Chapter Text
“We need Clarke.” Octavia’s voice is strained, her eyes insistent as they stare into Bellamy’s determined ones.
“And I’m telling you she doesn’t want to be here.”
The tone of his voice betrays his mounting frustration, but he is desperate to avoid a fight with his sister. The atmosphere is already too tense around Camp Jaha, conflict growing heavy in the air, insidious since the fall of Mount Weather.
After the victory, there had been a time for celebration, a time for reunions, but that time had been short lived, had given way to unrest when the news of the Grounders’ betrayal and Clarke’s departure had spread.
The split had been gradual, slowly dividing the survivors of the Ark into two factions: some, unable to accept the slight, wanted to lead an attack against the Grounders; others, aware of the weakened state of the Sky forces, felt that it was unwise, or unnecessary, to go against them. The situation was still escalating, and the council had been forced into a discussion, but no solution was coming of it.
“It’s not about what she wants, Bellamy.” He lets out a frustrated sigh. “Back me up on this, Monty,” Octavia pleads, turning to look at her friend.
“She’s right. If we want to stop these people from making a very stupid decision, we need Clarke,” Monty says looking at Bellamy, apologetic. “They might not all agree with what we did,” he continues, lowering his eyes as the words come out, “but they still think of her as a leader.”
Bellamy’s hand comes up to run through his hair, the muscles in his jaw clenching. “We don’t even know where to look for her.”
“There’s a bunker,” Raven speaks up, “somewhere near the old camp. Finn took her there a couple of times. It has some supplies, provides shelter, it would be a good place to start.”
Octavia glances at her, traces of concern in her eyes. A month has passed since Clarke left, and most resentment has dissipated from their minds. The battle won, Octavia had mourned more than her losses, and her shed innocence had paved the way to understanding. The thought of Clarke unable to face them, guilt too heavy on her shoulders for even goodbyes, had softened their anger, compassion creeping its way in, but even now, Finn was still a sensitive subject.
“You can’t go alone,” Bellamy answers.
“I’ll go with her,” Monty cuts in before Raven can answer. “Nathan can come too.” They exchange a knowing look before Miller nods.
Harper glances at Bellamy, turns away when he shakes his head imperceptibly. “Raven,” she starts, ignoring Bellamy’s pointed stare, “you should know there’s a… body. In the bunker. A grounder. We took him there to interrogate him. Finn he…”
“That still doesn’t solve the fact that Clarke does not want to be here.” Bellamy interrupts, sounding increasingly aggravated. “And what are you going to do if she’s not in the bunker?”
Octavia exhales deeply, looking from Raven, whose hand is clenched at her side, to her brother. “Neither of you is going to like this.” Bracing herself for their reaction, she continues. “We need to get Lexa.” She sees their mouths open, raises her hand in a silencing motion before they can protest. “I know. But she has equipment, and horses, and far better tracking skills than any of us.”
All of them fall silent, matching frowns on Raven and Bellamy. After a moment, Octavia picks up again, all eyes on her.
“That’s not all. Even if we can convince Clarke to come back, there’s no guarantee they’ll listen to her. We need her to show she’s made peace with what Lexa did.”
Bellamy scoffs. “Right, like that’s going to happen.” Octavia glares at him, and his eyes soften perceptibly.
“How about you let me worry about that, Bell?” Straightening up, she turns to the group. “Raven, you show Monty and Miller to the bunker. I’m going to go talk to Lincoln; I’ll leave for Polis at dawn.”
“And what are you going to tell Lexa?” Bellamy pushes. Looking to Raven for support, he finds her staring at Octavia with an undecipherable expression. “How do you even know they’re going to let you into the city?”
“We are not at war anymore. They might not be our allies, but they are not our enemies either. If anything, Lexa will take this opportunity to make things right.” Octavia’s voice is unwavering, and she is already moving towards her tent. “I’ll talk to her, and if all goes well, I’ll have a horse and someone who knows these woods. We should have no problem finding Clarke.”
Bellamy follows after her, disapproval etched across his features, and Raven catches up to them quickly, stepping in front of Octavia to block her path.
“I’m coming with you.”
“To Polis? Why would you want to go there? You hate the Grounders.” Octavia’s expresion shifts between confusion and annoyance.
“No. I’m coming with you to look for Clarke.” Raven’s tone leaves no room for questions, her eyes set on Octavia’s.
“Raven I don’t mean to be rude, but…” She makes a vague gesture toward Raven’s brace.
Raven huffs, hand itching to stomp her cane on Octavia’s foot. “You said Lexa would provide horses. Bring me one, and let me do the rest.”
“You’re aware that your skills piloting a spaceship do not translate to horse-riding, right?” Octavia points out.
“It can’t be that hard, you got the hang of it pretty quick. I’m sure you can teach me. Unless you don’t think you’re up to the task.”
“We don’t have time for this, Raven. Why do you even want to come?” Octavia crosses her arms and looks Raven up and down, making her fidget under her stare.
“Come on, I can be useful.” She laughs nervously.
“You didn’t answer my question.” Her eyes are still boring insistently into Raven’s.
“Look, you’re going to need as many friendly faces as possible if you want to convince Clarke. Somehow, I don’t think Lexa’s is gonna cut it.” Her words are dripping with sarcasm, and the corners of Octavia’s mouth lift briefly. “Bellamy needs to stay here to maintain whatever semblance of peace we’ve got going on,” Raven continues, “Jasper is still sulking. Monroe is still hurt. Monty and Harper have no field training, and Nathan is not leaving without Monty, whatever that’s about.” Her hands are gesturing wildly around the camp, as if pointing out their friends as she mentions them. “I’m your only choice, here, Pocahontas.” She breaks out into a smile. “And my face is very friendly.”
“Fine,” Octavia cuts, and Raven has to temper her smile to avoid irritating her further.” You can come. Just please stop talking.”
Raven stops walking, raises her fingers to her mouth and makes a zipping motion. Octavia rolls her eyes, opening up the flap of her tent before calling out, back to Raven. “And I told you to stop calling me that.”
***
Octavia heads out at first light, a map tucked securely into the waist of her armor and Lincoln’s directions fresh in her mind, while Camp Jaha is still asleep. He’d offered to be a part of the trip, and Octavia had had to remind him of his current status with the grounders. The ride there would be easier with him by her side, but she could never agree to put his safety at risk just for that. Even if he had decided to accompany her only up to Polis, as he offered to, any unplanned encounters before the city limits would have sealed his fate.
Bellamy’s doubts remain. They are written across the tight lines of his forehead, but he doesn’t share them, hugs Octavia tightly to his chest and whispers words meant only for her ears. He, better than anyone, knows the importance of unity, of loyalty, in the face of conflict, and he sets aside his hesitancy to help shoulder the weight.
Standing before them, Octavia doesn’t say goodbye to anyone, only promises to be back at the soonest, and Raven tries not to think may we meet again, ignores the dread pulling at her insides as she watches Octavia walk into the forest.
They leave soon after, Nathan and Monty following in Raven’s steps, and the short walk to the bunker is mostly silent, occasional small talk cut short by the tension still prevailing during forays into the scarcely familiar woods.
The sun is high above their heads when Raven pulls open the heavy trap door hidden underneath intertwining vines and fast growing moss. They lower themselves into the room, while Nathan stands guard, and the first thing Raven notices is that there is no body. The shape of it is still visible, and she scrapes her shoe against the dried blood on the floor, mapping the spatter of a gunshot, her hands shaking at her side.
Her eyes burn when Monty rests his hand on her shoulder, squeezing softly. “It’s okay,” he says, voice soothing. Her throat feels tight, so she doesn’t look at him, but he stands there anyway, quiet and comforting at her side.
“Clarke has been here,” she says after a few seconds, wiping at her cheeks. “It’s not just the missing dead Grounder.” Walking around the room, she picks up an empty box. “She took some supplies. Blankets, flashlights, maybe some art stuff, I’m not sure.”
Monty’s eyes on her are unsettling, and she lets out a nervous laugh. “I don’t know why she didn’t stay here. Nothing but happy memories.” She keeps rummaging through the boxes, tries not to think of Clarke, alone with her guilt, going through the same motions in order to find something.
“Do you really think Clarke could be swayed by your presence?” Monty pries with soft eyes and his head tilted to the side.
Raven stills for a moment. “I don’t know, do you think Nathan would’ve come here today if you hadn’t?” There’s a faint blush on Monty’s cheeks as he lowers his eyes slightly, avoiding Raven’s accusing stare.
She drops the plastic box in her hands, turning back to look at Monty who is now twisting a crayon between his fingers. Exhaling sharply, she drops the hint of aggression in her voice to answer his previous question. “I just…” Her tongue feels too heavy in her mouth. “need to see her. Talk to her, whatever.”
“It’s okay,” he reassures, “you don’t need to explain.”
“I’m not sure I could if I wanted to.” The words are mumbled under her breath, meant for no one in particular, especially not herself, but Monty’s sympathetic smile indicates that he heard them, and Raven feels a little lighter when she climbs back up the ladder into the green of the forest.
On the way back, she sees Monty’s hand brush against Nathan’s periodically, and she rolls her eyes, but the smile she sends his way when he falls back to walk with her is genuine. So is his, temporarily unmarred by the ghosts of Mountain Men or the threat of things to come, and for now at least, Raven feels a spark of hope.
***
The North-East gates are as imposing as Octavia imagined them, thick wooden spikes tied together into a double door, one of three entrances through the tall fence going on for miles around Polis. The path that leads up to them is wide and mostly cleared of plants, leaving her exposed as she walks toward the city. Four warriors are standing guard, and though Octavia can’t see them, she knows archers are watching from the trees, strings drawn back and ready to fire at the first sign of hostility.
She doesn’t know what of her story has made it to their ears, doesn’t know if the tales of the Sky people are shared around meals in Trigedasleng too fast for her to understand or if stories of war die where conflict ends, but she stands straight, gait making up for the pounding in her chest. She stops in front of the guards, eyes set on the one that steps forward to meet her, palm on the pommel of his sword.
“Ai laik Okteivia,” she offers, “kom Skaikru” added as an afterthought. “En ai gaf shish yu Heda op.” Her voice is steady, the hands at her sides relaxed in what she hopes is taken as a desire for peace.
Looking around at the other guards, the man lets out a loud laugh before turning back to face Octavia. He steps closer to her, studying her intently before drawing his sword, pressing it to the side of her neck, resting it against her collarbone.
“And why would the Commander want to talk to you, Okteivia kom Skaikru?” He sneers at her.
“I have an offer to make,” she answers, motionless against the blade.
“And why,” the sword presses harder against her skin, a droplet of blood running along the edge toward his hand, “would Heda Lexa be interested in an offer from a Skaikru outsider?”
A sudden swooshing sound reaches Octavia’s ears, coming from the trees to her left, and she hears her voice before she can spot her.
“Pul we.” Indra walks fast, bow in hand, until she reaches Octavia’s side.
The blade is immediately withdrawn from her neck, sheathed at his side as he takes a step back, silently handing the reins to his superior. Indra turns to stand before Octavia, her bearing as unbending and unreadable as she remembers it.
“Octavia,” she says, accentuating every syllable. “You are alive,” she appraises, no hint of emotion in her voice. “You should not be here.”
Neither of them moves an inch, staring each other down for a moment. “I want to talk to the Commander,” Octavia breaks the silence, “I only ask that she hear me out, and if my proposition is not to her liking, I will leave.”
Indra stays silent, studying her face with dark eyes, and Octavia raises her chin, wills her body to remain still. After a while, Indra spins around, nods at the man on her left, and starts walking toward the gates, which are slowly being pushed open by the four guards.
“Leave your sword and knives outside; they will be here when you return. Only warriors are allowed to carry weapons inside these walls.”
She doesn’t stop walking even as Octavia does what she asked, handing her weaponry to one of the guards. She catches up to Indra as fast as she can, not wanting to fall behind in unknown territory, and they cross into Polis side by side.
If the outside walls felt almost familiar, Polis itself is nothing like Octavia expected. It is close to nightfall, and the air is always cold, as of late, but there are people everywhere, and the atmosphere is warm.
She sees men and women laughing around large tables covered in food, shop owners closing down for the day, small children running around, jumping over logs and tumbling to the ground happily. There are huts of different sizes, sporadically spread as far as Octavia can see, and the constructions look solid and comfortable. She notices bigger structures as they progress toward the center of the city, but the people still look happy, almost welcoming, and it all feels bittersweet.
She tries not to dwell on past possibilities as they near what appears to be the Commander’s house.
“Wait outside,” Indra commands, going into Lexa’s hut.
Octavia does so, patiently standing with her back to the door. She distracts herself with her surroundings, the smell of cooked meat in the air carried by the cool breeze, the familiar intonations of Tridesgaleng all around her, until Indra comes back out, silently inviting her in.
The inside of Lexa’s hut looks as inviting as the rest of the city, thick furs covering the floors and the walls, isolating the inhabitants from the outside temperature. A small fire is growing in a stone fireplace, casting an orange glow on the large room not encumbered by inner walls, and Lexa is standing near a long table, her back to Octavia.
“Welcome, Octavia,” she starts, her voice low and poised, “I am pleased to see you survived the Mountain.”
“No thanks to you,” she mumbles, but the words carry over the silence of the hut. Indra tenses at her side, her free hand going to the handle of her sword, but Lexa, now facing Octavia, raises her hand in an appeasing motion.
“You do not understand my actions, Octavia, I know this, but you are a visitor here, and as every other visitor, you will show me respect.” Her tone hasn’t changed, but Octavia knows there is no room for defiance. “Indra says you have a proposition for me.”
“It’s about Clarke.” Lexa tenses visibly for a second, her eyes widening almost imperceptibly, before slipping back into her mask of indifference. “After we defeated the Mountain Men, she left Camp, and we haven’t seen her since then.”
“Clarke is ressourceful,” Lexa interrupts abruptly, “She is a survivor. I am sure she is faring well on her own.”
Octavia exhales sharply, willing herself to respect Lexa’s imposed rules. “This isn’t about her survival,” she answers. “There is dissent among our people.” Octavia steels herself for the next part. “Not everyone has taken kindly to your… deal.”
Betrayal hangs on the tip of her tongue, echoes like a war horn and tastes of copper and iron, but she swallows it back.
“They want revenge,” Octavia admits.
Indra grunts in discontent, spitting out a word that Octavia doesn’t recognize, and Lexa looks at her with intent, the flames of the fire shimmering in her eyes.
“If your people attack us, they will perish.” The words are definitive, and Octavia doesn’t doubt their veracity.
“I know. Our army is weakened. Even if it wasn’t, the rest of us have no interest in another war,” Octavia steps closer to Lexa, determination bleeding out of her words. “Which is why we need Clarke. If anyone can make them see reason, it’s her.”
Lexa’s eyes drop to the floor for the first time since Octavia stepped foot inside of her home.
“You have no yet made it to your request, Octavia,” she says, softly.
“We need your tracking skills,” Octavia answers, truthfully, “as well as your horses, and whatever equipment you deem necessary.”
“We?” she pries.
“Raven.” Lexa tenses at the name. “She insisted on coming.”
“Is that all?” Lexa inquires.
“Yes,” Octavia lies. The time for talks of alliance is not here yet, and she knows this. “Both of our people avoid an unnecessary war, and if you wish,” she ventures, “you take a first step toward mending your relationship with the Sky people. You never know when you might need us again, Commander.”
Silence falls again as Lexa walks toward the fire, hands clasped behind her back.
“I will need to think on it,” she declares after a while, “meet me tomorrow morning, you will stay the day, and be treated as my guest. I will have my answer ready by nightfall.”
Octavia nods. “Thank you, Commander.” To her right, she hears Indra make a disapproving sound.
“What is it?” Lexa asks, turning to look at her.
“I do not think this pursuit is a good idea, Commander,” she answers, glancing at Octavia on the word pursuit.
“Your concern is appreciated, Indra,” Lexa replies, “but I have not made my decision yet. You do not need to convince me of anything.”
She turns back around to face the flames. “Indra will show you to your quarters for the night,” she says, her words already betraying her absent mind. “I hope you will be satisfied with your accommodations.”
Indra turns sharply on her heels and Octavia takes that as her cue to follow. In the time they spent inside of Lexa’s home, night has fallen on the capital, leaving only spots of orange burning in the darkness. The stars are visible despite the faint light that emanates from the fires outside, and Octavia feels an unfamiliar pang of homesickness.
They get to a smaller hut, a few houses away from the Commander’s, and Indra stands to the side of the door, silently ushering Octavia in. Stopping at the doorway, she mutters a thank you in Indra’s direction, and steps into the plainly furnished house. The soft bed is a welcome sight after a long day of walking, and she sits down to take off her boots.
Octavia thinks she hears a rough “sleep well” from the outside, but the door is shut and she lies down into the warmth of the furs surrounding her, feeling the weight of exhaustion sink down on her eyelids.
***
She wakes to the sound of clanking outside her hut, the golden glow of morning light already coming through the window, catching in the fine hairs of the animal coats below her. Getting up to get dressed, she feels the burn of the previous day’s trip in her thighs, but the rest of her is more rested than it has been since the end of the war.
Outside, Octavia sees a short woman hitting at a metal blade with a hammer, a fire burning besides her, three young children gathered around, watching her work. Over the thumping noise that woke her, she can make out the woman calmly explaining her steps in a Trigedasleng Octavia struggles to understand. She closes her door behind her, glancing one last time toward the metalworker and her little apprentices, before heading toward Lexa’s quarters.
Even after a month, Octavia still sports her Grounder clothing, feels more at ease in it, but looking around at the people of Polis, she quickly realizes that her garments are those of a warrior. She sees people wearing furs and wool, watches workers sweating in flimsier fabric, but only those bearing weapons are clad in leather.
She finds Lexa standing outside of her home, seemingly waiting for her. Her face is clean, she is dressed in a different coat, and for a moment Octavia feels self-conscious of her grimy state, but she walks up to the Commander with practiced confidence.
“Good morning, Heda,” she greets.
“Good morning, Octavia. I trust your night went well?” Lexa sounds uncharacteristically soft, a barely there smile on her face as she approaches Octavia.
“It did. Thank you for your hospitality, Commander,” she answers, voice not quite relaxed yet.
Lexa nods in response. “We are not at war anymore, Octavia. We are not even allies, as you made sure to remind me yesterday,” Octavia swears there is mirth in her eyes, but her face remains impassible. “You may call me Lexa.”
“I thought we could go for a walk,” she continues, “discuss this proposition further.” Without waiting for an answer, she starts walking east, and Octavia follows at her side. “After, you will have access to all of our facilities for the day.”
On their way, they pass a group of teenagers playing around with a ball, and Octavia misses Bellamy, for a moment. He would like Polis. Maybe even the people, if he were to meet them under different circumstances.
“I do not know what activities you favor, Octavia, but we have libraries, bathhouses, gymnasiums, gardens, art houses, and many other amenities, all at your disposition. If you so wish,” she pauses, giving Octavia a moment to take it all in, “I can accompany you.”
Lexa isn’t looking at her, and now that Octavia sees her in the bright light of day, face clean of war paint, she has never seemed so relaxed. She looks younger, without the weight of so many lives hardening her traits into a mask of indifference. The thought makes Octavia smile to herself, before she remembers that that weight fell onto Clarke, drove her away into isolation.
“I would be grateful,” she answers anyway.
They walk in silence, for a while. Octavia doesn’t want to push the conversation; she is content taking in the city, for now.
They are interrupted when a blond toddler runs straight into Lexa’s legs, stick in hand, babbling words of Trigedasleng that Octavia doesn’t understand. By the look on her face, Lexa doesn’t seem to either, but he is quickly followed by his father, panicked and profusely apologizing.
Without a word, Lexa kneels down to his height, staring into wide blue eyes like she would her Generals’.
“Nou foto, yong gona,” She smiles big, ruffling his curly hair.
He giggles, swinging his stick above his head, running away in the other direction, unsteady on his legs. His father takes off after him, apologizing one last time, but Lexa smiles at him too, fondness reaching her eyes, and Octavia knows her own are softening despite her better judgement.
She tries not to ponder if Lexa’s loyalty to her people extends beyond the battlefield, crosses over into something that reads like love.
The sun is high in the sky when they reach the water that lines the city on the east. The air smells different so close to the sea, and the light seems purer, shining off the ripples of the water.
Lexa stops at the edge of the small wooden pier, looks back to Octavia before sitting down on the edge. Her feet don’t quite reach the water, and it makes her seem even younger than before. Octavia sits down next to her, carefully, leaving some distance between them.
It feels strange, and it’s not only because this is the first time she sees the ocean – the tangible waves and salty draft that come with it, not just the pictures in Bellamy’s books. It feels almost surreal, really, to be somewhere so peaceful after just a month, to see Lexa so calm after witnessing her fire.
Once again, Octavia remembers Clarke, wonders if this is also something that can be taught, if Lexa could ease the ghosts of innocents out of her mind.
Clarke would choose the ghosts over Lexa, she thinks.
“I will go with you,” Lexa snaps her out of her thoughts, “Help you find Clarke.”
“Quick decision.” Octavia hides her surprise well. “Why the change of heart?”
Lexa turns her head towards her. Her eyes are the color of troubled water, she realizes, the lingering of conflict not deep underneath.
“I do not... regret my actions,” she begins, still searching Octavia’s eyes, “but if I can ease some of the pain I caused your people,” Lexa pauses, looking back to the water, “I am inclined to offer my help.”
Octavia stays silent, her eyes on Lexa, sensing the words still hanging on the edge of her mouth, hesitating to come out.
“While I am willing to do whatever necessary to find Clarke,” Lexa breathes out, “I have doubts regarding her desire to see me.” Her shoulders square before continuing. “Perhaps it would be best if I left once she has been found.”
Octavia studies the clench of her jaw, follows the straight line of her back down to the hands clutching repeatedly at the wooden pier.
“That’s for Clarke to decide. Let’s not worry about it right now,” Octavia says, half soothing half dismissive.
“As for Raven,” Lexa starts, looking straight ahead. The words hang in the air for an instant, but any evidence of shame is carried away to the sea before Octavia can catch it.
“Raven will do whatever it takes to find Clarke,” she answers the silent question, voice harder than before. “Let’s just hope she doesn’t try to attack you in your sleep.”
Lexa inhales sharply, turning her head. “I doubt she would be able to take me by surprise.”
“Relax, Commander, I’m joking,” Octavia drawls out, teasing smile directed at Lexa.
“Oh,” Lexa lets out, lowering her eyes slightly. “Well, if I awaken with bruises, I will know who to blame,” she says looking back up, and Octavia is glad there is no war paint to hide the faint tinge of red that’s creeping up her cheeks.