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Clarke pulled up a chair and sat down next to the bed. She didn’t wait for an invitation. Knew there would be none.
“Hello Duncan,” she said. “We haven’t met before. I’m Clarke. Clarke Griffin. Of the Sky People.”
Duncan, son of Indra, of the Woods Clan, ignored her, face firmly toward the wall.
“I met a man. When I was in the wilderness. He saved my life. One, last soldier from the Mountain survived the fall of Mt. Weather. Stolen bone marrow making his skin strong enough to hold him in the air outside. He was going to shoot me with his gun. He got an arrow through his eye for his trouble.”
Duncan ignored her.
“The man with the bow could have killed me next, but he didn’t. He wanted a life debt instead. I figured I’d die, alone in the forest, long before I had to pay. So I agreed. Only, I didn’t die.”
Duncan ignored her.
“And then, to my surprise, after I decided to live, after I returned, I learned that the man I have to kill to pay my debt was actually here. In the Mountain. Surrounded by my people.”
Duncan ignored her.
“Your life, Duncan, son of Indra. That is the payment that will clear my ledger.”
Duncan didn’t move, but she could tell from the way his body stiffened under his light blankets that he was listening now.
“I’ve killed a lot of people already. So, so many. A lot more than you, reaper warrior.”
She saw his jaw work, and smiled a little.
“Wanheda, he called me. Bringer of Death. I have a blade in my hand now,” Clarke flashed the small knife, not sure if he could see it out of the corner of his flickering eyes or not, but hoping he did. “So, one more kill. What’s the difference? And it will pay my debt.”
“Roan.” Duncan said, twisting his head slowly to face her. His voice was rusty with disuse. “Roan the shunned.”
“Yes." She sat back, twisting the knife in her hands the way she had once seen Lexa do. "That was his name. Roan.” Face like a hawk, bright blue eyes, pale, tanned skin, long brown hair. Completely unbraided. A surprisingly white smile. (Dental care having avoided, somehow, any connection to technology. It was not spurned by the clans.)
“I…” Duncan started coughing and Clarke pocketed her knife, poured him a cup of water from the bedside table, offered it to him. He took it, struggling to sit up without spilling. After drinking it all down, he handed her the cup back.
“I find,” he said, after a long moment of studying her, “that I do not wish to die after all. Not for Roan.”
“Then you will have to get well soon. Well enough to beat me in a fair fight. So I can say with truth that I tried, and failed, and then negotiate a new price.”
Duncan flicked a dismissive eye over her. “That will not take long.”
“Big words for a man who spends his days lounging around in a soft bed.”
“Big words for a little girl. Wanheda.”