Your feet really started hurting two days into your self imposed exile. Each step a constant reminder that walking away from everything had been your choice. To leave everything behind. You can't really remember how long it's been, you think maybe three. The first week was the hardest, Mother Nature rearing her ugly, brutal head, letting it be known just how woefully unprepared for the ground you really were. Legs aching, joints stiff and sore, hunger and thirst becoming a constant companion. But you needed to get away from it all, you think it was the right decision, a selfish decision maybe, but one you needed to make. And so you did.

You'd found berries, and a small stream a week in. Lingering for only a moment, just enough to rest, recuperate just a bit, and then you were moving again, a slow, painful, deserved pace further away from everything.

The second week you ran out of bullets for your handgun after being attacked by an animal intent on eating you. Maybe you would have deserved it, you think you do. But you didn't die when the drop ship came down, and you didn't die between then and the mountain. You sure as shit were too stubborn to die now, even if you felt like you deserved it. You attempt skinning the animal (and quite poorly). What was it? Panther? Cougar? Are they the same thing? You don't care, but you do care about not paying attention to Earth Skills class. Ironic you think. The seemingly most useless class you attended now becomes one you really ought to have paid attention to. Did they even teach how to skin an animal? Nope. The skin you use as a makeshift blanket, a barrier between you and the increasingly cold air, anything to stave off an inevitable, cold, slow death. You think that maybe living is a worse punishment though, alone with your thoughts, and your anger and your hurt and the resentment stifling you.

The tiring, painful days, and the cold, chilling nights leave you with time to think, ponder and go over every decision you made, every choice you chose, every action you took that led you to where you are today. And, after all this time to just think, you're not too sure why you chose the direction that you did when you had started. To get away from the mountain? To put as much distance between you and everyone and everything you know? To the east was the ocean, you knew that much to be true and after the incident with Octavia and the river monster, you really, really wanted to avoid large, ominous bodies of water, plus you can't swim. To the north you think is where the Ice Nation lays. You'd overheard warriors among the chatter of the war camp. You didn't know enough of the language to fully grasp what they were saying, but you remembered hearing Azgeda, you remembered the disgusted looks on the faces and you remembered her story. So not North you decided. You aren't too keen on having your head removed from where it sits above your shoulders. Not yet.

By what you think is the third week you've travelled further away, the trees this far south have grown even taller, even wider than you thought possible. Finding food is surprisingly easy. Berries aren't uncommon where you've found yourself. Eating them is perhaps a gamble though. A game of chance, trial and error. The ones you'd found the first week in had led to you shivering and shaking through the night. You made sure to remember what they looked like. You weren't going to eat them again. Not yet, anyway. You'd found edible berries, their flesh hard, bitter, but seemingly safe. Collecting as many as you could, you had set about finding a place to sleep, to rest. You claimed a fallen tree, it's core rotted but serving as a place to stay. A home. And, at least it was dry - mostly. Water was a challenge, but you'd found a creek meandering an winding its way through the forest, perhaps an hour's walk from the tree.

So you fall into an easy rhythm. Forage for berries. Drink and bathe at the creek. Attempt to start a fire. Some nights you are able, most you give up after your arms become too tired. And you sit. The damp, green moss becoming your bedding. The poorly skinned animal hide your sheeting. The tree, in all its cold, damp, rough glory your home. If this had been a different time, a better time, it might have come to you that it was a beautiful place. Full of birdsong, of the sun filtering through a canopy of green hues and rough, twisted browns. But you don't feel like anything could really be beautiful. Not now. Not after. Not yet. Maybe someday?

Sleep comes fitfully. You don't remember your dreams. Maybe you don't need to. Your waking moments are bad enough. Anger, resentment. Hurt, loss. Lingering just under the surface. Constant companions to add to the ever present hunger and thirst. You aren't so sure who to direct your simmering emotions towards. Her? You? Maybe both you think.

Days bleed into weeks, maybe even a month or two, you aren't sure, you lost count many sleeps ago. Days are filled with poorly made attempts at berry soup, bitter, tasteless and altogether unsatisfying. Proper, satisfying food is something you have longed for since you landed on the earth, probably your whole life with the food of the Ark not really enough to satisfy an ever lingering hunger. You remember setting out one bitter morning. You managed to catch a bird - somehow. Dumb, stupid, beginners luck you think. The feathers you added to your bedding - anything to keep you warm. The bones you fashioned into different tools - poorly. You had slept just a bit more comfortably, your stomach more full than it had been in days. You thought you could have done that forever. You think you can do it forever. So you do. This easy, hard rhythm. Wake, forage, try to hunt, and sit, and sit, and think. And sleep - when it comes. And try to forget.

You wake to the faint crackling of fire, of faint wisps of smoke filling your nostrils and a presence nearby. Lingering, constant, familiar. Maybe it's the lack of food, or just the welcome appearance of warmth and a respite from the biting cold - it has grown far too cold for your space borne body - but it takes you longer than it should to open your eyes. Just a bit, but just enough to glimpse a hunched figure, slowly stirring a flame blackened pot, sitting by the entrance of your hollowed out tree home.

The figure's back is to you but, despite the grey and brown leathers and furs you're sure it's a woman from her frame. Slim, lithe and strong. Familiar.

You rise slowly, blinking away the sleep. Your hand reaches for the makeshift spear you had fashioned, just in case. You see her tense at the sound of you stirring, you see her look over a shoulder at you. Your breath catches. Just enough and just for a moment longer than comfortable before you exhale. Familiar green meets blue. She turns fully to meet you now, cheeks rosy from the cold. face partly wrapped in a protective scarf.

Looks warm, your sleep and nutrition deprived brain thinks.

"You have travelled far," she says, tugging the scarf from her face, "from where you fell."

You stare at her now, shocked, stunned. She followed you all this way? You feel anger bubbling just under the surface, a volcano splitting at the seams, stitching pulling in all directions. Your breathing laboured, coming in hard, ragged gasps, emotions roiling and tumultuous, a hurricane of anger, hurt, loss. And then…

"Go fuck yourself," you seethe. It surprises you how much venom and strength you can muster now. You sit up fully, fists balling, knuckles whitening and teeth grinding. You bring your knees in front of you, to better ward off the cold. Or is it to shield yourself from the last person you want to see? Who caused you so much anger, who you blame. It's not really her that you blame though, is it. Isn't it?

It's not, some part of your muddled brain whispers back.

Surprise flitters across her face for just a moment, recognition, regret maybe? Acceptance probably. She studies you for a long moment, allowing you to sit and stew and seethe and glare glinting daggers her way.

"I am not her," she sighs, breaking you from your surprised and angry stupor. The sound sits comfortably on her lips. You think she knows that sound all too well.

You blink. You stare, mouth agape. That wasn't the response you thought you'd get. An apology? No, but maybe a reason for her actions from her ever logical self. But this? Denying who she is? The response is enough to throw your angry equilibrium off just slightly, turning down your boiling emotions to a warm simmer. You think you must look comical with your lips parted in surprise. You must with the way her mouth quirks up just slightly at the corner, all too familiar, leaving your insides twisting from what, you can't tell (Anger? Resentment? Something else, maybe? Lack of food. Probably).

This whole situation though? The one person who caused all this, is the one person to find you so far from 'd laugh, maybe. Or you'd cry. Who really knows? You do. But you're far too tired to laugh. You're far too dehydrated to cry. Both becoming far too apparent in your tired, starving, bloodied, cold state. Serves you right though, for wandering off, right? Right. You've gone off on a tangent you realise with a start. You should probably close your mouth.

"What?"

"I am not her," she repeats, "I am not Heda," and she gestures now, waving her hand over her head. You see it, the sides shaved close to the scalp leaving a thick, curling mane of hair running along the centre, cascading down her back. An all too familiar set of braids keeping it back and out of her eyes. You spy a tattoo that weaves its way down the right side of her scalp, tucking behind her ear. A vine you think. It's all very… Lincoln of her you realise. Your eyes snap back to hers. Green looks back. You see mirth.

Ok. Maybe she might not be her. You think she isn't but you're tired and dehydrated, and sleeping on the cold, hard, shitty ground sucks so you might just be crazy enough to be imagining this, with it all in your head. It'd be funny even, your dying mind conjuring up the last person you want to see, a last vestige of mocking self deprecation before your time's up.

You don't realise you're laughing (wheezing more like it, you can thank going days with hardly any water and a lack of using your voice) until you're hit in the face with a stick. A chuckle escapes her lips as you blink owlishly back, a scowl forming on your face. You rub the sore spot on your cheek, it hurt. You glare at her now, but, despite that,

"I am Cleopatra," her chin juts out just slightly, eyes twinkling with amusement, before she continues, "or Cleo."

"Or Cleo," you mull the word - name - over in your head. Cleo. You take her in then. The angle of her nose, the curve of her cheek, the green of her eyes. Cleo. "Ok." you nod. It makes sense doesn't it? No it fucking doesn't.

But who are you to judge?

Long moments pass between you both as you take in her words. You'd never given it a thought but now that you're confronted by the proof you can't help but wonder how much you don't know, didn't consider. Of course she had family, a mother? A father? brothers even? A sister obviously. you can't help but feel a spark of barely there curiosity that adds to the burning storm you feel just under the surface. You nod then, look at her and try and look past the face.

"Ok," you whisper again, "you're her sister, a twin" you add lamely.

"We were born the same night," she looks at you, "I am older," smug.

You'd laugh at that, if you weren't still feeling shocked at the revelation of a twin, why, you aren't sure. You look at Cleo now, you see features, familiar yet very different, her face well lived, of laughter and freedom, a stark contrast to her stoic, impassive, controlled one.

Filling a small bowl with the broth from the pot, she hands it to you, carefully, interrupting your wandering thoughts, "Here. It is warm, you look hungry," she says.

It does look and smell much better than what you've been surviving off. You think.

Tentativelyyou reach out and take it, murmuring a word of thanks. It warms your chilled hands, it fills your nose with scents, heady, and mouth watering and you greedily drink from the lip of the vessel in your hands. She watches you quietly throughout, occasionally stirring the pot.

It's a comfortable silence between you both, Cleo seems content to merely sit, observe and refill your bowl when you empty its contents. She looks at you from time to time, not judging but thoughtful, not prying but more so a problem she is solving, turning you over in her mind, this way and that, slowly but surely. You don't mind. You're surprised to find that company is something you missed. Even if it shares her face. So you continue to drink slowly from the bowl, happy to let the heat from the broth spread warmth through your belly, and the heat from the flame warm your body.

"What did Alexandria do?" She finally asks, breaking the silence.

Your head snaps up at the name, "Alexandria?"

Cleo repeats the question, still looking at you all too knowingly, "Heda," she tacks on.

Oh,

Oh.

Alexandria, Heda. Alexandria, Lexa. you tuck that piece of information away for a later time, a time where you can better deconstruct why the revelation of her name sends your emotions into a seething, roiling, calming, constant ache.

Looking back at Cleo you see she's waiting for an answer, brows furrowed.

"Oh," is all you can muster. The silence again lingers between you, stretching out for a long, quiet moment. You think she's still waiting for an answer, but maybe from the way her brows furrow further and the tilt of her head as she thinks you over that she might just know, have answered her own question.

"You should come back to my village," she says eventually, "you are tired, hungry. The winters are harsh, you are not prepared and will die," blunt, to the point.

Your eyes dart back and forth, focused on the ground, somewhere between you both. Cleo continues to look at you, not demanding, but searching, waiting, patient.

"It is small," she adds, "out of the way."

You look up at her then, her eyes appraising you.

Small. Out of the way.

You think it sounds nice.

Cleo offers to let you sleep, tells you that the choice can be made tomorrow, when you aren't so tired, and have had time to sort through all she has told you, even offers to come back tomorrow if you wish to be alone. It'd be rude you think, to send her back to her village, only to have to come back tomorrow, with a possible answer of no, you've wasted your time, I'm happy to spend the rest of my life in this tree thank you very much. And, even if her face does remind you of things you wish you could forget, you've got manners.

And, despite the absence of any real proof, you can't help but think that maybe, just maybe, she has sent her here - she must have you think, they're bloody twins. Don't twins have a weird connection? No, that's nonsense you hear your mother say, tone speckled with exasperation and annoyance - it's just a folktale, a made up myth, isn't it? You don't even know. But you do know that you're tired.

"I will keep watch," Cleo offers, she must sense that you're open to allowing her to spend the night, with the way your eyes start to droop, just a bit, but enough to signal your waning energy. You nod your acceptance, thoughts soon to be drifting off to somewhere unpleasant, angry and dark, but, before the claws of sleep slowly creep in and set themselves upon you, you're content, not happy, but satisfied. To just be.

You wake once again to the crackling of a fire, the faint wisps of smoke filling your nostrils, of scents, spiced and aromatic. Resting a moment to recall the memories of the previous day, to gather your thoughts. Then you sit, stretch and rub the sleep from your eyes. Looking around you don't see Cleo, she isn't sitting by the fire like she was yesterday. You scan your surroundings, a pack lies against the curved inside of the tree - hers you think - she'll be back you think. The pot simmers lightly atop the fire, your belly grumbles - would it be rude to start eating from the pot, without her present? Probably.

It's not long before she returns, an armful of sticks she adds to the fire increasing its heat, the increased warmth all at once welcome. She looks at you now, and, once again fills the bowl and passes it to you. You murmur your thanks. You're halfway through the bowl before you realise she hasn't eaten any.

Looking at her over the bowl, eyebrows raised, "aren't you having some?" you ask.

"I have eaten already," she smiles back, it's soft and it's strange, seeing that face freely using emotion, you feel a voyeur to something private, something not meant for you to see so you cast your eyes downwards. Cleo, again, is happy to let the silence hang between you, comfortable and easy. Until she speaks again.

"She hurt you," Cleo looks from across the fire at you, the orange red glow of the flame dancing across her face, reminding you of late night arguments, of tactics and battle plans lit by the glow of a fire and coals, glowing faintly. You raise your eyes to meet hers. You know who she means.

"Yeah," you don't think you can deny it. She must have known by the way you reacted yesterday, by the way you avoided her questions, by the way you avoid looking at her.

"Lexa hurt you," Her eyes look at you, her eyes looks at you and you turn your head away, you're icarus, if you get too close, if you look too closely you'll be burnt. You'll suffer, you'll… you'll what? You're already suffering. Can you suffer more? This time you offer no reply, and she doesn't push, accepting your silence and non-answers. She sits, hands raised towards the open flame and lets you finish the rest of your broth.

Some time passes before she speaks again, "Do you wish to come back to my village? It's small -"

"And out of the way," you interject with a smile, faint but it's there. She smiles in return.

"And out of the way," she repeats, her tone not quite pleading, but somewhere between that and curious.

"Yeah," you answer. What else can you do. You realise that you would die out here, by yourself. The last two meals she provided have been more than a week's worth of meals you've been able to make yourself, the fire has been better at keeping the cold at bay than your animal skin - already in taters. And your sorry excuse for fire? No comparison you think. You return her gaze, and, "I'll go with you."

The journey, she tells you, is only a few candle marks (a few hours you think from her explanation) travel from where you are, deeper south into the forrest surrounding you - right into the heart of Trikru lands. You can't help but wonder if Cleo was sent here, so far into Trikru lands as to avoid those that liked removing heads. Her story makes you think that maybe that might partly be why. But you also realise by the way Cleo speaks of the forrest, of the trees and the creatures and the stories that exist, live and breathe that maybe Cleo enjoys living here, you can imagine it. It's tranquil, peaceful, beautiful. She smiles freely when she engages you in quiet conversation. You still avert your eyes. But there are moments when she slips into the warrior you assume her to be, where she stops you both in place, brings a finger to her lips and waits and listens - these moments are more painful - they make Cleo look much too like her. So here too, you avert your eyes, and you listen and wait for her to signal that you can move on.

"Hey," you disturb the silence after a long stretch, only broken by the soft pants of breath you exhale as you struggle through the thick forest, "how did you find me?" you ask, the question having gnawed at you for the last hour.

Cleo looks back at you, "A hunter found you," she replies, "almost eight days ago. He came back, told me of Wanheda roaming the forests near our village, so I came to see for myself."

"Wanheda?" you haven't heard that before,

"You are called Wanheda, Clarke," You're happy she doesn't say your name the same. You don't think you could take it, but…

"How'd you know my name," you ask, "I never told you."

"Word travels fast, Clarke, of a woman with golden hair that fell from the sky, defeating 300 warriors, negotiating with Heda, helping to cure the reapers and defeating the Mountain, only to vanish afterwards," she looks at you again, "then you appear."

"Makes sense," you agree, "but, the thing you called me? Wanheda what does it-"

"Commander of Death," she cuts in.

You blanch at that, feet stopping. You feel anger begin to rise, not directed at Cleo exactly, but anger all the same, you feel it simmer and burn, seething and churning and twisting underneath your skin, causing your heart to beat erratically, faster and faster until-

Cleo shakes your arm firmly, and holds your gaze, breaking you from the angry… something that had begun to consume you, "Wanheda, the Commander of Death, does not just mean choosing who dies, Clarke," you look at her, doubt colouring your face, "The title is more than that. It means someone who can command death, not just to cause it, but to stop it, to save life - to control death in both it's existence and its absence. Do you understand?"

"But that's all I've done," you stammer out, voice shaky and weak, "since I landed I've killed, I burnt 300 warriors, and the Mountain - I" and you pause, your breath coming in ragged gasps, you can't quite articulate how or what you want to say - that you killed hundreds to save your friends - but it was necessary, both times you think. Cleo seems to understand, or at least grasp just how deep your scars go. You've both stopped walking now, her hand rests atop your shoulder, grounding you, her gaze tender but firm and steady.

"But you also heal, Clarke. You are a healer, yes?" You nod, "Did you not help to cure the reapers?" Again, you nod.

"But I haven't saved hundreds," You protest weakly.

Cleo pauses for a quiet drop of time, eyes thoughtful, "Perhaps, then, you can begin to do just that, Clarke" Cleo offers with a smile, warm and friendly and hopeful.

Maybe you can.

It's not long after the revelation of your title that you stand before the open gates to the village. Vines and trees grow and twist and snake their way between the gates and wall that surround what you can see of the village. Though small, you can see the telltale sign of defences, spiked tips jut from the top of the defensive wall, built of stone cracked and shaped into place, and of metal twisted, rusted in places but strong and sturdy all the same. With the gate open, you can see a few people walking within the village, some clearly warriors, bows and arrows, broad swords or heavy axes strapped across backs, others are younger - children running underfoot, playing and chasing. You see elderly people too, milling around a large bonfire further into the centre of the village.

"How many people live here?" You ask, eyes darting around, trying to take in what you can.

"No more than a hundred," Cleo replies, "often times much less when the warriors are called away. It is a small village especially now with many having been called to the Mountain, but we survive well, together." You nod in understanding, in a way, it's much like the Drop Ship, less than a hundred people just trying to survive, but unlike the delinquents, you think sardonically, these Grounders are not helpless and naive, but strong, proud and at home on the ground and among the trees.

As Cleo begins guiding you through the open gate, your attention is caught by the distant clanging of metal on metal, and the sound of flesh hitting flesh. You turn to her, eyebrows raised quizzically.

"Training grounds," she offers, you nod. "This way," she points, leading you down a path, away from the all too familiar sounds echoing around you.

Your attention turns back to the path you walk. Occasionally making eye contact with a villager, you nod in greeting, most greet you in turn, eyes wide, while others ignore you out of fear, wariness or something else you're not sure.

"They knew you might be coming," Cleo offers after another villager stares wide eyed at you, "But you are still Wanheda, Mountain Slayer to them." You fight to ignore the tension building in your belly, force it down and out of thought for the time being.

Turning a corner, you come to a clearing, along the perimeter are trees, sparsely placed, their branches already bare, their brown and red leaves fanning out beneath them, a memory of what they once were and an image of what could be once again. The ground you notice, isn't the hard packed dirt you'd expect from a well traversed clearing. It's all sharp rocks, jagged corners and knife edges. Splotches of rusty brown litter areas, splashed across the clearing.

You see a girl, perhaps 10, limbs gangly, trying hard to block the swift, brutal strikes of a man, a warrior, fearsome and looming.

"What's happening?" you ask, watching the girl as she is backed further and further towards the opposite end of the clearing, "why isn't she with the others at the training ground?" Cleo follows your gaze, eyes falling upon the girl as she forces herself to her feet after having been struck down moments ago by the warrior. "Did she do something wrong?" you finish. You watch as the girl levels her dulled blade in front of her, readying for an attack or to defend, which ever comes first.

"It is not punishment," Cleo responds, "She asked for it." That gives you pause, makes you consider the more of the situation, Cleo must sense your confusion, so she adds, "she was not chosen as a second last season, she wishes to train harder. So that she may be chosen." Cleo's eyes remain fixed on the girl.

"Oh, that's…" you trail off, unsure of what to say, that it's sad? That you're sorry? Your thoughts turn to Anya, and to Tris, the young second who had been wounded crossing the bridge, who had followed her first into battle, who had died. You blink away the wetness you feel pooling in the corner of your eye, shake your head to clear the thoughts from your mind. "Why?" you ask.

"We are all trained to survive when we are old enough, most start by our third or fourth birth season of life, if we live long enough," Cleo turns to you now, "When we can survive, we are chosen, some as warriors to replace those whose fight has ended, but some are chosen as farmers or hunters or craftsmen," She looks pointedly at you, "healers, too."

"It doesn't sound like they're given a choice," You say, head cocked to the side. Out the corner of your eye you see the girl block a downward slash from her attacker, a toothy grin forming, only to have her dulled blade ripped from her hands and a swift blow sets her sprawled on her back. "What if they don't want to be what's chosen for them?"

"Most must adapt," comes the answer, "but we can make exceptions. If a warrior truly does not want to fight, they are a danger to themselves and those they fight alongside. But a lack of will to fight does not mean they can not help, can not contribute. They may make an excellent hunter if they are good with the bow, or a better craftsmen if they are good with the blade, even a good blacksmith if they are strong," Cleo catches your eye and you nod back in understanding.

"So the girl…?" You trail off.

"Yasmin," Cleo offers, "She wishes to be a warrior, like her parents."

"Is that her father?" you ask, looking at the man now, dark hair pulled back in a tight braid, the length running down his back, features sharp, angular. You find it hard to imagine him being the father of Yasmin you think, whose own features are softer, eyes blue and bright, face round, but determined, signs of childish youth still clinging to it, her hair a long ruddy brown, but light and pulled back in a messy braid, errant strands sticking to her sweaty, reddened face.

"No, not her father," Cleo says, eyes softening as she again looks to Yasmin, who is trying valiantly to land a strike, a kick, anything on the man as he easily out paces her tiring, sloppy movements. "Her father was taken by the Mountain." You tense just slightly at the mention of the Mountain, before forcing yourself to settle.

"And her mother?" You prompt, but you think you already know the answer.

"She did not survive childbirth," You nod at that, unsure of what to say or how to respond other than to offer your silence as a too late show of condolence.

You both turn to look once more upon Yasmin, nose now bloodied, legs shaking and arms falling under the weight of holding her sword out in front of her.

"I do not think she will be chosen as a warrior again this season," It's wistful, mournful even, tinged with a sadness you don't expect, "She has tried very hard." Cleo pulls her eyes from Yasmin now, expression sorrowful, "Perhaps she will make a good hunter."