Chapter 53/55
Clarke sat crosslegged on the grass in the middle of a clearing near the peak of the Mountain. It was very early morning, the sun had only just begun to touch the horizon in the farthest of distances as she looked out across the lands. The air was crisp. It was clear. It felt more vibrant than any air she had ever breathed before and she let her mind and body settle into a calm.
At times she had thought she would never be able to set foot so openly in the forests where she once grew up. At times she had resigned herself to living in the shadows during the dark of the night, always wary of the Mountain and its eagerness to snatch her from her people and keep her captive just as it had done all the other natblida.
And yet here Clarke sat.
In the quiet.
Alone.
Victorious above a foe she had brought justice upon with such eager vengeance that she thought it inhuman.
She had dedicated every waking moment of her life since ascending the throne to destroying the Mountain. She had dedicated every single breath, every action, every plan she had put into motion to the Mountain's destruction.
Perhaps she should feel exhilarated. Maybe she would in days to come. But for the moment all she felt was empty.
She felt emptiness settling within her core.
It was strange, too. Strange that with the Mountain's death she felt herself weightless in the wind with nothing to guide her, nothing to give her purpose.
Or perhaps she had never allowed herself to think past the Mountain that she had not planned, had not conceived of a world without its shadow.
And yet here she was.
Alone.
Quiet in the cold of an early morning sun that touched her skin.
Clarke kicked her legs out in front of her so that they sprawled out in front of her. She knew the sight to be unbecoming of her. She knew it must make her look like a youth but she didn't care in that moment.
She lay back against the grass and she found herself staring up into the sky so very far away.
Stars still twinkled the last of their light. At times a bird would drift across her vision. Sometimes a wisp of a cloud would float through the purpling sky and Clarke thought of nothing in particular.
The grass on her skin was soft. It would prickle her skin just a little with each breath she took and she realised one of her hands played with the blades of grass between her fingers.
The buzzing of an insect graced her nose, it made her scrunch her face up in annoyance and she huffed a breath at it in an attempt to shoo it away. She felt it tickle against her cheek and Clarke swiped it away.
But she laughed, too. She laughed because she felt free. Unburdened in that very moment.
She had no purpose. Not for the time being. And maybe that wasn't so bad. Maybe that wasn't the worst thing to happen to her.
And yet the laughter died down just as quickly as it had come and Clarke found herself thinking. She found herself remembering every little thing that had happened.
Clarke took in a deep breath as she steadied her heart and tried to put order to the uncertainties in her mind.
She had long come to terms with the fact that she would probably die inside the Mountain. Ever since she had figured out what she needed to do she had never expected to make it out. But her sacrifice would have given her people what they needed to destroy the dam. It would have given her people a fighting chance to starve the Mountain to death from the outside in. And if they were lucky they would have been able to enter it after her and taken control, avoided the bloodiest of fights. But she had expected to die.
She had expected her last waking moments to be surrounded by evil, by an environment that made her skin crawl and her mind rage out.
But she had thought it worthy.
She had known it worthy.
But these skaikru. These newcomers from the heavens had crashed down into her plans and thrown her off just enough that it made her reassess.
It had made her reorder her plans just a little. It had forced her to see things in a different light.
And it had given her an opportunity to do more. And she had taken hold with both hands and had refused to let go.
And now Clarke didn't know what to do.
Clarke reached out for a small flower that danced in the breeze. Her fingers carefully pulled it free and she held it up above her face as she slowly spun it around. The petals were delicate, the colour a rich yellow that was charming in the dim morning light. Perhaps the smallest of insects crawled along the stem seemingly unaware of Clarke's existence and she thought that little being lucky to be unaware of the more of the world.
She let the flower slip from her grasp, she watched as the gentlest of breezes took hold and danced it away without worry or care and she sighed.
She would need to act in the days to come. She would need to do something to help satisfy the coalition, to satiate the need for more bloodshed.
But she could wait. She could rest for the time being.
And rest she thought she needed.
Her body ached. It ached more than she was used to. She didn't know if it was simply her body still slowly healing. She didn't know if the new pains were to be another bedfellow upon her shoulders.
She hardly remembered regaining consciousness.
Glimpses of it were really all she had. She remembered the pain first. She didn't think it was really even memory. But sense, feeling. An ingrained part of her psyche that was somehow aware. She remembered her limbs being broken and twisted and torn out of position. She remembered choking on her own blood. She remembered someone twisting her leg back into place. She remembered the screams of pain and the splitting ache in her head as her skull stitched itself back together ever so slowly.
Clarke was still missing a gash of hair, the new scar that split from the corner of her eyebrow up above her ear and into her hair had left a sharp, gleaming white ugly line that she didn't think would fade much. She would need to figure out how to braid her hair in a way that didn't seem to hide the new wounds. She thought it would be unbecoming of her to try to hide away from her injuries.
But perhaps she would resent it just a little.
She could feel other smaller pieces of metal still inside her body, too. Some she could see just under the surface that she was told would work themselves out of her body in time. Others she had already dug out with a knife, her patience too small to let the foreign pieces of metal become too familiar with her so close to the surface of her skin.
But there were deeper wounds. Ones she didn't know how to heal any faster than they would naturally. And they hurt. Clarke's left arm didn't quite have the strength it once did. Both her hips hurt a little with each step she took and there was the very slightest aches in her lungs that was hard to ignore.
But she was alive.
And the Mountain was dead.
Perhaps she was happy that she didn't recall exactly how frantic Ontari had been in getting her help. She knew she would feel bad if she could more clearly recall the panic as Ontari had demanded those Skaikru who had helped to heal her. She had brief flashes of being carried to some kind of healing room. She had brief flashes of the metal shards being cut out of her and she had brief flashes of pain as someone had stitched her body back together as tightly as they could in the hopes her blood would bring her back to life.
But it had worked.
Somehow.
And Clarke wouldn't think too much more on that.
She thought dwelling on that any further no good for the spirit.
The approach of feet pulled her mind to the present. She recognised the gait. She always would.
Her father's steps came to a stop at the edge of the clearing. Clarke could sense him waiting for her to acknowledge his presence before intruding but for some reason Clarke wished to feel a little less like the Commander in that very moment.
"Father," she called out to him quietly.
Her father moved forward slowly until he came to a pause not far from her, his presence standing just out of eyesight as she continued to look up into the stars.
"Sit, father," Clarke reached out with a arm and let it pat against the grass beside her for a moment.
"I am not intruding?" he asked.
"No," she craned her neck back slightly so that she could look at him where he stood, his image slightly upside down to her in that moment.
He nodded his head before he lowered himself to the grass, his legs crossed and his hands resting on his knees.
He remained quiet for a very long moment and Clarke was content to share in his company. She didn't feel the need to speak. She didn't feel the need to break the silence that had settled between them. In time one of them would speak. In time one of them would share what was on their mind. But for now she was happy to remain in her father's company, the relish the fact that he had made it through another great war. She hoped it would be his last.
"I never thought I would see the forests from this high."
His voice was soft, gentle against her mind as he spoke. She knew he looked out across the forest that stretched out below. She knew he looked at the treetops that seemed more like fields of grass this high up the Mountain. Maybe he looked upon the undulating, snaking river that caught of the rising sun's light in the distance or perhaps he looked out at the Mountains in the far distance that were home to Azgeda to the North.
"I wish mother was here to see this," Clarke whispered.
She wished that so terribly in that moment. She hoped her mother would be proud of her. Some part of Clarke had hoped that she would have seen her mother again at the end.
But it hadn't been her time.
Her father didn't answer immediately but when he did Clarke felt a tear pull at the corners of her eyes.
"She would be proud of you."
She felt him lie down beside her. She felt his hand reach out and squeeze hers and Clarke felt his fingertips trembling just a little in the cold of the early morning air.
Clarke returned the squeeze. Perhaps normally she wouldn't let herself indulge in sentiment. Normally she wouldn't dare. But times were different. They were alone. They were victorious and they lay atop their felled enemy and so Clarke thought she could be selfish, she thought she could indulge and let herself have a moment of a life she hadn't truly ever had.
"I miss her," Clarke said. "I hardly remember what she looks like."
Clarke wished she had painting of her. She wished she had a drawing of her to help her remember. But she didn't. Life had been too short. She had been too young to truly grasp her mother's memories and forge them into permanence in her mind.
"Her spirit is with you," her father said in answer.
It was simple, really. And maybe he said it to ease her pain or maybe her father truly believed it. It mattered not to Clarke for in that moment she chose to believe it.
"I am tired, father," Clarke whispered and she turned her face to him. She watched as he turned to face her and she found herself thinking he looked so much older than she thought he was. There was grey in his beard. Lines of life etched across his face. But his eyes were ever keen. Ever piercing and she hoped she wouldn't ever forget what he looked like.
"You are too young to be tired," he countered. She could see the sparkle in his eye and she fought the quiet smile that threatened to pull at her lips. "I am tired."
Clarke scoffed. She turned back to the stars and she let the silence settle once more. It was comforting, his presence. It was warm. Calming. Clarke was happy in that moment. Perhaps she could forget her worries. Perhaps she could let herself live without the concerns of what was to come next. At least for a little while longer.
But it would have to end eventually.
It always did.
"We have finished sorting the prisoners," her father said. There was a tinge of apology in his tone at having to change the topic.
"And those that will need natblida in the days to come?" she asked.
"Less than half of the captured," he answered her. "Many of the Skaikru were shocked at the revelations."
She nodded her head in answer. She had hoped that would be the case but she had been prepared to have them all executed if it came to it. But she was thankful. It would have hurt Lexa more than anything and Clarke wished not to cause her pain.
"You have my permission to keep them alive for the time being," Clarke said. She would need to figure out just how to deal with the survivors from the Mountain. Not all of them had burnt to death. Not all of them had died in the fighting.
They'd be a problem. Something she would need to deal with in the coming weeks and months lest the more violent in the coalition begin to grow restless.
"Aden, Luna?" Clarke asked eventually. "The others?"
"Weak," her father answered. "Tired. fatigued. They will need many months to heal."
Clarke nodded her head. She would need to make sure they were well protected for many months. Even moving them from the Mountain could do them harm. But that, too, she thought was a problem for another day.
"Perhaps we should return," Clarke said eventually.
She sat up from the grass and she winced at a muscle that protested her movement.
Her father sat up too. He rolled his shoulders and stood before offering his hand for her. Clarke accepted it with a quiet thanks before they came to stand facing each other. Clarke looked around them briefly. And they were still in that same clearing. They were still who they had always been.
But perhaps for the first time in a very long time they were alone. There were no warriors guarding either of them. There were no reapers or Mountain Men they needed to be watchful of and there were no threats. No violent visitors who could threaten them at a moment's notice.
She smiled up at her father and in that moment she could forget who she was. For a moment she could forget she was the Commander and she reached up, wrapped her arms around her father's broad torso and she hugged him tightly.
She didn't care that it wasn't entirely becoming of her. She didn't care that she hardly ever shared in his touch. Clarke hadn't fought the Mountain for years, she hadn't bled for years and she hadn't carried the weight of lifetimes of hate within her just to rob herself of one small moment to selfish desire.
Clarke didn't realise she felt tears falling down her cheeks until her father's arms wrapped around her shoulders. She didn't realise she cried until he squeezed her tightly to his chest and she didn't realise she let all the emotion flow out of her in that very moment until her father whispered something to her she hadn't heard since she was a child, too young to stand, too young to know who or what she was.
And Clarke didn't care who she was, who she was supposed to be.
All she was in that very moment was a daughter who needed her father's embrace.