A very pissed off Clarke is kidnapped and dragged to Lexa in Polis (not by Roan.) Seeing Clarke's state of mind, Lexa enforces an ancient clan law that protects highly esteemed warriors (like Wanheda) when they show signs of mental illness or PTSD...
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Clarke couldn't tell you how long it had been since she left Bellamy at the gates of Arcadia. Nor could she tell you what day it was. Her only concern was putting distance between her and her sins. Leaving all she knew and loved in a distant memory behind her. She just walked. Kept moving. One foot crunching in the forest floor after another. Her normally bright blue happy eyes, now lay dull and unfocused. Sunken in her dirt-smeared face thanks to months of hunger and dehydration. Clothes are ragged and reeking after months of not bathing. Cut and torn by branches and thorns as she walked. Dried blood and infected wounds underneath. Sometimes done by accident. Sometimes not. It was the one thing she found that shut them up. The voices of the people she killed. The entire race of people she wiped off the face of this earth. Mothers. Fathers. Kids. All the above and more. It weighed heavy on her shoulders. Much heavier than anything she had faced thus far. Nothing seemed to matter anymore. Not food. Warmth. Water. Nothing. She felt nothing. Numb in the pain of it all. The blonde tries to shift her thinking by counting the footfalls her boots create as she crunches through the fallen leaves and branches on the forest floor.
"You deserve this, Clarke." The boy's voice echoes in the distance. Gradually getting louder and louder until it makes her cringe. His unfocused expression swirls into her exhausted brain. Laying exactly the way she last remembered it. Lying lifelessly next to his soccer ball on the cafeteria floor in the mountain. One arm outstretched. Like he is reaching for someone. Maybe a parent. Grandparent. Sibling. Crying out for them in his last moments. Clarke only met him once before.
"Hi. I'm Ben..." Rings out just like it did that first day. Asking her to play with a couple of other little kids his age. Six's as the kid called it. Grouped by age to form a class or playgroup. She and a couple of the others from Skaikru joined in that first day they were there. When they thought everything was perfect and they were truly safe. Before uncovering all the horrors held within. Ever since she had pulled the lever she had heard him. Loud and clear. Ever persistent in death as he had been in life. The only difference now is that instead of requesting her to come to play with them, he requests penitence for the life she stole from him. Revels in her pain. Her suffering. Like she is paying a debt.
Once Clarke lets the first voice in, it never fails for the others to rush her. Ever eager to be heard. Every last one. She knows their names and ages. She couldn't tell you why or how. She just did. Every face. Flashing in her mind quickly. Mary Elizabeth, 23, just had her first child. A boy named Paul Jr. Both laying dead in a chair with a spoon still in the woman's hand ready to feed the baby laying slack in her lap. Paul Sr. never made it to the cafeteria in time to see them one last time. He died in the hallway crying out their names.
James, 17, was eagerly awaiting graduation so he could be a guard just like his father. Died next to his best friend, Matthew. Best friends since they were in the one-year-old class in preschool. They had never been far from one another since that first day.
