Chapter Text
They have been walking for three days. Clarke has no idea where she is having gotten lost a mere six hours into day one and the grumbling in her stomach doesn’t help her concentration. Twisting her wrists Clarke’s brow creases as she painfully adjusts her tight restraints connected to the rope in Roan’s hand. Her back and feet ache and groan as she trails behind her towering capture.
Feeling a particularly harsh twinge in her shoulder, Clarke hunches over. Stumbling to keep in pace, she breathes through the pain and clenched teeth. She can still hear the horrific pop her shoulder gave when he tackled her to the ground. Clarke has not tried running again.
In her struggle, she accidentally pulls on her restraints catching Roan’s attention. Huffing in her direction he gives the rope a tug, “Quit lagging.”
It takes all of Clarke’s strength to not cry out in pain. Her complete inability to handle even the smallest movement confirms her diagnosis of a dislocated shoulder. Changing her breathing to short quick breaths Clarke picks up her pace.
The pair walk for the rest of the day until night falls and Roan finally calls it. Clarke nearly cries with joy as she comes to a feeble stop. As he has done the past two nights, Roan pulls her to a nearby tree and ties her around the waist to it. He makes camp just far enough away that Clarke is unable to feel any of the warmth from his fire and the cold night chill presses in on her beaten body.
She watches her capture with diligent eyes as he pulls off his boots and warms his feet by the fire. Roan leans back on the leaf-covered forest floor and takes a long sip from his canteen. Clarke’s throat screams as she watches him savor the refreshing taste feeling sick to her stomach. She stares so intently Roan notices her gaze and for a moment she thinks he will torture her by taking another sip, but he instead rises to his feet.
Kneeling before her Roan puts the lip of the canteen to her mouth and tilts it. Clarke gulps desperate for every drop she can get. Water spills over her cheeks as she chugs down a couple of mouthfulls before he eventually rips it away.
“Don’t be greedy.”
Gasping in relief Clarke lays her head back against the tree as he moves back to his fire. Gazing upward, she can just make out the beautiful starry sky hidden behind the canopy of dying leaves above. Knowing her capture likes to get an early start, Clarke closes her eyes and does her best to remember what it felt like to live within those very stars.
-
When Clarke opens her eyes, she already knows she has slept for a long time. Snapping her head up she flinches at a fresh wave of pain from her shoulder. Ignoring it she finds the sun directly overhead, but Roan remains asleep beside his now extinguished fire. Confused, she waits for him to wake for hours and it is late afternoon when he finally rises.
“You slept the whole day away.” Clarke accuses him to no response, “Daylight is better for traveling long distances.” She states thinking back to Earth Science.
“It is,” He says as he ties his boots, “But we do not have far to go.”
“What?” Clarke blurts aloud, her heart rate spiking. She doesn’t know how far she thought they would go but she wasn’t prepared to hear that by tomorrow morning, depending on who Roan is taking her to, Clarke quite possibly could be dead. Question after question races through her mind as he unties her from the tree and binds her hands together in a now familiar fashion.
There was a time that the thought of her death being near would have delighted Clarke but this is three months too late. Panic floods her mind as she follows Roan through the dense trees, a prisoner on her way to execution. She still has no clue where she is but her chances are better roaming the woods alone than with whoever Roan will deliver her to.
Making sure to keep exactly in pace with him she hopes he will relax enough for some sort of element of surprise. Scanning her surroundings for options Clarke notes the knife in his belt. The setting sun allows darkness to encroach on them making their thin shadows less prominent on the dry forest floor. Roan is more skilled at tracking and Clarke has firsthand experience from the night he took her with his ability to move through the forest silently in complete darkness
Roan stops and picks up a large stick from the leaf-covered ground. He pulls a rag from his bag and wraps it carefully around the tip. He then dumps a clear liquid from a jar over it and the harsh smell of alcohol assaults Clarke’s nose.
He ignites the torch and the light blinds her unadjusted eyes. Clarke averts her eyes as they regain their pace through the forest and her palms begin to sweat when she realizes that Roan isn’t worried about being seen. They come upon a downward slope and she takes her chances.
Knowing she will only get one; she sprints full force at Roan’s back and before he can turn, she collides into him. Roan’s head snaps back into Clarke’s and they crash blindly down the hill. Clarke’s thigh slices open on a rock and blood falls into her eye as she comes to a gut-wrenching stop on her dislocated shoulder.
Screaming, she drags herself to her feet, adrenaline pushing her through the blinding pain. Finding the torch a few yards behind her she sees Roan laying on his side next to it. Running to him she rips the knife from his belt just as he tries to sweep her legs from under her.
Hopping over him, Clarke cuts her restraints as Roan chuckles. The tall man finds his feet with a soft stumble and Clarke is thrilled to see a gash on his temple dripping blood down his chin. He dabs his fingers on the back of his head and finds them too decorated scarlet red.
“Not bad,” He states as he bends over and pulls a second knife from his boot, “Let's see how the great and powerful Wanheda does on one good arm and no food.” Roan raises his knife and lowers into a fighting stance, and Clarke’s stomach drops as she raises her own in her non-dominant hand.
He runs at her and she ducks under his first attack spinning around just in time to jump back out of the reach of the second. He kicks and she drops under as his knife comes around but Clarke just barely blocks it, thankful it was on her good side.
She pulls her knee up directly into Roan’s crotch, causing him to double over. He shouts and shoves her with his free hand the pair stumbles back and catches their breath. Despite the past three months of training Roan is more skilled than she is. Her only hope is that he will make a mistake.
He runs at her again and the two dodge and weave with Clarke firmly on the defensive. She barely scrapes by most attacks taking so much damage she can no longer call her “good” side good. Seeing her first opening Clarke ducks under Roan's arm and slices her knife through his skin over the expanse of his ribs. He cries out in pain, but Clarke is too slow to recover and leaves herself open. Roan whips around, kicking Clarke in her bad arm and her scream rivals his. Both fall to the ground.
Roan recovers first and jumps onto Clarke pinning her arm under his knee and prying the knife from her hand. Shouting in frustration Clarke tries to buck him off until he forces the blade of his knife against her throat.
“Stop fighting.” He orders, pressing with enough force to draw a thin line of blood.
Clarke thrashes harder and more wildly causing it to cut even deeper, “Get the fuck off me!”
“Nau!” A woman shouts. (No!)
His weight is lifted off Clarke’s stomach and she scurries away, gripping her throbbing shoulder. Watching with shock in her bones and tears in her eyes, she watches as Roan is thrown to the ground by a woman. A woman with long brown braids.
“I ordered you to bring her to me unharmed!” Lexa screams down at him. All of the breath rushes from Clarke’s lungs in an instant as she takes in the Commander towering over the mountain of a man. Her face is clean, her shoulder guard and forehead pendant are also missing which does little to dampen her commanding presence.
“It’s not as if she made that possible!” He shouts back raising his shirt to show her the fresh bloody wound hidden beneath. Turning her back on him Lexa walks to the torch. Stomping out the small fire it spread across the dry forest floor, she thrusts the lit branch into Roan's hands before making her way to Clarke.
“Are you okay?” She asks kneeling beside her. Clarke’s head spins as she watches her with cold eyes and fire in her stomach. Three months. For three months she has reveled in her hatred for this woman. Lexa takes a tentative step closer, “Clarke?”
Gathering all the blood and saliva in her mouth, Clarke spits into her face. The Commander bolts upright, her concern disappearing behind inscrutable features. Roan laughs as he stumbles to his feet. Lexa wipes her face with her sleeve as he saunters over tucking away his weapons.
“Bilaik ai tel?” (Like I said?)
“Shof op.” Lexa orders turning to face him. “This will not stand shada hainofa.” Clarke’s head snaps up as she catches Roan’s title. (Silence. Broken prince)
“We had a deal that I deliver her to you and I held up my end.” Roan challenges the young Commander, “Now hold up yours.”
“She doesn’t exactly have a great track record of doing that.” Clarke barely manages through a grunt doing her best to hide the tunneling pain tearing down her arm.
Ignoring the jab, Lexa pulls a small scroll from her pocket and presents it to Roan. The towering man rips it open without care, his eyes searching the small parchment lit by the flickering torchlight. Clarke tries to squint through the darkness for any clue as to what it is when her head grows heavy and she notices a subtle dripping sound.
Looking down she finds her pant leg drenched in deep red blood which falls drumming softly upon the leaves below. Swallowing the lump in her throat, Clarke misses the rest of Roan and Lexa’s exchange and when she pulls her eyes from the bloody sight, she finds his silhouette and torch fading into the trees.
Darkness encases them as Lexa stands motionless facing away from her. Clarke wants with everything in her to be able to scream and fight. To finally let out all the rage she has bottled inside her and put to words all the things she never could have explained to Nova. The truths that are reserved for Lexa alone.
The last thing she wants right now is to need her help, but Clarke doesn’t want to die anymore and she is starting to feel lightheaded. She is about to break the silence when the Commander beats her to it.
“I have a camp a short walk from here,” Lexa informs her through the dark.
“Good”, Clarke winces as she applies pressure to her leg smearing her hands in deep red blood, “because I’m not going to make it very far.”
Lexa stiffens before finally turning to face Clarke and her eyes squint through the blanket of blinding darkness. More tentative this time, Lexa once again kneels before her and runs her hands over the slick surface of Clarke’s pants.
“Jok.” Lexa whispers under her breath, reaching for Clarke’s left arm but she recoils scurrying back through the leaves. (Fuck)
“No please,” Clarke begs, hating her shaky pained voice, “It’s dislocated.” Lexa nods and grabs the other arm and together they struggle to get her to her feet.
“Lead the way Commander.” Clarke practically spits a second time and they begin shuffling through the trees. Clarke prays the camp will come into sight quickly as each passing second brings her closer and closer to passing out.
Lexa carries most of her weight and with each step Clarke finds herself tightening her hold on the Commander's shoulders. She tries her best not to focus on Lexa’s strong warm body supporting her broken one as a fresh drop of blood falls into her eye. Whimpering softly, Clarke continues with it tightly shut.
After what feels like an eternity, they reach a clearing with a small tent which pales in comparison to the tents Clarke knows the Commander stayed in during the planning for the attack on Mount Weather. Relief washes over her at the thought of sitting as they approach. Lexa leads Clarke to a nearby stump and carefully lowers her atop it. Clarke’s shoulders sag and sleep pulls at her mind, but she fights to stay awake knowing what could await her if she fails.
“I have supplies,” Lexa calls over her shoulder as she runs to rummage through her tent.
Clarke hides a gag as a wave of nausea rolls through her and Lexa makes her way back with various healing supplies in one arm and a lantern in the other. She deposits everything onto the leaves and grabs a piece of cloth and presses it to Clarke’s forehead.
“Pressure.” She orders as she turns away to ignite the lantern. Clarke wipes her eye clean as light fills the air around them and she notices the blur in her vision. Fear grips Clarke's chest and exhaustion races down her spine as Clarke does her best to calm her breathing.
Lexa pulls forward her leg and both of their eyes widen as they take in the trail of blood now leading from the top of her thigh down her leg and over her boot. Without warning the Commander grabs another cloth and presses down over the wound.
“Fuck!” Crying out, she can’t help the tears that explode in her eyes, “Alcohol.” Clarke orders through clenched teeth. Lexa plucks the largest bottle she has from the grass. Popping the cork out, she moves to pour it over the fresh wound but Clarke snatches it away before she can. Throwing her head back Clarke gulps down as much as she can before Lexa rips it away.
“Clarke,” She chastises as a pool of warmth fills Clarke’s stomach. The Commander motions to pour it once more but she jumps back.
“Wait,” Clarke breathes, removing the bloody cloth from her forehead and shoving it into her mouth, “Now go.” she murmurs around her gag.
Fierce burning rips Clarke to the bone as Lexa carefully pours down the expanse of her thigh. By the time she stops Clarke is sure she bit through the cloth. Pulling it free she takes a deep shaky breath. Clarke examines her leg and watches a fresh wave of blood flow elegantly over her alcohol-soaked pants.
“Do you have anything for stitches?” She asks the Commander.
“Yes,” She answers, watching Clarke carefully with unsure eyes.
“Good. I need you to do it.” She immediately launches into an argument against the idea but Clarke shuts her down. “I can’t I will pass out. Now help me get my pants off.” Clarke attempts to bend over and untie her boots herself, but Lexa forces her to sit back. The Commander removes her shoes and sits back looking rather uncomfortable.
Clarke ignores the fact that Lexa hesitates before pulling her knife from her belt. She watches the Commander adjust her grip on the smooth wooden handle and does her best not to think about the first time she saw her use it.
“You attack her and you attack me.”
An ember of hatred reignites in her heart at the irony and it almost makes Clarke push away Lexa’s hand, but she keeps herself in check. Watching with blurry eyes Clarke studies the Commander's face as she places the tip of her blade under her pant leg.
Trying not to grimace, Clarke helps Lexa rip the material free and together they peel the rest of the mangled garment off her good leg. Lexa tosses the pants aside and Clarke feels bare before the Commander of the twelve clans in nothing but her boy shorts.
“Drench the needle and string in the alcohol too,” Lexa does as she is told and Clarke begins lowering herself onto the ground. Lexa places the lantern on the stump and pauses, needle in hand staring down at Clarke’s open wound. Her hands are trembling and it takes all of Clarke’s strength not to empathize with her.
“No matter what keep going.” Putting the rag back in her mouth Clarke lays back in the leaves and prepares for hell.