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For the first time in her life, Clarke has endless possibilities as to where she can go. On the Ark, if she wanted to walk so she could clear her head, her choices were limited by everything from clearance restrictions to the finite nature of the Ark itself. Going out for a wonder? her dad would ask. She smiles a bit at the remembered pun now; he was the king of bad dad-style jokes, and as much as they made her groan, she misses them now. There are no more dad jokes, if only because there aren't many dads left from the Ark—or mothers, for that matter, or children.
Children.
Hand in hand in hand. Names on backpacks. Laughter ringing through the dining hall. Bright eyes, bright smiles, all oblivious to the weakness in their blood that could be cured by the strength in hers. Clarke tries not to think about the children who died in Mount Weather, but as long as she can still see the mountain, guilt twists in her gut, a blade sharpened by memory.
Now that she's been hiking for almost two days straight, Mount Weather is almost out of sight, and Clarke feels like she can finally appreciate the air, the beautiful scenery. She has no idea where she's going, only away. Wandering in wonder, she thinks with a small, skewed smile. Has her mother sent out a search party for her yet, or has Bellamy convinced Abby to hold off?
"Sorry, Mom," Clarke whispers, allowing herself one glance back in the direction of the fallen Ark. If anything, Camp Jaha—the shattered, scattered remnants of the place where she was born—should feel more like home than anything she's experienced on the ground, but she can't get far enough away. Hoisting her bag higher on her shoulder, she starts walking again, concentrating on the feel of the ground beneath her feet, the crisp air filling her lungs, all the incredible shades of green that catch her gaze.
The slight snap of a twig under someone's foot, not her own.
Instinctively, Clarke scrambles off the trail and seeks cover behind a cluster of fallen trees. If it was someone from the Ark, they would be calling out her name, or at least announcing their presence. As for the Grounders . . . well, after Lexa's betrayal, Clarke's pretty sure she doesn't want to meet up with any of them if she can help it. Slowing her breathing, Clarke focusses on the noises of the forest so intently that her heart sounds like a war drum in her chest. It should disturb her, how easily her fingers wrap around the handle of her hunting blade, but it's second nature now. That's the scary thing. Once upon a time, she was just a regular teenage girl, hoping to specialize in medicine. Now she's crouched low, her knife an extension of her arm, ready to kill if necessary.
"Clarke." At first, she thinks the voice—male, calm, reassuring—is only in her head, an echo of her father, but then the shadow falls across her face and she looks up to see Lincoln, empty hands held aloft in the universal sign of surrender.
"Lincoln." Breathing a sigh of relief, Clarke climbs back onto the path and looks back the way Lincoln must have taken. "Is something wrong? I told Bellamy I wasn't going back—"
Lincoln nods and, just over his shoulder, Clarke can spot a horse tied to a tree in the distance. "I know. I won't force you to come back—"
"Good. Because I'm not." Clarke can't handle the looks, the well-intentioned adulation, the memories and the nightmares and most of all, the feeling of pulling that switch. Part of her liked it: the power, the finality, the unity of her hand with Bellamy's. "I can't face them. Not yet."
"I understand." Lincoln holds her gaze for a long, silent moment and Clarke realizes it's not forced empathy: he's been in a similar situation more than once, at odds with his people because of his actions. "And I won't follow you past this point, I promise. I just thought you should have some supplies." He shrugs off the straps of the pack on his back and holds the bag loosely at his side.
Quirking a smile, Clarke hooks her thumbs through the straps of her own bag. "I'm set, thanks. I didn't compromise the rations or anything. I just took enough to last me for a few days. After that, I know I'll have to fend for myself."
Lincoln's smile is the widest Clarke's seen it and with a start, she realizes this may be the first time she's seen his bare face. Before, he was always in his war paint or covered in blood and bruises. He looks younger than she first guessed, though his eyes look ancient and somehow wistful. "I wasn't talking those kind of supplies." Rather than give the bag to Clarke, he starts pulling items out. The first is something she never thought she would see again, something that evokes guilt and hope and resignation all at once. "We've been cleaning out Mount Weather since you left," Lincoln explains, handing over the box. "Abby's focussed on the medical wing, but I was talking to Monty and he thought you might like this back."
The box of art supplies that Dante once gave her feels heavy as sin and twice as tempting in her hands, and Clarke knows she should refuse it. There's no room for luxury or sentiment on her trek. She wants the bare minimum: simple, stark survival. If she fills her time with movement and hunting, maybe the remembered screams won't flood and drown her mind so readily. But her fingers curl around the corners with practiced ease and she can't deny the smile stretching her lips. "You should keep it," she insists, though she falls short of actually handing it back. "You're a wonderful artist."
"I took some supplies for myself," Lincoln assures her. "I know what you're doing. You're trying to find yourself again. Your art is a big part of you, Clarke. You need it." Then he handed her a rolled-up piece of cloth. "You'll need this too. I labelled everything for you."
Clarke recognizes the roll as well, but she still opens it. It's the field kit the Grounders use, full of poisons and antidotes. As a gift, it's a hundred times more useful than the art kit, and a thousand times more dear. "Lincoln, I can't. You should keep that. You're not Trikru anymore; you won't be able to replace this."
Lincoln wraps Clarke's hands around the bundle and squeezes them. "You need it more than I do. Take it. Please. I learned a bit of the healing arts from Nyko. Between me and Abby, we'll be fine." Then, with a wry smile, he withdraws one last thing from his bag, an old jar filled with a dark red substance. When Clarke flinches, he shakes his head. "It's not blood. It's to dye your hair." The first hint of genuine amusement softens his smile when he adds, "Your hair is like a beacon, Clarke. It makes you too easy to spot. If your hair is darker, you'll blend in more."
Clarke can't help but laugh. Even among her fellow Sky People, her blond hair stood out; here in the middle of the forest, it's essentially a target. "You're right. Thank you." She sets the three gifts down on the trail and hugs Lincoln without hesitation. "Take care of yourself," she whispers against his shoulder. "And Octavia and Bellamy and all the others. May we—"
"We will meet again." Lincoln's voice is calm but firm, and Clarke can hear the undertones of leadership in it. After giving her an extra squeeze, he steps back and nods. "We will meet again," he repeats, confident and hopeful. "When you're ready."
"When I'm ready," Clarke echoes. Knowing this may well be her last positive human encounter for weeks, she hugs him again. "We will meet again." They share a knowing nod before Lincoln turns and returns to his horse, and Clarke watches him ride away until there's nothing but the sound of receding hoofbeats. Only then does she gather up her gifts and stow them in her own pack. She can dye her hair when she sets up camp for the night, and maybe sketch the sunrise when she wakes. By then, Mount Weather will just be a memory, and the land will stretch out before her, full of places to wonder and wander, where she might meet herself again.