A single ray of sunlight streamed in from the window. Clarke watched as motes of dust floated and drifted where they pleased. The bed she lay in was warm, it was soft, fur covered and vast. Candles danced their light around her sleeping quarters and she found herself happy to imagine the shadows she saw as monsters, as warriors who fought and danced and wended together in a battle of life and death.
Bird song could be heard in the distance. Clarke had heard it for so long that she could even identify each individual bird that would call, and at times she would grow sad when one's call was never heard again. And at times she would be happy when she would hear a new voice join the song. And she sighed, she sprawled out on her bed for the few short moments she could spare before whatever was to come with the new day. In the distance she heard the quiet approach of feet.
Clarke's quarters were sparse, barely any furniture lay within, only a single large table adorned with a map of the surrounding lands, its edges held down by a myriad of different models, each one representing a clan, a village, a landmark or any other thing of note. Along the far wall hung her weapons, two wicked knives, each blade as long as her forearm, and a bow and quiver of arrows. The other wall, this one backed by a balcony that looked down onto the streets of Polis, was covered in a latticework of wood so intricately carved that Clarke could never quite discern where one carving ended and another began.
But the feet approaching grew louder and so Clarke, body bare to the elements, rose from her bed in one elegant motion. The furs fell away and she came to stand before the large mirror that leant against the wall. The mirror was brass, polished to perfection yet it still showed signs of wear, of age, of lives having spent reflecting upon whatever was to see. Clarke took in how pale she looked, how grey her skin was, how dark her lips seemed to be even when she was bathed in the warm glow of a rising sun. She never quite knew what to think of her reflection.
A knock came then, and Clarke recognised the firmness, the pattern and the echo.
"Enter," she said, her eyes never wavering from the single deep scar that etched its way under her left collar bone before dipping just barely into the rise of her breast.
The door opened and closed quickly and as Clarke looked over her shoulder she found Ontari standing by the door's entrance and her hands behind her back. The woman's dark brown hair was pulled back in far too many braids to count, she wore her usual furs, their colours white and pristine. The furs around her collar were thicker, more lush and vibrant than the thinner furs that were strapped around her torso with thick black leather strips that were scarred, etched and weathered from years of conflict.
"Heda," Ontari said as she bowed her head, hazel eyes only once taking in what stood before her.
"How is your Kwin?" Clarke asked as she looked herself in the mirror just once more before she reached for the gown she would wear to her washroom.
"Kwin Nia is well, Heda. She sends her regards," Ontari answered. "More warriors are stationed at the border in disguise should you need them."
"And Roan?" Clarke asked as the felt the soft gown begin to settle down the length of her body.
"Returned from the hunts," Ontari said.
"Good," and Clarke smiled as she turned to face Ontari.
Ontari met her gaze with a calm defiant certainty, and not for the first time Clarke found herself wondering what Ontari would look like if she didn't have the diamond shaped scar etched into her forehead, she wondered if without the two slashes on both her cheeks and the horizontal etchings on her chin, would Ontari look as youthful as she knew her to be, or would that glint in her eyes always chase away the youth. Clarke wondered those things if only because Ontari's cheeks still clung to a youth that was so very far removed from the warrior Clarke knew her to be.
"You will walk with me."
And with that Clarke reached for the closest knife she kept hidden in her quarters, tucked it into a hidden pocket in her gown and made her way out of her quarters.
Ontari fell into step behind her, the woman's fur covered boots quick to dampen the steps she took. The hall they walked was made of yellow stone, golden at times when the sun shone upon it and amber when the torches that burned throughout the night washed the tower halls in red. Those torches hung from sconces bolted to the walls. Their flames danced shadows along the smooth and weathered stone underfoot and the windows they passed looked out onto the sprawling city below.
Polis tower lay in the centre of the city. Its cylindrical shape let anyone walk its circumference from any floor, all the while being able to look out onto the streets. A single spiralling staircase was located in the tower's centre, and against the northern most face of the tower was a lift of wood, of pulleys and rope. Mountains lay in the distance with great plains and fields between where farmers herded animal, and tended seed. The shouts of those below would waft up at times when the wind so desired, and through it all Clarke found the barest hints of a smile threatening to steal away the mask of Heda she wore so well. Guards and servants moved about, each one she passed would stand aside and bow, and Clarke would return the gesture with her own shallow bow as she continued on her way to her own private washroom.
It didn't take the two women long to travel the distance in silence, and so they came to a set of heavy doors, two guards standing on either side and the sounds of quietly bubbling water echoing out around them.
One of the guards, a man, his face covered in a number of tribal scars, bowed as he opened the door to reveal the Commander's washroom. It was vast. Large alabaster white tile covered the floor, each one's size greater than even the largest of steps Clarke could take. The walls were the same stone that the rest of Polis tower was made from, but these ones were polished smooth. Their surfaces were covered in ornate depictions of battles, of victories and defeats from every single Commander to have lived. A single large table stood against one of the walls, upon it lay fresh clothes and towels, bottles full of scents and perfumes and soaps and all sorts of lotions to soothe a weary body.
But the thing that dominated the washroom, the thing that always brought a smile to her lips was the large square basin sunk down into the floor that took up one entire half of the room. It's surfaces where made from the same alabaster tiles. To Clarke, the washroom's floor had always made her think that it had been carved from one single and enormous piece of stone.
The sunken basin was filled with water that reached its lip, the surface ever so slightly bubbling from the red hot stones that had been placed at its bottom. Water wafted past the lip, seemed to crawl away ever so slowly as the bubbles pushed it further and further. Even the steam seemed to move across the water's surface, it seemed to prowl, to stalk, to seek something more than it already had. All those things she saw made it ever hard to discern where the basin's sunken edge ended, and where the water began.
A servant knelt down by the water's edge, her sleeves rolled up to her elbows as she lowered the last of the hot stones held in brass buckets into the water with care and a deftness that could only come from years of experience.
"Thank you," Clarke said as the servant stood, bowed her head and began to move to the door. "We are not to be disturbed."
And with that Clarke began moving to the water's edge, her bare feet eager to seek the heat of the water that had already been absorbed by the tiles underfoot. Each step she took was followed by the shedding of a layer of her gown until she came to the water's edge, the gown pooling at her feet. Clarke looked over her shoulder and through the rising steam to find Ontari standing by the door, her hands held behind her back and her gaze focused on any one of the many different carvings that sung their story across the walls and the ceiling.
Clarke looked back down to the water to find its colour rich, deep and milky. She dipped one careful toe into the water, she silenced the welcomed groan of satisfaction at the heat and then she sunk her leg down into the heat. Stone steps lay beneath the surface, just three, large enough for her to sit on before they turned to floor.
With the water reaching just below the curve of her breast Clarke continued to move further and further into the centre of the sunken basin. The heat of the water stole her breath, made her skin prickle and crawl and her muscles cry out in joy and comfort. She came to a stop at the centre, far enough away from the basin's edge that if she squinted it would seem as though she was lost in a sea of steam, of rising scents and serenity.
Clarke turned back the way she had come, her movements sending ripples of water outwards and she watched as the waves played with the bubbles in a myriad of different dances before breaking against the edge stone and tile. But her gaze moved to Ontari's silhouette that still stood by the door's entrance.
"Are you going to join me?" Clarke asked, her head tilting to the side.
"I did not wish to be presumptuous, Heda," and Ontari's voice came out gentle, soft and sure.
"There is space for us both," Clarke said as she began to walk backwards until her heels touched the steps at the far end of the basin.
Ontari took only a moment longer to consider, and in that time Clarke wondered what the woman thought, what she considered, whether she felt pressured, eager, uncertain or sure.
But Ontari simply began stalking forward, one foot placed carefully in front of the other and with each step she took a piece of clothing was shed until she stood at the edge of the basin, her toes dipped into the heat and a trail of clothes left behind her.
"This reminds me of home," Ontari said and her voice came out light, youthful and quiet.
"Azgeda is cold," Clarke challenged, and she let her eyebrow twitch up though she knew Ontari would barely see the expression.
"The white," and from the chiding tone Clarke was sure Ontari had sensed her expression. "The white of the tile. It reminds me of the Azgeda plains. Of the frozen lakes that sing song when you step upon them. And the heat of the baths," she sighed as she began to step into the heat. "We have hot baths to sooth cold and tired bodies."
"And what of companionship, Ontari?" Clarke asked as she came to sit on the middle step, the water lapping at her collar bones as she reclined back and let her mind ease.
There was a slow and purposeful pause as Ontari's eyes met her gaze before she whispered, "we have that, too," Ontari sunk down into the water and submerged herself fully.
Clarke watched Ontari's body move under the water and it was a routine she had seen so many times before, where Ontari would remain under for far longer than Clarke thought possible. She never asked Ontari why she did it, she never ask what she did under the water. She knew it to be personal, she knew it to be only for Ontari, and so she never intruded, never questioned or probed.
After a piercing silence and with her eyes closed, Ontari rose from the water's depths as elegantly as she always did. The motion seemed so sure and so very purposeful, and as she came to stand, and through it all Clarke watched as the water lapped at Ontari's chest, and as droplets followed the contours of her body before falling back into the sea that enveloped them both.
Ontari's eyes opened to reveal an intensity that Clarke seldom saw in the other woman and what she saw was a challenge, she saw a strength, a determination and a softness.
"And what of you, Heda?" Ontari asked as she began to move back until she came to sit on her own large step, the distance between them full of dancing steam and burning heat.
"And what of me?" Clarke knew what Ontari asked, but for some reason she wanted the woman to ask it, to be so brazen as to chase out into the open what she wanted to voice.
"What of companionship?" and Ontari's head tilted to the side ever so slowly as she sunk just a little deeper into the water until it lapped at her chin.
"I am Heda," Clarke answered with a shrug before she raised her arm and let the water drip down its length as she held it up to the light of a burning flame.
Clarke didn't know if she marvelled at the way the light never quite chased away the grey of her skin, she didn't know if she marvelled at the way her skin seemed to blend into the white of the tile or of the milky water.
"Look at me," Clarke said as she looked Ontari in the eyes. "What do you see?" and Clarke wondered what Ontari would say, she wondered if she would call her woman or fiend, ruler or tyrant.
Ontari remained silent for a very long moment.
"I see death," the answer sent a shiver down Clarke's spine, but it did so for all the wrong reasons. "I see death," Ontari repeated as she stood and began to move forward, her hands held so that they brushed against the very surface of the water around them. "I see death," and she stopped in the middle of the basin.
"Is that all?" Clarke asked, and she too stood, she began to move forward. "Is that all you see?" she asked as she came to a stop in front of Ontari, the warmth of the air around them cold enough to prickle her flesh.
"I see a woman," Ontari began to move in circles around her, the words she said soft, whispered and gentle upon her lips. "A warrior," Clarke shivered as she felt one of Ontari's fingers trace the raised edge of the scar that ran down her chest and dipped into her breast. "A survivor," Ontari leant forward and whispered the words into her ear as she came to circle behind her. "A leader," and Clarke turned to look over one shoulder and then the other in an attempt to follow Ontari's movements. "A nightblood," and Ontari came to a standstill in front of her.
Ontari's eyes were softer, her chest rose just a little more quickly and Clarke could sense the anticipation beginning to build in the space between them.
"You are a nightblood, Heda," Ontari said as she came to stand just an inch closer. "Younger than all others. Older than most ever became," Ontari took another step closer. "You bleed black when others bleed red," and Ontari reached out, let her fingers begin to follow the pronounced black of a vein that ran down the length of Clarke's inner arm. "Your heart is black when others are red," and Ontari let her hand rise until it came to rest atop her heart. For just one sickening moment Clarke found herself wondering if Ontari had ever actually seen just how black nightblood hearts were. But her thoughts were killed by the press of soft lips tinged with red against her own. "You are a nightblood," Ontari whispered against her mouth. "You are the only nightblood," and Clarke found herself shivering as Ontari's lips left her own and began to follow the curve of her jaw. "You are the last nightblood," and she began to kiss lower. "You are the greatest nightblood," Clarke watched as Ontari kissed down her body until she had lowered enough that the water lapped at her chin. And then Ontari looked up and pinned her with a gaze full of heat and intensity. "You are my nightblood."
And with that Ontari's head disappeared beneath the surface of the searing heat.
Fire screamed around her, its heat twisted her flesh, filled her nostrils and swept her left and right, back and forth. Lexa's lip bled, she didn't remember biting it. She didn't even feel it. A woman who sat opposite her slouched unconscious, arms flailing about as the drop ship was buffeted left and right. Metal groaned, roared and thrashed and screamed out in such a deafening sound that Lexa thought it had taken place within her mind.
And then it was silent.
Or perhaps simply different.
It took her a moment to realise that the drop ship's reverse thrusters ignited, the sudden change in direction seemed to have broken her mind, for what she knew must be deafening instead rang out hollowly, its sound not really heard, not even really felt. Lexa's body shook from the jolt that ran through the drop ship, she felt a lurch, something subtle, something uneven and then it was still.
Lexa didn't realise her eyes were closed until she blinked, she didn't realise she was clutching so very tightly to the restraints holding her in place until her fingers began to cramp.
And then it struck her that the drop ship no longer moved, it struck her that there was no longer the sound of the roaring engines, the creaking of the metal that tried to hold itself together.
Lexa let out one long shaky breath, she reached up and swiped away the sweat that clung to her forehead and as she did so she found her gaze settling onto the small window recessed into the side of the drop ship.
At first she saw nothing but a wash of light, too blinding for her to really grasp. But as she continued to look, as she continued to peer into the little sliver of light she realised that she could see shapes, that she could see movement.
And Lexa smiled, she smiled and she found a laugh beginning to escape her lips as she realised that what she looked upon was the green of treetops, was the green of leaves that danced in the wind, that swayed to the drop ship's presence.
"Hey," she reached out and grabbed Bellamy's shoulder, shook him long enough that she was sure she had his attention, "look, Bellamy," and she let his shoulder go and pointed out to the window.
Bellamy must have followed her gesture for he took in a deep breath and seemed not to be able to believe what he saw.
"We made it," his voice came out equal parts incredulous and full of certainty, and Lexa couldn't help but to laugh at the contrast.
"Yeah," she turned to look at him to find a wide smile plastered across his face, and despite the sweat that dripped from his skin, despite how pale he looked, and despite the burst blood vessel in the corner of his eye, Lexa thought the smile so very charming. "We made it."