Chapter Text
It had been three weeks since the Delinquents were ushered out of the Sky Box, crammed onto the Dropship, and sent careening down to the unexplored, toxic world with their only explanation in the form of a pretty lame three-minute video. Clarke guessed it was supposed to be inspirational: get to Mount Weather, pave the way for the Ark to land, be forgiven for her crimes. Unfortunately, apparently the Council didn’t realize that the whole “we’re-sending-you-because-you’re-expendable” part put a bit of a damper on the situation.
Oh, and the video was wrong. And so were the maps. And upon further investigation, because she was just dying to explain to the Ark that – get this, they hadn’t exactly landed nearby any mountains, let alone a secret government bunker – Monty discovered that the communication was fried.
No, the door to the Exodus ship dropped open to reveal an icy tundra, miles and miles of snow-covered wasteland. The Delinquents were overjoyed to see real life snow for a measly ten minutes before the beginnings of frostbite set in and they returned to the Dropship to huddle in a pack. After all, half of them were wearing short sleeves. The Chancellor didn’t pack any parkas.
Raven, who was some sort of mechanical genius, struck a deal with the ex-guard Bellamy Blake to sneak onto the Dropship. Although she was able to rig up a heating system out of scrap pieces of metal and charred wires, the rocket fuel ran out after a handful of days and the makeshift base was “colder than that time Monty and I got high off our asses and were stuck in the air shaft for two days,” according to Jasper’s official measurements. Clarke couldn’t find any fault in his logic.
Clarke determined that their best chances of survival were in the pine forest behind the ship. So, after minimal argument from Bellamy, a decision was made: they would strip the Dropship of all potentially useful materials and head to the trees. Clarke explained a million times that no aid was coming, but a few refused to leave the ship behind, hopelessly obsessed with awaiting rescue from the Ark. They were left behind. Clarke returned some days later to find their frozen corpses huddled in a corner, skin sucked of all color and crusted in ice.
The remaining 82 trekked across the frosty plain, fighting the bitter cold by clustering in packs. They stood out against the snow in their colorful clothes, which were probably better suited to a nice post-apocalyptic beach than the whipping wind. They reached shelter under the dark branches, suddenly hushed in the wind’s absence. By pure luck, Bellamy had found a cave nearby, and by purer luck, it was unoccupied. Although the teenagers had begun to learn the ways of the land – how to make a fire, the best way to catch a snow hare, which berries to eat – their population dwindled in response to hunger, cold, and depression until only thirty some remained.
Perhaps if Clarke wasn’t worried about finding her next meal, she would have thought of her mother back up on the Ark. Perhaps if the Delinquents weren’t only concerned with staying warm enough to survive just one more night, they wouldn’t have pounded the cold metal wristbands off their arms with stones, leaving them outside the cave to eventually blend into the snowy landscape.
But by then, the Delinquents had become accustomed to the death hanging in the air and had other things to worry about. Take, for example, a few miles from camp, where an oversized wolf, fangs glinting with saliva, padded in light circles around a trembling Clarke.
As stood Clarke frozen, frantic clouds of air exiting her horrified lips, she couldn’t help but admire the fur of the animal before her. Yeah, she probably could be doing something more productive, like running or trying (and likely failing) to climb a nearby tree, but the artist in her was having a moment.
Unlike the pictures she had seen on the Ark, its pelt was a pure white, melting into the snow covering every inch of the damn place, which is likely why she hadn’t spotted the predator earlier. It looked like it was walking with a slight limp in one of its hind legs, and sure enough, Clarke could spot a twisted paw and some dried blood matting its fur.
It blinked its yellow eyes and snarled, revealing fangs and a puff of fog from its hot breath, apparently unconcerned with her artistic musings. She bent down very slowly, maintaining eye contact with the beast, as her fingers closed around a heavy stone at her feet. The wolf took a step closer and bunched its hindquarters as if about to spring.
“Ahhhh! Come here, you mangy bastard!” came a wail from behind the wolf, causing it to spin around just in time to witness Raven leaping from a tree, crudely made knife in hand.
Clarke took the opportunity to jump on the wolf’s back, clubbing it in the head with the rock. However, it seemed this wolf was just a bit bigger than the rabbits they were used to dealing with, as it merely shook its head and howled angrily. As it began to shake and jump around, Clarke held on to its fur, (which was just as nice up close, by the way) for her dear life as Bellamy and Octavia trailed in from the side, looking puzzled after hearing the screams and probably just expecting to see Monty and Jasper engaged in a tickle fight again.
Their confusion didn’t hold them for long. Quickly realizing the danger, the Blakes fanned out around the beast and joined Raven in taking swipes at the wolf when its back was turned. Octavia had a pretty mean knife on her, too, and Bellamy- well, Bellamy was whacking it with a stick.
Evidently they realized it was favoring its left side, because Octavia sunk her knife into its injured paw. It stumbled, pausing in its hectic dance to throw off its passenger. Clarke managed to secure one arm around its neck, and with her legs dangling off its side, she repeatedly smashed the back of its skull with the rock. Admittedly, jumping on the back of a canine twice her size probably wasn’t the best idea she’d ever had, but hey, hindsight is 20/20.
The wolf, panting heavily now and more than a little dizzy from the rock, or spinning in circles, or a combination of the two, seemed tired of fending off all three of its ambushers at once. It bunched its hindquarters and leaped at Raven, pinning her down into the snow with its greater body weight and snapping its jaws in anger.
Clarke, in a panic but somehow still on the wolf’s back, ditched the rock and blindly began her own assault on the wolf’s face. After a few seconds of messy fumbling, she jabbed her thumbs into the wolf’s eyes and it let out a high-pitched whimper that cut through the relative silence, before it slumped and fell still.
Clarke stood up hesitantly, backing away from the collapsed animal quickly. Bellamy puffed up his chest and poked it lightly with the stick. Seemingly satisfied, he grunted.
“Well shit, guys, you gonna help me up or what?” came Raven’s muffled but nonetheless irritated voice from beneath the mountain of fur.
Bellamy quickly dropped his stick and rolled the wolf off Raven, offering her a hand up.
“Holy ravioli,” Raven breathed, completely ignoring his hand. She brushed some snow off her shoulder. “That actually just happened.”
Octavia started to snicker, “Yeah, that totally did. We owned that mutt.”
“Seriously, O?” asked Bellamy.
“Seriously,” Octavia replied, nodding. “Clarke, are you a complete badass or just really stupid?”
“Badass,” Raven chimed in, just as Bellamy rolled his eyes and mumbled, “Stupid.”
Octavia tapped her chin for a second, looking thoughtful, until she announced, “Judge rules badass.” She gave Clarke a hard clap on the shoulder.
Clarke cracked a smile, wild adrenaline finally calming and beating heart crawling back into her chest.
“Damn, let’s take this thing back to camp!” Raven hollered. “Jas is gonna piss himself when he sees it.” She moved forward to lift the wolf, pausing when Clarke sucked in a sharp breath.
Octavia, also noticing, lurched forward to grab Raven’s arm. “Hey, Raven, are you aware that your leg is currently gushing blood?”
“What?” Raven looked down, for the first time seeing the bright crimson liquid seeping through her pants and staining them red. “Oh. I am now aware, thank you.”
Clarke went into what the others would soon dub ‘doctor mode,’ grabbing a handful of snow and kneeling at Raven’s feet to press it into the wound. “Does it hurt?”
Raven winced. “Not right now. But that snow is fucking cold.”
Clarke chuckled. “Alright. If you think you’ll survive, I can wrap it up at camp for you. Do you need help to walk?”
Raven shook her head. “No, I think I’m okay.”
Clarke had half a mind to argue, but knowing Raven’s stubbornness… “Okay. We’ll carry the wolf back, but Raven, if you so much as stumble-”
Raven flashed her a smile. “You got it, Doc.” She started walking off towards camp.
“Um, Raven?” Bellamy cleared his throat awkwardly.
“Yes?”
“Camp’s the other way.”
Raven said nothing, turning sharply on her heel to march in the opposite direction as she flipped Bellamy the bird over her shoulder.
-----
Three weeks later:
In the comfort of the cave they had made their new home, Clarke sat around the fire with a few others, bundled in the warm white fur of the wolf she had killed a few weeks prior. While she had wanted to share the pelt with the others, they had insisted that it would be much warmer in one piece. And while it looked good on the wolf, it looked even better on her.
Bellamy sat across her in the fire, arm hung loosely around his sister. Clarke was glad that Bellamy and Octavia were able to get along now, even if Bellamy was still a bit overprotective sometimes.
The entirety of the surviving Delinquents had grown closer over the past few weeks, actually learning to work together. They had finally started to get comfortable with their environment and learn what exactly was necessary to survive, and it showed, too. Now most of them had supplemented their clothing from the Ark with furs from the animals and thicker fabrics from the Dropship. While the sleeping bags from the Ark were warm, they weren’t enough to prevent the teenagers from freezing - they had learned that the hard way after Jasper lost a toe to frostbite. Fortunately, the mishap bolstered his ego more than anything, but he now fancied himself akin to a wartime survivor. He was currently trying to show off his biceps to a group of uninterested girls on the opposite side of the room, while Monty was stuck in what looked to be a permanent facepalm.
There was a stockpile of fallen branches that they used as firewood pushed against the far side of the cave wall, next to a collection of simple knives and spears they had fashioned from spare pieces of metal from the Dropship. The fire stayed close to the entrance. They might not all have excelled during Earth Skills class, but they knew that inhaling smoke probably wasn’t the best idea. The fire’s dim, flickering light illuminated the mix of brightly colored blankets and monochromatic furs strewn across the ground as various members lounged, taking a break from the various tasks they had been assigned as night began to fall. The Delinquents had devised a system to fortify their camp against the cold and were starting to become much more adept at hunting. As overjoyed as Raven was to catch the group’s first dinner, the scrawny hare didn’t do much to satisfy their appetites. When they weren’t busy hunting, the teenagers were engaged in the never ending project of digging shallow graves in the hard ground to dump the bodies of their fallen comrades.
Clarke was slumped with her back against the wall, drinking soup from a crude bowl when she heard heavy footsteps outside. She squinted her eyes to peer over the smoke towards the entrance behind her friends’ heads.
Octavia must have heard the motion outside from where she was dozing on the opposite side of the fire. She snorted. “That better be the hunting party. I’m starving and this soup is disgusting. No offense, Clarke, but you have no future as a chef.”
When Clarke didn’t respond, Octavia lazily opened her eyes to deliver another retort. But when her mouth dropped open, only a small choking sound came out. Throughout the cave, heads slowly swiveled to take in the scene at the cave’s entrance. The chattering in the room cut off abruptly.
Clarke found herself inexplicably on her feet, yet unable to move. She felt the blood drain out of her face and her pulse pick up. Staring towards the entrance of the cave, she could clearly see that the hunting party had not returned.
Instead, in their place, were two rough-looking men dressed in thick furs and leathers. One had a broad frame and tangled blond hair hanging to his shoulders. The other was bald with the lower half of his face half hidden by a helmet. They carried nasty swords and Clarke could see the tips of knives sticking out from belts in their armor- because that was the word for it really, armor: plates of metal interwoven into the fabric and adorned with trinkets and bone. But that wasn’t the most alarming. They had stark, symmetrical scars standing out on their faces, clearly branded into the skin harshly, intentionally.
And Clarke couldn’t even comment that oh, there were people here and the Delinquents weren’t the last humans on Earth and this was fantastic news, because she was seized with panic and fear at the brutish, barbaric nature of the last sample of humanity that Earth had to offer.
After surveying the room, one of the men called out something in an unknown language. A third emerged into the entrance of the cave, pushing through the other two men to stand in the front. He was dressed in the same armor, but he had a tattered white cape hanging from his shoulders. The top half of his shoulder-length hair was pulled back into a ponytail, revealing the streaks of dirt and white paint on his face, half hidden by his beard. His cold, blue eyes scanned the room, until one of the men behind him stepped forward suddenly, pointing to Clarke.
Fixing his frigid stare on her, he barked out something in that same unknown language, nodding to his comrade, then faced her again. When she didn’t respond, he looked at her expectantly.
“Uh, sorry, I don’t understand,” Clarke said.
He blinked once, slowly, and turned his head to shoot the man over his shoulder a suspicious glance. “I said, who are you?” he asked again in a heavy accent. His words were clipped, his voice gruff.
“I’m Clarke,” she responded confidently. The confidence was fake. She just hoped it didn’t show. The man just continued to stare. “...Griffin? Clarke Griffin,” she continued, trailing off.
The man gave the warrior to his left another look. Clarke could practically feel the irritation coursing off him in waves. “What is your clan?” he spit out.
Clarke was quickly getting a bad feeling about this. Out. They needed out. “Clan? We’re not from a clan. Look, if this forest is your territory or something, we can move. We’re not trying to steal it or anything. Just show us where it ends and we’ll be on our way.”
The man in the middle let out a laugh. After a minute of consideration, apparently he realized that she was serious. He sneered. “Kill them all.”
Clarke took a half step backwards as the bald man pulled a sword from a sheath on his back, the scraping metal painfully loud in the tense air. The Delinquents collectively shuffled in alarm. Out of the corner of her eye, Clarke could see Bellamy sitting extremely stiffly, one hand slowly crawling behind him and tangling in the blankets.
The blond warrior reached out a hand, stopping him, and turned towards the one who seemed to be in charge. “My prince, is that wise? Shouldn’t we take them to the Queen? They might be Trikru spies.”
The bald man with the sword glared at the other. “Branwoda! Don’t speak Gonasleng, they’ll understand you.”
The blond one hissed back, “If they’re Trikru – if – then they’d speak Trigedasleng, probably better than Gonasleng. Bronwoda.”
Clarke didn’t really know what was happening, but she was pretty sure the bald one was an idiot. Bellamy’s eyes were darting rapidly between the men. She shot him a questioning look.
She interrupted their spat, hands offered up in a gesture of peace. “Listen, okay. I don’t know what Tree Crew is, but we’re from the Ark. It’s a space station from the Sky, and we didn’t mean to land here in your territory, so we’ll leave. No trouble.”
“What is space station?” asked the blond one.
“It’s a, um… Raven, a little help here?” Clarke started.
Raven stood up quickly. The man with the sword stepped forward as if to intercept her. Raven froze, spreading out her hands at an exaggeratedly slow pace, but probably negating any calming motions by waving them from side to side frantically. “Nope, not about to die today. Sorry, sorry.”
The man stepped back, but didn’t relax his sword. Raven took that as her cue. “The Ark is a large, sustainable spacecraft base in orbit around the planet with long-term life support systems, artificial gravity, and-”
She stopped, seeing their blank expressions, and sighed. “Not technical enthusiasts? Damn, okay. It was worth a shot. It’s like a giant metal boat. In the sky. With a lot of people.”
The three men erupted into the unknown language again, quips about speaking in English apparently forgotten. Then, Clarke noticed Bellamy pulling a dusty pistol from underneath the sleeping bag he was currently sitting in.
“Bell,” she hissed, “What the hell are you doing?”
Unfortunately, that caught the attention of the three men. The sword man turned, catching sight of the gun, and dove forward to tackle Bellamy. As if in slow motion, Clarke saw Bellamy’s sweaty hand grip the gun, the kick of the recoil as the bullet left the barrel, and the splash of blood as the shot found its mark in the center of the man’s forehead. He dropped to the ground in an unceremonial heap.
The blond man, apparently not so peaceful anymore, appeared to come to a decision. He drew his own pair of knives and started towards Bellamy just as a large group of more Grounders, (as Clarke had taken to calling them in her head) burst into the cave, evidently alerted by the loud shot. By that time, the warrior had made his was across the room and disarmed Bellamy’s weak, shaky stance. He pressed a knife to his neck, growling, and Clarke watched as a thin line of red appeared on Bellamy’s skin underneath the blade.
The prince stood up to his full height, eyes narrowed. “Stop. Stand down.” The blond warrior let Bellamy drop to the floor but kicked the gun away.
“Well then, Sky People,” continued their grisly leader. “I have come to a decision. You will be meeting the Queen, after all.”
After a few barked orders, the Delinquents were hustled up, past the cooling body of the dead Grounder, and forced out of the cave, leaving everything behind but the clothes on their backs. Clarke frowned as, with an unimpressed snort, one of the men kicked over a pitiful barrier the Delinquents had spent a month building around the perimeter. Upon emerging into the snow, they found a cluster of what Clarke recognized as horses, ranging every color from powdery grey to chestnut brown, saddled and guarded by two more of the men.
Unfortunately, the horses weren’t for the Delinquents. No, they were in for a long walk through the cold, doomed to blisters and soaked feet and more than a few stumbles, face first, into the snow. After a few more orders from the prince, the Delinquents’ hands were tied and the Grounders began herding them on their long trek to the Queen.
-----
Clarke found herself and the rest of the Delinquents in front of the Queen, awaiting her fate. The whole situation was a bit ridiculous, waiting on a literal queen of ice in a magic land with real animals and real plants. Okay, maybe not magic, but that’s what it felt like. She had an ice castle, for the love of god. It was as if Voldemort had taken over the land, married an abominable snow chick, and left the kingdom to his darling daughter Nia.
But Nia wasn’t so darling. The Ice Queen sat on a throne of bones, amongst which Clarke swore she could see a human finger. She was old and wrinkly, but a crackling, evil light burned in those arctic eyes. Everything was white: her pale skin, the furs hanging off her thin but muscular frame, her crooked teeth when she grinned. Clarke had a sneaking suspicion that in this case, white didn’t signify holiness.
After a few hours of relaying the story, with a few false starts and exasperated sighs, the Azgeda ruler finally accepted their story: although she hadn’t quite grasped the whole flying-hunk-of-metal story, she understood that they were wandering nomads from “up north, over the mountains,” not Trikru spies. (And, as Clarke had learned, that’s Trikru, not Tree Crew. Although from what she had heard of them, they might as well be called the latter.)
Unfortunately, the Queen’s belief came at a price. After hearing the story of what had occurred in the cave, Nia had decided that Bellamy, for shooting her warrior, was the lucky winner: he was to be taken down to the dungeon for “questioning.” Clarke heard his screams on a loop in her head for the two days until he finally returned, barely breathing. And she still dreamed of those screams for months afterwards. Although the Prince, who Clarke learned was named Roan, claimed that Bellamy should be grateful to have been spared his life, Clarke didn’t quite agree as she spent hours cleaning the wounds oozing pus and rampant with infection on her friend’s back.
Apparently, whatever Bellamy told Nia was enough to dismiss her worries of an invasion and convince her that her prisoners were not spies. At least, that’s what Clarke hoped as they were all released from their rusting chains down in the damp dungeon and brought above ground, again pushed onto their knees before Nia’s throne.
The Queen slumped slightly in the throne, looking as if she had a great many things to deal with besides the Delinquents. Her cool, calculating eyes took in their beaten and hungry forms but she did not betray anything through her neutral expression.
“Ah, children of the sky,” she started. Nia had taken to calling them children of the sky after their explanation as to how they had arrived. Even though she didn’t believe it, apparently it was amusing to her. Great.
“You have proven yourselves to be most resilient,” she continued. “It greatly interests me. For those with no training, it is no small feat to survive for so long outside city walls in Azgeda.”
She had a knife in her hand, and was lightly scraping it against a long bone making up the arm of her throne. “Unfortunately, that poses a problem for me. Invaders hunting on Azgeda land and stealing our prey is a crime punishable by death.”
She paused, and turned towards Bellamy, who had recovered fairly well since he was tortured. “As is killing a guard,” she added snidely. Clarke frowned, making up her mind to speak up, scary ice bitch be damned.
Nia wasn’t done. “It seems you have earned many deaths, children of the sky. Luckily, Bellamy has taken upon himself punishment enough for the death of my guard, and my warriors have just returned with word that justice has been dealt for your group hunting on my land.”
At the Delinquents’ blank looks, she sighed. “Your hunters. Those of you who were not captured when we first stormed your little base. They have all been apprehended and killed.”
Clarke choked, remembering the five who had been hunting when Roan arrived. She thought they had escaped. The edges of her vision were tinged with a red rage, but a long look from Bellamy at her side forced her to take a deep breath and push down the anger.
“So, it seems your crimes have all been atoned for. I think many of you could prove to be quite useful to me, especially with training. I give you a choice.”
She stood up from her throne and swept her hand across the room. “Pledge your allegiance to me, and train to become a warrior in my army. Or you may hang in the morning. I will give you an hour to reach your decision. Choose wisely, sky children.”
-----
The hour was up. Clarke had discussed it with the others. Despite Octavia’s spitting ferocity and Raven’s initially adamant refusal to help, most had decided to pledge their allegiance to Nia. In hushed tones, Clarke had agreed: it wasn’t perfect, hell, it was fucking terrible, but it was better than death. Clarke and Bellamy had done their best to convince the Delinquents to choose to live now and fight Nia another day, but some were tired. They had given up. They had no will to continue. The Delinquents lost another two the next morning, their bodies limp as they hung from poles outside the front gate, slowly growing icicles.
The other twenty-three had been to see Nia individually. Clarke was left in the dungeon alone. All Roan had told them was that they now needed to prove themselves. They would each be given a task, and had twenty-four hours to complete it to join the ranks of the Azgeda army. Fail, and big surprise, death.
The same blond warrior from the cave, Geran, entered the dungeon and gestured for Clarke to stand. He guided her back up the long row of stone steps, closing and slamming the doors of the dungeon behind him. He brought her back to the throne room, which Clarke was starting to become eerily familiar with, and stepped aside to allow her to enter.
Before she could move forward, he grabbed her arm and murmured, “Do not show weakness.” Then he stepped back, his face becoming stone, and Clarke almost believed that she imagined it in some delusion caused by the past month’s insanity finally catching up to her.
The throne room was as she remembered it. Large pillars supporting the tall, arched ceiling. Guards with large spears standing on the steps before Nia’s throne. A large banner hanging behind her, showing a palm with a spiral in the middle. Roan was standing behind her.
“What is your name, child?” asked Nia as Clarke stepped inside.
Clarke held her head high, refusing to be cowed by the other woman’s large presence. “Clarke.”
From behind the queen, Roan commented, “It would do you well to bow.”
“No worries, Roan. She will soon learn her place,” Nia said, flitting her hand up.
Roan stalked down the steps until he was standing just before Clarke. He leaned in and ran his hand along the soft white fur adorning her shoulders. Clarke stiffened and held her breath, daring him to try something so she could punch him in his ugly little nose.
“You know,” he said, stepping back, “That fur belonged to my wolf, Faol. That’s how you drew my attention the day we met. I recognized the skin of my companion.”
Clarke’s eyebrows shot up, astonished. “You- what? You have a pet? You know what, okay, sure. I’m sorry. It was self-defense.”
Roan chuckled. “Well yes, I imagine so. He always had a taste for weaklings.”
Clarke narrowed her eyes angrily and opened her mouth to speak, but was interrupted by Nia before she could begin. “Child of the sky. It is for that reason we have given you the most… special test. Seeing as no ordinary, untrained individual could single-handedly kill one of Azgeda’s famed wolves, we hope you are up to the task.”
Clarke was still grinding her jaw, but nodded for the woman to continue. The sooner this was over, the better. She hoped that they’d be shipped off to some distant corner of the icy empire where she didn’t have to see the Queen’s hideous face.
“There is an old captain of the army, recently injured in battle. He will not recover and is a waste of our materials. Kill him.”
Clarke didn’t say anything, waiting for the punchline. It didn’t come. “Are you serious? You want me to kill someone? A trained captain? Why would I do that? Why do you think I’d even be able to do that?”
“Well, we don’t,” said Roan, “But we thought we’d at least give you a chance to live, so there’s your test. Twenty-four hours begins at dusk.”
“This is absolutely insane. I won’t kill anyone.”
Nia smiled, “It’s kill or be killed, child. Leave. You’re starting to bore me. Geran will show you the target and lend you any weapons you may need. He will also be monitoring your progress, so don’t try anything stupid. I imagine that might be difficult for you, but try your best.”
Clarke turned on her heel and exited, fuming. She met Geran at the door. “Are they serious?” she demanded.
He nodded only nodded, gesturing for her to follow him again. She huffed indignantly but followed him to a hut outside the palace. When they entered, it was filled with racks of swords and spears, bows and arrows, as well as a multitude of weapons Clarke didn’t recognize.
Clarke glared at the tall man, daring him to speak. She wanted an explanation.
A minute of silence passed before Geran stood back, eyeing her. “You look like a knife girl.”
“I’m not going through with this. I don’t care what they’ll do,” Clarke bit back immediately.
Geran crossed his arms. “If you don’t, they’ll kill you. And the Delinquents will be left without a leader under the misguided training of a first. They will turn cruel, forget their families, and betray each other. As is the Azgeda way.”
“Okay, great, so I get to choose between death now, or losing my soul later.”
Geran shook his head. “You will not be swayed, I can tell. You are strong. Your friends need your guidance if you are to survive.”
“Right, sorry, but who even are you?”
“Ai laik Geran. My village was overrun by Azgeda in my childhood and I was taken to join the army. To become a warrior, Nia commanded me to kill my brother. The rulers of this nation thrive off hate and traitors,” he said, very matter-of-fact.
Clarke suddenly lost most of her steam. “Oh. Did you? Kill your brother?”
“Yes.”
“Why? Why do you listen to her? If she’s that evil, there must be hundreds of you here that don’t like her. Why don’t you rebel?”
Geran looked behind him to the entrance of the hut. “Consider this your first lesson. Do not speak ill of Nia or Azgeda. There are stark loyalists within the army that would report you in an instant, and desperate warriors that would trade you in for even a chance at a promotion. This is the curse of Nia, and the reason there has never been a successful rebellion. You cannot trust your comrades. Many have tried, and it has always ended in great bloodshed.”
“Doomed for failure, got it,” Clarke said dryly.
“Do not be mistaken, Clarke, because this is also your gift and why you must go through with the test. You have faith in your friends, and they in you. You are an outsider, and you have an opportunity.”
“What, do you want me to foment a rebellion or something? Yeah, we may all be from the same place, but there are only twenty of us. Kids. Untrained.”
“No,” Geran said. “I want you to bide your time, train and become stronger than any other warrior. Gain her trust, but do not lose your values. And when the time is right, strike her from behind.”
“But-” Clarke started.
As two other warriors entered, Geran interrupted. “Take this knife. Go for the throat. Do not let him see it coming.”
Clarke nodded, taking the knife. It was lighter than she’d expected. The grip was worn, but the blade was sharp. She could see her crooked reflection in the metal.
“The captain lives two streets from the palace. Come.”
-----
The captain lived in a little stone hut at the end of an alley, with a tiny chimney spewing puffs of grey smoke overhead. Geran had pointed it out to her earlier before disappearing, muttering an excuse about checking on the guard rotation. Clarke wandered around the city to learn all she could about the clan but mostly to clear her head, then returned a couple hours after dark. From her place hidden in the bushes, she could see through the window into the room, where a middle aged man lay on a pile of furs in front of the fireplace. He was red-faced and feverish, no doubt the result of an infection that had seized his body after poor treatment of an injury. She was quickly learning that Azgeda was not renowned for its healers.
Clarke watched as the captain dragged himself out of bed, staggering into a wooden chair. While he was frail and slow, she could still see the muscles rippling under his skin and he was never far from a dagger. Even with surprise on her side, Clarke knew she could not kill the man.
A little boy ran into the room, tackling the captain with a hug. The man said something to make the little boy smile, and ruffled his hair. When the captain dissolved into a coughing fit, he waved the little boy off. He left with a frown.
Clarke sighed. Despite Nia’s warning, she didn’t see Geran anywhere. It was possible he had left her alone. She debated her predicament. She didn’t want to kill the captain. While it was probably true that he couldn’t recover from the infection, she didn’t want to rob the man of the last days he had with his son. Again, Clarke scanned the area for Geran. She stood cautiously, half expecting an alarm to start blaring. When nothing happened, she walked away.
That night, the Delinquents were given a cramped room near the seconds’ quarters. It was dark and dusty, but it was better than the dungeons. They all looked tired; nobody was chatty. Nobody shared the details of their test. Clarke could only assume that they were just as terrible as her own.
The next morning, Clarke awoke with a sense of dread. She had until dusk to complete her task. The previous day, while she was in the weapons hut she had seen some herbs she thought she recognized from her past life on the Ark as a doctor. Half an hour later, she found herself knocking on the captain’s door, herbs in hand.
The door opened a crack, revealing one brown eye. It belonged to the little boy.
He asked something unintelligible in the rough syllables that signified the Grounder language.
Clarke swallowed, attempting to use the little bit of the foreign tongue she had picked up over the past few days. “Ai laik Clarke. Nia sent me. The Queen?”
The boy’s face flashed with recognition at Nia’s name but he made no move to open the door. He said something else, and although Clarke couldn’t understand a word she got the general distrustful vibe pretty strongly.
She motioned to the herbs in her hand. “I’m a healer. I can help your dad. I’ll make him better.”
The boy opened the door hesitantly. Clarke looked over her shoulder one final time for Geran, and seeing nothing, she entered the house. The captain was lying on his bed again. When she approached, Clarke could see the sweat dripping down his forehead and feel the flushed heat radiating off his body.
“Captain?” she asked softly.
The captain opened one eye. He waved his son off, who Clarke hadn’t noticed hovering at the edges of her vision. Switching to English, he said, “I heard you talking with my boy. I don’t see any reason why I should trust you.” He lifted the corner of one of the blankets on his bed to reveal a knife clenched tightly in his fist. “How about you give me one reason to?”
Clarke gave him her brightest smile, pushing down her discomfort. She made a mental effort to force down her tense shoulders. “I don’t mean you any harm. I’m from a- a distant town. Nia asked me to help you.” She held up her herbs like it was a mandate from Nia herself, signed, sealed, delivered.
He grunted, seeming unimpressed, but lifted his shirt to reveal a large gash running across his abdomen. It was an angry scarlet, half scabbed over, and yellow pus seeped from one corner. She could see dirt mixed in with the bloody mess and clenched her jaw. Had they even cleaned it?
“Right, okay. I’ll mix something that you can put on your cut to slow the infection and close the wound. I’ll also make you a tonic to reduce your fever.”
He waved his hand weakly. “Fine, yes.”
Clarke crushed a few herbs in a bowl and offered the mixture to the captain. She kneeled by his head, helping tilt the bowl into his mouth. He swallowed it all, barely wincing at the bitter taste.
Clarke stood up and gestured towards the door. “Alright then, you should be feeling better soon. I can come check on it tomorrow to see how it’s progressing.”
“Stop.”
Clarke froze, halfway to the door. Had she failed his test? Her heart was beating too fast. Could he hear it? Is that why he asked her to stop? She really didn’t feel like dying today. And to think she was worried about Geran. “Yes?”
“I thought you said you would make something to put on it.”
“I did? Oh, yes, I did. Right, sorry. I’ll do that now.”
She returned to the table. Suddenly, her hands were shaking badly. She dropped her bundle of herbs onto the ground, picked them up, and dropped them all again, swearing softly.
Evidently, Clarke’s odd behavior was too obvious to ignore. The captain pushed himself up into a sitting position and pulled out his knife. “What’s going on? Why are you really here? You- oh.”
He started to choke, white foam spreading from between his lips. He clawed at his throat, eyes bulging. He lifted one trembling hand and pointed it at Clarke. Then he collapsed to the ground and stopped breathing.
Clarke knelt beside the man after a moment, grabbing his limp wrist to check for a pulse. Nothing. She exited the house silently, pausing to leave a lingering glance towards the closed door the little boy had gone through. She faced forward again, almost walking straight into Geran, who was waiting for her outside.
“Poison. Impressive. How do you have knowledge of the herbs? Or were you actually trying to help him?”
“I am a healer. That much wasn't a lie,” Clarke said darkly. “Have you been there the entire time?”
“Yes. And last night. I thought I would have to kill you. I was disappointed, but you did not fail me. Nia will be most pleased,” he replied.
“Have any of the others finished their tests?” Clarke asked.
Geran nodded his head. “Yes, a few. They are resting in your cabin. I must report to Nia. She will see those who have completed their tasks tomorrow.”
“Has anyone- did anyone refuse to do their task?”
Geran pressed his lips together tightly. “Even if they claimed they would not do it, they have until dusk tonight. If they have not returned to the cabin by dusk, do not expect to see them again.”
“Great.”
He nodded his head and left. Clarke picked a random direction and started walking, hoping that she was going the right way. She needed to get her mind off of her task. Or talk about it? Who knew. But her friends had just gone through the same thing, so it was as good of a place to start as any.
Apparently her sense of direction was better than Raven’s, because she arrived to the cabin without issue. She paused just outside the door, kicking the dirty slush outside and studying the wooden door intently. How many of her friends would be inside, safe from Nia’s wrath? How many wouldn’t return?
Pushing on the worn door, she entered the cabin. Cots with thin blankets lined the walls and a few trinkets and old possessions were stuffed under pillows or under the covers. In one corner, a fire warmed the space. Bellamy, Raven, Monty, and Harper were seated at the wooden table nearby, talking in hushed tones. They looked up when Clarke entered.
“Clarke!” Raven exclaimed, standing up to give her a hug. She pulled her in close. “I’m glad you’re okay.” She offered Clarke her seat.
Sitting down, Clarke allowed a smile to break over her face for the first time that day. “You too. All of you guys. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
Monty and Harper nodded, looking relieved. Bellamy just looked pained.
“Bell, you okay?” Clarke asked.
“We’ve got seven hours until dusk,” he answered, gazing up at the sun barely visible through a window.
Noting his sister’s absence, Clarke reached a hand across the table to hold his. “Don’t worry. Seven hours is a long time, and Octavia’s too stubborn to mess this up. If anyone can make it, she will.”
Raven nodded. “She’ll get here, Bell. I didn’t just build myself a damn igloo to never see her sorry face again.”
“Wait,” Clarke said. “You what?”
Raven raised an eyebrow. “Built an igloo. I know, you probably thought ol’ Reyes didn’t have it in her, but I’m good for more than just bombs. Seriously though, I’ve never seen a Grounder look so surprised. I think he called me a witch. They’ve obviously never opened a copy of Architecture for Dummies.”
“You built an igloo? That was your test.” Clarke said again, shocked.
“Yeah? What’s the big deal? I guess they want us to learn warrior skills, or something. Do you think I’m destined to be some master builder? Base-constructor extraordinaire?” Raven laughed at her own joke.
Monty piped up. “That would make sense. In a twisted way. They had me catch a horse they set loose. I chased that thing for hours until I finally lost it and gave up. Then it came crashing through the bushes, and I swear to god, you’ve never seen a quarterback with a better tackle.”
“I think you mean defensive tackle, Mont. Or literally any other position. The quarterbacks are the ones throwing the ball,” Bellamy chuckled.
“Whatever.” Monty said. “I totally nailed that thing.”
“Wait, wait, wait. Let me get this straight here.” Clarke said. They all turned to her. “You all were playing in the snow and chasing ponies, while I was-”
“Are you okay, Clarke?” asked Harper. “What did they want you to do?”
“I- They wanted me to kill someone.”
“What?” They all said, in chorus.
Raven laughed. “Good one, Clarke.”
“I’m serious, Raven,” said the blonde.
Raven shook her head. “No you’re not. I can see it in your eyes. Here, look at me…” She crawled onto the table and seized Clarke’s chin roughly to stare into her eyes. She blinked. “Oh shit. Oh shit, guys, she’s telling the truth.”
“Clarke,” Bellamy said, turning to look at her worriedly. “Did you?”
“Yeah. I did. Wow, I guess Roan really wasn’t kidding when he said that he’d saved the special job for me.” Clarke laughed bitterly, not wanting her friend’s pity.
“Are you okay?”
“Not really,” Clarke admitted. “But I’ll get over it. The guy only had a couple days left, max.”
“You want to talk about it?” Raven asked.
“Not really,” she repeated.
“We don’t have to. It’s okay. We’re probably all going to have to do stuff we’re not comfortable with at some point out here. Kill or be killed, right?” said Bellamy.
“Plus,” Raven reasoned, sidling up to Clarke and wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “We’re pretty much family now. And you couldn’t get rid of us even if you tried.”
The others nodded their agreement and piled onto her for a hug. A couple seconds later, the door burst open and in walked Octavia with Finn, Miller, Jasper, and a few others. Bellamy sighed in relief.
“Hey, bitches,” said Octavia. “We’re back. Who wants to party like a Grounder?”
When the sun rose the next morning, the Delinquents lost five to the tasks. Until then, the remaining nineteen did party like Grounders, and although they claimed it was to honor the lost, it was mostly to forget the pain. The next day, they would become seconds. The next day, they would start on their toilsome journey towards becoming warriors. It would be the first of many long, taxing days and dark, sleepless nights.