I do not own the 100. Unfortunately, someone had the idea first and I am stuck with creating stories in my mind or on my phone with Lexa and Clarke getting the life they deserved.
In the dense forest where the territories of Trikru and Azgeda converge, a group of weary travelers, remnants of the 100, trudged through the underbrush. Monty, Bellamy, Octavia, Lincoln, Jasper, and Jackson, each one driven by a shared purpose, were on their monthly quest to find Clarke. The air was tense, charged with the remnants of old allegiances and the whispers of the fallen queen Nia's loyalists. Despite King Roan's efforts to unite his people under Lexa's banner, the deep-seated beliefs of the Ice Nation were not easily swayed.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky with hues of orange and purple, the group sought refuge under the canopy of ancient trees. The night was approaching, and with it, the need for vigilance grew. Bellamy's voice, firm and resolute, broke the silence, instructing everyone to remain on guard. The crackling of the radio punctuated his words as he reported their status to Raven back at camp: no sign of Clarke in this sector.
The tasks at hand were divided with practiced ease. Lincoln and Octavia, with their intimate knowledge of the land, gathered wood for a fire, while Monty and Jasper took to preparing the evening's meal. The flickering flames brought a semblance of comfort, casting dancing shadows on their faces as they settled into a somber meal.
It was Octavia who voiced the question that lingered in their hearts, her words cutting through the quiet with the sharpness of a knife. "Will we ever find Clarke?" she asked, her voice a mix of hope and despair. Years had passed since Clarke's disappearance, and doubt had begun to erode their resolve. Bellamy's response was immediate, his conviction unwavering. They owed it to Clarke to continue the search; surrender was not an option.
Unbeknownst to them, perched high above in the embrace of the trees, a solitary figure listened. The outline of her form, distinctly feminine, was shrouded in the twilight. Her muscles, honed by survival, tensed as she absorbed their conversation. Memories of better days, of laughter and unity, flickered through her mind, stirring emotions long barricaded behind a fortress of solitude.
Clarke, for it was she, gazed upward, allowing the beauty of the starlit sky to wash over her. In the quiet of the night, she found solace in her art, her journal open before her. With careful strokes, she immortalized the scene below: her friends, illuminated by the gentle glow of the campfire, their faces etched with determination and hope. She captured each detail with reverence, a silent tribute to the bonds that still tethered her to them.
As the night deepened and the group succumbed to exhaustion, Clarke made her move. With the grace of a specter, she descended, leaving behind a piece of herself—a drawing placed carefully in Octavia's pack. It was a message, a sign that she was still out there, watching over them. And with the quiet departure of her horse's hooves, Clarke vanished into the night, a ghostly guardian eternally linked to the 100.