Chapter Text
This story is a rewrite. The first story of this series is the original. This version has just been updated in writing and scenes.
The quiet is both deafening and loud. It presses against her ears, fills the space around her, and coils through the ceremonial hall like a living thing. She should be used to it by now. The Seeking is always like this: heavy, expectant, thick with the scent of Omegas recently put in heat and Alphas who are barely restraining the hunger in their veins.
Soon, the air will smell of desire and satisfaction, necks will be adorned with fresh mating marks, and the new pairs will celebrate in the rawest form, allowing their instinct and want to take the lead. However, each person in the pairing will celebrate something different. Alphas will savor the thrill of claiming a rare Omega, Omegas will be glad in finally having a choice, and Betas - if fortune favors them - will be overjoyed in the rare, exhilarating feeling of being truly wanted.
Seeking.
Seeking.
Seeking.
The word vibrates through her, seeming to echo off the high wooden beams and the banners that sway above. For weeks after the ceremony is announced - always on a day no one can predict, and only after the participating Omegas are chosen - it is the only word she hears. Questions follow her everywhere: How many Omegas are participating? Who are they? What will happen next?
It does not annoy her. Not in the slightest. She is accustomed to it . . . she is accustomed to everything the Seeking demands.
The Seeking.
Seeking.
Now, sitting in the hall, she feels the word again, this time as a living pulse. She leans forward slightly, as if the word is suddenly pulling her long since drifted attention to the center of the room and to the crawling forms who cling to the slim hope that today they will choose before someone else decides for them in a life where they already decide so little.
She first heard of The Seeking as a child.
Her father sat her down and spoke to her in a voice that carried a gravity it rarely did. He made the ceremony sound like it was both a good and bad thing. Like it was something she should be grateful she never has to take part in - her second gender prevents that - yet glad that the ceremony happens.
Her mother, on the other hand, was more gentle and patient. She told her of Omegas that willingly crawl along the floor, blindfolded, and guided only by scents and instinct.
Hearing of this ceremony didn’t faze her or cause her to think any differently. Rather, she continued with her childlike naivety and imagined the famed city of Polis, from its tower to the throne where Heda herself sat, somewhere in the tower. She believed she’d never go to Polis. There was little to no chance that a small girl from a forgotten village near the border her clan shared with Azgeda (Ice Nation) would ever end up in Polis.
The city was no more than a dream.
Sometimes fragments of her childhood come back to her. Like the warm embrace of her parents, her mother’s gentle smile, sunlight spilling through the small hut, the scent of herbs, and the bright red pop fruit resting in her tiny hand. They only come in pieces and feelings, random snippets that should fill the empty spaces, but she can never be sure how they truly fit together. Their alignment is never right.
But she never dwells on it for long, as the fragile memories are quickly overshadowed by the chaos of her teen years. She can easily remember the endless sparring, the training that left her bloodied, and the faces of those she holds accountable. But worst of all, she recalls every second of the night that changed everything - the night the fire came.
Azgeda’s raiders had descended on her small village beneath a dark sky. Shadows leapt across her hut, and the screams of neighbors tore through the cold air. She cowered under her tiny bed, listening to her father fight and flinching at her mother’s terrified cries. By dawn, her home lay in ruins, and she counted ten bodies as she stood where her front door should be. Walking around back, she saw five more - one of which was a child no older than her.
In the end, only sixty survivors remained, and all were guided by her father toward the city of Polis. There, she got a glimpse at Heda’s mercy, watched her people rebuild what had been lost, and felt her eyes open to a new kind of hope.
She had reached Polis, but of course that hope did not last. Heda discovered her unusually dark blood, and her family was forced out of the city as well as shamed for trying to conceal her. For attempting to shield her from a destiny far greater than their own.
She screamed, she cried, and she fought with everything a 13-year-old could manage. That fire became fuel for her training, and she grew faster and stronger with each passing day. Her hours were filled with sparring, lessons in hunting, and the discipline of command. Any ordinary schooling was discarded in favor of learning to control Omegas and one day rule the clans.
All of it unfolded within the city she had once dreamed of, yet that same city had taken her family, forced her to kill her friends, and shown her its true face. Polis was a nightmare, and even nine years later, it remained unchanged.
The present half-returns to her senses, and she remembers where she is as an Omega crawls closer, sniffing and reaching, guided only by instinct. She feels no interest in this Omega, yet she still leans forward on her throne, though only to escape the memories that are slowly fading away like mist.
Not everyone is promised an Omega. She remembers a trusted advisor revealing to her recently that there aren’t enough Omegas in Polis for every Alpha. She didn’t reveal that truth to her people, but she knows they know - she sees it in the concerning way the unmated look at Omegas and how the mated control their Omegas. Yet those without one cling to the hope of mating with an Omega . . . and she is no different. She is naive like the rest, though she willingly chooses to be.
I will not get this one, she thinks to herself as the Omega turns away, their instinct carrying them to another Alpha. She wishes she could say she was disappointed; she wishes she could say she truly put any thought into it. No Omega has chosen her - not truthfully - and part of her doesn’t care. Part of her doesn’t want to.
A quiet voice breaks through the fog that is her thoughts, the voice soft but carrying enough weight to pull her back to the present properly. “Heda,” someone whispers, leaning close enough that she can feel the warmth of their breath. “They’re done. The Seeking is over.”
She blinks as the words settle over her. Slowly, she lifts her eyes, and her gaze sweeps across the hall. The Omegas have settled, some trembling and others nestled near their newly chosen mates. Those who did not choose a mate sit in dread and disbelief, likely trying to make sense of what their future holds.
She allows her eyes to move past them and to the scattered guards and attendants that all wait for her signal, but she ignores them until her focus finally lands on the familiar face to her right. Anya, she almost whispers the name.
Anya is already watching her. The older Alpha’s gaze softens in the way it only does when their eyes meet, and the faintest curve of understanding touches her lips. “We can go, Lexa,” she murmurs, voice still low, meant for only her ears.
For a moment, Lexa says nothing, then inhales before rising from her throne. She moves slowly, her movements deliberate as she’s a perfect picture of control. Her shoulders are squared, yet there’s a quiet release beneath it all. The kind that comes from a mix of exhaustion and relief that the ceremony is over. She descends the steps of the dais without a word, not bothering to look at the participants or the people who nod politely as she passes. Lexa’s gaze stays forward until she’s outside the ceremonial hall.
It’s only when the doors close behind them that Anya finally turns to her. “Where do you want to go?” She asks, voice gentle.
Lexa keeps her eyes on Anya, tracking every deliberate step Anya makes as the distance between them shrinks, until Lexa finds herself pressed against the cold stone wall. She takes that moment to study Anya’s face, though it’s really not needed. Lexa has long since committed every feature of Anya to memory. “. . .” Lexa turns her head slightly to the right to look down the hall. She does not show any acknowledgement of the figures there - one of which she assumes must be Anya’s troublesome Sekon (Second) - and simply watches as they duck out of view.
Anya leans in and tilts her head down. Lexa guesses her aim is her neck, likely intending to brush her lips against the skin there.
“Let us go sightseeing,” Lexa says. Anya freezes mid-motion.
Her head lifts. “Sightseeing?” She echoes. “Really?”
- - - - - - - - - -
“Leksa, this is not what I imagined,” comes a sharp, annoyed voice.
Lexa tears her focus away from the rising sun and glances at Anya, catching the sharp edge in her gaze. Lexa chooses to ignore it. “And what is it you imagined?” She asks, even though she’s certain she knows the answer.
“A laugh,” Anya replies too quickly. She tries not to sound too frustrated. “An ‘I was only joking.’ I did not expect to trek for 24 hours to go sightseeing. I thought by now we would have retired to our chambers-”
“And why would that be the outcome you were expecting? You asked what I wanted to do. I said I wanted to go sightseeing.” She motions ahead of them. “Here we are. And you did not trek for 24 hours. You rode a horse for around 10 hours.”
Anya shakes her head, huffing in exasperation. “You also say you want to stop eating so much pop fruit, yet there’s always a fresh bowl on our table.”
Lexa says nothing, purposely letting the comment drift past, and turns her gaze back to the subject they have been ‘sightseeing’: the Skaikru camp. She doesn’t make a habit of watching them. Their chaos usually gives her a headache; the noise claws at the edge of her mind, always leaving her feeling puzzled over how these people are still alive. From her vantage point, hidden in the trees, she can see the camp that stretches across the clearing and the figures that move like ants among the scattered tents.
Lexa and Anya are not alone in their ‘sightseeing.’ Others from Trigedakru surround them, all of them hidden in the branches and behind trunks, yet each observing the camp as well.
Lexa loses count of just how many of the Skaikru are out in the open, and she sighs quietly. They steal my land and seem very comfortable with that fact.
The Skaikru crashed into her land nearly three years ago. At first, it was a small group, most of whom have disappeared, leading her to assume they’ve died. The group was noisy and confused most of the time, and they were desperate to live, a desire that the ones who fell to the ground in the grey object a year later shared. From observation, she has begun to believe that it is in their nature to function in such a disorderly manner. Yet that understanding does not stop her from wondering how they remain alive despite so many obvious failings.
Like the camp layout, which is something that always makes Anya snort in amusement whenever the two try to make sense of it, tents are scattered haphazardly, with no regard for order or efficiency. Random crates and boxes are strewn between them, apparently abandoned, and serving no purpose beyond cluttering the ground. She almost always wonders why they don’t break them down, but she must acknowledge the one structure that seems planned: a singular, well-sized hut near the edge of the clearing.
From various observations over the last year, Lexa has taken note of its purpose: a makeshift medical hut, where the sick are carried in and, all too often, the dead are carried out. Its placement puzzles her because the hut sits vulnerable and exposed on the edge of the camp.
The branches around her whisper as the Trikru around her shift their weight. She hears their quiet sighs and small huffs of amusement, and Lexa leans forward just enough to catch the rhythm of the camp again. Skaikru should not have lasted as long as they have. A year ago, she came to them and threatened to kill them all, but they were in such a pathetic state that she assumed they’d be dead the next week. Yet here they are, somehow alive.
“They hurt my head,” Lexa says quietly. “Three years, Anya.” Her hand gestures toward the camp that’s stretched out below them. “Three years and they are still lost.”
Anya nods, eyes scanning the camp. “But they’re doing better than before.” She tilts her chin toward the big fence enclosing the camp. “They’ve attempted protection. Structure. Order, even if it’s imperfect.”
Lexa wants to argue. She wants to point out their slow progress and that their adaptation is part of the problem, but she swallows the words. Instead, she nudges Anya lightly with her shoulder and tilts her head toward the only tree standing within the camp. “What’s with that one?”
Their gaze falls on the lone tree. It isn’t tall, barely half the height of the forest giants that surround the camp, yet it thrives stubbornly in the poor soil. Its trunk forks midway, forming a natural U that seems almost deliberately made for someone to sit in. And someone is there. A Skaikru girl sits curled within the curve, knees drawn to her chest, her head resting lightly on them.
Anya opens her mouth to explain who the girl is, only to close it again. She doesn’t interrupt and lets Lexa study the girl, letting Lexa take in the details as though absorbing a painting. Lexa’s green eyes sweep over the blonde hair first, taking note of its bright and unearthly color that is a stark contrast against the muted brown of the camp. Then they drift downward, noting the clothes that hang too loosely on the girl’s frame, as if they were borrowed or ill-fitted. Finally, her eyes linger on the girl’s skin, pale and muted, and far too faint for someone meant to be alive.
Anya hums softly in quiet amusement. “She’ll tan,” she says, and it’s impossible not to detect the teasing undertone.
Lexa sits up straighter, cheeks warming at the smirk she can feel rather than see. “I- I know,” she lies, and her throat is suddenly too dry. Truthfully, she had expected this unusual skin color to be shared among the entirety of Skaikru, not just some. She assumed that perhaps those from the sky carried little color in their veins.
Anya nods once, then leans a fraction forward. “Just as I am to assume you know she’s the leader’s daughter?”
Lexa stiffens and turns fully to face her. “Is she? And . . . and you learned this how?”
“Runners,” Anya says softly. “They notice everything. They’ve reported on the closeness between her and the leader, though they say the relationship seems to have worsened over time. They shout at one another frequently.” She pauses. “Normally, there is someone at her side. I am not sure where they are now, but they share a bond that appears to be closer than the one she holds with her mother.”
Lexa frowns. “A sibling?”
Anya shakes her head. “She’s an only child, at least as far as I can tell.”
Lexa studies the girl again. She lets her gaze roam the delicate frame and the fragile posture, then turns back to Anya. “Does she have a title?”
“I’m sure she does,” Anya says lightly, almost teasing. “But you won’t find the answer from me. The runners are better at watching than listening.”
Lexa’s eyes narrow, and a park of realization lights them. “She is the one-”
“From the bridge,” Anya interrupts, nodding once. “Yes.”
“And the one-”
“Who burned three hundred of your warriors,” Anya finishes, her voice calm but firm. “Yes.”
Lexa lets the words settle before she nods slowly, stands, and brushes the dirt from her clothing with precise movements. “I have seen enough,” she murmurs, her voice low, almost to herself, before turning away from the camp and the lone tree that cradles the girl.
Anya watches the girl for a moment longer, then shifts her gaze to Lexa as she too stands up. “And what is it you’re going to do now?” She asks.
Lexa shrugs, but the answer comes before she speaks as someone steps forward, adjusting her shoulder pad with a practiced hand. “I promised to revisit them,” Lexa says, voice low. “I have no obligations back in Polis, and I did not walk twenty-four hours for nothing.”
Anya lets a small smile shape her lips. “Oh, so it’s a twenty-four-hour walk for you, but a ten-hour ride for me?” She teases, though she doesn’t truly expect an answer. Lexa gives only a sidelong glance, eyes holding the faintest traces of amusement. “You made that promise a year ago,” Anya presses. She watches as Lexa smooths the red fabric over her shoulder. “Has this been your plan the whole time?” But Anya already knows the answer. Of course it has. Of course, Lexa would appear on a random morning, unannounced, without giving anyone a warning. Lexa will never admit it, but Anya is fairly certain she enjoys quietly tormenting the Sky People, likely taking amusement in their unease and the small, careful adjustments under her watchful eye. All of this without her needing to raise a hand.
Lexa tilts her head, and Anya blinks, suddenly remembering herself.
“And what do you intend to do with them?” Anya asks.
Lexa shrugs again, but when her gaze meets Anya’s, there’s a glint there - a spark, really - that says she already has a plan. Anya shakes her head in quiet amusement, and Lexa watches the movement closely, her eyes tracking it with the precision of a predator. The faintest curve of her mouth betrays her secret satisfaction.
Nothing interesting ever happens in the camp, or rather, the camp exists in a way that prevents anything interesting from happening. It moves with a quiet order, running on an unspoken schedule that keeps everyone busy and unwilling - maybe unable - to think about the truth: for a full year now, they have been waiting for the day the Grounder Commander keeps her promise to return.
Each morning, before the sun has even begun to rise, people are already awake. They move through their tasks with practiced precision, tending fires, checking the fence, distributing supplies, and performing small jobs. No one complains, and if they do, their words are swallowed by the routine as their tasks are still completed at the end of the day, and they still rise again before dawn the next day.
Just like everyone else, she has her own list of duties, a collection of chores and responsibilities that is meant to fill the hours. But she never prioritizes them. Not because the day lacks time - there is always time within the camp - but because she refuses to let work act as a child against thoughts or feelings. Instead, she wanders to the camp’s lone tree and climbs into its arms with effortless grace, then settles into the curve that serves as her perch. There she spends her days and lets the world pass beneath her. She has decided that if she must stick to a routine, then let it be one devoted entirely to doing nothing.
Even though she thinks sourly of the camp for avoiding anything interesting, she cannot entirely blame them. Every time the camp experiences change or disruption, there is always a consequence: people are taken, people die, death threats are issued, or - worse still - she somehow gets involved in the core conflict or finds herself at the center of it. She has learned over the years that the smallest spark can ignite chaos, and chaos carries a cost. So she agrees that it is better to occupy the hours quietly and spend her days perched above the noise, than risk the turmoil that comes with even a single ‘interesting’ day.
Still, their existence is far from normal. The camp’s routines are strange, rigid, and almost absurd in their consistency. Yet over time, this monotony becomes a peculiar sort of normalcy, the lifeblood of the place. The people settle into it and find safety in repetition, in the absence of excitement or risk. And she cannot help but acknowledge that for all its dullness, this careful existence is the only thing keeping them intact. They would simply crumble if they had to take action.
“Hey, Clarkey~”
Clarke pauses for a heartbeat. “Raven,” she says, not needing to turn to know who it is. She could pick that voice out anywhere, from the quiet edge to it and the bite that is softened just enough to sound almost amused. She’s learned it from years of knowing Raven.
The two met when they were younger, back on the Ark, just two Omegas whose paths crossed for reasons neither of them had cared to maintain. Clarke hadn’t planned on ever seeing Raven again after their first run-in. The encounter had been brief, and if Clarke was honest, a little irritating. People went on to joke that ‘every blonde needs a brunette,’ as if personality and compatibility could be predicted by hair color alone. Clarke ignored both the saying and the girl.
It wasn’t until they all came down to Earth that she and Raven found themselves circling back to each other. What began as reluctant proximity turned into something almost like understanding. Understanding that was born out of shared history and, unfortunately, a complicated, mutual interest in Finn. But as soon as that interest went away for both of them, their friendship grew, and here they are, somehow playing into the saying so many said to Clarke years ago.
“Clarke!”
She jolts, nearly losing her balance before her wide eyes find Raven standing below. “What?”
“I asked what you’re doing,” Raven says, voice somewhere between exasperation and amusement. She’s standing at the base of the tree, one hand against the trunk as she tilts her head back to look up. “Do you realize how much time you spend up there?”
“I do,” Clarke replies evenly, and she lounges back against the curve of the tree. “I like to relax.”
Raven snorts. “You say that, but you don’t look very relaxed.” Her gaze sweeps over Clarke’s body, taking note of the limbs that are tucked awkwardly and the slightly hunched shoulders. When her eyes lift again, her brows are raised in judgment. “Not even close.”
“Looks can be deceiving.”
Raven groans, and she drags a hand down her face as if she has been physically pained. “God, that was terrible,” she mutters, rolling her eyes. “And yet somehow I’m the one standing here dignifying your cringe-ass response. Whatever, just know your back looks like it’s dying.”
Clarke sighs and sits up. She leans forward until the stretch forces a few quiet pops from her spine. Raven’s grin widens immediately. “It didn’t hurt,” Clarke insists, pretending not to notice the look Raven gives her.
Raven crosses her arms, smirking.
“It wasn’t hurting,” Clarke says, “until you said something.”
“Sure, Clarkey,” Raven teases. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, or in this tree. Now scootch over, make room for a girl to join you.”
Clarke does as instructed, and she scoots over to make space in the middle of the tree. She watches as Raven plants a foot against the trunk, digs her foot in, and tries to hoist herself up, only for her foot to slip. Clarke says nothing, and she sticks to observing the stubborn determination in Raven’s face.
Raven takes a step back, and she looks at the trunk as if running calculations in her head. As an engineer who prides herself on solving problems, she refuses to let a tree that won’t be around in 2 years defeat her. She nods once and makes another attempt.
Clarke listens as Raven grunts with each new effort. There’s a soft curse under her breath before Raven steps back again, now glaring up at Clarke. “Do you need help?”
Raven exhales sharply, “Yes.”
Clarke drops down from the tree in a smooth motion, landing lightly beside the trunk. She dusts her hands off and steps behind Raven, her hands finding purchase on Raven’s hips. Together, they work to get Raven into the tree. Clarke grunts for Raven to stop being a dead weight, and Raven argues back that she is carrying her own weight. After many attempts with Raven half-pulling herself up and half being pushed up, Raven finally swings herself onto the branch.
Clarke steps back and watches Raven from her new spot below as Raven shifts and squirms, testing the tree’s sturdiness before finally settling in the middle. “Well?” Clarke asks once the fidgeting stops.
Raven brushes stray hair out of her face. “Who knew climbing was so hard?”
Clarke only shrugs, saying nothing, but the corner of her mouth twitches.
Raven isn’t deterred. “I mean, I would’ve definitely fallen a couple of times without your help.”
Still, Clarke stays quiet. She gives only a small nod of acknowledgment as her eyes linger on Raven. Part of her is tempted to climb back up and share the space beside Raven, but a sudden sound freezes her in place.
A scream. A sharp, raw, and cutting scream that interrupts the lazy hum of the camp like a blade. It’s louder than anything Clarke’s heard in months - maybe in the whole past year. Ever since the Commander left, the camp has existed in an uneasy quiet, the kind that settles like dust. So a scream that loud doesn’t just echo. It rattles.
Across the clearing, people stop mid-motion, conversations falter, tools drop, and heads turn toward the sound. The scream came from near the front entrance, where a woman now stands trembling, and a basket of random items has spilled across the dirt at her feet.
“Them- they-” She stammers, voice quivering, but whatever she was about to say dies in her throat. In an instant, she turns and bolts, disappearing into her tent without another word and leaving the entire camp staring after her.
Clarke and Raven share a glance, both of their faces sharing an expression of confusion.
“Well,” Raven says first, her voice quiet and almost casual but not quite, “someone’s having a bad day. Maybe she just really hates her chore.” Her legs swing lazily for a few seconds until she goes still. Clarke notices it immediately: the shift in her posture, the way Raven’s spine straightens, and how her eyes lock on something past Clarke’s shoulder. All the color drains from Raven’s face.
Clarke feels the tension rise in her chest as she slowly turns to follow Raven’s gaze. The air seems to thicken, and the usual camp noises fade into silence. She sees it then. Sees what it is that has the entire camp frozen. Clarke’s breath catches, and she can hear her heartbeat thudding in her ears. “Looks like everyone’s day is about to get bad,” she murmurs, standing a little straighter.
Near the double gates, a lone figure stands. Their chin is lifted, their posture unwavering, and every inch of them radiates quiet confidence. They wear black from neck to boot, the kind of black that swallows light, and the only color they do wear is a vivid red cloak draped over one shoulder. The cloth barely conceals the twin swords resting against their hips, both hilts gleaming with use rather than polish.
But it isn’t this solitary presence that has the Sky People backing away from the fence, their voices rising in startled whispers. It’s what’s behind the person. It’s the shadows that shift between the trees and the outline of a force only held back by the command of the lone person. Nearly two hundred Trikru warriors stand hidden in the forest’s edge, their armor and eyes glinting in the dark of the forest.
“Well, shit,” Raven breathes quietly, her voice barely audible.
Clarke says nothing as her eyes lock on the figure before them. It’s immediately clear to her that the newcomer is female. The way their shirt clings just enough to reveal the shape of her body gives Clarke little reason to doubt her assumption. But if the outline of her form weren’t reason enough, the long brown braid that has been swung over her shoulder confirms it perfectly.
The woman’s gaze sweeps across the Skaikru camp, and she doesn’t bother to try to hide her judgment. What exactly she is judging, no one can say for certain, yet most assume she is judging everything from the layout to the fence to the scattered belongings, but above all, the people themselves. When she finally speaks, her voice cuts through the quiet camp effortlessly, “Ai laik Heda” (I am the Commander).
Clarke shifts slightly, and she turns her body just enough to face her fully.
“Commander of the Twelve Clans,” the woman continues. “Leader of the clan whose land you have made your temporary home.” She lets the camp settle under her gaze for a moment longer. The silence stretches with a weight that presses on everyone present, especially those who took notice of the word ‘temporary’. “And I have come to speak with your leader, Abi.”
“Abby?” A murmur ripples through the crowd, soft at first, then growing and spreading like a wildfire. Soon, everyone is whispering the name, and glances are shared nervously between one another, until all eyes settle on a single person: Clarke.
What- no. Clarke takes a cautious step back, pressing herself against the rough back of the tree as if it could somehow shield her from their gaze. I’m not Abby, she almost blurts, but the words die in her throat; she doesn’t want to draw any more attention to herself. Instead, she shifts just slightly behind the trunk, lowers her eyes to the ground, and lets her body shrink into itself. If she ignores them, maybe they’ll do the same.
It’s not that Clarke is unused to speaking in public or to holding power. She’s saved these people more times than she cares to count, but this is different. She has no interest in talking to a strange woman, let alone the leader of the clans that currently hate her people. That is a burden she refuses to carry, so she decides at that moment that she wants nothing to do with this woman, or whatever authority she commands.
Clarke shuffles her feet and risks a small glance upward toward the woman. She looks young, Clarke realizes almost immediately. She can’t be much older than me. Maybe twenty? In a normal setting, they’d be on similar grounds, but age means nothing here. Rank does. So, Clarke still chooses not to engage and sticks to her desire not to be drawn in. She crosses her arms tightly across her chest, making her stance on the matter clear: she is staying out of this.
“Well, I’ll say it.”
Heads turn toward the far right of the crowd as it parts to reveal the culprit.
Raven rolls her eyes the second she spots them. “Oh, just wonderful,” she mutters under her breath. “Just what we need. Finn Collins.” Her fingers curl around the edge of the tree as she leans slightly forward, lips pressing into a thin line. Sometimes she wishes they were still on the Ark. At least there she could avoid her ex effortlessly. Here, she runs into him at least twice a day.
Clarke makes a small noise of acknowledgement, which is the only admission she can give that Raven is right. Finn shouldn’t be out here. He shouldn’t be speaking. He shouldn’t even exist in this space where every word he says has the potential to make things worse. And it’s not only his words that they have to worry about.
“I can’t believe I slept with him,” Raven blurts. Her voice is still quiet, but it’s sharp enough to get through Clarke’s thoughts. “I can’t believe you almost slept with him.”
Clarke lifts her gaze, and she looks at Raven, surprised by the sudden bluntness.
Raven shrugs. “I’m just trying to cope with our imminent death,” she murmurs, glancing briefly at the Commander again, the red cloak and swords catching her eye. She looks away. “I have the feeling someone is going to die today, or come really close to it.”
Clarke has no response. She lets her attention shift back to Finn, who is now pushing his way to the front of the crowd so he can stand in front of the Commander.
Raven swings her legs slowly, kicking at nothing and trying to ground herself. “Honestly, why is it always him?” She asks, though the question is more meant for herself than anyone else.
Finn stops in front of the gates. He juts his chest out and holds his chin high, all in an attempt to make himself look important. His eyes rake over the Commander, measuring and sizing her up, but she doesn’t flinch. She just tilts her head slightly, the boredom clear on her face. “You say you’re the leader,” he starts, “but how do we know you’re not some pup playing dress-up?”
The Commander raises a single brow and lets her gaze sweep over him slowly. She notes his open-toed shoes, the flimsy shorts, the shirt that barely hangs on his shoulders. Then she glances up at the mass of her people that stand behind her before returning her attention to Finn. She wonders quietly, how do you not know?
Finn presses on, “On top of that, why should we listen to you? You stand outside of our fence.”
The Commander’s eyes narrow for a fraction of a second as she lets the words sink in. “And yet you are surrounded by my forest,” she says evenly. She watches as his mouth opens and closes, his brain scrambling for something, anything to say that will counter her. Before he can find it, she continues, cutting him off, “You ask why you should listen to me, so I ask why I should listen to you?”
Finn’s eyes blaze. “I am Finn, one of the many Alphas here, and-”
“I have heard enough,” she interrupts. “I have no interest in talking to-” The Commander pauses, letting the moment stretch. Her eyes lock on him again, “You.”
Finn growls and steps forward as if that act of aggression might shift the power balance. But it does nothing. The Commander doesn’t even flinch, and her gaze drifts back to the forest, ignoring him entirely. “You little-”
“Alright!” Bellamy moves fast. He slides in beside Finn and grabs his shoulder firmly. “You’re done,” he hisses, a whisper meant only for him. He glances at the Commander, who regards him with the same detached boredom she gave Finn. There’s no fire in her eyes, no fear, and no reaction beyond mild acknowledgment.
Finn doesn’t resist as Bellamy guides him back through the crowd and away from the gates.
“I will not say this again,” the Commander’s voice cuts across the camp again. “I have more than enough of my people ready to tear down this weak fence of yours!” She lets her eyes wander over the crowd again. “I will have them do so if that is what it takes to speak with Abi.”
A tense silence stretches across the clearing. People instinctively step back, some gripping tools a little tighter, some holding their breath, and murmurs of fear escape their lips.
“That will not be necessary.” Abby emerges. She walks steadily from the medical hut, which the crowd has mostly obscured. Every eye in the camp follows her path, and even the Commander’s sharp gaze flickers briefly to track her. Abby stops at the gate and positions herself fully in the Commander’s view. “I am right here, Commander,” she says. “I have been expecting you for a year now.”
She says nothing, simply studies Abby with a slow, calculating move of her eyes. She looks at every detail: Abby’s stance, her expression, and the subtle tension in her shoulders.
Abby glances at a nearby Sky People guard. “Open the gates,” she instructs, “it seems I have a lot to discuss with the Commander.”
The guard hesitates for barely a heartbeat before stepping forward and doing as told. The gates groan and creak under their own weight as they swing open. They also listen to the metal hinges shriek against each other in a sound that makes the Commander flinch slightly, though she does not take a step back. Rather, she watches the slow mechanical movement with the faintest hint of irritation as a muscle twitches along her jaw at the noise.
Once the gates are fully open, a group of Tree People emerges from the forest, and they form a disciplined line behind the Commander as she steps forward into the camp. Their presence alone is enough to make the Skaikru pause as their eyes track the group, their hearts hammering quietly in their chests. A few even instinctively step back, keeping distance from the emerging line of warriors.
Clarke looks up from the ground and watches the Commander as she moves. That’s when she notices it. The Commander’s steps, though measured and precise, carry a faint stiffness and restraint to them that doesn’t quite fit the confidence she projects. The Commander’s eyes glance across the camp in quick, assessing glances, tracking every movement, every shuffle of feet, and every breath that sounds too close. Clarke studies her more closely, noting that beneath the calm exterior and steady posture, there’s tension. The Commander isn’t fearless. She’s watching for danger just as intently as everyone else, and it hits Clarke then: the Commander is just as wary of the Sky People as they are of her.
Clarke looks around to try to see if anyone else in camp has realized the same thing, but no one else appears to have. She sighs quietly and thinks to herself, I must be imagining it. I’m delusional. Yet, she can’t shake the certainty in her gut.
The Commander pauses just inside the camp and turns to the small group that has followed her. “Onya ste ogeda kom ai.” (Anya is with me) Her words come quickly, and she doesn’t wait for a response before continuing. “Thri guards ste gon miya seintaim.” (Three guards are to come too)
When she finishes, every Grounder in the group nods their head in unison. “Sha, Heda,” they respond. Their voices are sharp and perfectly synchronized. The precision strikes Clarke immediately, and she wonders what exactly occurs within Polis to elicit this level of obedience.
Clarke leans slightly forward and observes as the Grounders move with their usual practiced efficiency. A few of them take positions by the camp gates, others are stationed inside, and some are stationed outside. They don’t brandish their weapons in the ready stance, but the way they hold them says they could strike in an instant. Clarke’s gaze drifts toward the forest line, and she realizes that the rest have vanished from view, yet she can’t shake the feeling that they are still watching. How long have they been watching? She wonders quietly, thinking that maybe for the past year they’ve been under surveillance.
Three guards flank the Commander. One stands a short distance to her left, another mirrors the stance on the right, and the third hovers a few paces behind. Between the left guard and the Commander, a woman stands - a brunette with blonde at the roots. There’s something about her that doesn’t match the others, something subtle yet distinct. Clarke’s gaze lingers, and she feels the faintest flicker of recognition stirring in the back of her mind. Her head tilts to the side as she studies the woman.
“They’re like zombies.”
Clarke snaps her head to the side and blinks up at Raven. “What?”
“The people,” Raven mutters. She looks over the Grounders. “All of them. They’re just ‘sha’ this and ‘sha’ that.” She shakes her head. “It’s kind of sad.”
Clarke gives a small nod. She watches as Abby guides the Grounder leader and her chosen entourage toward what remains of the Ark. There isn’t much left to it now. Just a single surviving ring, with one patched-up hall extension that is barely stable enough to serve as a meeting space. The rest of the structure is little more than an open framework and exposed wires that spark from time to time. Still, despite the risk of the whole thing coming down on them, most meetings are held there.
Abby is the first to step into the Ark, followed closely by Kane. The Grounder leader trails behind them, though her pace slows near the threshold. She leans in toward the brunette beside her and murmurs something too soft for anyone else to hear. What is said makes the other woman pause, and suddenly they are both lingering in the doorway, as if they are now uncertain whether to enter or not.
The Commander’s eyes sweep over the Ark’s interior first. She studies the cold metal walls, the harsh lights that hum faintly overhead, and the strange scents she can’t put a name to.
Next to the Commander, her partner doesn’t look inward but, rather, outward. She glances back past the guards that surround them. She finds Finn first, then her eyes slide to Raven, before finally landing on Clarke. Her expression shifts ever so slightly, and something in her stance sharpens. She looks at Clarke for a moment longer before she leans close to the Commander and whispers, “em rak laik paken.” (Her breasts are full)
The Commander goes still, and a subtle shift of tension threads through her shoulders from an awareness that wasn’t there moments ago. Her jaw flexes, but she offers no reply. The brunette leans closer, murmuring something under her breath, and the Commander allows herself to look over her shoulder. Her eyes settle on Clarke, and she takes her time, letting her gaze drift across the girl’s form as she takes in the details with no judgment. She registers the curve of her chest briefly, but her interest lies not in the area, even if that is where most of her people’s interest goes. Her focus shifts to Clarke’s eyes, and Lexa inhales softly.
“Em proli kom au gaffou.” (She would be wanted)
“Osir nou hou taim em ste a Omka.” (We do not know if she is an Omega) She glances briefly to the person beside her, catching the expression that is caught somewhere between ‘are you serious’ and ‘are you stupid’. She ignores it and repeats softly, “Em proli kom au gaffou.”
“She’s pretty,” her partner whispers, and when the Commander looks at her, they are already looking away.
Her eyes return to Clarke, retracing the frame once more before a low, thoughtful hum escapes her lips. Then, without another word, she turns and steps forward into the Ark like nothing had happened.
Outside the Ark, the camp falls into a cautious quiet. No one speaks, though dozens of eyes flit from one person to the next, from the open gate to the Trikru guards standing stiffly at the entrance. The air is heavy, thick with tension and disbelief. A cough breaks the silence somewhere near the fence, and a whisper follows, “What now?”
No one answers. No one dares. The pause stretches until a small boy, perhaps seven or eight, shatters it with a voice far too loud for the moment, “holy shit!” The words stumble awkwardly from his tongue, too foreign and clumsy to be part of his regular vocabulary. “Mama, who was that?”
His mother shrugs and smooths the moment over with a practiced lie. “I don’t know,” she says, grabs his small hand, and steers him toward their tent. “Inside. I’ll send your father to get your siblings.”
“But Mama-”
“No buts. Inside. Now.” Her voice leaves no room for argument.
The boy drags his feet, muttering under his breath as he goes, until he disappears behind the flap of his tent. Then, the camp erupts. Voices rise at once, overlapping, shouting, arguing, and speculating all at once. Groups form quickly into tight little circles of people that talk over the echo of their neighbors. Clarke leans against the tree and lets the chatter wash over her.
Some talk about the Grounders, asking each other why they have arrived now and what they have been doing for the past year. Others wonder what this sudden appearance means for the Sky People and what dangers will follow. A few mutter insults under their breath: “dirty Grounders,” “animals.”
One man insists the newcomers want to drive them off their land, only to be cut down by another’s flat reply, “We are on their land, you numb brain.” Laughter ripples through a small group; some nod in agreement, but no one else dares to speak their agreement.
A voice cracks suddenly, “They are going to eat us all!”
The camp goes still again, all heads turn, and eyes lock on the speaker.
“What? Everyone knows they’re cannibals!” The person argues back, yet the others continue to look at them. “They are!” They insist, fiercer this time, hellbent on standing their ground.
Next to speak is Finn. He steps forward and appears to be trying to mimic the authority the leader had wielded just minutes ago, but the effect is immediate and disastrous. His voice cracks halfway through the first sentence, forcing him to lower it to something between a shout and a wheeze. “No need to speculate and guess. All we know-”
Clarke exhales quietly. This should be good.
“-is they are going to do something bad.”
Clarke was so desperately hoping she wasn’t right. She redirects her eyes to the forest around them, looking at nothing in particular, just as long as she’s not looking at Finn.
A few gasps ripple through the crowd. Fear threads through the whispers, more urgent this time from the panic brought on by Finn’s declaration.
Raven leans back slightly on the tree, and her lips press into a thin line as she watches the murmurs start again. “They can’t be surprised,” she mutters under her breath. “Grounders haven’t exactly proven themselves to be nice people.”
Clarek gives a small, dry nod. “Mhmm,” she hums.
Finn pushes on, “This is no shock,” he says. “They are Grounders.”
The words ignite a fresh wave of gossip. Clarke presses herself further into the curve of the tree, crossing her arms, and scans the crowd of people. She can’t tell if anyone is actually listening to Finn or just reacting to the sound of a voice trying to lead. For a moment, she wonders what Finn is even trying to accomplish. If his goal is to stir up rumors and fuel fear, then he has succeeded. If he aims to generate ideas about what might happen next, then he has - again - succeeded. However, if he hoped to put himself in a leadership role and calm nerves, then he has spectacularly failed.
- - - - - - - - - -
An hour passes slowly, each minute dragging like a weight. The initial shock of the Grounders’ arrival has begun to fade, and the camp cautiously shifts back toward its everyday rhythm. Guards return to their posts, though they position themselves noticeably farther from the fence, and not a single one turns their back toward the forest - not even for a second.
“It’s been an hour!” Someone says, voice easily carrying across the clearing. “Do you think Abby is dead?”
“She can’t be! We would’ve heard a gun!” Another shouts back.
“You idiot!” Comes a sharp rebuttal. “Grounders can’t use firearms. It’s too complicated for them.” The voice drops, almost in thought, “they’re more like cavemen. You’ve all heard them talk!”
Clarke makes a face, certain that the person is wrong and that they should keep their voice down. The last thing anyone needs is to offend the Trikru standing within earshot. Still, she says nothing. Instead, she lets her head fall back against the rough trunk of the tree, closes her eyes, and exhales a quiet sigh. She silently wishes that the meeting would just end already.
The Commander stands at the head of the long table, her gaze fixed on Abby. She schools her expression into neutrality, though the faint twitch of her jaw betrays the truth: she’s bored and is barely restraining her irritation. Nearly an hour has crawled by, and Abby is yet to say anything of substance - or at least anything the Commander would consider worth hearing. Had she known this meeting would be such a waste of time, she might have accepted the earlier offer to sit. But standing keeps her alert. Sitting - she suspects - would have lulled her toward sleep.
She made her position clear thirty minutes ago. She offered a fair proposal - complete protection from her clan and the others - that would benefit her people; if Skaikru could manage to obey, they might as well. Yet here they remain, the words circling the same ground like vultures, and Abby still lingers at the opposite end of the table, staring as though she’s trying to decipher a foreign language. And yes, the Commander isn’t great at English, but she made sure to speak it when addressing Abby.
Abby had listened. She understood every word the Commander said, but that does not mean she understood. It’s clear where the girl stands, and that knowledge alone makes her uneasy as she studies the Commander across the table. She’s young, Abby thinks. Far too young. A teenager. Definitely the same age as Clarke. And yet, no matter her age, this is the girl that Abby must bargain with to keep her people alive.
Next to Abby, Kane stands quietly as he takes in every word as deliberately as she does. His thoughts mirror hers. Yes, the Commander looks young, far younger than anyone would expect, but Kane has long accepted the uncomfortable truth: this girl’s hands hold their lives, and age is irrelevant. He pushes aside the instinct to dismiss her because of it and says, “That’s good.” He gives a small nod, the gesture meant to acknowledge the Commander’s authority, but she doesn’t need it. Kane knows she doesn’t. When her eyes meet his, he hopes he hasn’t somehow overstepped, but she looks away a moment later, and Kane exhales quietly.
The Commander straightens as she feels her patience thinning. “This deal would ensure your safety and protection,” she says. “I am sure your people believe that a fence offers both, but it does not. It will stall your enemies. It will not stop them.”
Abby nods. “I fear that may be true.” Her gaze flicks to Kane before returning to the Commander. “We do need all the protection we can get, but you offer complete protection without saying what we must do to earn it.”
The Commander’s reply isn’t immediate. She glances toward the empty chair at her side but doesn’t sit. Instead, she shifts her weight as she’s just realized her legs have gone numb from standing too long. “. . .” For a fleeting moment, she looks almost human in the eyes of the Skaikru.
But the moment passes, and the silence stretches between the two groups, long enough for Abby to start shifting on her own feet. The discomfort is evident in her posture, and Lexa watches her closely through narrowed eyes - not unkindly, but with distant interest. Then, without warning, Lexa says, “A trade.” The two words break the stillness like a blade. Her tone is calm, almost soft, but there’s sharp beneath it. Something that can only be found in the faint flicker of her eyes: calculation- no, satisfaction.
Abby recognizes it too late.
This isn’t a new idea that Lexa has come up with. It’s one she’s been saving. A card she planted a year ago during her last visit, and is only now playing from the certainty that her opponent will take her bait. Certain they have no other lifeline, no escape, and as the weight of that realization settles, it’s clear to everyone in the room that Lexa has known this the entire visit.
Abby doesn’t react to the words themselves, but to the look that follows. To the quiet, knowing spark in green eyes and the barest curve of Lexa’s mouth, as if she’s aware that Abby has just realized she’s been led here from the start. And when Lexa only stares, eyes unblinking, Abby discovers that she is meant to see this - that Lexa wants her to see this. A chill travels down Abby’s spine, and she looks away.
The Commander doesn’t press her advantage aloud as she feels no need to. She turns her eyes away and lets the moment pass before continuing, “A simple trade, but it will hold a lot behind it. Including the reassurance that your people will be safe.”
“A trade of what?” Kane asks quietly.
“Omegas.” The Commander pushes through the pause, refusing to let the room slip into another lull. “My people value Omegas more than any technology or advice your people might offer. We seek only a few of your Omegas in exchange for our cooperation toward peace.”
Abby’s eyes narrow. “Are your people not plentiful? Thousands live on your land, do they not?”
She nods once. “They do.” The small gesture shows nothing of the truth she keeps tightly held: fewer than fifteen percent of her people are Omegas. Their fertility has drastically dropped in recent years, and the chance of a successful pregnancy is rare - almost miraculous. She does not speak of it, even as Abby meets her gaze with eyes that ask for more details. “I will select eleven of your Omegas. One for each of the other clans. This is to show that you are not cooperating only with us, but the Coalition as a whole.”
Abby swallows. “And your clan?” She asks.
“My clan will receive four Omegas. They will reside in Polis.”
“. . . and once they are in Polis?”
The Commander shrugs. “They will be asked to take part in an event. If they choose not to, they will remain in Polis and live out the rest of their lives there.” Her tone is neutral, but the underlying implication is clear: the Omegas will have a choice, but the expectation is there.
“So you want fifteen of my Omegas,” Abby says softly, like saying what it is the Commander wants of her will suddenly make it easier to swallow. And it doesn’t, but it clarifies what is expected of Abby. Fifteen Omegas. No more, no less.
“So, tell me,” Abby says, “what will happen to these Omegas? Not just the ones in Polis. The ones you plan to send to the clans.”
The Commander shrugs again. Even she cannot promise how every clan will treat them. She knows the customs. Some clans honor and protect their Omegas more than other clans. Some clans keep their Omegas close like a precious resource. Most of the clans treat them as useful, yet dangerous things to be managed. Only Azgeda’s methods would be easy to call cruel, and that fact sits like a stone behind her ribs, but she doesn’t say that. “I cannot guarantee the care of every clan. Some will treat them well, some will not.”
Abby chews the inside of her cheek. She is not only concerned with the morality of the decision, but also the survival, order, and people who will wake to a new reality because of this decision. Still, she can’t help but ask, “Why should we accept the trade?”
“Because I will not let you sit on my land for another year.” Lexa stares at Abby, waiting for a reply, but Abby stays silent. “If you accept this trade, I will choose the Omegas before I leave today.” She looks to the small window and looks at what little of the sky she can see. The sun is still high and she knows she'll have more than enough time before sunset. Her people will be setting up camp an hour away and, if she leaves soon, Lexa hopes she can rest before the next day drags her out of bed at dawn.
Abby frowns. “And this event-”
“Will mark the completion of our deal,” Lexa interrupts. “The finer points of what piece will mean will be discussed afterward. Do we have a deal?”
Abby hesitates before asking the question Lexa was hoping to avoid. “I need to know who you will be picking?”
Lexa traces the shape of a cloud with her eyes. “I have to admit that you have many Omegas. All of them seem . . . healthy. But there is only one I know for certain.” Her eyes find Abby's. “The blonde. The one who stands near the tree.”
Abby's brows lift. “Blonde?” She asks lightly, pretending that she doesn't know how very few blondes live in her camp, or that one of them is her daughter.
Lexa says nothing. Twenty-two years have taught her to recognize when someone older is trying to treat her like a fool. “Do we have a deal?” She asks again, echoing her earlier words.
Abby sighs quietly, “. . . yeah. We got a deal.”
That’s all Lexa needs to hear. She takes that as a reason to leave, dismissing herself, and turns to leave the room.
“Can I ask what makes you want the blonde?” Abby’s voice is quiet, but sharper than Abby intended it to be. It’s only softened by the tremor she can’t quite hide.
Lexa pauses mid-step. She doesn’t need to turn around to picture the look on Abby’s face, and she doesn’t need to see Abby’s expression to know why the question matters. “The blonde seems . . . interesting in a way I did not think possible for Skaikru. Especially for someone who shares your blood.”
Abby tenses.
The door opens with a quiet creak, but Lexa doesn’t leave the room. She waits as she can feel Abby gathering another question in the silence.
“How does this trade ensure you keep your work?” Abby finally asks.
Lexa looks over her shoulder. “It doesn’t,” she says simply. “But I can ensure that my word will be kept as long as you don’t become a threat.” With that, she steps through the doorway and leaves the room.
Abby stares at the door long after it closes. The silence left after the Commander’s departure leaves the room heavier than before. A sigh escapes Abby, “. . .” She braces both hands against the table’s edge and hunches her shoulders forward as her eyes fix on the worn grain of the wood. “They’re all going to hate us,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. She doesn’t bother looking at Kane.
Kane stands still for a moment. He tries to find the words that could make any of this sound better. None comes. Because Abby’s right. Their people will hate them. He exhales and finally says, “They will. But we didn’t have another choice.” He reaches out, resting a hand on her shoulder, but Abby shrugs him off before he can say more. “She had us both by the throat the moment she stepped into camp.”
Abby’s silence stretches, then quietly, “No.” Her voice is low, but she sounds certain. She keeps staring at the table as if the answers might be carved somewhere in the wood. “She had us by the throat the moment she said she’d be back a year ago.” The truth tastes so bitter in Abby’s mouth when she says it. Because she still can’t understand how their lives - all of her people’s lives - ended up in the hands of a girl barely older than her own daughter. And worse, that she walked right into the snare the girl had set a year ago, and nobody even noticed.