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PEACE IN OUR TIME
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"I DON'T think I like this plan."
"I have a good feeling about it."
"That feeling is nausea," retorts Wells, wrinkling his nose. "You've already thrown up, like, five times."
"Three, actually."
Primrose clouds drift above them, an emerald copse sprawling at their backs as they dawdle at the edges of an ancient and rusted bridge that twists across a churning river. The water is a violent vortex with waves that are nearly black, the riverbanks muddy and treacherously steep. In fact, the water is such a terrible cacophony that all the sounds of the forest ━━ the fowl trilling from perches, the fauna traipsing through the undergrowth ━━ are swallowed whole as dawn's first light emerges.
Octavia is some distance ahead of them, standing in the dead center of the moss covered bridge. Waiting for her Grounder, a warrior named Lincoln.
"And, anyways," continues Lyra, smiling at him in earnest. "This isn't the stupidest thing we've done."
He gives her a look.
"OK, maybe it is," she says, hardly deflating at all. "But it's for a good cause!"
"I want another drink," he mutters.
The thicket of bushes behind them rustles and Lyra chirps, "Too late now!"
Finn pushes through the foliage, twigs snapping beneath his boots. There's a strange edge to his usually soft features and a beat later, Lyra discovers why.
Clarke is right behind him.
Pivoting, Octavia's eyes narrow as soon as they land upon the blonde. Clarke approaches them without hesitancy, Finn's teeth yanking on his bottom lip as he balks uncertainly behind. Then, as if deciding whatever it is he must be debating is futile, he bars his tongue and shrugs his shoulders as he follows.
The five of them meet at the very edge of the bridge. Before anyone can ask the question Lyra's sure they're all wondering, Clarke starts to speak.
"So, that's how you set this up," she jabs in an accusatory tone to Octavia. "You helped him escape, didn't you?"
Her sapphire eyes flash. "I trust him."
"There's a lot of that going around."
"Isn't there?" Wells comments snidely, a hint of irritability creeping into his voice as his mistrustful gaze lands on Finn. "Then again, trust is supposed to be earned."
Clarke looks at him weirdly, but he doesn't elaborate. Finn's bleak eyes dip to the rolling jade at the other end of the bridge as if trying to avoid everyone's gaze. His back suddenly goes rigid.
"Someone's coming."
Lyra's own head snaps up. She almost forgot she isn't just here for the drama.
Heavy footsteps ring out against the rusted bridge overgrown with moss and other sparse greenery. Lincoln is jogging out of the woods. Now that she isn't drunk anymore, Lyra actually does recognize him from the whole torture thing, though his once swollen and blackened eye has reduced itself to its normal size and any lacerations across his face have fully healed. She wonders if the wound from the spoke stabbed into his hand has healed yet.
He doesn't make it very far before Octavia's sprinting towards him, the lovers meeting in the middle of the bridge in an embrace. She's momentarily swept off her feet as she clings tightly to him.
Bellamy would be so pissed, Lyra thinks. It's a good thing he isn't around to see this.
Lincoln's gaze hardens as he looks past Octavia, his back stiffening as he takes notice of Clarke and Finn. It seems like he too wasn't expecting the betrayal.
In an effort to show unification, Finn reaches over and grabs Clarke's hand in his. A low scoffing noise escapes the back of Wells' throat.
A strange, new sound that claps over and over in perfect synch thunders towards them. Three enchanting animals march out of the cover of the trees from the Grounder's side of the bridge. The two flanking the third have twin pelts of obsidian that gleam in the pale sunlight, equally dark armor covering most of their magnificent coat. The one in the lead is a deep chestnut, fur glossy as it tosses its head back with a whinny that echoes in the crisp morning air.
Lyra nudges Wells in excitement. "Horsies!"
He blanches. "And three warriors."
Oh. Right. The riders.
The two on the flanking horses wear armor that looks like it's made from charred bones and smoked leather, blackened skulls completely shielding their faces. Anonymous emblems. Like Death's Reapers. Ginormous bows are slung across their backs, looking like cold, hollow shadows. The woman riding the lead horse has her own face bared, dark charcoal smeared across her features. Lyra can't entirely make out her countenance from where she stands, but there's a freezing facelessness in her expression.
"Hey, we said no weapons!" Finn snaps blackly, surging forward. Because he's still holding onto Clarke, she's dragged along behind him.
"I was told there wouldn't be," responds Lincoln in a gruff baritone, face stiff as iron.
Huh. It's weird, hearing him speak English in broad daylight. Then again, that's not really what Lyra should be thinking about right now, is it?
Clarke's jaw sets. "It's too late now."
The Grounders woman jerks her mount forward, the two warriors flanking her left behind to loom at the edge of the bridge. Dismounting, she halts where she stands, not moving any closer. Yet she doesn't move any further, either.
As if sensing the cue, Clarke takes a step forward. Finn goes to follow, yet Lincoln shoots an arm across his chest to bar him.
"They go alone."
Wells and Clarke exchange an unreadable look.
"We'll be fine," Clarke murmurs to Finn.
"Clarke - "
"Hey," she interrupts, words soft in the pale light of day. "It's time to do better."
The Grounder's eyes rake across their pathetic party as the pair slowly yet steadily make their way towards her. Then finally her gaze lands upon Lyra. She almost shivers at the intensity. At an excruciating pace, the Grounders woman jerks her head as if signaling something.
Lincoln's voice sounds far away now. "She wants to speak to you, too."
"But - " Lyra's voice comes out as a surprised squeak and she clears her throat loudly. "But I'm not a leader."
He looks warily across the bridge. "She knows."
Wells blinks at her like a startled mouse. Lyra feels questions flicker in her throat like flames, but the bitter wind blows and she thinks better of asking. Instead she tries her best to be brave and offers him an assuring grin.
She nods her head. He shakes his. She nods again, and then then he deflates in defeat.
The now trio restarts the march towards the warrior. Heart gallivanting inside her chest, intestines twisting themselves into impossible knots, Lyra fights to even her breath. A count begins in her head and just as easily dissolves; the numbers don't seem to provide the same comfort they used to.
Unarmed, they face the warrior alone.
She's even more horrifyingly beautiful up close. Bronze skin shadowed by the rays of the sun dappling behind her, lips smoldering unpleasantly. Sharp cheekbones lined with stripes of thick war paint, a thunderstorm of caramel hair falling down her back. Winter-grey eyes as cunning as a fox's regard them with an air of scorn.
Between the three of them, Clarke isn't the first one whom Lyra would describe as timid (sorry, Wells!), but even their stalwart leader seems to crumble beneath the woman's gaze. Her steps are excruciatingly slow and she struggles to keep her head up. One of her hands keeps curling and uncurling into a fist and the other is gripping the pack slung across her shoulders so tightly that her knuckles are moon-pale.
Wells hardly looks much better.
The water beneath them churns restlessly, as if reminding them how fragile they are. How easy it is for them to be killed.
This was your idea. Lyra raises her chin stubbornly. Play the part.
"Your name is Clarke?"
The Grounder woman's voice rips sharply through the otherwise still air. Something about it is raspy, strangely distorted, almost as if it's automatic and computerized. A void that swallows the sunlight. Lyra swallows uneasily.
"Yes. This is Wells and - "
"Lyra." Lyra almost winces at the poison coating her tone. "I am Anya."
Lyra's ebony brows scrunch in shock, her resolve chipping away. Why does she know her name?
Yet Clarke's resolve seems to bloom. She juts her arm out in an effort to shake Anya's hand as a sign of unity. The older woman only stares. Clarke lets her arm fall limply to her side, but somehow she manages to proceed as if unbothered by the rejection.
"I think we got off to a rough start, but we want to find a way to live together in peace."
"I understand." Anya chuckles, a rough bass as disparaging as the violent river below. "You started a war that you don't know how to end."
"Started?" Wells' forehead creases, his fingers twitching uneasily as Anya turns her full attention upon him. "You guys speared Jasper Jordan and then strung him up as bait not even a whole day after we landed. For no reason."
"No reason?" Anya scoffs, observing him disdainfully. "The missiles she launched burned a village to the ground."
With a start, Lyra realizes that she's looking at her.
"Missiles?" She fumbles with her words. "I never sent any missiles... "
"The flares," Clarke realizes out loud.
Her heart capsizes. "That - that was a signal meant for our families, for my father... I... I never meant for anyone to get hurt, I swear - "
"I know who you are." Anya's words, harsh and unforgiving, shred her flimsy defense to ribbons. "Your government works strangely, I admit. A triumvirate, three heads, with a single girl forming the advisory. But I understand your role. You are the military council, the war strategist."
Lyra stares at her in disbelief. "No, I - "
"You are invaders." The derision in Anya's tone fades to something fatally cold. "Your ship landed in our territory."
She looks at the three politicians as if they are nothing more than smears of filth.
"We didn't know it was your territory," retorts Wells. "We thought the radiation destroyed all life on Earth."
But Anya sneers again. "You knew we were here when you sent an armed raiding party to capture one of us and torture him. These are all acts of war."
Her tone is so horribly mocking that Lyra sinks into silence.
"I see your point." Clarke clearly is making an effort to conceal any rebellious thoughts. "That's why we need to put an end to all of this."
Anya is unflinching. "Lincoln said that there are more of you coming down - warriors."
"The guard." Wells bobs his head in acknowledgement. "But not all of our people are fighters. We have farmers, doctors, engineers, scientists."
The self-doubt and crippling sense of failure fade briefly. An unfamiliarly artful cunningness replaces it as Lyra's eyes become almost vulpine with intent.
"If we become allies now, we can help each other. We don't have to be at war."
"Can you promise that these new arrivals won't attack us, that they'll respect the terms we agree upon?"
None of them dare look at each other. They all know the answer to that.
Clarke is the only one brave enough to voice their doubts. "I promise I will do everything I can to convince them to honor the terms that we set."
Anya's annoyance darkens into malice, her dark mouth twisting into a derisive frown. "Why would I agree to an alliance that your people can break the moment they get here?"
"If you fire the first shot, those people coming down won't bother negotiating. Our technology - they will wipe you out."
"They wouldn't be the first to try." Anya's voice is fatal with deadly defiance.
Lyra's stomach lurches. "You don't understand what our weapons can do."
But even her rebukes sound childish.
"Silence." Anya's voice is incarcerating with a glacial deluge. "The more you speak, the more I hear your naïveté. I was wrong about you. You aren't a war strategist - you're just a girl."
This was your idea. Lyra dips her eyes to the bridge so that Anya cannot see the tears puddling in her eyes. This was your idea.
But then ━━
"THEY'RE GONNA SHOOT! CLARKE, WELLS, LYRA - RUN!"
. . . Jasper?
His scream, strangled with a frantic panic, startled Lyra and she nearly jumps out of her skin. Her head immediately jerks to the source. The scrawny boy explodes from a thicket of bushes sloped across the muddy riverbank, gun cradled in his arms. She can feel her heart sinking in full horror. A bang! bursts through the air and a single bullet blasts from his gun, the kickback making him stagger. Before anyone can even think to move, he fires again and again and again erratically at the Grounder's side of the riverbank.
Ruby rains across the ground. One archer topples from the trees, quickly followed by two more.
All three are dead.
More bullets follow. Raven has lunged into view, taking Jasper's back as she too opens fire.
Lyra hardly has time to take this in. There's a grinding shink of a knife being unsheathed, one she only recognizes after having seen Raven hold Bellamy at knifepoint. Tearing her gaze from the riverbank, she has half a heartbeat and then Anya is surging towards her.
Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck ━━ !
Bang! A bullet snarls through the air and burns dangerously close, screaming in Lyra's ears as it slams straight past her and into Anya's shoulder. The woman veers backwards sharply and her knife narrowly misses Lyra's throat, slicing straight through her cheek instead. The pain is a hot burst. Scarlet streams down her chin as she stumbles backwards before smashing into the bridge.
Senses numb, she suddenly finds herself staring at the riverbank. Through the chaos, him. Bellamy fired the shot.
"LYRA - MOVE!"
The air erupts into a deafening thunderstorm of noise. It feels like all the breath has been jackhammered straight from her lungs. Violence bellows all around her and she struggles to recollect herself.
Move, she thinks blindly as ash burns her eyes like fire. A bullet screeches past her head as if to echo her thoughts. An arrow impales itself into the bridge beneath her, the edge slicing with ease through the seams of her jacket. Move.
She starts to crawl to their end of the bridge.
"Finn, get back!"
Finn hasn't dived for cover, he's forced his way onto the bridge. Lyra's thoughts are fogged and hazy as she watches him first grab for Clarke, then shove Wells backwards and towards the safety of the trees. Crimson innocence leaks down the vulnerable flesh of her throat and she can taste the ruby naïvety curdling upon her cramped lips as she hauls herself forwards.
"Lincoln!"
Octavia's wail startles Lyra. Lincoln has doubled over in pain, blood leaking from his shoulder.
"It's just a scratch, OK! Run! Don't stop until you get behind your walls - go!"
Without thinking, Lyra vaults to her feet and then slams her entire body weight into Octavia, forcing the taller girl back. Their limbs blend together as Octavia thrashed desperately, nails clawing at Lyra's skin in an attempt to drive the obstacle out of her way. Shoving her hands into the other girls ribs, Lyra does her best to push her away, but there's such a ferocity in the way that Octavia fights her that there's little she can do.
"Lincoln, no!"
"Go!" He shouts, already sounding eons away.
Wild and animalistic with terror, the pair break into the tree line and into the thick woods. At a certain point, Wells merges into their group. An arrow shrieks past them, slamming into the trunk of an oak way too close to them.
Bellamy comes skidding through the trees, gun all but abandoned in his arms. When he reaches the two shivering girls, he nearly drops in relief. Then his features become maimed with terror as he stares at the blood leaking down Lyra's face.
"How deep is it?" He demands furiously, fingers grazing the jagged edges of the cut. "This - "
"It just stings a bit," Lyra reassured him, slowly coming to her senses and trying to piece together whatever it is that just happened. "Where did you guys - ?"
"We have to keep moving!" Jasper barrels through the trees in panic, Raven hot on his heels. He fires shots blindly behind him. "I don't know how many of them could be following us!"
"Finn!" Raven shouts in hoarse relief as he sprints towards them, for once not taking notice of the way he clings to Clarke.
"We need to run!" Jasper bellows loudly. "Go!"
Her mind void as thoughts fall away in fear, Lyra runs.
Five yards. Her heart is a sledgehammer against her ribcage as she leaps over tree roots. Ten yards. Lungs burning, each breath becomes a burst of white-hot agony. Fifteen yards. Twenty yards. Her knees are on fire, her stomach feels like it might explode with nuclear force. Thirty yards. Forty-five. Seventy. One hundred.
One hundred fifty yards.
Every bone is wildfire razed.
Two hundred yards.
Cruel scarlet oozes from the slash in her cheek.
Four hundred and fifty yards.
This is all her fault.
Eight hundred.
This is all her fault.
One thousand.
This is all her fault.
Somewhere in the chaos, she loses count.
This is on you. Her lips quiver with shock. You burned that village to the ground. This was all your idea and now this is all your fault.
Her flesh is curdled with crimson sin. She's tired. She's scared. She's running because her life depends on it. Because she is so, so, so scared.
Not only that ━━ she's a killer.
But she can't stop running. Not now, not ever. One misstep and she's dead. Or, even worse, someone else. One misstep and someone is dead because of her. All over again.
When the sky is dark and the familiar walls of camp come into view, the pain in her stomach contorts into white-hot agony. Bile rises up in her throat and then scorches her flesh as she swallows it back down.
They skid to a halt just before they hit the wall.
Silence ensues.
Lyra's knees buckle. She plummets to the earth. Dirt whips up around and collided with her skin that's sticky with sweat as she dry-heaves violently, fingers curling so forcefully through the grass that the roots tear up. Her stomach is concave with poison as she splutters for some form of release and then she can contain it no longer. She throws up into the grass. Upheaving everything left in her stomach, down to the last droplet. Vomiting violently.
"Damn it, Lyra." Wells' voice is a terrified hiss that is swallowed by the tense silence.
"You got something to say?" Bellamy's jaw is tight, unyielding, swarthy with shadows as he flares at Finn with a raw contempt.
Falling back onto her haunches, Lyra wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.
"Yeah!" Finn doesn't shrink away, instead raging right back before jabbing his finger in Clarke's direction. "I told you no guns!"
"I told you we couldn't trust the Grounders!" Clarke fires back. "I was right!"
Raven pivots towards him, features pinched. "Why didn't you tell me what you were up to?"
"I tried, but you were too busy making bullets for your guns!"
That is the stupidest defense Lyra's ever heard. Swaying on her feet, she leans against the wall for support as she tries to stand. The metal is cool against her feverish skin.
"You're lucky she brought that!" Bellamy spits venomously. "They came there to kill you, Finn."
"You don't know that! Jasper fired the first shot!"
Weird. . . how did they find them, anyways?
Octavia's blistering sapphire eyes snap furiously to Jasper's, brow furrowed with rage. "You ruined everything."
Before anyone can stop her, she storms back into camp.
"We saved you!" Jasper shouts after her, only for her to ignore him. "You're welcome!"
He shoves his way past Bellamy and Raven, hurrying after Octavia.
"Well, if we weren't at war already, we sure as hell are now." Finn's voice is hoarse, but the rage is still blatant. When Clarke looks at him in disbelief, he shoves his hands into his pockets. "You didn't have to trust the Grounders. You just had to trust me."
"Right," Wells drawls loudly. "Says the boy standing between his girlfriend and the girl he won't leave alone."
"I'm not the only one whose ruining trust." Finn's expression is stony as he stares at Wells.
He doesn't have a response for that. Finn shoulders past him, heading into the camp wordlessly. Without question, Raven follows him.
"What is he talking about?" Clarke asks quietly.
"What are you talking about?" Wells retorts sharply. "We can't trust the Grounders? You told Bellamy what was going on, didn't you? You told him to bring guns to a peace talk!"
"You're lucky I did!" Clarke snaps, but her cheeks are raw and red. "Anya almost killed Lyra!"
His voice rises in frustration. "Not until after Jasper shot! You know, this is exactly why I didn't ask you to come - "
"What?"
Clarke just stares at him. Something waters in her eyes but she blinks it back furiously, desperately, and an agitated grimace pulls at her mouth.
"You weren't going to tell me?"
Swallowing thickly, Wells' Adam's apple bobs. But he doesn't answer. He doesn't seem to need to.
"Some best friend you are," Clarke chokes out.
Sparing Wells from having to answer her, she strides away, her shoulders shaking. Watching her leave, Wells' shoulders stiffen, then completely collapse in defeat. The curse fires violently from his mouth.
"Fuck."
He hurries after her.
"Why didn't you tell me what you were doing?"
Startled by the bitter edge in his voice, Lyra realizes that it's just her and Bellamy alone in the dusty darkness. Upon his burning stare, her teeth catch her lower lip, rolling it hesitantly.
"I just wanted a chance for peace," she says at last.
"Peace? With them?" He echoes incredulously, pinning her with an apprehensive stare. "They've done nothing but kill us since we've came down!"
"They're just scared of us - "
"Of what? A bunch of kids?"
"A bunch of kids who tortured one of them!" Lyra fires back, and he recoils as if he's been slapped. Her shoulders bow as she shrinks back, withering, letting the night engulf her. "I just... I just wanted peace. It's Unity Day."
Scuffing her toe in the dirt, she kicks a rock. It rolls aimlessly into the shadows.
So much for peace in our time.
"Thanks for saving our lives," she says miserably.
"I wish I didn't have to. You're an - "
But he's cut off as a boom implodes through the sound barrier. Lyra's eyes snap to the sky at the abruptness of it as something streaks across the inky blackness and disturbs the stars.
"The Exodus ship?" Bellamy's anger weavers as he looks up. "Your dad's early."
Chest inflating, her eyes shine as she wipes the blood smearing her chin. Her dad. Her dad, her dad, her dad, her dad, her dad. He'll make everything right. He will.
It blazes against the obsidian. The light flickers. Then peters out.
"It's going so fast," mumbles Lyra in awe, her voice wavering a little.
It's the fastest thing she's ever seen.
Wait.
It's the fastest thing she's ever seen.
"Too fast," she whispers and she latches onto Bellamy's hand, not caring if he hates her at the moment, needing to hold onto something solid, onto something real. "The RCS thrusters aren't stopping, and... and the parachute. Why hadn't the parachute deployed yet?"
Silence bleeds out again. Bellamy squeezes her fingers so tightly she wonders if her bone will break.
The Exodus ship vibrates, rattles. Plummeting into the horizon, sinking into the line of azure mountains that suckle at the night sky, it crashes into the Earth. Fire billows in response. Flames leap into the night and are blinding even from what must be several miles away. All the frost blue of the midnight sky is drained like an iceberg dissolving. Vanishing. Gone. Everything is a terribly ugly red, like the entire world is on fire.
Realization shatters her bones like white-hot lightning.
The Exodus ship crashed.
Her dad is dead.
Something ugly brews in her raw red throat. Like a scream, like a knife scraping against rugged stone. Endless, going on forever, a fleeting infinity; she wants to scream, she wants to scream herself raw.
In an instant, Bellamy's arm is sliding around her shivering shoulders. Fingers tracing her tight shoulder blades, raking gently through her chestnut locks that have fallen completely out of her ponytail. Soft. Gentle. Like a home. Lyra wants to crawl into his arms and hide away.
But a sob rises within her throat and she can't bring herself to keep standing. All at once, a wave of despair has crashed over her and drags her to its black depths. She collapses to the earth.
Weeping noiselessly, she hardly notices as Bellamy sinks down to meet her. Wrapping his arms around her. Letting her cling to him like a lifeline. Both of them holding onto each other as if they're afraid of falling. Afraid of being ripped apart and thrown alone into the sea of stars.
͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙ ✩ *̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙ ✩ *̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙
QUESTION:
Do you guys think the Grounders would've attacked if Jasper hadn't shot them?
I just simply do not know if I vibe with the end of this chapter. Like, I liked it until they got to camp and started arguing. Oh well.