Chapter Text
As the sun rose, the forest came alive in vibrant shades of green. Leaves rustled in the cool breeze; shoots of grass tipped with morning dew crunched beneath Clarke’s boots; moss grew in clusters on the trunks of the trees and the rocks that she passed. Above her head, birds hopped between branches, singing to each other as light crept over the woodland.
Clarke inhaled deeply. She imagined the fresh air cleansing her lungs as she breathed in and out. The forest always made her feel this way; pure and free. It was so different to her usual world; foreign and tantalisingly beyond her reach; but she felt more at home here, alone amongst the trees, than surrounded by her people behind the Ark’s metal walls.
The tight, grey corridors of the Ark made her feel trapped; confining instead of comforting. The little, square gardens and tropical greenhouses behind the walls were nothing compared to the real thing. They were too neat, too still. Artificial.
Clarke had painted them hundreds of times, thousands, maybe. No matter how many paintings she made, they never seemed to turn out right. They were too still, tight and lifeless on the canvas. Her paintings of the forest were different. She was still trying to perfect the life and movement of the woods in her artwork, but she never got bored of trying.
There was a piece of canvas rolled up and strapped to her back, and a bag filled with paints and brushes slung over her shoulder. It bumped against her hip as she walked. The sound was soft, but it seemed too loud in the forest, out of place in the wilderness.
She hadn’t really gone far, she never did, but the trees were so densely packed here that it felt miles from the Ark.
Clarke knew the dangers that the forest held, of course. She had been born into a community that feared anything beyond its gates. A fear that had only intensified as she grew, with the death of a Chancellor and a new political era.
The citizens of the Ark had been at war with the Grounder clans since Clarke had been born; since the birth of her parents, and their parents before them. Each side claimed that the other had started the feud, but there was no longer anyone alive who remembered the cause of the animosity. Like the changing of the seasons, it was simply a fact of life.
Chancellors of the past had tried to ease the tensions, make a tentative peace between the peoples; but the collective fear within the Ark never allowed such a period of time to last long. Sooner or later there was a raid, or an attack on a hunting party, and the people would be once more whipped into a frenzy. The bloodshed would begin again and the Ark’s walls would grow ever higher.
Clarke didn’t like politics, they never changed.
The Guard were always recruiting, and by default, so were the Med Bay. It kept her busy. And when she wasn’t busy stitching up arrow wounds or studying antidotes to poisons alongside the other trainee Medics, she was out in the forest, painting.
Technically, only members of the Guard were allowed outside the walls, but Clarke didn’t much care for technicalities.
In the underbrush, a rabbit that was snuffling for food stilled as Clarke approached. Its glassy eyes widened, its nose twitching and whiskers tasting the air before it turned and darted back into hiding.
“Hey, I won’t hurt you,” she crooned as its tail disappeared into the bush.
“Talking to rabbits now, Griffin?” A sneering voice sounded behind her and Clarke nearly toppled over in shock.
“Shit,” She clutched a hand to her chest, flushing red as she took in the familiar lanky figure. “You scared the hell out of me,”
John Murphy smirked at her and shoved his hands into his pockets. There was a gun at his belt and a guard jacket zipped over his chest.
“Your hearing really is terrible, you know. I’ve been tracking you for about ten minutes now,”
“Well excuse me for not having extensive tracking training,” Clarke straightened, tucking her hair behind her ears and frowning. She didn’t like to be caught out.
“Not knocking your lack of training, Princess,” He ran his tongue over his teeth as he glanced around. “Just saying, you shouldn’t be out here alone. Shouldn’t be out here at all, actually,”
Clarke rolled her eyes and huffed out a laugh.
“Like you’ve ever given a shit about the rules, Murphy,”
“Today I do,” He tapped his Guard’s badge with his thumb, “I’m on duty.”
John Murphy was Clarke’s personal bodyguard and one of her closest friends. They were an unlikely pair, always bickering and making snide comments, but she trusted him. With her secrets, if not her liquor.
Their friendship had started when Clarke had taped up Murphy’s broken hand and didn’t ask questions. His Guard duty had begun when Murphy put a bullet through the head of a hungry wild-cat that Clarke had disturbed on one of her woodland wanderings.
Officially, unauthorised use of firearms would land you in a prison cell in the Ark, but official didn’t mean much when you had saved the life of the Chancellor’s daughter.
Clarke didn’t much like having a bodyguard at all, but if she had to have one, she was glad it was her best friend. He was fun to be around, and he kept her trips outside of the wall a secret. That was important, without them she might go insane.
“With you here to guard me,” Clarke smiled sweetly, “Surely I can stay out a little longer. I haven’t even started my painting yet,” She pouted, fluttering her eyelashes.
“Like hell,” Murphy snorted unattractively. She never could charm him. “You’re gonna lose me my job. Underage drinking in the closest with you is not the same as batting my eyes at an unauthorised trip into enemy territory. Time to pack it up, Griffin”
Clarke was about to protest when a shout and the sound of someone falling through foliage, snapping branches and rustling leaves wiped the words from her brain.
“What the…?” Murphy reached out to grab Clarke’s arm, “We have to get you back, now.”
“No,” Clarke pulled her arm from his grip and started towards the noise, not sure why. Her heart was thudding and her mind was screaming at her to turn around and go back but her feet were moving of their own accord.
“Clarke!” Murphy was hissing her name. She heard him curse behind her.
Over the sound of her own heartbeat, Clarke could hear soft groans of pain. Her hand shook as she reached out and pushed apart a bush of dark, green leaves.
“Oh, Jesus,” Murphy was at her shoulder. Before them, sprawled uncomfortably on the ground was a young woman. A Grounder.
There was a long-bladed weapon sheathed at her hip, a bow and quiver of arrows crushed and splintered beneath her back. A warrior, though she couldn’t have been older than Clarke.
Her skin had turned pale under dark streaks of war-paint that was smeared on her cheeks and around closed eyes.
Her hair was wet with blood by her forehead and one leg was bent out unnaturally.
“Oh, God,” Clarke’s stomach was churning as she bent down by the woman’s head. Still breathing.
“Clarke, what the hell are you doing? Let’s go,” Murphy placed his hand on her shoulder. His touch was gentle but firm, his voice unsteady.
“She’s hurt,” Clarke placed her fingers tentatively to the woman’s neck, a soft pulse was fluttering beneath her fingertips. Clarke’s own blood was rushing loudly in her ears. She half expected the woman to jump up and slice her throat.
She had never met a Grounder before. She knew they were evil, that they had killed thousands of her people, killed her father. No, a small voice inside her urged, not this one. She’s just a girl.
“She’s hurt,” She repeated weakly.
“Yeah, and soon she’ll be dead. And we need to be gone before her friends come looking for her,”
Clarke turned to look into Murphy’s face. Watched him swallow. His eyes were glinting with a fear she didn’t usually see there, a fear that mirrored her own.
“No,” She bit her lip, “No, we have to help her,”
“Are you crazy? Clarke, these people are our enemy!”
“No, no, I don’t think so,” She shook her head.
The woman’s leg was broken, of that Clarke could be sure from the awkward angle at which it jutted from her body.
“You don’t think so?” Murphy laughed without humour, “Well that’s just great.” He started to pull at her shoulder more insistently. “We need to go, now, before we both die and you get me fired and then locked up,”
Her leg was broken, Clarke couldn’t tell the severity of the head wound just by sight. She needed a proper Medic for that. The Grounder was still breathing, but she wasn’t moaning anymore.
Clarke shook Murphy’s hand away and pulled off her jacket, moving to tie it around the woman’s head as a makeshift bandage.
“Incredible,” Murphy laughed again, “Of all the people I could be paid to keep alive I get you, the fruit loop who’s just asking for a death sentence. She was in the tree watching us! Probably planning an ambush, or maybe just preparing to take us out with one of those nice sharp arrows she’s lying on. And you want to help her?”
“Should’ve used your tracking skills to spot her up there then, shouldn’t you?” Clarke stroked the woman’s dark hair as if to reassure her. “You’re gonna have to carry her, Murphy. She’s too heavy for me,”
“Can I just reiterate,” He spat even as he knelt beside her, “These people are our enemy,” He scooped the Grounder into his arms with a grunt.
“Not this one,” Clarke spoke with more assuredness than she felt, and hoped that she was right.