helping Heda. Commander, she had grown to understand, was a military, political, but also spiritual title. And with the rituals of the Flame being so completely secret, her appearance and public use of her abilities were interpreted as an extension of Heda's spiritual power.
And now, Azgeda had stolen that power at a moment when some clans might claim that, with the Mountain vanquished, the Coalition was no longer needed.
She had to get back to Polis and Lexa somehow.
One of the warriors came up to her after dismounting and punched her in the face again, knocking her out. Before darkness engulfed her, she hoped they were not too far from their destination – this was starting to get old.
Some time later – she couldn't tell how long, only that she had woken up and been knocked unconscious a few more times – she awoke in a different environment.
It was a square room made of concrete walls. There were no windows, and the only door was made of sturdy-looking wood. Her wrists were still tied, but she was able to move around the tiny room. She walked along the walls, knocking on them and listening for any sounds that would help her learn more about where the hell she was.
She could not make out much. The only interesting thing was the air vent in the wall left of the door. It might be big enough for her to crawl in – if it was not protected by a grid and a good two feet above her head.
Abandoning plans of escape for now, she settled against the wall to think. Azgeda's queen had tortured Costia to learn Lexa's secrets. Clarke doubted she had much sensitive information to share, but what she thought irrelevant might not be so to Nia. She had no intention of endangering Lexa or the Natblidas, so she had to figure out something.
She had certainly grown more resilient to pain over the last few months, but she was not so naive as to think she would be able to resist torture.
What was it Lexa had said to Murphy? That the trick was not necessarily pain tolerance, but knowing what to share, and feed false information? Except she was precisely unsure of what could be considered false or irrelevant since she had arrived in Polis.
Or… she could try and confuse them. To Lexa and the rest of the grounders, Gonasleng was a secondary language. Their vocabulary was more limited, especially in areas that dealt with technology or complex scientific or philosophic concepts.
So, what could she think and blatter about for hours, but would have absolutely no use for the Ice Queen? History was out, she might slip some things about spying or military strategy, or whatever. Biology was also out. She wouldn't mind opening some sort of med school, but this was not the context she would anticipate for it. So what else did she know enough about?
She grinned, thankful of her distorted education for the first time since coming to the ground.
After a few hours of solitude, two women walked into her cell, followed by a huge warrior. Clarke thought he was one of those that had escorted her here.
The first woman had blond, almost white hair, and cold, clear blue eyes. Her face was only very lightly scarred, but the crown of bone atop her head and her attitude left Clarke in no doubt that she was facing the Ice Queen. The woman behind her was dark-haired, and young – perhaps even a couple of years younger than herself. Her face was decorated by elaborate thin scars, and the artist in Clarke was fascinated by how the pattern suited the features as well as the evenness of the lines. It certainly did not look as barbaric as it sounded.
Clarke felt a shiver run down her spine at the wicked look in the queen's eyes. She could understand the need for information, and even that one might torture to obtain those. But it seemed that woman would enjoy it.
Well, then Clarke would try and enjoy being stubborn and not giving her anything useful. She was very good at being stubborn.
The huge warrior grabbed her by the arm and dragged her out of the room down a corridor. She looked around curiously. It looked like on of those old underground office space, with the suspended ceiling made of faded white squares. She frowned. Had she looked at the ceiling in her cell? Was it the same?
She was pushed inside a room that was very similar to her cell, but more furnished. There were a few tables and shelves covered with all sorts of blades or other instruments. And rings in the wall to tie someone.
She felt her previous determination falter at the sight, and suddenly had the urge to escape, now. She struggled against the hold of the guard, tried to step on his foot, elbow his stomach, kick him. He ignored or avoided her attempts and pushed her against the wall before tying her hands above her head. Then, he ripped off her sleeves and took a few steps back.
Nia approached and addressed her for the first time.
''So, you are the Healing Nymph I have heard so much about?'' She looked her up and down. ''You seem pretty ordinary to me. Let's check.''
The queen grabbed a nearby dagger and dragged it along Clarke's forearm. She gritted her teeth, refusing to show pain so soon. Besides, it was nothing compared to being stabbed repeatedly. The tingling of her healing almost instantly replacing the slight burning.
''Stories were true. Your healing is fascinating.'' The queen commented, discarding the dagger. ''To be honest, when my warriors told me how easy it was to capture you, I was half-convinced that they had found a decoy placed by Lexa. It appears I gave this Heda too much credit. How stupid is she to leave such a precious thing so lightly protected?'' Nia snorted gleefully.
Clarke felt a twinge of guilt. She had been the one constantly arguing that she did not need so many guards. That her powers made the escort useless. She had been the stupid one Nia talked about, not Lexa.
''They say your hands heal others, as well. Let's see it.''
The queen turned to the young woman behind her. ''Come, Ontari.''
The young warrior obeyed, and Nia picked up a new dagger while the man freed one of Clarke's hands. She watched as the queen pulled up the left sleeve of the young woman and made a light cut on her upper arm. Blood started to trickle down.
Black blood.
Clarke's eyes bulged.
''Oh, yes.'' The queen sneered. ''You see, that's why it is meaningless for you to remain by Lexa's side. Your future Commander is here. You will serve her instead.''
She forced Clarke's hand on Ontari's wound and ordered. ''Heal her.''
Clarke refused. This part of her abilities were always a choice. No way she was going to serve this psychopathic Queen and this unknown Natblida that clearly planned to overthrow Lexa. The attack against Aden and Strina made a lot more sense now. With the age required to enter the Conclave, Ontari would have had no rival. Hell, even now, she would only have Aden who was several years younger – the boy was strong and talented, yes, but would it be enough to compensate the age difference?
In fact, shouldn't have Ontari competed against Lexa in the previous Conclave? Had the queen kept her hidden in order to ensure she would be the strongest in her Conclave?
If so, then she had to escape – and soon. Because there was no way Nia would wait more than a few months, or even weeks. The aftermath of the Mountain was a perfect opportunity, and she could not afford to wait for Aden to grow older and stronger.
How many assassins had she already sent for both of them? And probably for the other children, too.
She clenched her fists, and the queen was visibly displeased when Ontari's wound was not healed.
''Stubborn, then? Don't worry. It will pass.''
Nia called out a name, and a middle-aged woman entered the room.
''This is Kana. My expert in… interrogations. She was the one who took care of Lexa's old lover. I am sure you will enjoy the qualities of her services.'' She presented in a cold voice. ''And I am sure she will enjoy working with you too.''
She stepped up to Clarke and grabbed her hair to force her to meet her eyes. ''You will tell me everything you know about Lexa and her novitiates. Then, you will either swear loyalty to myself, or I will find some way to kill you and send your head to your precious Heda.'' She spat, staring into her eyes. ''Oh, I can see you want to resist. But do you know what the hardest thing is when you torture someone? Keeping them alive. But with you…'' She dragged her blade against Clarke's arm again. ''We don't have to worry about that as much, right?''
And with that, she turned back on her heels and walked to the door. Clarke felt her stomach drop and barely repressed a shiver of pure terror.
''Ontari, you will report whatever she says to me. And cover this cut before you come to the throne room. I don't want that annoying ambassador of Lexa to see your blood.''
Kana proved her queen right. For the next few hours, Clarke's body was a blurry of pain and tingling. It was sheer will and constantly distracting herself by explaining Einstein's theory of relativity – which greatly confused her tortioners and allowed her a breather before Kana continued relentlessly – that allowed her not to cry out once during this first session.
Seeing her heal, the middle-aged woman had soon given up deep wounds that took more effort but actually brought little more pain. Most sensitive nerves are in the skin, and it quickly appeared that the woman knew that. She pulled off pieces of skin from her arm, applied red-hot blades on her stomach and thighs. She used lashes on every part of her body.
When she was thrown back in her cell, Clarke felt numb. She stared at her own body, unable to comprehend why she saw smooth skin when she had been in so much pain for so long. Was it sick to think that there should be scars? Some sort of proof that her suffering had been real?
She was exhausted. She had not said anything about Lexa or the Natblidas, but after this first session, she was no longer so confident that she would not eventually crack.
An image of Strina's face flashed in her mind, and Clarke forced herself to sit up instead of remaining still on the ground where she had been abandoned by the guard. She had promised Lexa she would look after the children. And with the knowledge of Ontari's existence, this promise was more important than ever.
She had to escape.
Remembering what she had deduced about the ancient purpose of the building she was in, she glanced up and smiled. There was a suspended ceiling in her cell as well. And no signs of it being screwed shut.
Now, she just had to find a way to hoist herself up there. And hope that the space above the faded panels was as big as depicted in old movies.
She looked around. The queen was clearly not planning to earn her loyalty through comfort or luxuries. The only object in the room was a small bucket for her needs. Too small to suffice as a footstool.
So far, the only good news was that they had not bothered to tie up her hands again.
A small noise interrupted her thoughts, and she turned her gaze to the door. It was open, and a small servant boy was being ushered in. He timidly handed her a small loaf of bread and a pitcher of water under the watchful gaze of a guard, and then exited the room quickly. The guard glared at her before closing the door again.
Well, at least she would not starve for now.
She munched on the bread and took a few gulps of water. She had not been really fed while traveling, though they had made her drink regularly. She could still feel the exhaustion from healing so many warriors during the battle, in addition to the painful torture. However, she doubted Nia would give her food often, so she forced herself to eat slowly and save half of the loaf and pitcher for later.
She tried to inventory everything she had. The bucket, the clay pitcher – no way she could step on that without breaking it – and her now tattered clothing.
She finished separating the sleeves from the rest of the garment and looked critically at them. She might be able to weave them in a small rope, but would it hold her weight?
She shrugged, and got started on it. She could only hope for now. She also ripped away the other flailing parts of her clothing. She would be very cold at night, but she had no other plan – if she could even call that a plan. She kept one large piece of clothing to put the makeshift rope under, and used it as a pillow once she grew too tired to continue.
She was awaken by the cold, so she guessed it was night. Her cell was always mostly dark, with only the light from the hallway filtering through the holes in the door. She had tried to look through those, but had only been able to see that there were guards.
She drank some more and ate the rest of the bread.
Even with a rope, she would need to find a way to attach it to the ceiling. Ideally, she would need a stick to raise a panel and guide the rope.
She ran her hands along the length of the door. She found a small line that ran down almost from top to bottom, but it would be difficult to dig it out with her bare hands – and silently.
She endured another session with Kana and Ontari, focusing on the complex astrophysic calculations she used to hate in her schooldays in the Ark. She remembered complaining to her mother that she would have no need for them as a doctor, and being replied that everyone should know how his or her world worked – from political to physic laws.
She doubted her mother had ever thought Clarke would need those calculations in such circumstances. But because it was something she had never been really great at, the maths required a lot of concentration from her. It helped focus her mind away from the pain, if only for a few moments.
And a vindictive part of her swelled with pride every time the women stopped the torture to listen to her mumbles, thinking she was cracking, only to hear incomprehensible lectures about gravitational forces and time being stretched or squeezed. Ontari had actually grilled her on that last one, but Clarke had kept reciting the lecture as she remembered it from about two years ago.
When Kana introduced her to a new whip that she had soaked in a bucket, she let out her first scream of pain. She had no idea what was on the lashes, but it burned like acid. The woman seemed to delight in Clarke's response, and the healer clenched her jaw, stubbornly deciding not to cry out again. She tried to focus on the paintings of her favorites artists, and the feeling of peace it used to give her.
She found no peace in them this time. In the end, she tried to push her mind back to this place it had gone to when she was in solitary, where everything felt like it was happening to someone else. She let the numbness fill her, ignoring all the signals her body was sending to her brain.
Several days passed in similar fashion. Since she had retreated deep in her mind, Clarke was no longer trying to escape. Only to survive. Going back to reality meant going back to the constant pain. Meant cracking, and betraying Lexa and the children she protected.
But so did inaction, a voice whispered in her mind. And sometimes, her hands would caress her little rope as she listened to the voice. Until Kana arrived and her mind would shy away from it all again.
Everyday, the same servant boy would bring her bread and water. The only thing that changed was the guard that watched when he did – it seemed guard duty was boring enough for the warriors to rotate often. She wasn't sure she had ever seen the same face twice.
She was glad for the familiar face of the boy, though. He was timid, but there was always some warmth in his gaze. Pity as well. Somehow, he reminded her of Aden. Of why she had to hold on. She had no idea why – the two did not look alike at all.
That day – Clarke had no idea how long it had been since she arrived here – the boy was slightly different. The anomaly was enough to pull her from her mental exile. She stared at him, trying to pinpoint what exactly was different in the familiar scene.
He was anxious, nervous, she realized. And not only him – the guard was too. She furrowed her brow as she took the bread and pitcher. It was heavier than usual.
''Use this to escape.'' The boy whispered feverishly. ''The Sheidcat will help you if you can make it out of the dungeon.''
She opened her mouth to ask for explanations, but the guard sent a meaningful glance over his shoulder. She noticed that there were other guards further down the hallway. She nodded.
She had no idea why this boy and this guard were helping her, but she had no doubt of what their fate would be if they were found out. From the way the boy was shaking, he knew that too.
She waited until the door was closed to break open the loaf. Inside, she found a small dagger, one that barely bigger than her palm.
This boy had greatly overestimated her fighting abilities if he expected her to fight her way through Ontari, Kana and however many guards were out there with that. Not that a bigger dagger or even a sword would really make a difference.
She forced back the feeling of disappointment – what had she expected really? – and thought back to her old plan of using the false ceiling. She looked critically at her pillow and felt hope rise again in her breast. From what she had observed so far, the guard who escorted the boy in was still the one guarding her door at the moment. She had no idea when his shift ended, but if she was going to make some noise trying to escape, now would be the time. This guard was clearly the one less likely to rattle on her.
She retrieved her rope and tugged on it, testing its strength. She still had no idea if it would hold her weight, but at least it did not fall apart from her pulling. Then, she picked up the small knife and walked to the door.
It was easy to locate again the line she had noticed previously. Praying that it would not be too loud, she inserted the blade in and pulled it up and down repeatedly, trying to widen the fissure and periodically using the blade as a lever to pry the long piece of wood away from the rest of the door.
She knew the guard had to hear the grinding sound. She could only hope his shift would not end before she was finished.
Finally, she had a long stick in her hands. She grinned wearily.
She was definitely getting out of here.
She tucked the knife and bread into the larger piece of cloth she used to hide her rope under, tying it to her waist.
That was when she suddenly hesitated.
Would Nia kill the boy and the guard if she disappeared? Even though she had no way of knowing they had helped her? Perhaps she should wait. Just one more day. If she was certain to get out, she could endure one more day of pain.
Then her gaze landed on her stick. The knife was small, she could easily hide it under her pillow. But there was no way she could hide that stick. And if the guards found it, her dreams of escape were over. As well as the boy's and guard's life, because they would probably search the cell and find the knife.
So it was now or never.
If that damn Spirit existed, he better save that boy. And the guard.
She gulped down all the water from the pitcher – she would not be able to bring that along – and used the bucket one last time. Then, she held the stick above her head and pushed at one of the panels near the back wall.
It lifted easily.
She held back a small cry of victory and relief. She pushed the panel to the side, then did the same with the one next to it. Now, she had a nice metal bar to throw her rope over.
She did it – with some help from the stick to pull down the other end of the rope. Once she held both ends she tugged again. It seemed strong enough. She took a deep breath, hoping she had enough strength for this.
She looked at the stick, wondering what to do with it. Inspiration struck her, and she broke it into smaller pieces and arranged them on the floor. It only took her a few seconds to have a wooden pentagram. She then stabbed her right hand with the knife, and let blood trickle over the wood and floor before pulling it out.
Let them think she did some sort of ritual to get out of her cell. Hopefully, it would take attention away from her unexpected accomplices long enough for them to get the hell away from here.
She then grasped the rope and, with her feet against the wall to help her, hoisted herself up.
Her arms were shaking by the time she reached the ceiling, and she was infinitely grateful to Lexa for forcing her to practice her bow. She doubted she would have managed the climb with the muscles she had a couple months ago. She slipped in the narrow space between the real and suspended ceiling, and pushed the panels she had moved back in place.
Then she coughed and blinked. It was damn dusty. And it was very dark.
But Clarke did not care at the moment. After days of pain, she was free.