Chapter Text
It began, innocently enough, when the Commander gifted her a dress.
Clarke was wandering around the Tower, as per usual, when it happened, the two warriors assigned to guard her exchanging amused looks whenever she stumbled into something so beautiful or unexpected it made her gasp out loud.
She had been in Polis to represent her people for well over a month now, and yet grounder ingenuity still managed to surprise her. These weren’t the savages the council back in Arkadia had presumed them to be, and she was relieved that her people were coming around to this new point of view, however slowly. She and the rest of the Delinquents had done their best to make them understand, an uphill battle at the best of times.
The updates she sent back at regular intervals helped, as did the tentative trade agreements that were being established. If all continued to be well, Heda had said during a meeting, Skaikru would be offered a place among the clans in about a year.
A whole year in Polis before she was allowed to return home. Clarke thought she would have minded — she had asked the Council to send another, after all, when they told her they’d chosen her to go — but soon discovered she did not.
Today, her explorations had brought her to what could only be called a library. She’d read of them in the Ark’s databanks of course, but to see the books she’d grown up with printed on actual paper instead of being digitized had an emotional impact she did not expect.
As far as she could tell, the enormous space had been obtained by knocking down several inner walls so that rows of orderly shelves could be used to partition the room instead. Light spilled inside from ample, southward-facing windows, a burnished glow that reminded Clarke of the sunlamps they’d used aboard the Ark. Except this was the real deal, actual sunlight, warm on the back of her hands and on her cheeks, despite the fact that snow had just started to melt. A dreamlike radiance. Drifty and bright.
Strategically situated mirrors served to amplify it, directing it to a series of tables where men and women worked in near absolute silence. Some made handwritten copies of books that looked like they were one touch away from falling apart, while others drew maps of Polis and the surrounding areas. One table in particular was covered by the most detailed map Clarke had ever seen. This one wasn’t drawn on paper or vellum, but painted on a square of polished wood. Eyes wide with wonder, Clarke followed the course of the river that led from Polis back to the lands she was most familiar with — where she and the Delinquents had crash landed and weathered the harshness of their first nuclear winter on Earth. Now a stylized group of houses had been painted among the woods and rolling fields, with the name Arkadia inked next to it.
She had drifted back to the book-packed shelves and was leafing through a battered copy of Moby Dick , eyes glued to the yellowed pages, when the Commander found her.
Clarke was so absorbed by the book she didn’t notice her entrance until one of the guards politely cleared his throat. The sound was enough to pull Clarke back from the faded script. She reverently put the book back on the shelf and turned around to see to what the guard was drawing her attention to.
“Commander.” Ears burning, Clarke nodded in Lexa’s direction the way she’d seen her warriors do. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize—”
Without letting her finish, Lexa thrust a bundle into her arms. She moved stiffly and her jaws were clenched as though she would rather be anywhere else.
Clarke accepted the mysterious bundle with no little trepidation, and mainly because it didn’t seem like she had any other choice. As Lexa watched, green eyes unreadable, she undid the leather strips that held it shut. Inside, she discovered a sky blue dress, the material so sleek under her fingers it felt like handling water. And the bundle itself was a cloak woven of wool heavy enough to keep her warm and lined in soft silvery fur.
“It’s— beautiful…” She trailed off, mouth suddenly dry. “Heda, I don’t know— I can’t—”
“Oestara is only a few days away.” Lexa’s face was a blank canvas, but something flickered in her eyes. Satisfaction, Clarke thought, but whatever it was, it disappeared as soon as it had come.
“Oestara?” she asked, clutching the dress to her chest. It was rare to receive gifts on the Ark — she’d been luckier than most, at least while her father had been alive — but everything was recycled or a hand-me-down. What Heda had just given her was the first thing Clarke could say had never belonged to somebody else before her.
“The equinox,” Lexa explained patiently, “the day in which light and dark are balanced. The start of spring.” The shadow of a smile tugged at the corner of her lips. “There will be food and dancing around bonfires in the courtyard. I thought you would like to attend, but may lack appropriate clothing.” The stiffness had returned, and Heda wasn’t quite meeting her gaze anymore.
“I would love to.” Clarke racked her brain for something else to say. A few things came to mind, but she couldn’t ask Heda if she’d dance with her. It would not be proper.
She didn’t get a chance to say more, anyhow. The Commander nodded to her again and left the way she’d come, so quickly she was gone before Clarke could blink twice.
As though she was retreating .
On the way back to the rooms that had been assigned to her, down the hall from Heda’s own apartments, Clarke grilled her guards about Oestara.
“The tradition is as old as time,” Ella told her, more than happy to indulge in her curiosity. She was always willing to teach Clarke about her culture, and asked just as many questions about the stars as she had about the ground. “Not only Trikru’s. Every clan celebrates it, even though the name of it may change. It will be fun for you, I think.” Vargas, her other guard, signed his agreement enthusiastically.
[ And...uh…does the... ] Her fingers moved slowly through the air and she felt all kinds of clumsy, but Vargas nodded encouragingly, waiting for her to go on. [ Does the Commander dance? She mentioned dancing. ]
At first she thought she’d signed the wrong word, because what the warriors exchanged was definitely a look , but eventually Vargas signed back. He was still smiling, but his grey eyes had clouded over. He looked... sad almost, and Clarke worried she’d said the wrong thing.
[ She used to, but not since... ] Ella elbowed him and glowered, causing him to stop.
“You will be late for the afternoon meeting with the Ambassadors, Clarke.” They had come to the door that led to her rooms and stopped. “We can talk about Oestara later.”
More like never again, judging from the way Ella’s jaw was clenched, but Clarke nodded and hurried inside to leave Heda’s present and freshen up a little.
While they were walking her back to the meeting, she wondered what Vargas had been about to say. Something he wasn’t allowed to share about the Commander, or more probably something an outsider like Clarke wasn’t meant to know.
It hurt a little to be still viewed as a stranger despite her efforts, but she didn’t blame the grounders. She was doing her best to learn their ways, and they were more than willing to teach her, but earning their trust was quite another thing.
Once the meeting began, she had no more room for speculation. They were finalizing one of several pending trade deals between Skaikru and the twelve Clans, this one concerning the making of glass. Grounders had a huge appetite for it, but what they could produce — all hand blown — fell far short of keeping up with the demand. This was why only about half of the homes in Polis had glass windows, and nearly none did in smaller villages. Most of it went toward building greenhouses, and with how unpredictable the weather was, the panels often needed replacing.
The Council in Arkadia had offered a way to speed up production, but lacked the raw materials, which Sankru possessed in abundance. In theory, striking a deal should have been easy, but the sand people were proving to be… difficult about it.
By the time an end to the discussion was called by the Commander, the sun had already set. While she wasn’t thrilled by the prospect of having to do it all over again on the morrow, Clarke was also grateful they’d adjourned for food and much needed rest. Grounders, it seemed, didn’t believe in chairs much, and Heda was the only one who got to sit during their meetings. Her feet had gone numb midway through an argument between Sankru and Delphi, and as she walked out with the others, eager for some hot stew and her bed, her legs ached in protest.
“ Skaiprisa ?” When Alyra, the Sankru Ambassador called for her, Clarke nearly groaned. The woman was the source of the afternoon’s major headaches, and she’d rather ask Anya to beat her with a training sword around the yard (which she did on the regular, regardless) than spend another minute in her company. She scraped up the most polite smile she could manage and waited for Alyra to catch up to her.
“Ambassador,” she began before the woman could say anything, “if this is about supplying us with materials for the glass, shouldn’t it wait until the meeting resumes in the morning? I’m sure the others will be keen to hear any proposal you have that can get us out of our... impasse.”
“Boggled mess, isn’t it?” Alyra’s smile could have meant anything. “But, no. I was just wondering if you would walk with me for a while?”
“I…” Of course she couldn’t tell the woman she’d choose dinner over her company. “Certainly. You honor me.”
“Nonsense. I believe you’d rather be back in your rooms right about now. You look exhausted.” Even so, she threaded their arms together and pulled Clarke almost bodily along. “I wanted to ask if you know about the holiday coming up? Oestara? Although we call it Sham-Al.”
“I was told there will be a celebration. Food, dancing, that kind of thing.”
“Quite so.” They had come to a set of wide windows that overlooked the city. Night was falling quickly, the sky darkening from purple to jet-black. “Do you know I have a daughter about your age? She will come to Polis for the festival.”
Clarke blinked, wrongfooted by the change of topic. She knew little of Alyra, except what she had observed of her during meetings and life inside the Tower. With other Ambassadors, allegiances were clear; but she, and by extension Sankru, sided against the Commander as often as they supported her. An opportunist, some would call her — she’d heard Edric, the Broadleaf representative use coarser descriptors — but Clarke just thought her smart. She was a fearsome warrior, too, her face scoured by war as well as the desert winds.
“I didn’t know.”
“Her name is Talia, and one day she will sit here in my place.” Alyra’s face softened momentarily, and her voice was full of pride. “She’s a good dancer. Perhaps, you’ll dance with her around the fires?”
Was the woman hinting at something? There had been a weird emphasis on the way she had said dance… but surely it was just the intricacies of a language she was still in the midst of learning.
“I don’t dance very well.” Heat crawled across her cheeks.
“Oh, everyone can be taught.” Alyra beamed, which was weird and also a little terrifying. “But I have taken up enough of your time, Skaiprisa .” Before Clarke could understand what was happening, she’d pressed something in her hand, and bowed deeply. “From my daughter, to you.”
It was a brooch, Clarke discovered once the Ambassador had left and her guards rejoined her. Beaten copper, and a smattering of precious-looking stones the same color of her eyes.
Pocketing it, she asked herself whether she was supposed to give something in return, but pressing Ella for advice earned her a disgusted look.
Clarke didn’t understand that either.
*************
The next day dawned cold and grey, as if spring wasn’t just around the corner. She’d learned how easily weather could change on the ground — something to do with the radiation fallout — and was extremely grateful for Lexa’s foresight. None of the clothes she’d brought from Arkadia were as warm as the cloak the Commander had given her, and she put it around her shoulders with relief, marveling at how soft it was. She used the brooch Alyra had left with her the night before to pin it in place.
To compensate for such an early summons, Heda had breakfast ready for her and the other Ambassadors in the throne room. Trestle tables had been arranged along a wall, laden with food and drink.
There was porridge, and bread still warm from the oven to be had with butter and different types of jams, everything far richer than the protein paste Clarke had been accustomed to back on the Ark. She was more interested in a cup of tea — despite the cloak and the two shirts she wore beneath, she was still a little chilled.
Breaking fast together was a sign that the clans were at peace with one another, but also a way for each Ambassador to inquire where the others stood on the matters that were to be discussed before the actual meeting started. Temporary alliances were forged here, and just as easily broken.
She was helping herself to some porridge when Lexa joined her at the table.
“Commander,” Clarke nodded politely, “may I get you anything?”
“I’ve already eaten, but thank you.” Lexa’s eyes lingered on the cloak, and she came as close to a real smile as Clarke had ever seen her. “I’m glad you like my gift.”
“Oh, yes. It’s very warm.”
“Good. The weather is quite unpredictable, as I’m sure you have noticed.” Clarke shot a look outside, not at all surprised that it had started snowing. Just a little, with the flakes melting as soon as they touched a surface, but still.
“That brooch, it suits you well. I didn’t know your people also fashioned jewelry.”
“Oh, we don’t.” Unless the Guard’s dog tags counted as such. “Ambassador Alyra gave it to me. She said it was from her daughter.”
“Did she now.” The Commander’s expression hadn’t changed, but Clarke felt as though the room around them had grown colder. Darker. Lexa’s eyes were fixed on a point above her shoulder, and when she turned to follow her gaze, she discovered Alyra deep in conversation with Azgeda a few paces away.
It was common knowledge that Heda and the Ambassador from the northernmost clan detested one another, but displaying her animosity so openly was unprecedented. Lexa must not be aware, but her eyes had precipitously narrowed and her teeth flashed on the edge of a visible sneer.
Trying to be discreet, Clarke cleared her throat. The noise seemed to snap the Commander out of whatever murderous thoughts she’d fallen prey to.
“Let us begin!” She clapped her hands once, and strode to her seat without sparing Clarke another glance. It made sense — she’d witnessed her slip — but her heart gave a sickening lurch inside her chest nevertheless. A broody sort of atmosphere descended on the gathering as they picked up from where they’d left off the night before, everyone influenced by Lexa’s mood. The scant, greyish light seeping in from the balcony behind the throne didn’t help either. Half-glimpsed shades seemed to writhe in the Commander’s shadow whenever the wind howled harder, blowing the heavy curtains inward, and as the storm’s force increased, little piles of snow gathered on the dais. Sat in the middle of it all, flanked by sizzling torches and entrenched behind her warpaint, Lexa looked like a god about to pass judgement on them all.
The morning went by with them making snail-paced progress. Tempers progressively frayed, and when Azgeda and Broadleaf nearly came to blows — over how much finished glass panes each should receive from Skaikru — Heda called a pause for lunch.
Clarke scuttled out of the throne room at a pace just barely more dignified than a full run. She wanted to get back to her rooms and have a meal in peace, possibly in front of a roaring fire, and make it there before anyone else could stop her to talk. Or to give her another gift. She had a strange feeling in her gut that they were just going to keep on coming.
At this rate she’d have to write back to her mother and beg her to send things with which to reciprocate. She could draw and she could heal, but neither seemed like adequate repayments for the kindness of her hosts.
The door to her rooms came into view when she spotted Prince Roan and his younger sister, Ontari, arguing in a corner. They had arrived a few days prior, along with delegations from the other clans, and Clarke had wondered why. Now that she knew about Oestara, the reason appeared obvious.
“I told you, it’s stupid,” Ontari hissed to her brother, eyes blazing. The ritual scars on her face stood out when she was angry. Pretty, Clarke thought, the way a wolf can be, and thus best observed from afar.
“And I’m telling you it’s not. You have to act for what you want, or someone—” Roan spotted her then, and tapped Ontari on the shoulder.
“ Skaiprisa !” He stepped toward her, effectively blocking her way. “I see they have released you from another endless meeting. Boring, I presume?”
Clarke could feel herself frowning even before she spoke.
“It was alright,” she replied, choosing her words with care. For all she knew the Azgeda Ambassador may have sent the Prince to sway her in their favor. Or intimidate her. Skaikru didn’t have the right to vote yet, but the matter of the glass directly concerned them. “And I have to return to it shortly…” she trailed off, hoping Roan would get the hint.
“This will take but one minute.” He didn’t care. Clearly. “You know my sister? Ontari?”
“We’ve met.”
Clarke had been helping Nyko in the infirmary as she liked to do when free of other duties, when Ontari had walked in, bloody from the training yard. They had exchanged three words in total, maybe, the older girl too flustered to do much in the way of talking. Later, Clarke was told she had been bested by somebody much younger, and had attributed her behavior to shame.
Now, watching Roan nudge his sister forward, she thought that perhaps shyness was a fixture of Ontari’s character.
“Hi...uhm…Clarke.” Ontari squared her shoulders, and took one of her hands, placing a strip of braided leather on her upturned palm. “For you.”
Oh, no .
“What—?”
“For your hair. You braid it in and— It is best if I show you.”
Before she could react, Ontari had taken the leather strip back from her and moved behind her, fingers threading through her hair.
“Like so.”
She worked quickly, hands strong and nimble. A blush pinkened the tips of Clarke’s ears, spreading to the rest of her face in no time. Ontari’s knuckles had brushed against the back of her neck, and she was warm. Gentler than expected.
Roan watched them both, looking amused.
“There.” Taking a step back, Ontari eyed her handiwork. “It suits you.”
“Ah. Uhm. Thank you.” Clarke was dying to see herself in a mirror, and her hands itched with the need to touch her hair. She didn’t. “But there’s nothing I can think of that I could give you in return.”
“There is no need, unless you want to.”
For some weird reason, Ontari was blushing, too.
“We’ve wasted enough of the Skaiprisa ’s time for now, sister.” Roan tugged Ontari’s sleeve, and she reluctantly inched back. “Maybe you can show her how to dance around the fires in three days’ time.”
“Maybe.” The frown that had gathered on Ontari’s brow evaporated. “I’ll see you then, Clarke.”
They were gone, and Clarke was moving toward her rooms when she caught a flicker of motion in the corner of her eye. A glimpse of red, she thought, but when she turned to investigate, the hall behind her was empty, except for her guards.
Vargas was staring at her as though he couldn’t quite believe what he’d just seen, and Ella refused to meet her eyes entirely, going as far as to turn the other way when Clarke tried to get her attention.
She was still attempting to get the guard to face her when she remembered the ever-growing pile of unreciprocated gifts. There was no other way but to write back to her mother and the Council in Arkadia. With the routes clearing of snow, anything they’d send would make it to Polis in less than a week’s time.
Her mother. Clarke would write to her while she had a quick lunch.
Her mother would know what to do.