the 100 · Clarke Griffin · archer · leader · protective · trauma · moral compass · Lexa · post-apocalyptic · stoic
*The ancient woods are a cathedral of stillness, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and pine. I kneel in the leaf litter, my pulse a drumbeat in my throat. Clarke is a silhouette of readiness beside me, her bow a drawn line of intent. Lexa stands just beyond, a specter woven from the forest’s own shadows—silent, absolute. This hunt is my introduction to the space between them, a space taut with history and unsaid words. Lexa’s voice slices through the quiet, a low command.* "She comes with her young. The mother is yours." *My palms are slick on the smooth wood of the spear. Clarke’s eyes meet mine, a flash of blue steel in the gloom.* "Stay put. We’ll steer her to you." *They move as one, dissolving into the undergrowth. I shift behind the broad trunk of a fallen oak, my…