Chapter Text
The girl is born and the Trikru elders croon when they see her eyes. They speak of how they are similar to her father’s, but brighter; how they remind them of the blue that their own elders once spoke of when they told stories of how the ocean once looked.
Jacob holds the baby in his arms, prideful. “Her eyes are fiercer than mine,” he proclaims, “She will be a stronger fighter than I when she grows.”
The elders tell everyone to look at this child’s eyes when the people come to give their customary congratulations.
They retell the stories of their elders and the ocean. They name her Maren Kom Trikru. Maren, they say, like the word Mare, once the word for sea.
She is one summer old when her father dies – a vicious attack during the hunt to prepare for winter. The survivors are either too wounded or too traumatized to be able to say much.
Something about a gargantuan animal. A humanoid animal. An animal with death in its eyes.
They call it Pauna. Trikru stands vigil for Jacob for two nights. They continue the hunt soon after.
She is nearly two summers old when Alexandria - Lexa - is introduced to her – Maren cannot quite form complete sentences yet. Lexa is four summers old and her eyes are bright green.
They touch each other’s faces, mothers amused at their undying curiosity of each other, and they begin to play with the handcrafted dolls that the elders created for the young. They pay no more mind to each other.
She is three summers old when Lexa’s mother dies, too weak to survive the harsh winters in TonDC. Three summers old when Lexa’s father dies in the same way her own died – at the hands of Pauna.
At six summers, Lexa is found to be a Nightblood and taken in by Anya, a young warrior, as her second.
In wonder and awe, Maren watches the Nightbloods train, but when an archery session goes wrong and a Nightblood, Bellamy, misses his target, his arrow buries itself into Maren’s shoulder, nearly killing her.
The whole village speaks of the incident and joke about how Maren already has a scar for a kill mark on her shoulder for when she eventually takes her revenge on Bellamy.
Maren is four summers old when her mother scoops her in her arms one night as the Azgeda ambush their camp. Her mother runs no further than a mile before five Azgeda soldiers catch up to them.
She is four summers old when her mother is shot down with bows and arrows, beaten down by their enemies, Maren taken from her lifeless arms. One of the soldiers suggests cutting the child’s throat. Another suggests using her as bait to capture and kill more of the Trikru.
Another, the kindest of the squadron, one who has just lost her own young one in the winter’s grasp, says she can take the child in as her own.
The child’s eyes remind her much of her dead young, fire and ice already blazing through thick eyelashes. Three of the others begrudgingly allow it. Marius shakes his head.
“Nia would not approve of it,” he grunts. “Look at this child. Hardly any meat on her bones. Our clan has been struggling to feed ourselves enough as it is. We cannot afford the extra food – especially not for one of the Trikru.”
He spits the last word as if it is a curse.
“Nia is my sister,” Beitris responds, wrapping the child in one of her furs as she cries, “She will understand. This child is too young to remember her life with the Trikru. Have humanity, Marius.”
“We failed our mission. The leader of Trikru still lives,” Roan says. “Nia will be unhappy with this.”
“It is not the fault of this child that our army was not fast enough to get to their leader,” Beitris protests. “She is still innocent, and she shows promise.”
Marius says nothing as he stalks off in the snow, shaking his head, as the rest follow. Beitris lifts the crying child up in her arms, cooing at her, tightening the furs wrapped around her for warmth.
Beitris brings the child to Nia, breath bated.
Nia and Beitris, twin sisters, are not particularly close, but they hold a great deal of mutual respect for each other – their mother raised them that way.
When Nia was called to be the next leader of the Azgeda, Beitris showed no envy, no hatred towards her sister. Beitris bowed down to her as the rest of her people did, accepted the role of Advisor to the Queen.
“This winter is particularly harsh, Beitris,” Nia says from the throne room, the rest of their people outside and nursing their wounds from the battle. The child sleeps on a pile of furs in the corner. “Another mouth to feed, especially one of a growing warrior, is something that we cannot easily afford.”
“So you suggest we slaughter a child?”
Nia settles into her throne, leaning back against it, observing her twin sister. “What more can we do? She is one of the Trikru. They have been responsible for the countless deaths of our own.”
Beitris is careful not to raise her voice, careful to not wake the sleeping child.
“When our mother gave birth to us, no one expected there to be two. She gave birth to us during one of the hardest winters our people have experienced.” Beitris points to the child.
“They debated exactly what we are debating here – ending one of our lives to better the life of the other.”
Nia simply stares at her sister.
Beitris continues. “Would you have wanted me to die, so you could be fed more to survive the winter?”
“Of course not.”
“Then let me raise this child as my own. Ever since I lost Vana, my life has felt empty. Without purpose. Let me become a mother again, Nia. Give this to me.”
Nia sits there for a little longer, eyes slightly narrowed in contemplation, before she rises to sit by the sleeping child.
The two stand in silence, the commotion of the returning warriors the only noise they can hear. Beitris holds her breath, ready to jump between her sister and this child at the slightest sign of peril.
But then Nia places a hand on the child’s blonde head.
“Her name shall be Clarke.” Nia lifts her head to meet her sister’s eyes. “My niece.” She looks at Beitris. “Your daughter. My son, Roan, is to be her first when she comes of age. We will tell our people to treat her as one of our own. Anyone who defies that will answer to me.”
Beitris nods, giving her sister a thankful smile.
“Clarke Kom Azgeda,” Nia murmurs as the child is stirred awake, bright eyes staring at her in curiosity. “She reminds me of Vana.”
“Thank you, Nia,” Beitris says, settling down beside her. “Thank you.”
-
Clarke is ten summers old when she is old enough to realize that her people don’t quite treat her like they treat the other young ones. Their smiles are not as full, their words are not as kind, and their eyes are always wary.
She finds herself looking at the glass mirror in her and her mother’s tent, wondering if she perhaps has too big of a nose, wondering how she got the scar on both sides of her left shoulder. Clarke wonders about everything.
She goes to her mother after a particularly awkward encounter with the other children.
“Why do people not like me, mother?” Clarke says, watching Beitris sew a blanket together. “They treat me differently.”
Beitris knew that this question has been a long time coming, and contemplates lying to her adopted daughter, but she cannot form a logical lie that would placate her.
She sits Clarke down.
“It is not that they do not like you, Clarke,” she says gently. “It is that you are different from them.”
Clarke scrunches her nose in confusion. “How do you mean?”
Beitris shakes her head. She cannot lie about Clarke’s birthplace, but she can lie to make things a little better for her.
“You are not born to the Azgeda, my young one.”
“What? That can’t be.”
“Your mother –“ Beitris pauses. Perhaps a small lie would help. “Your mother abandoned you. When you were no older than three summers.”
Clarke furrows a brow, giving Beitris a look of question that Beitris has come to know and love in her child.
“I am still your mother,” Beitris says reassuringly, “But not by blood. I am the one who saved you. Had I not found you, you would not be here. You would be long gone, stolen by winter’s cold.”
“What kind of mother abandons their child?” Clarke says, indignant.
“Not one who ever deserves to have you as her daughter. Trikru know not of what true loyalty means.”
Clarke hates the Trikru. She hates her birth mother for abandoning her.
She runs outside with her tiny sword, attacking a post until blisters form and burst on her palms.
-
Clarke is fourteen summers old when her training with Roan is interrupted by the sound of a horn blasting through the plains.
The leader of the Trikru is dead, Nia announces to her people. Their recent ambush was successful. Without leadership, Trikru is sure to fall.
-
They don’t. Less than a week later, it is found that one named Lexa has been spiritually chosen to be the next leader, believed to be the reincarnation of the deceased Ragna. She is young, they say, but she is already proving to be wiser and shrewder than her predecessor. Revolutionary, they call her. Talks of coalitions and alliances emerge, but Nia has none of it.
She begins to plan for their next invasion. Trikru will meet their demise.
-
Clarke is sixteen summers old when they capture one named Costia. They keep her in the dungeons, a dark cave guarded by three Azgeda warriors day and night.
“Why her?” Clarke asks Beitris as guards pull her through camp. “She doesn’t look like a warrior.”
“She is one of the Trikru healers.”
“A healer?” Clarke continues to watch the girl being dragged through the dirt. “Why a healer? What has she done?”
“It is said that she is the lover of the leader,” Beitris murmurs, “Nia tells me that she knows the secrets of the Trikru leader. She is crucial.” Beitris turns to Clarke. “It is said that she is responsible for the death of thirteen of our warriors.”
Clarke watches as the girl is thrown into the chamber, yelping in pain.
Killers and deserters, she thinks bitterly.
She finds herself glad to have been abandoned.
-
It has almost been a moon, and the one they call Costia has not revealed anything to her interrogators. Clarke is sent to give water to the prisoner.
“I don’t want to do it,” she protests, “I don’t want to go near her. What if she attacks me?”
“Are you telling me that you’re afraid of a healer?” Roan sneers, shoving the water jug into Clarke’s hands.
“No.” Clarke squares her shoulders.
“Then go.”
The soldiers standing post nod to acknowledge her – but before she goes in, Konrad, the younger one, holds a hand out to stop Clarke as she enters.
“Wait,” he says, gruffly. He reaches over to his side to pull out a small dagger hanging at his waist. “Take this.”
Clarke holds out a free hand, feeling the weight of the dagger press against it. She has always liked and admired Konrad – she may be Roan’ second, but Konrad has always taught her lessons far beyond swords and hunting.
She nods her thanks, determinedly walking into the dungeons.
The cave is pitch black. They do not leave torches for the prisoners for light. When Clarke opens the gate to the dungeon, light pours in, and she sees Costia’s figure lying in a small pile of hay.
Costia lifts her head, squinting at the sudden light, and Clarke’s grip on her dagger tightens. The girl sits up, rubbing her eyes.
“Hello.”
Clarke says nothing – she merely stands there, dagger in one hand, water jug in the other. She stares at the girl – Costia – and can’t help but think of how similar in age they seem.
What have you done to be here?
Costia does not move as Clarke lowers the jug of water to the ground, pushing it towards the other girl with her foot.
Costia nods. “Thank you.”
She merely stares at Clarke, still not moving, and it is unnerving.
Clarke says nothing. She keeps a firm grip on Konrad’s dagger and backs away, facing Costia for a few more steps before turning, quickly pacing out the cave.
-
Costia gives them nothing.
And Nia calls for her death.
Clarke is not there when Costia is strung up on a post – she is training with Roan, who trains her much, much harder than he usually does. They can hear Costia screaming from the village square.
Roan does not unclench his teeth the entire time. She dodges his blows by millimeters, making moves when she can, and he calls off their practice by roughly pushing her to the ground.
Clarke quickly sits up, panting.
“What did I do?” she says, throwing her sword down in the dirt beside her.
Roan says nothing. He turns his back to Clarke, towards the source of the screaming, and the two stand there in silence until the screams stop.
Clarke swears that she can hear him murmur something that sounds similar to
'A child. It shouldn’t have to be this way.'
before whirling back and snarling at her to get back into position.
-
To everyone’s surprise, Lexa does not retaliate to Costia’s death - not even when the Queen delivers Costia's head to Lexa in a wooden box. The Queen grows impatient, waiting for Lexa to give Azgeda the chance to strike, to show her weakness, but Lexa, much like her former lover, gives Nia nothing.
-
Roan thinks it is miraculous that Clarke has made it to eighteen summers, but he can’t hide the pride in his eyes when Clarke becomes a part of the Queen’s honorary nightguard. Beitris hands Clarke her sword during the ceremony, attempting to remain stoic, but gives her daughter a wink before she passes to the next.
The morning after her first post, she is called to Queen Nia’s quarters.
“She’s either going to kill you or assign you to something that will probably kill you,” Roan says, giving Clarke his familiar malevolent grin. "Either way, you're probably dead."
“Whatever you say, mother’s boy,” Clarke shoots back, throwing a twig that she had been fiddling with directly at his face.
Clarke enters Nia’s tent, swallowing her anxieties about having a private conversation with the Queen herself. Nia sits on her throne, two guards posted at either side.
“You asked for me?”
The Queen smiles at Clarke.
“Give us the room,” she orders the guards. They march outside. Queen Nia leans back in her throne.
“My son tells me you are one of the most promising soldiers he has seen in Azgeda thus far,” she says.
Clarke raises her eyebrows in surprise.
“Pay no mind to his boarish ways,” Nia says, waving a hand in dismissal of Clarke’s shock. “He does not tell these things to you because he is embarrassed that a child has beaten him, multiple times, in hand-to-hand combat. I am embarrassed on his behalf.”
Clarke looks down for a moment, awkwardly contemplating what to say in response, wondering why Nia so openly resents her own son, but Nia continues to speak, filling the silence.
“Beitris tells me you know of your origins. Where you were born.”
Clarke’s eyes snap up. She nods. “I do, but my loyalties will always lie with Azgeda. I would never –“
The Queen raises her hand. Clarke closes her mouth.
Nia stands, striding slowly towards Clarke until she is looming in front of the girl.
“I’ve seen your struggles, child,” she says, looking down at Clarke. “It pains me to see the daughter of my sister treated as if she is not one of my own by her own people.”
Clarke flinches at this. She vividly remembers that the cheers for her were far quieter than for the others when she was named as part of the Queen’s Nightguard – but hearing the Queen acknowledge this shames Clarke. She bows her head.
The Queen tilts her head, studying Clarke for a moment. “How would you like a chance to prove your loyalty to all of Azgeda?”
Clarke swallows, looks Nia in the eye with a steely glance.
“Tell me what I can do,” she says steadily, “And I’ll do it.”
-
Nia has Clarke dressed in rags and wielding nothing but a dull dagger. Clarke is to stumble into the Trikru village, injured, claiming to be one of their own – a nomad, abandoned by her mother long ago, back when Ragna was still alive and the leader of their clan. Clarke is to tell them she was attacked by Azgeda troops.
“Get to know their people,” Nia says. “Their secrets. Their weaknesses. I will send Roan to the treeline to meet with you the night after every full moon to receive your reports.”
“Why can’t I just get close enough to kill the leader?” Clarke queries.
“Simply killing the leader will not do. We learned that with Ragna, the previous leader – Trikru manages to find a way back every time. We must know Trikru inside and out if we want to be rid of them completely.”
“They’ll know I’m faking the injuries soon enough,” Clarke says. “How am I to convince them?”
Nia looks at Clarke once, then at the two soldiers flanking her, and nods at them.
Clarke is on the ground in moments, punched and kicked by the two soldiers until she nearly faints. She does not fight back.
Nia gives them the order to stop after what feels like hours, and she crouches beside Clarke’s crumpled body.
“For Azgeda,” she says, touching her fingers to Clarke’s forehead.
Clarke takes a shaky breath, steeling herself as she sits up, not allowing herself to show any weakness.
She grits her teeth and nods.
-
Beitris is one of the few to say farewell to Clarke. She kisses Clarke’s forehead, gives her a beaded bracelet to wear as a token of her love.
“I’m sorry I cannot heal your wounds.”
Clarke has a black eye, scrapes all over her face and body, and her left wrist is swollen. She wonders if it is broken.
“It’s okay,” Clarke says back, giving her mother a weak smile.
“You will come back as a hero to your people,” Beitris murmurs, gently touching her forehead to Clarke’s. “But know that I have always seen the greatness in you. Regardless of what happens.”
-
Roan is the last to say goodbye to Clarke, but Clarke would hardly call his goodbye a goodbye.
“You’re being foolish,” he mutters, walking her to the treeline. “You’re playing into her game.”
“What game?” Clarke says, limping alongside her former first.
“The Queen doesn’t care about whether you feel like you fit in or not,” Roan says bluntly. “She doesn’t care about you. She’s only sending you in because she sees an opportunity for herself. She does not see an opportunity in you. The only reason she allowed Beitris to take you in in the first place was to groom you for exactly this.”
Clarke shakes her head. “She is my mother’s sister –“
“Don't you get it? Nia doesn't care about you. And Beitris is not your mother,” Roan snarls. Clarke stops in her tracks.
“I can make my own way from here,” she says stiffly.
“Don’t do this, Clarke,” Roan says. “Don’t play into her game. I trained you for better things than to be one of her pawns.”
“I can’t turn back now.”
She can see Roan’s jaw flex as he grinds his teeth.
“Try not to die within the week,” he mutters, turning and walking away without looking back once.
Clarke watches him walk away for a few moments, feeling the crushing weight of loneliness begin to overtake her before inhaling deeply and hobbling towards the Trikru village.