With Abby’s domain almost a quarter mile’s walk and three cold, sparsely inhabited cinderblock levels behind them, the frigid air and the smell of death that’d drifted from the rotunda seemed to ebb away, like soil under rain or blood pirouetting down a drain, blockaded by the lock and click of Octavia’s chamber door.
Inside, the cold stayed, clinging to her bones and aching, worn out muscle despite the shell of her armor holding her in the infallible shape of a champion: a lingering remnant of everything outside the walls of her private compartment, from a med bay full of the injured, starving and sick to the mess, its trestle tables and ever increasing numbers of vacant seats —– its glaring strip-lights and hungry armed guards, and uniformly barren stainless steel trays bearing the fruits of their misery.
In here, there was nothing but silence; emptiness, dressed in warm blankets and chrome, and bathed in shadow —– enough space for the countless demons she’d lured in, with the knowledge that she’d only be able to slay them when everything she’d done ( everything she’d had to do ) was justified.
There was nothing clinical or unfeeling about the mess of glass she’d left on the ledge beneath her broken mirror, or the candle wax dripping onto her desk, or the countless unread letters she’d written Bellamy hidden away underneath the frame of her bed. Nothing neatly, carefully composed about the rumpled sheets strewn across it, nor the instantaneity of her outward exhaustion beginning to break through the spaces in her armor, or the presence of blood collecting in the bowl of her sink, and drying on her towels.
Indra had never mentioned it, though she’d been one of the few privy to Octavia’s private quarters. Neither had Kane.
But Echo, a trained mercenary and spy accustomed to the darkness that comprised of the bunker’s perennial and all consuming shadow, always seemed to see more than any of their allies combined.
Turning from the foot of her bed, where she’d dropped the scabbard buckled to her belt and shed the outer layers of her fighting leathers, Octavia met the tenderness of Echo’s outreach with a shiver, and the stroke of the dampened cloth across her cheek with the dry, hesitant part of her lips; a defenseless cant of her head —– an unspoken yes, in hungry, quiet concession to the kind of touch she hadn’t felt in years.
“ Six months, ” she supplied, her voice a low, quiet rasp. “ Maybe longer. ”
With the wealth of Echo’s focus fixed on her, each gentle graze of her attentive touch seemed to ignite an instantaneous itch under the bandage she’d affixed just that morning, across the line of every measured, deliberate incision she’d made since the dark year had swallowed them all alive — every scar gracing the plane of her forearm, unnoticed and unexplained, tracking every arduous moment in which she’d needed more strength than she could summon without her mask of royal red.
If the blood of her enemies had been the catalyst for Wonkru’s unity at the start of their long, arduous bout of confinement underground, then it’d more than certainly work now, when they needed it most.
“ This isn’t just war paint, ” Octavia whispered. It was her penance. Her shield. A manifestation of her sacrifice. Her forbearance for Wonkru’s stalwart avowal that from the ashes, they would rise. “ ———-It’s armor. Gaia was right about that. ”
the rough edge of octavia’s voice abrades at echo’s eardrums, but it’s the implication of her words that cracks open the wound at echo’s chest, pries it open until the ache leaves her trembling. her teeth grit in her skull as she wipes more of the dried blood -- octavia’s own blood -- from her cheekbone, leaving pink streaks as she reveals the pale skin underneath.
she steps away to rinse the cloth, giving them both a moment to compose themselves while she rings her hands under the cold, cold water.
“ she was right about the blood of your enemies, perhaps, “ echo allows, returning to octavia’s side to clean the rest of her face with gentle passes of the worn rag, index finger curled under the sharp jut of her chin. she remembers that conversation too well, the moments after the massacre outside the hydrofarm that led to the ascent of blodreina and the arena and the hardening of octavia’s eyes.
she lowers the cloth, making certain she has the other woman’s full attention, using her given name rather than her title as she tries to meet the shimmering aqua of her eyes.
“ you are not the enemy, “ she says, a resolute strength underlying her words even as her body begs for rest. “ do you think queen nia ever spilled her own blood after asking me to kill for her? we may fight like in rome, but you are not caligula, octavia. “
by the time she’s done speaking, octavia’s face is no longer covered in red. cleaned, she looks younger, her true age and innocence shining through the rust and death that covers them all in this place. with cautious steps, echo moves to give the cloth another rinse, getting it as clean as she can before she hangs it to dry over the edge of the sink.
as though occurring to her for the first time, echo blinks at her own distorted reflection in the shattered mirror before her gaze drops down to the shirt that’s now stiff with her own dried blood, nearly shredded in half from the deep slice of the sangedakru’s sword.
“ i don’t have anything to change into, “ she says, the words out before she can think to stop them. the haze must be the blood loss, the exhaustion, she realizes, before letting out a sigh and carefully working one of her arms out of the sleeve. the motion tugs at her fresh stitches, heat flaring up her side and she grits her teeth to contain a wince.
“ i’m going to clean up and then.... “ she pauses, a warning nagging at the back of her neck before she forges on anyway. “ ----we should rest. no one will be looking for you tonight. sha? “