Chapter Text
Clarke awoke to her drawings. Beautiful imagery of Earth and its creatures. She looked around the stone walls at her hard work. It took her longer than she’d like to admit to realize she was dead and shouldn’t be in her old cell.
The door buzzed open.
Instead of a guard, a woman walked in—a beautiful woman with long, flowing red hair and a silky white dress. Even in her beauty, you could sense her overwhelming strength. She looked like an angel as she stood in the odd light coming from the doorway.
Ah, Clarke thought, now this makes more sense.
“Who are you?” Clarke rasped.
“I am Wanheda,” she stated. “I represent the fierceness that lies inside of you, Clarke.”
“That fierceness is the reason you did not die.”
Clarke swallowed, her throat tight. “But I did die.” She knew it was slow and painful; she could feel life leaving her with every stab.
“Not in the way you thought,” Wanheda explained.
"But why?" Clarke asked, practically begging. "Why didn't you just let me die?"
"Because you are the world's last hope, Clarke."
Clarke’s hands curled into fists. “O-ok, but why me?” Clarke emphasized. “Why do you get to choose?!”
“Because you were chosen.” Wanheda shrugged. “I must transport you now.”
“No. I don't wanna be chos—” Clarke was cut off as she was sucked into a swirl of blues and purples.
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Clarke woke up nauseous. Her vision swirled and shook. She peered around, dazed and caught off guard. She was still in her cell, but there was no divine manifestation standing in the doorway. Was it all a dream? And then the flashes came: a cold blade pressed between her ribs, over and over until her body was littered with holes.
Clarke’s heart seized. She searched her body for the wounds—nothing, not even scars; just sleek, pale skin.
Then the door banged open.
“Prisoner 319, stand and face the wall,” the guard—Harris, she thinks—demanded firmly.
An overwhelming sense of deja vu washed over Clarke. She didn't move, just sat there breathing heavily. The guard scoffed, rushing in, extending his baton; she could see the electricity sparking over the metal. Still, she didn't move a muscle; the only thing that came to mind was this didn't happen before.
Abby rushed in, stepping between them.
Harris stopped short, his expression unreadable.
“Don't touch her,” she says.
Harris takes a step back.
Her mother turned to Clarke, cupping her face in both hands like she needed to make sure she was really there. Her eyes searched Clarke’s, wide and frantic.
“Clarke,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “You’re going to the ground.”
Clarke blinked in shock. “She really did send me back,” she whispered.