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.
The moon cast long, eerie shadows as Clarke slipped away from the sleeping forms of her friends. Their peaceful slumber under the canopy of trees, so close to the border of Azgeda and Trikru, filled her with a bittersweet ache. It had been months since she'd allowed herself this proximity to anyone, months since she'd chosen the isolation of self-imposed exile after that near discovery.
With a gentle click of her tongue, she urged Jack forward, the horse's hooves barely disturbing the quiet of the night. They rode for hours, the rhythmic beat of Jack's hooves a lullaby against the backdrop of the forest. Finally, the familiar dark maw of her cave home appeared.
Sliding off Jack, Clarke felt the familiar tug of relief. This cave, this solitude, had become her sanctuary. She led Jack to his makeshift stable within the cave, a section she had carefully partitioned off. Unburdening him of his saddle and packs, she began the ritual of brushing him down.
Each stroke of the brush was meticulous, almost reverent. "You were a good boy tonight, Jack," she murmured, her voice a low thrum in the quiet cave. "We made good time. Didn't we?" The horse nickered softly, nuzzling his head against her shoulder in response. This quiet companionship, the simple act of caring for Jack, had become her lifeline in these months of solitude.
Leaving Jack to his well-deserved rest, Clarke moved further into the cave. With practiced ease, she sparked a fire, the flames casting dancing shadows on the cave walls. She shook out her furs, the scent of woodsmoke and pine needles clinging to them, a comforting aroma of her self-sufficient life.
As she prepared her meager dinner, her thoughts drifted to the friends she had left behind. The gnawing guilt was a constant companion. Had she been selfish, leaving them like that? Should she go back? The internal battle raged.
A sudden memory surfaced: the drawing she had tucked into Octavia's pack. A simple sketch of their friends – Lincoln, Octavia, Bellamy, Monty, Jasper, and Jackson – sitting around a campfire, sharing a meal. A symbol of hope, a reminder of the life they could have again. A small smile touched Clarke's lips. At least she had given them that.
Finishing her meal, Clarke wiped her body clean with a damp cloth, a poor substitute for a real bath. She slipped under her furs, the warmth a welcome embrace. The sound of Jack's hooves echoed in the cave as he approached, his presence a comforting weight beside her.
"Goodnight, Jack," she whispered, patting his flank. He lowered his head, resting it gently on her. Clarke smiled, the warmth of his body and the exhaustion of the day finally claiming her. As she drifted off to sleep, a single thought lingered: maybe, just maybe, she could find a way back.
-Page Break -
Dawn broke, painting the sky with hues of orange and pink, casting a soft glow over the sleeping group. One by one, they stirred. Octavia, with a groan, stretched her stiff limbs. Lincoln, ever vigilant, was already on his feet, scanning their surroundings. Bellamy, Jasper, Monty, and Jackson slowly emerged from their slumber, the weariness of their fruitless search for Clarke evident in their eyes.
"Another dead end," Bellamy muttered, running a hand through his sleep-mussed hair. "It's been years. Maybe it's time to accept…" He trailed off, unable to voice the grim thought that haunted them all.
The weight of their failure hung heavy in the air. They had combed these woods countless times, following every lead, every whisper of a rumor, every fleeting hope that Clarke might still be out there. But each search ended the same way – with disappointment and a renewed sense of despair.
"Let's head back," Lincoln said, his voice heavy. "We need to regroup, rethink our strategy."
Lincoln set about dismantling their campsite, meticulously erasing any trace of their presence. He scattered ashes, covered the fire pit with dirt and leaves, and smoothed out the ground where they had slept. It was a ritual born of years of living in hiding, a necessary precaution in a world where danger lurked around every corner.
"Everyone check your packs," Bellamy instructed, his voice firm. "Make sure we haven't left anything behind."
As Octavia was stuffing her furs into her pack, a flash of white caught her eye. A piece of parchment protruded from the folds. Curious, she pulled it out. Unfolding it, a gasp escaped her lips. It was a drawing, incredibly detailed, of their group. Lincoln, his strong features etched with a gentle smile. Bellamy, his brow furrowed in concern. Monty, his eyes filled with a quiet intelligence. Jasper, a hint of his old mischievousness playing on his lips. Jackson, his kind face radiating warmth. And in the center, Clarke, her determined spirit shining through her eyes.
"Guys!" Octavia's voice trembled with a mix of shock and disbelief. "Look!"
The others gathered around her, their eyes widening as they took in the drawing. A wave of emotion washed over them – disbelief, hope, a yearning so profound it ached. In the corner of the parchment, two initials were delicately drawn: C.G.
Tears welled up in their eyes. It was a message from Clarke, a sign that she was alive, that she remembered them. A spark of hope, long dormant, rekindled in their hearts.
With renewed purpose, they finished packing, their movements swift and energized. The journey back to their home, once filled with dejection, now thrummed with anticipation. They had a new lead, a tangible piece of hope to cling to. Clarke was out there, and they would find her.